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systlinsideblog · 3 years ago

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Part 7

The fall of the great walled city of Turia came on a day shimmering with heat, but with storm clouds building on the horizion, looming heavy as they built into great mounds over the prairies. The air smelled of the promise of rain; that was good, Systlin thought. A good heavy rain later would wash the blood off the streets.

Turia’s towers glittered white in the sun. The walls were high and proud and in excellent repair; the warriors manning the top of it were said to be skilled. Everyone she’d spoken to had told her the same; Turia was home to a million and a half people. Turia was the jewel of the prairies, the Ar of the South. Turia was home to marvelous markets and one could find any luxury one wished there. The people of Turia were grand and wealthy and proud, and though they loved luxury their fighting men were excellent.

Its walls were high and thick. Its wells were deep and never ran dry. There were food stores to outlast the greatest of sieges. The nine gates were thick and strong and guarded zealously; while attackers died at the walls, the people of Turia would relax in their bath houses and dine on delicacies and laugh.

Turia was splendid. Turia was rich. Turia had been sieged many times, but never once had Turia fallen.

Systlin rolled her neck and shoulders, cracking any tension out.

She remembered Myr. Turia reminded her strongly of it. Myr too had been rich, and strong, and undefeated. Myr as well had thought itself safe behind tall, thick walls and strong gates, guarded by skilled fighters. Myr as well had laughed at the army camped on the plains before it. The walls of Myr had famously been bound in Power, power laid so deeply and thickly by generation after generation of Myrish earth witches that there had been more power than stone to the walls. Breakers before her, born to the desert, had tested those walls. Breakers before her had exhausted themselves against them and failed and died.

She had tried herself against them anyway. She had not failed. There was a hundred foot gap in the walls of Myr now, named for her. “The Mitraka’s Gate,” they called it. The legend of how she’d brought down the famously unbreakable walls of Myr had spread north to the Skyfire reaches and south to Sielauk before she’d even left the deserts.

Turia’s walls were not as high or thick as Myr’s, and they were not spelled for protection. Against a Breaker of the least power they’d be useless, and Systlin was the strongest Breaker ever to live. She eyed the warriors on top of them, still out of bowshot, and for a moment felt a flash of pity for them.

It was gone quickly. She wondered how many of those proud men had women chained to their beds. A million and a half people, but that number did not, she knew, count slaves. Counting slaves, it was said that the number was at least twice that, and likely higher.

Foicatch was watching her. He had not been at Myr when it fell, but he had been there since. He’d ridden through the Mitraka’s Gate. He knew, of course, that she was remembering.

“Been a bit,” He said at last, as they waited for Myr to send out its famous tharlarion cavalry, and honestly though she found herself growing fond of the kaiila the Wagon Peoples rode and could admit that the vicious reptilian tharlarion were impressive, she wished she had a good, normal horse. “Since we had a real battle before us.”

“Hmmm.” She agreed. The last time, indeed, they’d been fighting a mad god and his creatures. She’d killed a god, in that battle. Killed one god and threatened another. “Do try not to die. I’d hate to have to find a new royal consort.”

A snort. “I’ve no intention of dying today. I want to see you on the throne of that city.” A pause. “I’ve always had rather a fantasy, actually, of you on the throne of freshly conquered city, and me on my knees…”

Oh. Well. That did sound interesting. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you? You could have said something.”

“Well. It’s always been so busy when we’re breaching a stronghold, and things were all happening so fast at the time. You were so intent; I wasn’t sure you’d take it well.” A shrug. “Early days of us and all. By the time I knew better, you had the North in line again, and when we fought the Fallen One there weren’t many strongholds to breach or thrones to make use of.”

That was fair. “I’m going to hold you to that.” She said thoughtfully, even as the great gates ground slowly open and ranks of fighting men on those two-legged sharp-toothed reptilian beasts began to file out. She eyed the gleaming lances they carried disapprovingly; those were, of course, going to be the first thing she did away with once things got going.

Using her power in pitched battles was risky; she did not like doing it to kill. Not more than needed. But shattering some lances was no issue at all.

He grinned, that familiar and beloved flash of white teeth against that dark beard. “Oh, excellent.” He shot the enemy cavalry a look, and then looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. She nodded once. He leaned over, and she leaned to meet him; they exchanged a kiss, brief but sweet, and he peeled his kaiila away and headed to take command of the left flank.

She looked back over the prairie. There were several thousand riders now, forming ranks. A few men wearing particularly gleaming armor with extra gold leaf seemed to be conferring in a huddle; she waited.

“Ubara?” Dina said softly, from her side. “Ubara, should we…” There was nervousness in her voice.

“Not yet.” Systlin was the veteran of many battles of this scale; Myr was much larger than Turia, and that had been only the first city she’d taken. Dina was not. Even in a seasoned warrior, nerves before battle were normal, but Dina had taken up a spear only a year and a half past. She’d fought and killed, but the other tribes and towns and cities they’d taken were nothing on the scale of Turia. “They’ll send someone to talk, like all the others have. I’ll either kill him or send him back, like all the other times. I’ll break their lances; that will be the signal to charge.”

She looked to her side. Dina’s face was drawn tight. Systlin remembered that Dina, before slave chains, had once been a free woman, and had been born in Turia.

“You have a father, don’t you?” Systlin said, more softly.

“I do.” She whispered. “He never took a slave. He loved my mother, a Free Companion, and never took a slave; he has mourned her since her death. He is of the baker’s caste, as was my mother. He makes sweet rolls and gives them to children, and the best bread and pastries. I do not brag; he was famous in the city, and rich women and men came to buy from us. He and my brothers and I worked hard and were proud of our work.” She paused a moment. “I do not know if my brothers have taken slaves. And if they have…” Another, longer pause, and she looked away. “If they have, I will not beg mercy for them, but I will mourn what they might have been had their minds not been poisoned.”

Systlin thought of her own brother, dead so young. Of laughing and competing and playing with him, of the friendly fighting between close siblings. Of his smile and his laugh, and his sharp wit. She wondered, if her place and Dina’s had been switched, if she could have watched him killed for slaving and rape.

She probably could have. She knew it in the deepest place in her heart, where she worried sometimes at her own coldness. She probably would have done it with her own hands, at that. She’d executed her uncle and aunt with her own hands, in that battle to bring the warring lords tearing the North to bloody scraps to heel. But she was a famously hard and coldhearted bitch when it came to matters of justice, as any noble in the North of Ellinon would tell. “The Iron Bitch”, she knew they called her behind her back. “The Iron Bitch with the frozen heart.”

She’d have done it, yes. But she’d have mourned intensely after, for what might have been.

Dina was loyal and dear to her, a good friend. But if her brothers were rapists and slavers, Systlin knew that even if Dina begged, she would not grant mercy unless the offended girls asked it. It ran counter to everything in her to do so.

Goddess of Justice. The Lady’s voice whispered in her head.

Fuck off, she thought in return. I’ve shit to do.

“We can hope,” she said. “That they take after your father. And we’re not here to loot; if your father is in his shop and not with the fighting men, he’s quite safe.”

That seemed to ease Dina slightly. The woman was still used to the Gorean idea of war, where taking a city meant sacking it utterly, looting and burning and slaving. No army under Systlin’s command would ever fight so, though. She’d kill the soldiers responsible with her bare hands.

“Baker’s caste,” Dina said. “Do not fight, not unless they must. They will not be on the walls. Those on the walls and on the field here are warrior caste.”

Systlin would have to investigate this caste system more thoroughly. She did not like the idea on principle, but it seemed a force of social stability that most Goreans were very attached to. From what she’d gathered there were provisions for moving through castes if one wished. However, she’d heard that some, such as weavers and spinners, were considered ‘low caste’.

Systlin had attempted such tasks before; her mother was fond of spinning and weaving, though she was Queen Mother and needed never touch a spindle if she didn’t wish. After fifteen minutes spent at it, Systlin had come to the conclusion that the work that went into cloth was absurdly complicated and skilled, and had never touched a spindle since. She did, however, have a reputation for never haggling when it came to buying cloth or paying her seamstresses.

Low caste her arse. The idea of any of the most essential tasks…potters, farmers, fishermen, herders…being lower than any others raised her hackles. Perhaps the idea of low or high caste could go…

Across the grassland, a small party of men, led by one of the men in gleaming gold-chased armor began to ride towards them. Systlin put aside other concerns and nodded once to Dina, who nodded back and went to lead the right flank.

Her kaiila could sense that battle was coming, and shifted under her, tossing her head in eagerness. Systlin held her steady, and waited.

They headed, of course, for Foicatch. Systlin sighed and rolled her eyes, and nudged her kaiila forward. The creature sprang forward in that long, loping predator stride, and she headed them off in moments. They glared at her, all hostile intent. She regarded them in what was probably a dismissive manner, but so far as she was concerned these men were already dead. They were nothing that she had not seen on this world already, in the smaller towns that lay outside Turia. She’d killed a thousand like them since coming here.

“You know full well that I lead this army.” She said bluntly. “You’ve heard the stories.” She sighed. “It makes me curious…”

“Stories of trickery and nonsense about sorcery.” The man with the glittering armor said loftily. “A few villages might fall to some unnatural woman, but this is Turia. We will not be afraid of a tribe of women who think themselves the equals of men.”

“…As I was saying,” Systlin raised her voice slightly. “It makes me curious as to the full degree which you, meaning men on this world, are capable of deluding yourselves. I’ve been halfway through conquering towns and tribes and the men would still be telling me that I couldn’t hope to carry through, because I was but a woman.” She shook her head. “Almost sad, really. I’ve an army of twenty five thousand camped before your gates. I know you have heard the stories of how I’ve conquered cities across the prairies and brought all the tribes of the Wagon People under my rule. I am Ubara-Sana of the plains, by my own hand, and I’ve crushed every force sent against me. And yet here you are, still claiming the same old tired thing.”

She looked him in the eyes. “This is the part where, if you are smart, you will confer with your people and you will open the gates, lay down your arms, and have a chance to survive this.”

He scoffed. Entirely predictably. “This is Turia, woman. The plainsfolk may not have been able to humble you, but Turia will. We’ve ten thousand cavalry, and that is not counting the fighting men on foot. You and your slave girls with swords can batter yourselves to ribbons against us, and we’ll put collars on those of you not killed.” A slow, lewd smile, because apparently he felt he hadn’t dug his own grave deep enough. “Maybe I’ll put mine on you, woman, and teach you to obey a master’s word.”

“Well.” Systlin shrugged. “I did give you a chance.”

She’d learned knife throwing from Stellead, but the Arms Master of the Bloodguard had been dubious of its effectiveness and the instruction had only been basic. It was at the Iron Mountain, under the tutelage of the master assassins of the Master of Knives, that she’d learned how to properly throw a knife.

She’d killed the Master of Knives, of course. He’d taken the contract on her father, and sent out one of his Shadow Hands to kill a king. She’d killed the Brother of Shadow who’d wielded the knife, as well, and many others besides. The Iron Mountain stood empty now, the bones of those she’d killed gathering dust in the halls.

Her knife took the golden-armored warrior through the eye. He looked quite shocked as he slid from the saddle and fell. His men started in rage, and went for their lances.

Systlin smiled at them. Her power rose, a cold sweep through her bones, tingling under her skin. She raised her hand, and flicked her fingers negligently at them, mostly for show.

Their lances shattered into splinters. So did at least five thousand other lances of the leading ranks of the famed thalarion cavalry of Turia.

A great confused sound went up, and thalarion shied at the strange scent of Power in the air, sharp as ozone. And as fighting men scrambled for their secondary weapons, Systlin’s forces charged.

Ice took the first man before her just under the chin. She didn’t quite behead him as her coal-black kaiila shot past, but slashed the big artery on his neck open. Blood pumped, and the sound he made as he fell was a terrible gurgle.

She wheeled her mount and ducked the frantic sweep of a sword. The riders were startled, off balance, and that was death when facing a warrior of her caliber. Her kaiila darted in and took the throat of one of the slower High Thalarions, tearing it open. The beast went down, and its rider with it. Systlin kneed the sides of her kaiila and it leapt; the final warrior managed to parry her first blow, a slicing cut at his neck.

She twisted her wrist, reversed the grip on Ice’s hilt with a little twist and clever movement of her fingers that Stellead had made her practice ten thousand times, and drove it into his chest under his ribs. Drew it back with a sharp jerk as she wheeled her kaiila again, and flipped it back around in her hand. She did not have to think about the motion; she had not missed the catch on the twist since she had been a child training under Arms Master Stellead.

Then her kaiila was running, and she pushed it hard for a few paces until she regained her place leading the center. Lances glittered to either side of her, and she felt a fierce pride in the women she’d trained.

She eyed the gates of Turia, behind the regrouping lines of thalarion cavalry. Arrows arched from behind, as her mounted archers began picking off the front ranks of the Turian forces as they came into range.

Arrows returned, from on top of the walls, and one bounced off of her wraithen-scale armor. She lashed out with her power, still simmering under her skin, and five hundred bows shattered. Cries of dismay went up a second time.

She eyed the great gates of Turia, even as her kaiila gathered itself to leap and the first of her lance-fighters neared the front lines of the Turian cavalry. She eyed them for a half a second before she hit the front lines of the Turians, and she Broke them.

The great gates of Turia, and fifty feet of the wall to either side, crumbled into splinters and sand. There was a great cry of horror and dismay from the city, and cries of “UBARA! UBARA!” from her own warriors, delighted.

And then her front line was smashing into the Turian cavalry, and there was no more time for thought.

The Turians were skilled, but they were off balance, had lost the advantage of their long lances, and had not truly been expecting a proper fight. Systlin and her best lancers hit them like a hammer, and pierced deep into the ranks before the Turians quite knew it was happening. The Turians were down to swords now, and only a few of the rear ranks still had lances. Systlin’s riders had long lances with reach, and their kaiila were faster and more nimble than the high thalarion the Turians rode.

And, of course, they had her.

Systlin was no stranger to mounted combat. She’d ridden with the tribes of the desert at Sura’s side for years, and was as deft a hand at mounted combat as any Rider. She’d never have been accepted, otherwise.

It felt, she had to admit, as she turned a sword aside with Ice and flicked the sword around, down, and up, taking off the man’s sword hand at the wrist, very good to be at it again. The man screamed, but she was past him. A lance glanced off of her armor, and she wheeled her kaiila. The beast snapped, catching a leg, and tore the man off of his mount. His thalarion turned and went for her mount, but her kaiila shook its head and was leaping away before it could do any damage.

Systlin fought with all the skill and speed and cunning she had. She fought viciously, the whole time willing that her army would not fail now, would not quail because this battle was larger and closer-fought than any before. She willed it, imagining that she could throw wide her arms and take under her shadow all of her proud free mounted warriors, and through sheer will alone keep them fighting.

And she did what she had always done, in battle. She led on the front line, and fought like nothing the Turians had ever seen before. Men rose before her and men fell; she was past Power now, and killed with pure hard-won skill and naked steel. She cut faces, necks, torsos, limbs. Ice’s blue-tinged blade was purple with blood, and blood spattered her all over. She killed, and killed, with all the skill of those long hours of training and decades more of fighting for her life. She fought, and killed, her blood sang with it.

You were never made for peace. The Lady’s words. It was true; she knew it was true. She loved battle, though she knew it spoke of her basically coldhearted and vicious nature that she did. She was a warrior born and trained and blooded, and she was at home on the killing field.

She’d fought three wars, leading from the front. She’d won each, and the sight of her at the forefront of her warriors, in her element, bloody and screaming and bringing death with her, was absolute horror to the men of Gor.

The sight that horrified the men of Turia stiffened the spines of her warriors, and to the endless horror of the men of Turia, the former slave girls, now screaming warriors with lances and swords, cut into them with a fury they’d never seen.

With her at their front, her mounted warriors smashed the Turian lines apart, just as the left flank led by Foicatch drove hard at the gap left at the rear, pushing the cavalry of Turia away from the broken gates and cutting them off from retreat into the city. Foicatch himself set himself in the middle of the smashed gate, and Systlin caught glimpses of him engaged in fierce close fighting now and then as foot soldiers pressed forward from the city to try and relieve the cavalry she was driving like a herd of sheep across the prairies before Turia.

But the fighting men of Turia were skilled, and proud, and they began to regroup. Men were shouting orders, and the remaining lances managed to form up defensive lines. The fighting grew vicious, even after Systlin Broke more lances, and their advance ground to a crawl. Their armies were nearly matched; Systlin’s warrior women had better armor and better reach, but the Turian fighting men had more experience, and it began to show as they got their feet under them. Systlin’s troops fought like mad wildcats, and she was so proud; they were still winning forward, inch by inch, but she was not about to spend more lives than she had to.

The Turians began to press back, and her advance ground to a halt. Systlin smiled, because she heard the galloping of the kaiila, and knew.

Dina’s mounted archers swept past, and the women turned on their kaiilas with those short but powerful recurve bows of wood and bosk horn. Strings slid from thumb rings, and three thousand arrows hammered home through that light leather armor that the men of this world favored. The kaiilas wheeled, and the women turned again, as they’d practiced a thousand times, sitting backwards on their mounts. Strings sang again, and arrows flew as thick as rain.

Turians died. Systlin yelled and plunged forward again, and to shouts of “UBARA! UBARA! WHIP-BURNER! CHAIN-STRIKER!” her warriors followed.

The Turians had nowhere to retreat from Dina’s archers, except back onto the lances of Systlin’s mounted spear-women. No rescue came from Turia; Foicatch was stacking the bodies of fighting men four deep in the ruin of the shattered gates.

The fighting outside the city drug out a big longer; it took time to slaughter ten thousand cavalry and their mounts. But caught between Dina’s wheeling mounted archers and their storm of arrows and the lances of Systlin’s cavalry and Systlin’s own sword, they were cut to bits.

It was then that Systlin regrouped her lancers and led them to the shattered gates, where the foot soldiers of Turia were approaching more cautiously than before. The shattered gates themselves were a charnel house; fighting men and women both lay dead alongside wounded and dead and shrieking kaiila, and blood was red over the stones of the road and the rubble of the gates and walls. Foicatch and his warriors held, and the fighting men of Turia seemed reluctant to approach within reach of Foicatch’s sword.

They parted to let Systlin through, and her lancers flowed around to guard the sides of the ranks of warriors.

Systlin joined Foicatch at the front lines. She must look a terrible sight; she was head to toe blood and mud, the colors of her wraithen armor dulled under the coating. Foicatch’s own set of wraithen scale armor was similarly filthy. There was a cut high on his temple, a glancing blow that was not serious but bleeding freely. Even as she joined him she felt a trickle of Power as he flicked droplets of blood away from his eyes.

A lull in the fighting; the soldiers of Turia drew back, appalled at the sight. Foicatch eyed her, gaze flicking head to toe to check her for injuries. She gave him a slight reassuring shake of her head, doing the same to him. The cut on his temple seemed to be the worst of it. She turned to eye the soldiers before them.

“Your cavalry,” Systlin informed the fighting men before them. “Are dead. My throat slitters are making short work of any survivors this very moment. You did not hear the offer I made before, I think, so I will make it one more time. Lay your weapons down now, and you may find mercy. I will not give you another chance.”

Not one fighting man moved, save for the one who yelled in defiance, pulled a knife from his boot, and hurled it at her head.

It was a good throw, she thought, as she twisted her head to the side even as his hand swept up with the blade. It was a good throw. Had she not been taught by Stellead and the Shadow Hands of the Iron Mountain, it might have struck home. As it was, it simply scraped her cheekbone in passing; a shallow cut that would heal quickly and cleanly.

Answer enough, she supposed. Foicatch was already moving, and fell on the knife-thrower with a single-minded viciousness that was poetry to see. Systlin was moving almost as quickly, and that was where the battle in the city began.

It was nasty work. Street by street, driving the fighting men before them. Many of the freed slaves in Systlin’s forces had been from Turia, and as planned they now took the lead. As Systlin had suspected, their knowledge of the city was invaluable; meeting places and baths where warriors gathered were found out. Attacks from small alleys were anticipated. Cobbles went slick with blood. A nasty dagger opened a long cut into Systlin’s left forearm, and some of the slick blood under their boots and the kaiila’s paws was her own. She bound it with a strip torn from her own shirt, cinching the knot tight with her teeth, and pressed on.

Turia was a city of millions; it took hours to work their way through, even with the size of her army. It was late afternoon when at last she realized that any warriors found out were fleeing rather than fighting, and being quickly ridden down by archers. Systlin stopped, at last, sitting high on her kaiila, and knew that she was Ubara of Turia, and by extension all of the plains in truth, by right of conquest.

Dina was staying close now, guiding them through the streets. She saw the same realization dawn on Dina’s face; Foicatch was already smiling that grim satisfied smile she remembered well.

“Take me to the throne of Turia.” Systlin said, and Dina did.

The first drops of the storm hit the bloody dust and thunder growled low when the reached the great palace of Turia. It was in a vast central building, half law chambers and half a throne hall. It was all in the same white stone that the city seemed to favor, with a great dome over the hall where the Thrones of Turia sat. They were very fine; there was, Systlin was sure, wood somewhere under the silver and inlaid semiprecious stones, but it was difficult to make out. She left footprints of blood and mud across the spotless tiled floors.

She’d made instructions clear before the first spear was lifted; her warriors knew what to do. One part of being a leader, her father had said long ago. Is finding competent people that you trust, and then trusting them to do their jobs without your having to hang over their shoulder.

He’d been right. Her people were competent, and she did trust them. So while she waited for her warriors to ferret out the various guild and caste leaders and other important persons, Systlin ascended the nine steps to the dais…it was gorgeously carpeted, and inlaid with ivory and gold…and sat herself down in the larger throne, the throne of the Ubar of Turia.

Foicatch eyed her. There was an answering warm pulse that went down her spine and pooled insistently between her legs; there was nothing like battle to get the blood up. But…She raised her eyebrows back at him. “Not yet.” She said, somewhat reluctantly, and motioned with her chin at the smaller throne, the throne where traditionally the Ubara sat. “Not quite yet. It’s not properly conquered until I explain things to the important people, is it?”

“I suppose not.” But his eyes were lingering on her lips, and slid down over the length of her legs and the curve of her hip even so. She could feel the heat of it, and dearly wished to answer it.

But it was about at that point that people…some of them bedraggled, some begging and pleading, some silent and apparently numbly shocked into silence, all led by her fierce and triumphant warrior women, began to file into the great throne chamber. All were drenched; Systlin could hear rain rattling against the roof now, and thunder rumbling quite often.

They stared. Systlin knew what she must look like. She sat, and waited. Her shoulder ached; she’d been slammed into a wall at one point, and probably had a spectacular bruise. Her arm where she’d been cut stung. Her muscles burned from exertion; she’d been fighting on and off for hours. The cut on her cheek had scabbed, and pulled when she moved or spoke.

None of it mattered. Victory was pounding in her veins along the adrenaline. Even now, she knew, her warriors were removing chains from slaves; she could taste it on the air, and it was as sweet as honeyed wine.

Goddess of justice and war.

She ignored the voice of the Lady whispering.

Dina was conferring with the other women native to Turia. They looked fearsome; all were armored and armed and bloody. Most of the blood, to Systlin’s immense pride, was not their own. They had wounds, true, but most were not serious, and every warrior will earn scars. They were standing and moving and speaking with a new edge of confidence that had not been there even this morning, and Systlin knew why.

Stories would be told of this, she knew. Stories would be told, and the warriors who’d fought with her to take Turia would be legend in their own right. And they knew it as well; had proved something to themselves that could never be taken away.

Yes, these warrior women would say, years from now. Yes, of course I know of the Fall of Turia. I was there. I fought at the Ubara’s side. There would be looks then, as awed as any Systlin herself had ever received, and she knew in her bones how the legends would be told in decades to come.

Dina of Turia, who led the Ubara’s archers and broke the Turian cavalry with the Ubara.

Sabra of Turia, the first of all who had her chains struck off, who rode with her lance at the Ubara’s side, in her honor guard, and who fought so fiercely that none could stand before her. Never in the battle for the city did she leave the Ubara’s side, and she walked through blood ankle-deep that day.

Hula of Turia, Doreen of Turia, Hireena of the Tuchuks. Tamra of Ar…

The list went on and on, and pride was a bright warmth in her chest.

Dina said something to Sabra, who nodded and turned to cross the hall and climb the steps. Systlin remembered that first day; Sabra clutching, terrified, at her sleeve. There was little trace of the frightened and beaten slave girl now; Sabra was one of her best with a spear, and she wore thick bosk-hide armor sewn with metal plates. Her arms and shoulders were strong, and her blonde hair braided tightly back. There was blood and mud crusted in it, and a vicious bruise showing around one eye. Her nose had been broken at some point, and hastily reset,. The dried blood from it was still on her chin. She was smiling a smile of victory.

“Ubara sana.” She said. “The guild leaders, councilors, and other important leaders of the city are assembled.”

“Thank you, Sabra.” Systlin smiled back, just as fierce. “And well fought. Fierce as a she-panther.”

The grin widened. “Thank you, Ubara-sana!”

“I told you,” Systlin said, still smiling. “You doubted me, but here you stand. When I secure the treasury, you are to take as much as you can carry, as a mark of my esteem. I name you now to my personal guard, for as long as you desire the post, but you must promise to tell me if you ever wish to leave. You were the first to have her chains thrown off, and I’ve no wish to ever bind you with others.”

Sabra blinked rapidly, and Systlin realized that she was blinking back tears. “I will, Ubara sana.” She said. “But I do not think that day will come.”

“Well. If it does, let me know. And I’ve another duty for you; you were the first to take up weapons, even before Dina. If you will, once things settle more in a few days, go among the women of Turia and tell them your story. And if any of them wish it, bring them to me, and help me train them as warriors, as you trained yourself.”

A light like fever lit in Sabra’s eyes. “Ubara sana,” she whispered. “You honor me, and I will do this.”

“You won your honor yourself, with your own hands and by your own actions.” Systlin said. “I merely handed you the tools to do so. Bring them all forward, then.”

Foicatch, she realized, was staring at her with an intensity that was scorching.

“You will never have any idea,” he breathed, very quietly, as her warriors herded the frightened rich and powerful of the city to the base of the raised dais the thrones sat upon, “the effect you have on people. What it’s like to see, from the outside.”

“Hush.” She murmured back, just as softly. “You’re biased.”

“I am. But I’m also right. Every woman in your forces would have followed you to the death this morning, but after this they’d follow you past it as well.”

“Hmm.” She allowed, but it was a pleased sound. “I try only to be what they deserve.”

“Yes.” He said. “Yes, and that’s why.”

She eyed the small crowd at the foot of the dais. They were frightened and soaked from the storm, bedraggled and sullen.

“Foicatch, darling.” She said. “Our guests appear to be soaked. Could you give them a hand?”

He made an agreeable sound and lifted a hand. She tasted Power on the back of her tounge, ozone and burnt cinnamon.

There were gasps and screams as the water streamed and spiraled off of the huddled leaders of Turia. Foicatch pulled it into a hovering globe above his hand, and then rather negligently flicked it aside. It splashed to the tiles, leaving the people in the crowd quite dry.

Dina clicked her tounge against her teeth. “Are you all sorcerers, on your world?” A year and a half of following Systlin, one of the strongest fire witches and the strongest Breaker ever to live, had rubbed the novelty off of seeing Power worked.

“Not all of us.” Systlin lifted a shoulder. “But a good many.”

“My mother’s a stronger water witch than me,” Foicatch said absently. “I’ve only half her gift.”

“Wait until you see him really angry,” Systlin said. “And see him tear the water from a man’s blood.”

“I have.” That was Hireena, herding the Turians forward. Her voice was low, and she looked at Foicatch with deep respect. “At the gates, as we fought.”

“Did you?” She said, with interest. Systlin had seen it done before. It had been….compelling. Hmmmm.

Later. Later. More important things first.

“Turia.” She said, her voice clear. “I greet you.”

Furious, frightened faces looked up at her. Mutters went around. Systlin remembered well what she’d been told.

“I greet you,” she said. “As Ubara Sana of the plains, won by my own hand. But of course, you are Turian, and the power in Turia lies with the merchants.”

“It is so.” One veiled woman said. She was looking up curiously; her robes were of exquisitely fine silks, and embroidered with gold. Pearls hung from the edges of her sleeves, and crystal beads glittered across her gown.

“That,” said Systlin. “May change. I understand, of course, that you’ve already well established trade routes, and I’ve no wish to interfere with them. But I am Ubara Sana now, and the old laws will change. You may have heard that, on the plains, slave chains have been outlawed, and all slaves freed. It is true, and as of this moment by my decree every slave in Turia is freed.”

There was a roar of arguments and shouting and disapproving noises.

“…cannot simply…”

“…My business is slaves! How am I to…”

“…an outrage!...”

Systlin waited them out, patient. As she did, another of the Turian women jogged in through the great door; the rain had washed away most of the mud and blood, but she was limping, a strip of cloth bound around one thigh. She murmured something to Dina, who nodded once and took the nine steps up to the dais two at a time.

“There is a problem.” Dina said. “Saphrar, a wealthy merchant, one of the leaders of the Merchant’s Caste in the city. He’s a fortified compound, and has walled himself up with his mercenary forces.”

“Tell everyone to pull back.” Systlin said at once. “Keep an eye on the compound; let no one escape. After I finish here, I’ll come and tend to his gates myself.”

Dina smiled thinly, and went back down, murmured this to the other woman. The other woman grinned like a wolf, and hurried out, swift despite her wounded leg.

“Have you all finished?” Systlin raised her voice above the crowd.

“I will contract with the Guild of Assassins for this!” A man with thick dark hair and wearing gold and white robes said furiously. He had a hand raised and was shaking a finger at the sky. “I’ll have your head in my vault. I swear it on the Priest-Kings! “

“I take it that you deal in slaves,” Systlin said dryly.

“I do! It is an honorable trade, and I have been dealing in slave meat for…”

Systlin nodded at Dina, who moved quickly. Her knife gleamed, and the man’s throat opened ear to ear. A gurgle, and a red rush of blood, and utter shocked silence.

“Slavery,” Systlin said mildly. “Is one of the greatest crimes, and slavers are condemned to death. Those who procure and deal in slaves for their own wealth are doubly damned. Throw his body to the kaiila; they must be hungry after the fight. What was his name?”

Silence.

“I asked,” Systlin said, voice going cold. “For his name. I expect an answer.”

Another moment of silence dragged out, and then…“Kazrak.” The veiled woman who’d spoken before said. “Kazrak of the Merchant Caste. His mansion is next to mine, and his warehouse is in the low streets, near the slave market.”

“Did he have a Free Companion, any children?”

“Both.”

“Then half of his estate shall go to them, and they shall maintain their home. The other half of his assets are forfeit, and will be redistributed between his slaves, who are now free.” Systlin raised an eyebrow. “Might I have your name?”

“Aphris.” Said the woman. “Of the Merchant Caste. I deal in silks and wine, not people.” She shot a somewhat vicious look at the dead Kazrak, as he was dragged off, leaving a smear of red on the tiles. “And he was cruel, and it does my heart good to see justice done him. I take it then that we, the free women of Turia, are not to be put in slave chains?”

“Bloody pits, no.” Systlin said, repulsed.

“I did not think so.” Aphris said, cool and collected, a point of calm in the angry and terrified crowd. “But many freewomen feared the worst. It is, after all, how war has been done on Gor for a very long time. You can understand the worry.”

It was a reasonable worry, Systlin supposed. “Of course. But have no fear, no hand will be raised against you. You are free, and will remain free. Aside from that, by my laws it will be punishable by death if anyone, from anywhere, ever attempted to enslave you, and I would hunt that man down and kill him for daring to put chains on one of my subjects.”

There were many free women in the crowd, and at the words there was sort of a sigh that ran through them, and a sense of some great tension lifted. The men looked startled. Systlin gestured, taking in the concealing robes all of the free women wore.

“It is no longer required,” she continued. “That you wear full Robes of Concealment in public. A free woman may dress as she likes and go where she likes. If you feel more comfortable in your robes, of course, then you are welcome to wear them, but it is not required. If you choose to set them aside and experience difficulty from anyone, you may make a formal complaint and the matter will be dealt with. I will make people and resources available to deal with such matters.”

A murmur. More looks of outrage from the men.

“Many,” Aphris said. “Will welcome this. But for myself, Ubara, I think I will choose to wear the robes, at least for some time longer.”

“Of course.” Systlin inclined her head. “And I am afraid, of course, that Turia will be judged.”

“Judged?” One man snapped. “Like you judged Kazrak?”

“Yes. Precisely how I judged Kazrak.” Systlin smiled unpleasantly. “There are three great crimes; the murder of an innocent who has done no harm, the rape of another, and enslaving another. The penalty for all three is death.”

Silence. Dead, horrified silence. And then,

“You cannot mean,” another man said, carefully. “That every man who held a slave will be killed.”

“No.” Systlin shook her head. Sighs of relief, but she continued. “Because some slaves, for whatever reason, beg mercy for those who held them. It will be up to any slaves you hold what your fate is. But,” and she grinned again, more horribly. “If a single slave you’ve held and raped chooses death for you, I will put a knife in her hand and hold you down myself for the sentence.”

“What.”

“You cannot mean…”

“Not all…”

“All.” Systlin said, merciless. “Every man in Turia. If a freewoman held male slaves…I’m told it happens…then her life is forfeit as well. I will not abide it. Have no fear; I will establish many courts to see to it. It will take us months to work through the city, but it will be done. And those of you who are guilty, I will hang your bones from the white walls as a warning.”

“You,” Said one man, who had until then been silent, staring angry daggers at her from the front of the crowd. His robes, she noted, were the finest in the room, and edged in purple. “Are mad.”

“Not the first time I’ve been called that.” Systlin said easily. She looked him over, matching up features with descriptions. “Phanius Turmus, I presume?”

“Ubar of Turia.” He confirmed, chin high. “You are defiling my throne, woman.”

“You were.” She shook her head. “But you lost. You’re simply Phanius now, and you’ll be judged with the rest.”

“I think that perhaps I shall contract with the Assassin’s Caste for your head.” He didn’t flinch or break eye contact. “Your head would look well in my vaults, I agree with Kazrak.”

“Oh, please do. I ought to make their acquaintance. It’s been some time since I trained with the assassins of my own world, and tore their master’s throat out with my knife. So yes please, do. It would be an exciting challenge.”

Foicatch sighed resignedly. “Really, love?”

Phanius was giving her a stare of pure and utter horror. “What are you?” He almost whispered. “What terrible hell did you crawl from, to plague us? Have you no respect for those of high caste?”

“My mother would be terribly offended by calling her a ‘terrible hell’.” She made steady eye contact with each person in her horrified and enraptured audience. “The terrible hell is her sister, who taught me to fight. And no. Every caste. From low to high. All will be judged the same. If any have offended in these ways, I will see justice done upon them. No one is exempt.”

“You’ll kill thousands!” One man cried. “Tens of thousands!”

“Oh,” Systlin said, cold as steel in winter. “Hundreds of thousands, I expect.”

“You cannot…”

“Poor choice of words.” Foicatch sighed again. “I could have warned you; there’s no better way to get her to do something than to tell her, earnestly, that she can’t.”

Systlin stood, and let Power rise. Not the terrible cold of Breaking, but her other gift, hot and furious and wild. Fire bloomed around her for a moment, and was gone too quickly to set fire to her clothes. But it had the desired effect. Silence fell. Horrified silence.

“I am not bargaining with you.” She said softly. “I am not suggesting. I am not your old Ubar. I stand here by right of conquest. I breached your walls and killed my way to this throne, and I am going to kill a great deal many more before I am through. The merchants and caste-masters are not ruling Turia any longer; I am.”

She moved a step down, drawing closer to them. “To put this in terms you understand, which I gathered from women you had kidnapped from a world not yours and forced into slavery; you had best get used to this new way, or you will die. I am telling you how things now are. You can flee the city, if you wish, but I will not stop here and I will find you. Be it when I take Ar, or Ko-Ro-Ba, or any other city, I will come. I am going to end slavery on this world, and I fully expect to do it at the point of a sword. I am Ubara Sana of the plains. I rule this city now. These are the great crimes that will be punished, and how they will be punished. This matter is not open for negotiation. If you dislike these words, you are free to take them up with any of the twenty thousand of my soldiers in your city. They’ll be thrilled to discuss them, I am sure.” She descended another step. “Until the courts are established and judging begins, no one is to leave the city. I control the entirety of the plains and other bands of my warriors have seized trade routes. I have the wealth of Turia at my disposal; you will not go hungry. And now, you are free to return to your homes; I have things yet to do tonight. One of you has decided to fight tooth and nail; I’m off to crack him out of his nutshell. Dismissed.”

She swept past, not looking back, and felt their eyes on her back as she went.

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lassieposting · 4 years ago

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bad guy brigade backstory headcanons

dead men version here. this is just mevolent and vile because it got Long so serpine and vengeous will have to be in another post

MEVOLENT

- Mevolent was originally born into a wealthy sorcerer family in the Middle Ages, somewhere around 1000AD. His grandparents met a few hundred years earlier, around the time the Vikings came to Ireland, so he's got some Norwegian in him through his grandfather, who converted to the Church of the Faceless to be able to marry his grandmother.

- His parents were both ardent Faceless Ones worshippers, so young Mevolent's early years were very strict and revolved around religion - his parents' duties to the church, his own religious education, attending prayers, etc. He didn't have many friends and was quite a lonely child.

- As a little boy, he wanted to be a knight, and his parents had the sway and the money to make that happen, so he was sent away at age 7 to be a page for Arthur Dagan's grandfather, which was a very high-status apprenticeship indeed. During this time he went to live in Grandpa Dagan's castle at the other end of the country, with instructions to make the gods and the family proud.

- He spent a few years as a page, which is where the Unnamed spotted him. The Unnamed was an acquaintance/ally of Grandpa Dagan's, and a regular visitor to the castle.

- Mevolent's parents died in a "tragic accident" shortly before Mevolent's 10th birthday. For a long time he believed the story he was told - that their carriage had been run off the road and attacked by bandits - but as he got older he started to suspect that actually, the whole thing was arranged by the Unnamed.

- With both his parents dead and no relatives left to take care of him, babby Mevolent stayed Grandpa Dagan's ward for a time, but losing the gold Mevolent's parents had been paying for his upkeep significantly decreased the old man's willingness to house, feed, clothe and train him. The Unnamed stepped in and offered to take Mevolent in as part of his own household, and Grandpa Dagan was happy to wash his hands of a loose end. So Mevolent became the Unnamed's ward instead.

- The Unnamed kept multiple residences all across the world, but Mevolent spent the majority of his youth at his new master's court in France, which had a lasting impact on him. He was exposed to a freer, less restrictive form of religion, new kinds of magic, new people - ambitious social climbers with aspirations to grandeur, mostly. He developed aspirations of his own. He developed a love of art and music and culture and the opulence that was the norm at the French court at the time. During the war, he targets the Marseilles Sanctuary first because he's intending to establish his base of operations there; he wants to go home.

- Also in language shenanigans, Mev's first language is Middle Irish, which died out around 1200AD. He doesn't speak Gaeilge - modern Irish - very well, so his "first language" that's still in use is French. He has a faint accent on some words in English, and the reason he speaks the way he does - slow and flat - is because he's a third-language or fourth-language or whatever speaker, so he has to think through what he says very carefully before he says it. He's a lot more animated in a language he's more comfortable with.

VILE

- Vile is, essentially, a very early neoteric.

- So during Skulduggery's parents' lifetimes, the Necromancer Order started to isolate itself even more from the outside world and brought in the practice of taking young Necromancers from their families to raise them in-house and limiting their contact with the outside world, to maximise loyalty to the Order; this netted them a reputation for snatching and brainwashing kids.

- Some parents would be ashamed of having a child with a talent for Necromancy, but the majority would go to great lengths to hide their kid from the Order. Skug's parents hired a ridiculously expensive Elemental tutor, punished him for using Necromancy around others, taught him to never mention his talent to anyone. As a result, Skug only ever used Necromancy when he was alone, which meant he never received any formal training in Temple methods and his Necromancy wove in and around his instincts, attached itself to his emotions.

- So by the time Vile joins the Necromancer Temple, he's already inclined to be a problem. Young Necromancers are taught the basic tenets of their faith from a young age. They're taught Temple hierarchy, they're taught basic rules of Necromancy. They're taught these things so young that it never occurs to them to do it differently. But Vile was never taught any of those things.

- So there's Tenebrae, teaching, and he says that Necromancy must be used through a channelling object. In fact, it's possible to use death magic without a channelling object, but it's dangerous - so dangerous the Order banned the practice, so it's what's considered "illegal Necromancy". The other students accept this as something they've been taught since childhood. But Vile doesn't. He thinks for himself, doesn't accept the standard way of doing things without a damn good reason. He corrects or disproves teachings in class, he takes "we can't do X" as a challenge, he's disrespectful of authority. He sows disobedience and controversy and is generally a pain in the Order's ass.

(Some of them listen to him, though. Solomon Wreath owes a lot of his cavalier attitude towards Temple rules to watching Vile buck the system and not getting any major consequences from it.)

- So? He knows they're not telling him the whole truth from the start, and he doesn't like it. Then they tell him he's their Death Bringer, but they won't tell him what that means or what they want him to do, and Vile is an ornery bastard by nature so every refusal to enlighten him just makes him more stubborn. He gets harder to control. Starts developing his own magic his own way, ignoring what Tenebrae's teaching him. He learns the death bubble, and starts using it on other students to give himself a high. Tenebrae is shitting himself by this point, basically, because he's being pressured to Deal With their out-of-control Death Bringer and sooner or later, he's going to have to challenge Vile, and he knows he won't win.

- And then he disappears. Just up and vanishes in the middle of the night. And Tenebrae isn't sure whether he's disappointed or relieved.

- So Vile goes off to join Mevolent. And he's not subtle about it. He shows up in the middle of a battle, and he has no idea which side is which or what either side's plan is, so he just starts indiscriminately killing anyone he can get his shadows on. He catches the attention of Mevolent's officers. And when it's all done, they take him to their leader because they're not sure what the hell this asshole's game is or what side he's on. Vile tosses the decapitated head of the enemy general at Mevolent's feet and essentially asks so do you want me on your side or theirs?

- Mevolent is, reluctantly, impressed by both the "gift" and the sheer fucking nerve of this kid. And he's old enough and smart enough by this point to know a good thing when he sees it. Serpine is creative and wily, but he's useless in a fight. Vengeous is a great soldier, but he's really only good at doing what he's told. Vile is terrifying on the battlefield and capable of coming up with and executing his own plans. Mev could use someone like that.

#skulduggery pleasant #sp headcanons #the bad boy brigade #mevolent #lord vile

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darkkept · 4 years ago

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RULES. repost; do not reblog! tag 10! good luck!

TAGGED BY: stolen from @salt-water-and-glaives forever ago TAGGING: Steal it from me or I will kill again.

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Astraea Andromeda Lucis Caelum NICKNAME/S: Stray, Rae/Rae-Rae, Starshine BIRTHDAY: February 28th NATIONALITY: Lucian LANGUAGE/S: Lucian, Tenebraean, Old Lucian, Altissian, fragments of Imperial SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Pansexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Panromantic RELATIONSHIP STATUS: It’s Complicated (verse dependent)

CLASS: White Mage

HOMETOWN / AREA: Insomnia, Lucis. Born a royal in the Crown City, Stray was raised in the highest echelons of Insomniac society. Raised above most, she was kept largely to the world of privilege and safety afforded by the wealthier circles of her walled world. CURRENT HOME: On the road

PROFESSION: Princess, Advocate

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Inky black in color, shot through with traces of blue highlights. It falls thick and loosely curled to her mid back, though is often styled tidily up and away from her face in vintage styles. After the fall of her homeland, she cuts her hair just above her shoulders and only styles it minimally.

EYES: A dark shade, leaning heavily towards a steely blue. Downturned and mono-lidded in shape. Has long dark lashes framing them, often accented with a hint of black eyeliner along her upper lids and highlighter to obscure dark circles beneath her eyes.

NOSE: Straight, with a slight downward turn. Average sized.

FACE: Diamond shaped, with an angular and overtly feminine face giving way to a pointed chin. Slightly elongated in imitation of her father in his youth, with no noticeable scars or discoloration

LIPS: Wide and plush, naturally a pale pink. Often decorated with a smear of neutral lipstick or gloss during public appearances. Most often pulled into a placid or neutral smile.

COMPLEXION: The light ivory skin of a person who does not often brave direct sunlight, with warm undertones. While she might burn at first, with time she’ll settle into a soft tan when introduced to the world outside of the city. Appears more ashen in the post-Nightfall world, due to a combination of factors.

BLEMISHES: None, and should any appear. they’re likely to be photoshopped out or made to disappear via make-up.

TATTOOS: A small lineart of a feather on her left hip, a remnant of a past relationship. The feather means a lot to her on again off again boyfriend, and she thought it would be a cute surprise for him. That on again lasted all of two months after this tattoo. She’s mortified by the mere thought of the ink on her hip now.

HEIGHT: 5′1″

WEIGHT: Around 105-110 pounds.

BUILD: Slim and diminutive, with delicate bone structure and slender limbs. While there is some toning along her upper arms and core, she remains slight. Her figure is relatively straight, with little in the way of curves.

ALLERGIES: None.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: in public: A vintage brush out or demure braid will be her go to hairstyles when facing the people. The styles are made more elegant by the inclusion of hair accessories, usually dark silver clips to contrast off of her dark locks.

in private: Keeps her hair loose or in a low ponytail, letting her curls simply be so long as they are out of the way. She’s not particularly fussed about her hair when her time is her own, and actually enjoys just letting it loose and bouncy down her back.

at work: Kept into a messy ponytail or bun with long, loose curls falling at the sides of her face if not swept back behind her ears.

USUAL EXPRESSION: You know how newscasters have that perpetual, unnerving buoyancy to their smiles and unblinking eyes? Unfortunately, that is Stray, who wants to always appear affable and trustworthy to the people. Smiling softly, eyes bright, but in an altogether neutral expression otherwise, she might come off as insincere were she any less pretty.

USUAL CLOTHING: The modern goth meets the vintage rack. Stray has an appreciation for old school elegance, be it tea-length dresses or old pencil skirts and cardigans, the more femme the better. Her choice of fabric is overwhelmingly black, though she accessorizes with shades of red and magenta. Has been known to wear sunglasses when out in the world. Polished black heels are a must, as Stray refuses to live at her actual height.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Seeing as Stray is a person to define herself by her use to others, she has a twofold fear of uselessness and imperfection. If she is not the best she can be, the nshe struggles to understand who she is or what her purpose might be. Beyond this, she has a deep-seated fear of losing what little family she has, which unfortunately comes true during the course of the narrative.

ASPIRATION/S: Above all, Stray hopes to see a Kingdom united, with no walls and prejudices. Her primary goals as a political figurehead focus on the plight of the Outlands, and especially that of refugees. She hopes to one day make reparations for what her forebears did so wrong in handling those outside of the Crown City. Her more personal goals are mainly defined day by day, though as of the game’s primary plot, she is focused totally on finding her brother and keeping him safe. After his loss, Stray throws herself into finding a conclusion that does not end with her brother being sacrificed to Bahamut’s game.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Approachable. Caring. Generous. Just. Passionate. Playful. Witty.

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Evasive. Insecure. Self-sacrificing. Smothering. Subservient. Workaholic.

MBTI: ENFJ-T - THE PROTAGONIST

Protagonists are natural-born leaders, full of passion and charisma. Forming around two percent of the population, they are oftentimes our politicians, our coaches and our teachers, reaching out and inspiring others to achieve and to do good in the world. With a natural confidence that begets influence, Protagonists take a great deal of pride and joy in guiding others to work together to improve themselves and their community.

The interest Protagonists have in others is genuine, almost to a fault – when they believe in someone, they can become too involved in the other person’s problems, place too much trust in them. Luckily, this trust tends to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, as Protagonists’ altruism and authenticity inspire those they care about to become better themselves. But if they aren’t careful, they can overextend their optimism, sometimes pushing others further than they’re ready or willing to go.

People with the Protagonist personality type are passionate altruists, sometimes even to a fault, and they are unlikely to be afraid to take the slings and arrows while standing up for the people and ideas they believe in. It is no wonder that many famous Protagonists are cultural or political icons – this personality type wants to lead the way to a brighter future, whether it’s by leading a nation to prosperity, or leading their little league softball team to a hard-fought victory.

ENNEAGRAM: The Reformer

ZODIAC: Pisces (sun sign), Libra (rising sign), Taurus (moon sign)

TAROT: Death: “You can be a bit intense and find yourself drawn to dark and mysterious things. You’ve been through a lot and have probably seen your fair share of endings, but probably cope with it through humor. On top of that, you are surprisingly easygoing – you’re open to change, try not to let past baggage weigh you down, and seek out new experiences” (there was a quiz going around and that’s where the description comes from)

TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine

SOUL TYPE/S: the caregiver (change)

The quintessential characteristic of a Caregiver type is the desire to take care of others. For this reason, Caregivers may be drawn to the long-term care of children or the elderly. Though some Caregivers find their need to nurture satisfied by raising a family, many others seek out work in such venues as schools, hospitals, and animal shelters. The long-term care of those with Alzheimer’s, autism, and mental illness often becomes the responsibility of Caregivers.

If you recognize yourself as a Caregiver, you may already have noticed the tendency to put others’ needs ahead of your own. This trait makes it essential that you go out of your way to take care of yourself as well as those around you. Remember that you’re no use to others if you’re not healthy or fit enough to help them.

You are loyal to the extreme, and you guard those who are entrusted to your care with your life. Fighting another person’s battles can be important if that individual is unable to stand up for themselves, though you should be cautious not to dis-empower those in your care by not allowing them to do things for themselves.

Your empathy allows you to understand nonverbal emotional signals. This ability will tell you when someone needs your help, and how best to assist them. It is common for Caregiver types to intuitively know what someone needs at any given time.

VICE/S: Stray is someone who cuts loose by thrills. A favorite vice is driving fast, racing around the Crown City once the streets are emptied. She tears across the roads like a stunt driver, handling her car well but with a blatant disregard for traffic laws. She has also been known to take part in recreational drug use in secret, favoring marijuana to unwind when her stress peaks.

FAITH: Formerly a lapsed adherent to the Astrals, the six gods of her native Eos, with a particular focus on the veneration of Bahamut as patron of her family. While raised a proper faithful child, Stray never had a vested interest in the Astrals, and began to put her faith instead in the physical world over the spiritual. In the time since the fall of her homeland and the revelation of her brother’s fate, her disinterest has turned to outright hatred, and she now aims to work against the gods and their ambitions.

GHOSTS?: Misidentified daemons, in her honest opinion. If the haunted painting can actually be possessed by one, who knows how many times ghosts have simply been misidentified species of Daemon? She wants to believe, however.

AFTERLIFE?: She’s unsure what shape it takes, but does believe it exists. Whether you ascend to dwell with the Astrals, or go on to watch over your loved ones from above, she cannot say, just that she doesn’t think life ends just because your body dies. Not that it immediately concerns her, seeing as a lot of her ancestors end up stuck in a ring for all eternity.

REINCARNATION?: A fascinating theory she’s seen bandied about certain Outland beliefs. It’s not truly in line with the Astral-based faith she was raised in, but she does think it’s a beautiful idea. Though, she does tend to treat it irreverently when drawing comparisons between the Founder King and her younger brother.

ALIENS?: You mean like the kind Cor swears up and down he saw driving through Tenebrae once? Sure, she totally believes the Marshall.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Revolutionary. At heart, Stray sees little use in a continued monarchy, and believes in equality for the people who would ideally represent themselves. Outwardly, she settles for being the more liberal royal, campaigning for changes to at least two generations of perceived injustice against Lucian citizens.

ECONOMIC PREFERENCE: Surprisingly frugal. Most finery she owns was either a gift or a necessity for osme event. On her own, Stray has a preference for function over anything else, and durability over couture. This might go a long way in explaining several of her vintage interests.

SOCIOPOLITICAL POSITION: Royal, the eldest child -- though not heir -- of an established monarch. Stray is at the highest level of Lucian society, trumped only by her father as ruler and brother as heir.

EDUCATION LEVEL: University educated. Topped her classes throughout her private education, and truly excelled in high school. Earned her Bachelors in poli sci, despite intending to study medicine at the start. Her education goals have been put on hold due to her familial obligations, though prior to the treaty signing she intended to continue on for a Masters.

FAMILY.

FATHER: Regis Lucis Caelum, King - deceased

MOTHER: Aurea Lucis Caelum, Queen - deceased

GODFATHER: Clarus Amicitia (her father’s Sworn Shield)

SIBLING/S: Noctis (younger brother)

EXTENDED FAMILY: Ardyn probably counts here as her 114 times removed great uncle. In the more realistic, she has a maternal uncle on the council, and a few younger cousins she sometimes hangs around with.

SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): Verse dependent.

NAME MEANING/S: Astraea is derived from the root Aster, meaning ‘Star.’ This was the name of a classical goddess of justice and innocence. Andromeda roughly translates to ‘mindful of man,’ and was the name of a bound princess in mythology. Lucis Caelum is a Latin surname, taken from the words for ‘light’ and ‘sky.’

Her first and last names become ‘star of the light sky’,’ in juxtaposition to her brother as the ‘night of the light sky.’

Stray is a nickname derived from her younger brother’s attempts to pronounce her name as a young child. It was easier on the tongue than her full name, and stuck among both the royal family and the prince and princess’ closest friends.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION: The eldest child of the royal family of Lucis, a dynasty dating back 2000 years. Though not the heir -- inheritance favors female rulers only when there are no men left -- Stray is among the latest link in a very long chain of duty and magic. She is 114 generations removed from the Founder King, and sister to the long-prophecised Promised King.

FAVORITES.

BOOK: Stray is most engrossed in medical journals and any technical publications that come her way. That is, she has more time for magazines than books. When she has a moment to sit down, however, she has a taste for poetry and the classics -- Tragedies, especially.

MOVIE: Legally, the princess is required to say that she enjoys a good drama, and is very interested in the yearly award circuit nominees especially. In private, the princess prefers less conservative fare, namely erotic thrillers. There is something about the interplay of sex and danger that she enjoys. None can know just how lowbrow her tastes are.

DEITY: Outwardly, she will admit to being a great admirer of the stalwart Draconian who protects her family and their kingdom. In private, she often had a soft spot for Titan, shouldering the load of saving the world from calamity. Now, she thinks they are all unworthy of worship.

MONTH: October.

SEASON: Autumn.

PLACE: Her private chambers within the Citadel, where she can really be herself at the start and end of every day.

WEATHER: Cool and overcast, with the threat of rain on the horizon not quite reaching her. The kind of weather where you bring your umbrella just to be safe, but still go about your day.

SOUND: The laughter of her loved ones.

SCENT/S: Roses. Sea salt. Old books. Her partner’s cologne/soap.

TASTE/S: Honey. Molasses. Black tea. Apples.

FEEL/S: Leather. Fur. Velvet. Scar tissue.

ANIMAL/S: Chocobo.

NUMBER: 13

COLOR: Magenta

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Public speaking. Problem solving. White magic.

BAD AT: Obeying traffic laws. Expressing and working through negative feelings. Accepting failure.

TURN-ONS: nonsexual: Older/stronger partners. Emotional intimacy. Risk-taking. Tolerance for others. Free-spirits. sexual: Spanking. Praise. Roleplay. Big dicks. Being able to let her partner take control. Laid-back sex.

TURN-OFFS: Degradation. Unyielding. Lack of compassion. Traditionalist views. Immaturity.

HOBBIES: Socializing. Reading. Research. Racing. Clubbing. Chess.

AESTHETIC TAGS: Stars. Midnight. Moon cycles. The serpent. Rebellion. Stranger in a strange land. Girlhood gothic. Shades of red. Growing up too fast. The healer has the bloodiest hands. All-loving heroine. The dutiful daughter. Shields. Dark mirrors. Breaking cycles. Dark curls. Sensuality. Who’s a heretic now?

#long post //#stray ; characterization #stray ; headcanon

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makeste · 5 years ago

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BnHA Chapter 234: Tomura Flashbacks and Giganto ex Machia

Previously on BnHA: Re-Destro lost his temper and hulked the fuck out and started breaking off Tomura’s fingers like a goddamn Kit-Kat bar. Elsewhere, (1) Twice cloned Toga in order to give her a blood transfusion, unaware that Skeptic was heading their way; (2) Spinner’s quirk of being a Gecko Man was revealed and he attempted to wall-crawl his way over to Hanabata only to be assailed by a bunch of redshirts fired up by Hanabata’s Trumpet quirk; (3) Dabi continued to battle Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine offscreen (I assume); (4) Compress was also probably doing something but who can be sure; (5) Giran was running off to safety with one of the clone Twices, and finally, (6) Gigantomachia Goron-rolled his way towards the action while Slidin’ Go stood there nervously, probably sensing that his number is coming up on the great cosmic roulette wheel. All of this happened two whole weeks ago because the manga was on break last week! But it’s finally back now, so leeeEET’S geeet ready to rrrruuuuUUUUUUUUMMMMMBLE.

Today on BnHA: RD continues to get handsy with Tomura until Tomura starts to disintegrate one of RD’s own fingers to see how he likes it. He does not, in fact, like it, so he flings Tomura away and starts thinking all of these shocked antagonist thoughts about how Tomura is stronger than he expected and his powers are ~awakening~ and blah blah blah. Meanwhile Tomura hops back onto the Flashback Train to Feels City and recalls how AFO gave him his family’s severed hands to make sure he stayed good and pissed!! And he also remembers more about his sister and how much she loved him! And his mom and grandparents who were also super nice and are now fucking dead and it’s a lot! Horikoshi is pretty fucking ruthless! Anyway so RD decides he’d better go all out and wrap this up, but before he can deliver a killing blow, Gigantomachia finally makes his entrance. At the same moment, Tomura finally remembers “everything” (?? ???!?!?), which, holy fucking shit you guys.

(All comments are my unspoiled reactions from my initial readthrough of the chapter. I did a quick edit for grammar and clarity immediately afterward, and added one or two ETAs in the process, but aside from that there are no changes.)

okay so let’s see what gruesome things are in store for our intrepid villains this week

��destroyed memories” oh? come again? you don’t say?? fancy that?? goodness me???

so is this referring to Tomura? or Dabi? if it’s referring to Re-Destro or one of his gang, I swear to god...! nobody cares about your memories RD. you’re a jerk and you suck

lol what the

aww. is this a “real” in-universe children’s book, is that what this is. did all the lil U.A. dumplings read this when they were small. and was there also a similar book called “don’t judge people by their lack of quirks” and if so why did no one read it to lil baby Kacchan hmm

anyway now we’re cutting right back to this unpleasant image! and not only that, but in the two weeks we’ve been gone things have even escalated!

we’re up to two hands being grabbed now! um. he’s really going to need at least one of those? probably?? please don’t Overhaul my deranged villain son fffff

reminder that Tomura needs to touch something with all five fingers in order for his quirk to activate (or he did before at least), so even though he still has... two...? fingers remaining on his left hand, that hand is still effectively useless as far as quirking goes. so if he suffers even the smallest amount of damage to his right hand as well, it’s basically all over for him. unless he actually was using his quirk with his feet in the previous chapter. I’m assuming not because he presumably would have decayed his way all the way down to the center of the earth if that was the case. I think @khorale mentioned this in a comment on my last recap, but yeah, seeing as the ground’s not disintegrating underneath him, it’s safe to say it’s Hands Only here

anyway I got so caught up in being calmly horrified over the current situation that I didn’t even read the dialogue. so RD’s saying that superpowers are linked to personality, and so that “don’t judge people by their quirks” stuff is in fact bullshit

um, source? are you a psychologist? in general I try to take things with a grain of salt when they’re said by pieces of shit, so yeah

fffffffff noooooo Tomura’s face sob Horikoshi you bastard

he looks so freaking young here. okay, shit. I’m starting to think I need to make plans to unwind after I finish reading this chapter. maybe get an Enya playlist in the works. diffuse some essential oils. find some cute baby animal videos

but on the plus side, it’s looking ever more likely that his are indeed the Destroyed Memories in question omg. so I will continue to get hype while also feeling very guilty and stressed

you guys I’m actually really glad RD is feeling like he has the upper hand now, because he’s starting to waste some valuable time monologuing, and with every second he babbles on, Machia is getting closer and closer to whooping some ass

so he’s asking Tomura what he’s trying to create

and well, actually, he’s not really that far off

I mean. does it count as nothing if he wants to destroy the whole world? one could argue that would be “creating” a new world in which everyone is fucking dead. idk. I might have to give RD this one; his whole point of “quirks are linked to personality and you have a quirk that destroys everything you touch so you probably just want to destroy shit” is holding up surprisingly well to scrutiny thus far

yeah so now he’s yelling “YOU ONLY LUST FOR DESTRUCTION! AM I WRONG?!” and nope. but even a broken clock, twice a day, etc.

oh shit OH FUCKING --

um, okay, (1) NO IT’S NOT, SHE WAS A LITTLE GIRL, NONE OF YOUR HANDS BELONGED TO A CHILD YOU GULLIBLE RUBE

and (2) MY FUCKING FEELS. why am I even surprised. what the fuck. I knew more angst was coming and yet it still...

just, god. okay fine Horikoshi I’m a glutton for punishment, please continue then

HAHA SOB IT’S A WHOLE FUCKING FLASHBACK OKAY SURE LAY IT ON ME!!

this really is the wildest shit though you guys. I still can’t get over it. “hello little boy I’m sorry your family is dead but don’t worry I’m adopting you and here are all of their severed hands. with little plugs on the end too or some shit. just, you know. souvenir”

I can’t fucking believe AFO played this so straight. maybe that’s why it worked. it was just so fucking out there that Tenko wound up buying it hook line and sinker. “hmm, seems a bit shady, but then again why else would a strange man I met only yesterday just randomly up and give me a dozen severed hands”

I don’t know if any of this shit is important, but it’s probably good practice to just post every mysterious thing that AFO says

yes you really did a great job healing this guy’s wounded fucking heart, Dr. Phil

oh wow, never fucking mind, even

I see, so that wasn’t meant to be a reassuring “in time you’ll get over it” speech; it was meant to be a cautionary “you’d better surround yourself with reminders of your terrible pain at all times or else you might actually stop feeling fucking miserable and WE CAN’T FUCKING HAVE THAT” speech. holy shit

I’m seriously having trouble wrapping my mind around just how terrible this is. like, it’s nearly impossible to fathom that level of cruelty. this is a four(?)-year-old child. he tracked him down, gave him a quirk that would kill his family*, sat back and watched it happen, and then let him stew in the horror of it all alone until he finally swooped in and claimed him and then raised him with the express purpose of keeping him sad and scared and angry and depressed at all times, all so he would eventually grow up and, with any luck, murder the man that his grandmother thought of as a son!

(*this is just conjecture right now, admittedly, but until I’m proven wrong I’m basically operating under the assumption that it’s true)

just. “fucked up” doesn’t even begin to describe it. god

anyways, let’s continue to read more about young Tenko’s extreme emotional abuse at the hands of the final villain I guess

OMG HANA

okay so I can’t remember where we left off on this last time, but a bunch of people said they suspected that the young Tenko wanted to be a hero when he was a little boy, and that’s why he was always clashing with his dad, because his dad’s own experience with heroes was pretty sour on account of the whole his-mom-gave-him-up-when-he-was-little-and-then-later-died-horribly thing

so yeah, I assume that’s what Hana is referring to here with the whole “I just tell Dad...” bit. so they both wanted to be heroes! how perfectly fucking tragic! great!

Tomuraaaaaa

KEEP IT UP TOMURA YOU CAN DO IT!! YOU CAN REMEMBER! YOU’RE DOING GREAT. aside from the whole “this really big man is killing you slowly” thing

yeah, this whole deal

but aside from that. doing great

OOOOOOOOOH SHIT, THIS MUMMIFIED LITTLE PUNK’S STILL GOT SOME FIGHT LEFT IN HIM YOU GUYS

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

he got him to fling him away! YESSSS TAKE THAT YOU ASSHOLE. FOOL HIM ONCE, FUCKING OUCH, BUT FOOL HIM TWICE, AND LET’S SEE HOW YOU FUCKING LIKE IT YOU BIG WAD

so now Re-Destro is belatedly realizing that Tomura is going through a very weird leveling-up process and taking advantage of the fact that he’s temporarily become the main character of the series and thus possesses all of the narrative powers that come with that venerable distinction

...that he’s the main character? yes

anyways lol there’s some real good crazyface action going on here guys

did Horikoshi take the extra time just so he could devote a little longer to nailing down panels like this because if yes, A+++

SDSKJSODIFHOIESJ

it’s mom!! wow!!

DSLKFAJSLDK ARE WE GETTING BACKSTORY ON THE FUCKING SCARS OMFG I CAN’T THIS IS TOO MUCH

SOB YOU GUYS I’M CAUGHT UP IN THIS WEIRD CROSS BETWEEN BEING HYPED AF AND ALSO CRACKING THE FUCK UP NOW THOUGH, BECAUSE:

ALL OF THIS WAS SO FUCKING BADASS, AND THEN THAT LAST FUCKING PANEL, THOUGH. LMAO WELL HE’S ON THE BRINK OF SOMETHING, BUT WHO CAN EVEN FUCKING SAY WHAT

ANYWAY HE’S ZOOMING TOWARDS RD AND RD’S THINKING “HE’S FAST!” AND YEAH, BITCH, YOU SCARED??

WHAT ARE YOU THE PRESIDENT OF HIS FANCLUB NOW OR WHAT

you guys this is the most I’ve ever liked Re-Destro. there’s something about evil nemesis characters being begrudgingly impressed by their enemies that just pleases me, idk

LJSDFIJWEOF

WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO HIS FACE HE LOOKS LIKE ONE OF THE SCARY TREES FROM SNOW WHITE

OH SHIT YOU GUYS WE’RE BREAKING OUT THE TROPES

so do we get 100% when he goes up against Machia, then? smdh, fucking power levels. well I guess Deku technically uses them too. but still, it’s not something we see in this series too often aside from that

holy shit you guys

honestly, I guess this should be really intimidating or whatever, but all I can think is that it’s about time this guy finally started taking this “pitiable gang of thugs” seriously. even if that does mean Tomura is probably about to fucking die, barring some Giganto ex Machia. that guy really needs to get a move on

oh hey

[RAISES EYEBROW AT GIGANTOMACHIA AND JABS FINGER TOWARDS WRISTWATCH] cut it a little closer next time why don’t you??

(ETA: also I didn’t notice all of Tomura’s other hands being flung away from him by the impact, but whoa. so now he’s just got the Papa Hand left in his pocket, along with whichever hand is grabbing the back of his head. and that’s it. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his dad is the only remaining family member whose face we still haven’t seen yet. some big reveal coming up with that soon, I bet.)

oh and also guys here’s some more flashbacks. this time with loving grandparents. because Horikoshi just really wants to make sure our emotions are good and churned about

okay guys, Tenko’s very dead flashback!grandma and grandpa telling him not to cry and giving him yummy food so he won’t be sad is pretty much close to the limits of what I can take, angst-wise. I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard! this is hardly my first anime flashback! I should be a pro at this by this point, the fuck is wrong with me

but on the other hand, I think a big part of it is that I’m not just sad about Tomura’s past, but also angry. because none of this is just coincidence; all of it is actually stuff that was done to him very deliberately, and the worst part is he doesn’t even realize it. and so in addition to the usual rush of protective feelings, there’s also this sense of outrage about it all too. and I think that’s the harder part to deal with. here I am, a grown adult, getting really mad over the staggering cruelty of what was done to this fictional character when he was a child. it’s possible there’s some real-life anger and frustration over certain real-life horrific cruelties and injustices that may be bleeding over into this, idk. just, the world is a fucked up place, and my emotional support manga is currently being less than supportive and it’s a struggle sob

anyways sorry about that. meanwhile while I was having a mini breakdown, possibly the most pivotal character development in Tomura’s history was happening and HOLY SHIT THOUGH WAIT UP GUYS

sdfkdsfjwoilkkj BOY!!!!!!!

SOB HOW ARE THERE ONLY TWO PAGES LEFT I’M GONNA CRY THIS CHAPTER WENT BY SO FAST

-- HORIKOSHI WHY ARE YOU CUTTING AWAY FROM THE FLASHBACK OH MY GOD I’M GONNA!!!

FUCK ME, THIS IS WHAT I WAS WAITING FOR SO IMPATIENTLY, SO OF COURSE HORIKOSHI JUST HAD TO FINALLY MAKE IT HAPPEN RIGHT WHEN I WOULD HAVE GIVEN ANYTHING TO NOT CUT AWAY FROM THAT SCENE WE WERE JUST ON. THIS SADISTIC SON OF A...

...hee. but it’s hard to stay mad, though

... :)

:D :D :D

lol what. recall, if you may, that you guys are the ones who basically forced them to come down to your mountain city and kick your asses you dickasaurs

HAHAHAHAHAAA

SDLFKJLSDKFJ AND ALSO OH NOOOOOOOO

OH MY FUCKING GOD. AND THAT’S IT. THAT’S THE FUCKING CHAPTER. WHYYYYY

EAT IT YOU PRICKS, I HOPE GIGANTOMACHIA FLATTENS YOU ALL INTO NEXT WEEK

Tomura looks so freaking sad, you guys. he’s just standing there completely still and he looks like he’s just completely destroyed emotionally

and he said he remembered everything!?! so what the shit am I supposed to do, Horikoshi?? my boy is just standing there with seven fucking fingers and one shoe and so caught up in his sad reverie that he’s seemingly oblivious to the fact that the long-awaited cavalry has finally arrived. kid is maybe 2-3 chapters away from finally triumphing over this bald Disney tree man who talks too much. and not only that, but he’s more than likely going to finally win Gigantomachia’s loyalty in the process. which in turn means he’ll have access to Ujiko and all of his resources

so in short, this boy is minutes away from becoming one of the deadliest and most powerful forces on earth... and I’m pretty sure that right now, at this moment, none of that matters to him one iota

you guys. so what does this mean for future developments?? I’m really going to need him to define “everything” ASAP, for starters. that’s a very vague statement, and its implications could mean the difference between us just having a sadder-than-usual Tomura from this point out, or a Tomura that’s sad but also realizing for the first time that there’s a lot about his past that doesn’t quite add up, or hell, even a Tomura that’s actually out for fucking vengeance against AFO. that last one seems like too big of a jump to happen right away, but dare I at least hope for the second option though? god that would just be the icing on the cake for this fucking perfect arc

now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go do some yoga or chant some mantras or something holy shit. this fucking manga

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vantablade · 4 years ago

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❚ ⋮ ☆ 006: O’ wingless bird

@the27percent asks: Death ー describe a time she felt she lost a major part of herself?

There is a scene in my mindーa trauma of the grand, theatrical and severe sortーthat played as soon as I read this prompt, but alas because it is very spoilery I can’t quite say what happens. This may change if I consider making a ‘verse dependent on it, but we’ll see. For now, just know that there are few things that make her feel loss like betrayal, for though she knows that while death is inevitable, a death brought earlier than what seems to be naturalーespecially if carried on the betrayer’s bladeーis something that devastates her. Again, it ties into her rejection of power and control, but it also strikes her as profoundly cruel, and while she is no stranger to ruthlessness, witnessing cruelty in such extremes does upset the still-present innocence within her. Cruelty hurts, and it never stops hurting herーshe never becomes desensitized to the presence of evil, rather than it seems to happen in reverse; she, at first, is convinced of only evil, and when introduced to the presence of real and genuine good, the idea of evil becomes far more abstract to her. Witnessing this betrayal, it threatens to send her back into that dark and unreachable place of worldly distrust.

But, in an event that has already happened at this blog’s current timeline, and one I don’t mind talking about, is the dewinging, inflicted upon her by Ryuko Ametsuchi, Kazumi’s righthand woman. This occurred when Nocturne was eighteen years old, which is the age in which she fully challenged and confronted her mother. Her mother is entirely deluded by a God Complex, as I mentioned before, and her fatal flaw is hubrisーso, when her daughter (upon whom her entire plan is orchestrated around and dependent on) challenges her, rather than nipping it in the bud and utilizing protective precautions for her grand scheme, she indulges her. Why? Because it’d be more funーnothing would amuse her more than the breaking of Nocturne’s spirit, and her worship would be inevitable due to the fact she would have no hope left. In a way, Kazumi is influenced by iconic villains such as Hannibal Lecterーparticularly Mads Mikkelsens’ portrayal, in Bryan Fuller’s Hannibalーdue to the fact her actions are often influenced by whimsy.

So, Nocturne challenges her: she can escape, and if her mother cannot find her within the month, she has no claim over her body, her soul, her lifeー she forfeits her duty as Prophet, and in turn has freedom to do as she wishes. This, of course, negates her role as Heir, and makes her functionally a political nobody, but Nocturne has no interest in games of politics nor is she particularly interested in being a monarch, especially a monarch who is so obviously controlled. It would be a Gilded Cage situation. Kazumi laughs in the face of Nocturne’s challengeー it is so cute, how generous she is. A month, when the High King is convinced that Nocturne won’t even last an hour. Of course, there is a limitation: Kazumi cannot use her sound manipulationーher control over which is immenseーto bring Nocturne back, since the likes of which would be close to “cheating” due to the fact all Umushi under the rule of a High King are particularly susceptible to their Monarch’s song.

This does give Nocturne a fighting chance, which is also what Kazumi wants (again, she doesn’t want an easy victoryーshe’d rather Nocturne believe she has a chance and have it ripped from her), and so she escapes. A customary hour of a head start is given, but Kazumi has a secret weapon: a [redacted] that Nocturne is entirely unaware of, who goes by the name of RYUKO AMETSUCHI, and is a relentless, brutal woman. Unbeknownst to Nocturne, this Ryuko is a pyrokinetic Umushiーa thing of which had never existed beforeーand she is unstoppable, torturous and sadistic. She intends to bring Nocturne back to Kazumi, but broken, sufficiently.

Now, don’t get me wrongーat age eighteen, Nocturne is powerful. Her whole life has been devoted to becoming powerful, at becoming an incredible swordswoman with a fantastic grasp of aquakinesis and combat strategy, as well as her hidden ability to create a pocket dimension, but Ryuko is surprising. There’s an element about Ryuko that I can’t describe here, but know that it deeply unsettled Nocturne and threw her entirely off her game. She is still so naive, and it really was her Achilles’ heel in this battleーwhich effectively was a curbstomp battle, because had it not been intervened by the Coven of the Underbelly of the World (or just Unders), Nocturne would have been brutalised beyond belief and taken back to her mother to recuperate.

[tw for the following paragraph: mentions of graphic violence!]

However, they did not intervene early enough to prevent Ryuko from tearing open Nocturne’s back with a blade, deep enough into the muscle and sinew to puncture through her Glamour and reach into the very essence of herself. Note that Umushi have thin, almost indetectable lines in their backs to allow wings to slide in and out of, and that these slots where what Ryuko puncturedーexceptionally vulnerable places, and it was an utter and total betrayal of their likenesses. No Umushi before had ever been violated in such a way, and the idea of it being because of each other, their family, was madnessーsacrilege! And yet, it occurred. Ryuko not only sawed off the immensity of her wings, but cauterised the wound so that no depth of healing could allow her Glamour to recover or grow againーshe only has, in her essential form, burnt, rotted stumps, from which only poor copies can grow from, rotted and mutilated and useless.

This loss was awfulー she literally lost a part of herself, but she also went through a brutal torturous event. She fully almost died, and had she not been saved by the Unders, she would have only survived due to her mother, which would have fostered codependency (Kazumi’s modus operandi) and eliminated all of her autonomy. It was a difficult thing to process, because often it is easy to believe you still love your abuser (and they love you, even despite the cruelty), but that action was so intense that it decimated it. Nocturne believed she lived in a loveless world, and is currently still afflicted by chronic pain. Thankfully, she no longer believes in a loveless world, but she still has an intimate understanding of violence and evil. An innocence was lost, one that had survived even the loss of her eye, and it is doubtful she will ever return to that place of innocence again.

#the27percent #ahh thank you so much!#this got so long ;_;#but... it's important! I think at least lol #HEADCANON. ███ 夜曲 ⋮ codex.#HEADCANON. ███ 夜曲 ⋮ character development.#*thema mundi #*nobody has ever been a part of your grief #MOTHER. ███ 夜曲 ⋮ i could sleep inside the cold of you.#abuse tw #violence mention tw #gore mention tw

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vorsakhal · 5 years ago

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♞ | Headcanon | The Dothraki

Important Note: This Headcanon will be delving into my portrayal and ideas on the Dothraki as a culture, including inner workings, ideals and beliefs. It will include and build on what is known in canon as well as what I think would work alongside it.

However please be aware the Dothraki do not have a modernist ideal on humanity. They have a lot of beliefs and habits that will upset some people, writing this out and including it is not me agreeing with it it’s just how they are. Ignoring a problem doesn’t make it better. So a coverall TW for de-humanisation, slavery, rape mentions, exclusionists, war, violence ect ect ect

So as mentioned this is a long ass HC giving my ideals and how I will handle the Dothraki whilst writing Drogo. This post will be a link back for anyone curious as to his views or the views of his people.

Firstly: Social standings and positions within the Dothraki.

To clear something up, a lot of canon states the Dothraki see women as lesser but it’s a lot more complicated than that. Women who are not of their Khalasar or are not Dothraki at all - they are lesser, but so are their men. It is a matter of us vs them, gender isn’t as simple.

The Dothraki do not think women can lead individual Khalasars because they believe a woman who has personal agenda is a woman who will betray their people to protect what she loves first. A mothers instinct above all, but a mothers love is the strongest thing and so without a khalsar she is more capable leading which leads to the Dosh Khaleen, ex-wives of Khal’s who have died who now watch over all of the Dothraki from Vaes Dothrak. All of the Khalsar are their children and the mother mountain protects them, they will always do best for their people. Their word sits above everything, so the strongest men bow to them.

It’s this reason women cannot enter the mother mountain, they are already gifted by her, able to give as she did. Men will ascend it to seek her blessing and newly risen Khal’s will bath in the womb of the world lake to be granted her protection.

It is not that women are lesser so much as they are considered blinded by a bond beyond what men can have. They can become warriors, they can become Khaleesi, reminded of their loyalty by their Khal but they cannot become Khal. A woman who cannot become a mother is not blinded and so can become a healer, a confidant or advisor.

Women who can not fight or ride are considered useless, just as a man would be if he could not do the same.

Now that that’s cleared up, in order top to bottom is the Dothraki social standing.

Dosh Kahleen

Khal Khalakka

Khaleesi

Bloodriders

Jaqqa Rhan

Healers - Barren born first then the Eunich Healers

Hunters and Cooks

Seamstresses and Smiths

Scouts

General Warriors

Slaves

Outsiders

It’s common enough knowledge they also worship the Stallion, their God who will allow them passage to ride in the night lands but they also believe in the Gods of the sun and moon who guide them in the Stallions name. They have their own idea of Hell, reserved for the men who died inhonorable deaths or betrayed their Khalasar. Women will only find their way to hell if they murder their Khalakka or betray their Khal.

It should be noted that what the show does a SHIT JOB of showing is that the Dothraki are a roaming farming culture. They have their sacred lands and fields, moving between each of them, taking and cultivating as they go. They will “gift” (their idea of trading) horses in return for gifts of what they need, alongside weapons, slaves and food. They are adept with herbs, berries and poisons - they kind of have to know what’s safe for them and their horses for gods sake.

As a warrior culture they’re capable healers in their own right. Barren women are taught herbs, polstices, bandaging and protection. Eunich men know how to use fire and needles to burn away problems.

( Yes this is canon, yes I stand by the fact that if Dany had allowed the Dothraki to work instead of the witch he’d have lived (that parts actually shaded about IN canon). Yes I will hand fight GRR over it anyday )

The Dothraki view on outsiders comes with a tainted history that dates back to the wars for the seven kingdoms. Many Dothraki have not forgotten the stories of slaughter and pillaging and rape, they give it back tenfold in the name of it. Vaes Dothrak remains the only place willing to trade with outsiders due to the fact it was never breached when the ships first crossed. Cities learnt not to try again.

Because of this however they see anyone they consider not Dothraki to be less than animals. They are nothing but a gift from the Gods to use as a tool of their fitting be it to fuck, eat, kill or trade. They have no sympathy or empathy over it because they do not see them as people to begin with, however, some outsiders will be granted a pardon. If taken in by a Khalasar the way Mormont and Dany were they are typically given clothing and markings to wear that will tell people they are one of them.

If they do not wear the clothing or markings it is a dismissal of that Gift, other Khal’s and Khalasar have every right to deny them as an outsider once more.

When it comes to sexuality the Dothraki have a view that they don’t really care. As long as a Khal sires an heir everyone else is pretty much free to do whatever they want as their heirs will matter little and their bloodline adds only to the Khal’s power. Yes this means wlw and mlm relationships are common, enough that they even speak openly about it. It also means that the women are not the only one raped and taken, despite what outsiders might think.

Because of this Marriage is held as more sacred than other parts of Westeros. It is not a bid for power but done because they wish too, after all a Khal is only interested in strong women and you can only climb the ladder with your strength. It makes Drogo’s marriage to Dany all the more strange and it’s why some of them reject it as violently as they did. To them he brought her, he didn’t love her when he married. He swore off women of their own kind for Dany and it was essentially a sell out of what could be a stronger union.

It’s also why Dany’s demand that any women raped be married is taken so seriously. To them it would mean buying a wife, a sign of weakness again.

Polygamy is also common, on both sides. Women can take multiple men and if they disagree they can fight to the death for her. A man can take multiple women, the same option is offered.

Sexuality and Sex is not considered shameful. It’s strange to cover yourself or your desires among the Dothraki as they consider it hiding your truth from the Gods. Women are not shamed for taking many men, infact a women who can take more men is considered stronger and more capable.

The Jaqqa Rhan are the mercy men. A group of warriors who sweep battlefields after the battle and behead and burn bodies of the dying or injured who have not yet died. This is given only in battles where the enemy has earned a Khal’s respect. If the Khal deems the fight too easy or the enemy too weak they will leave the soldiers to die in the fields.

In terms of the Khalasar as a whole they move as a herd. Each warrior and soldier has a part to play to the betterment of their people and group. Scouts, Cooks, Healers, Seamstresses and even the slaves are all considered vital and important in the unified strength of a band. Because of such each member takes their part seriously, to the point of being willing to kill if someone attempts to replace them.

Outsiders, slaves and other Khalasar members are able to become a member of a Khalasar by proving themselves to the Khal. To become one of them and be considered Dothraki is to be safe, to have strength and protection and food and clothing.

Typically this is done in a great act, by proving yourself in battle of the Khal’s behalf OR bringing them a gift of great value. Personally delivering something to impress a Khal and pledge your loyalty will likely grant you favour faster than being noticed in battle but it is harder to do if you do not know the Khal’s preferences.

The Khal is unlikely entertain an outsider who does not prove themselves with offerings or blood first, to come with nothing and no show is an insult and demand.

Politics is an odd affair. To the Dothraki what betters the Dothraki is more important than their own wants. In that, they’re oddly diplomatic. The Khal and Dosh Khaleen will meet and decide in the event of war, famine or crime. Anything that does not effect the larger group is dealt with privately, most Khal will have an advisor with a silver tongue to deal with wanting outsiders.

They do not write or agree to written contracts however, to deal with the Dothraki is a matter of keeping your word. If a mans promise is broken his arm will be as well. If it becomes known among the Dothraki you are dishonourable and prone to manipulation and you piss off enough of the Khals, the Dosh Khaleen will place an open invitation and a gift for whoever first brings them your head.

Each Khalasar has it’s own unique markings, paints and colourings. Drogo’s Khalasar have paints of blue that drag like claw marks along skin. Others use yellows and whites in intricate swirls and loops. These markings are identifiers, helpful when crossing wide expanses of open country and more so finding your kin in Vaes Dothrak through the crowd.

Each Khalasar is expected to return to Vaes Dothrak once a year to receive the Dosh Khaleen’s blessing. There they will trade whatever they have found, collected or harvested in their journeys and there is where outsiders are safer to approach and impress if they wish to join or bargain. Within the walls of Vaes Dothrak everyone is considered equal bar the Kahl’s, Khaleesi and Dosh Khaleen. Warriors and Healers intermingle and even slaves are allowed small comforts under watchful eyes.

Just as most do the Dothraki also have their own festivals, note worthy dates and celebrations.

They celebrate a fall harvest with a great party beneath the harvest moon, they will sing, chant and give offerings to the sun and moon there in hopes of safe travels.

They celebrate the spring, a time in which mares breed and new Stallions find strength though it’s typically used as an excuse to fuck and drink for a few nights it is also the time in which they will parade horses through Vaes dothrak and most offerings of marriage are done then.

They also have the cold silence. A night spent with no sound in which they are given strength for their travels by khals past. To make a sound on this night is to offend the spirits and spook their stallions, you will be killed.

ANYWAY that rounds that up for now! Thank you for reading :D

#&&. drogo | the rizh ki bharbo | head canon #| this took me 465 bajillion years |#rape mention tw #slavery mention tw #all the tws idk

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daenerysice · 5 years ago

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At the end of the day, the woman who tried to change things for the better and the POC's who were there and gave their lives to protect a country that hate them were dispensables because they broke the status quo and the noble privilaged, love that for us right?...

thanks, i hate it d&d

but honestly, i’m still mad and i’ll die mad about it

this goes beyond me not seeing dany as a villain

for the love of GOD if you plan to make a female villain DO NOT DO THIS

if you want to say ‘the person who was bad all along’ do NOT make them free slaves, be accepting towards every person (despite disability, race, class) while your main heroes (the good guys) are not and paint the narrative that belittling her for little to no reason was ‘okay’ because they were ‘right all along’

with slavery DO NOT TRY TO SELL ME THAT BULLSHIT that slavery, in general, is ‘gray’ like d&d tried to push

and look, if they made her only free slaves for an ‘army’ or use the dothraki like viserys tried to i can get the making her evil better and it would at the least be a little less problematic

but they made her genuinely want to help people and have it twisted into ‘NO YOU SHOULDN’T DO THAT’

excuse me????

and yes all the poc were used again as a prop, it’s legitimately all they were to d&d and it shows

have northerners be racist and then, in the end, be like ‘well... they had a right’ because their leader was mAd and they were just sAvAgEs

again... EXCUSE ME?

i mean, i wasn’t expecting disney and they all to come around but it would have been at least nice to see SOME of the north not be racist at least after the fucking battle maybe a northerner is drinking with a dothraki SOMETHING so it doesn’t paint the people you are promoting as ‘heroes’ to be such trash or ‘are right’ for bigotry

killing off all the dothraki and most of unsullied was a low blow too, none of the north got impacted

of course, then d&d maybe thought it was ‘kind of racist’ so they magically brought most of them back to life to kill innocent people and be villains which was even WORSE i-

missandei and all of these people pretty much had to die so dany could be ‘A viLlIAn’ which again makes them fucking props

and of course, near the end, they just bounced to fuck off wherever because i guess westeros has to banish the poc and the unsullied died because of naath

GREAT JOB

didn’t even give any of them much an opinion or voice because if they did they would have avenged dany especially the dothraki who are all her blood riders that are supposed to KILL anyone who kills their khal

the night’s watch and widlings had a voice but the unsullied and dothraki were just kind of there besides greyworm who still didn’t have that much of a voice in season 8 because if he did he would have done what he wanted (at this point he was done with these people and on a murdering rampage and now he wants to ‘talk it out’ i-)

it’s just the worst possible message and this isn’t even touching the misogyny part which is a whole other thing and also super harmful

and people will say ‘oh it’s set back when so of course not everything is going to be right’

sure, but that’s not PROVING these people who are bigoted RIGHT

show the bigotry by all means but let the audience know it’s not right

don’t make the message that all the bigotry and hate is right and ‘good’ because that’s essentially what d&d did

everyone was right to say a woman is useless, manipulative, stupid and crazy because dany was evil all along

people were right to be racist because the unsullied/dothraki were not ‘good guys’

those were the messages pushed to us because there were no consequences for this and the heroes in the end never regretted shit and were only validated

#Daenerys #daenerys targaryen #grey worm #missandei #text #ask #asks #long post

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weartirondad · 6 years ago

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A/N: We did a thing for @parkrstark ‘s appreciation day. You are amazing and we’re sending all our love! xx

This is inspired by Chöre by Mark Forster (a German song, most translations suck but try this one)

Even superheroes need someone to fight for them sometimes. ao3 I FF.net

I’ll Love You (When You Can’t Love Yourself)

“Mister Parker seems to in distress, boss. His vitals suggest that he has been getting steadily more agitated over the past ten minutes.”

“Wha- Ah- Fuck”, Tony cursed when he hit his head on the underbody of the car as he tried to crunch up before the roller board was completely out from underneath his 1949 Mercury Coupe. The car didn’t seem to mind in the slightest, which didn’t surprise him, but even his AI simply kept talking as if he hadn’t just almost split his nose open again.

“His heartrate has been well over 120 beats per minute for the past five minutes. His blood pressure is significantly elevated at 170 to 100.”

He was already halfway to the nearest suit when he realized he wasn’t even sure where Peter would be. What time was it anyway? Was school over already? Was it even a school day? Good thing his AI seemed to have psychic abilities where she was lacking basic human empathy and told him before he had to ask.

“The tracker that you installed in his watch suggests he’s still in school. Though according to his time table his last lesson ended fifteen minutes ago.”

“Is- Is he involved in a fight at school?”, Tony wanted to know, halting his movements with his hand still stretched out and with half of his armor already attached to his body. Did Peter get into fights at school? Was that bully giving him trouble again? He thought they had handled the Flash issue weeks ago... Then again, Peter was really determined about keeping him in the dark about important things like his wellbeing.

“I don’t think so, boss”, F.R.I.D.A.Y. unhelpfully supplied, “There doesn’t seem to be an imminent threat.”

“Oh-kay”, he turned around, dropping his arms to his side, thinking, “Tap into the voice recording of the watch, F.R.I.”

“I think that would be a violation of the privacy setting you have discussed with Mister Parker.”

“Well, the kid would feel a lot more violated if Ironman were to show up at his school without reason. God that sounded wrong. Just do what you’re told. He can have privacy when I’m dead.”

“Very well, boss.”

Not a second later the slightly metallic version of a teenager’s voice filtered through his lab and he frowned in confusion. That voice didn’t belong to either of the two nerds Peter usually hung out with and it didn’t belong to Flash. He hadn’t known that the kid talked to more than those three people. After just one sentence, however, it became clear what had caused Peter’s current distress.

“-posed internship all you want, maybe Stark Industries does a few things right but the truth is, that your dear Tony Stark’s fortune is built on blood and death. He’s not the hero he claims to be. He never stopped being the merchant of d-“

“No.”

Tony all but flinched at the kid’s cold and steady tone. Peter wasn’t ever supposed to sound so angry. He listened to the kid argue, still unsure whether or not to deploy the suit right away or to get rid of the armor again.

“You have no idea what he’s doing to keep all of us save. He flew a nuke into a wormhole, that our government sent, knowing it would essentially obliterate all of Midtown. He didn’t know if he would make it out alive. He sacrificed himself for all of us. And he did so without hesitation or thoughts to his own wellbeing. Don’t you dare call the person who saved your fucking life the merchant of death.”

That was also the first time that Tony had ever heard Peter curse but he let it slide in favor of concentrating on the jagged breathing coming through the speakers, worried the teenager would start hyperventilating and eventually pass out.

The other boy scoffed and the billionaire could do nothing but watch the red numbers, that were telling his kid’s blood pressure, continue to rise. And his mind was still battling about what to do. Was this really an argument that Ironman should interrupt? Where the hell was Ned anyway?

“Oh yeah, maybe he did that out of the goodness of his heart. Or maybe because he was still feeling guilty. And what about Sokovia? What about all the people that died so your supposed superheroes could have a little party? What about your dear Tony Stark’s Ultron? What about that German airport they destroyed because they couldn’t get their heads out of their asses? He somehow even got Spiderman to fight on his side. That guy would be better off without ties to Ironman. People actually-“

“Shut up!”, Peter yelled and the sound made Tony’s stomach curl in hatred for the person who had elicited such a furious response from the usually calm and happy kid. “You have no idea what you are talking about! He was fighting to keep us safe from their flaws. They’re heroes, they’re not perfect. He was one of the ones who actually signed the Accords, no matter how much they needed amending, because he believes that superheroes need to be held accountable, too. And Spiderman- Spiderman wouldn’t even be alive without Tony Stark you, you-“

Before Peter could actually find an insult to throw at the other’s head, another familiar voice sounded through the speakers in Tony’s lab and he thanked the gods for Peter’s best friend finally making his entry.

“Hey Peter”, Ned called, either oblivious to the tension that was palpable even through audio or actively choosing to ignore it, “Your ride is outside and he’s getting annoyed at the delay. Sorry, Matt, we gotta go.”

A short pause in which all Tony could hear was the metallic scratching and shuffling of fabric and then hushed voices. “Come on, dude. Let’s get outta here.”

Peter seemed to follow Ned’s lead because he heard slow footsteps echoing through a wide room. And thankfully the kid’s heart rate was slowly returning to normal. Even his blood pressure had gone down to 140 to 90 since Ned had gotten there and for the first time since getting the distress signal, Tony felt his own heartbeat calm down, too, and he let out a breath.

He logged out of the watch’s audio once Ned had successfully calmed Peter down and had dropped him off with Happy and he was sure they were both on their way to the Tower.

Suddenly he felt more tired and older than ever before, well, at least ever since almost dying. He couldn’t wrap his head around someone as pure and good as Peter defending him of all people. He had never seen himself as anything other than a major fuck up and he had credited the fact that Pepper, Rhodey and Happy had kept around at all, to them all having to atone for some thing or another they had done in a previous life. There was no way they were sticking around for anything else. No way could someone, who wasn’t as thoroughly fucked up as he was himself, ever even consider loving him.

And still here they were. With Peter wanting to hang out with him, wanting to be mentored by him and defending him in front of people in his school when he was already being bullied.

His heart felt too full and he couldn’t help but feel the weight of the trust the kid had in him, press down on his torso, suffocating him. It was all too much. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t figure out how to be this person that Peter saw in him and he couldn’t bear to disappoint him again. Not him.

Fuck. No. Not a panic attack. Not now. Nonononono.

Without his command, the part of the suit he was still wearing started flying him to the nearby couch, depositing him on it before slipping off of his body so he could curl into himself.

In. 3, 2, 1. Out. 3, 2, 1. In. 3, 2…

He managed to pull himself back from the edge, something he had gotten a lot better at recently, especially when the Spiderling was about to show is face. He was refusing to let the kid see him spiraling into a full blown panic attack. So far his thick head had gotten him farther than his improving mental health, though he suspected it did play a part.

Instead of going back to working on his car, he pulled up the Iron Spider Suit and started working on a few minor improvements and new safe keeping protocols – something that never failed to calm him down – and that was how he occupied himself until Peter got there. Trying not to think of how easy it would be for him to break something so precious that he deserved no part in.

He wouldn’t.

Not quite twenty minutes later the doors to his lab slid open and Tony felt the new presence in the room more than he actually heard the soft footsteps on the floor. He didn’t turn around and for a while Peter didn’t speak up either, simply plopping down on the couch Tony had occupied earlier and watching his mentor work in silence.

Then, really quietly, barely enough to reach the mechanic’s ears hadn’t he been waiting for the words, he heard, “Why do you do this? Why don’t you tell the world what you do to keep them safe every day? Why do you let them believe that you’re not really a hero?”

Tony almost choked on his own spit. So many replies were running through his mind then and he couldn’t bring himself to voice any of them because he didn’t have the heart to tell this kid, his kid, that he didn’t believe it himself. Instead he made up some bullshit excuse about people not needing to know and about them being better off not knowing but of course that wasn’t enough to convince Peter. He had the uncanny ability to see through his crap from still a mile out and he was currently not even five feet away.

The teenager was watching him with knowing eyes. Eyes that went right through his superficial Tony Stark persona and into his soul, dissecting every inch of it without judging. He hated being so see through to people, he hated that apart from his friends who had dealt with him for years, this boy had managed to walk past all his walls and really see him. He adverted his eyes, busying his shaky hands with some (useless) reprogramming of the suit.

Still, he didn’t turn his body away and that seemed to be all the incentive Peter needed to walk up to him and rest a hand on Tony’s shoulder. Of course he had picked up on Tony not being too fond of being touched and tried to avoid it especially when he knew Tony was on edge.

Although, that wasn’t entirely true. A fact he had only started to realize himself – Peter’s touch was okay. It would always be okay.

“You know you’re a hero, right?”

The kid’s voice sounded so self- assured and certain where it was usually rambling and timid, that he had to look up to meet his eyes. He said it like there was nothing that could convince him otherwise, and maybe there wasn’t, because he was stubborn, too.

Meeting the warm brown eyes of his mentee had been a mistake, though, because at seeing the unconditional loyalty (And love? Was that love?) in them, he felt the tears that had been threatening to spill ever since listening to him defending his honor actually fill his eyes and had to blink them away in favor of being able to see Peter’s face.

Also, he refused to cry in front of the teenager.

He didn’t deserve the look he was getting but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Something in him wanted to make him see that he was not the man Peter believed him to be but as much as he believed it himself – he couldn’t, for the love of it, bring himself to dim the hope and trust in the kid’s eyes with his own self-loathing. He refused to be responsible for Peter ever having to see more darkness in the world than he absolutely had to. And even that he would fight tooth and nail.

Instead he stayed quiet, silently enjoying that the teenager didn’t move away but after a moment it felt as if their moment was over and before it could get weird, he started to turn back to his work. The small hand on his shoulder with the strong grip wouldn’t let him, though.

The billionaire didn’t tell him how the touch grounded him, just raised an questioning eyebrow and that seemed to embarrass the kid, making him get flustered but never actually releasing his grip or loosening the strength he still projected with his eyes. Right now he was being strong for both of them and he seemed to realize it.

Tony hated that he had to.

“You’re my hero”, Peter told him quietly, unwavering even as his cheeks were turning pink, “Not just because of Ironman but because of you. Tony Stark – genius, inventor, mentor – is my hero. You are a hero.”

The repetition sounded like a mantra and maybe it was and it was all Tony could do to stare up at him, still not quiet believing. Some 15 year old kid’s words couldn’t erase everything Tony had been told to believe his entire life but they were a start because he could already feel part of the armor around his heart melt.

It was obvious that Peter thought their moment was over then, that he was close to stepping over an undrawn line, so he started his usual nervous word vomit to, metaphorically, take a step back. “And uh. I know you’re not into hugs and... uh.. touching in general but I really wanted you to know that and I’m just- I’m gonna go n-“

The grip on his shoulder tightened shortly, then the hand lifted but before Peter could stumble backwards (and right into Dum-E) Tony’s Hand shot out, holding the boy back. And then he was standing (he didn’t remember giving his body the signal) and, after just a millisecond of hesitation, he pulled the kid into a hug.

It felt awkward at first, both their bodies surprised and rigid next to each other, and he wanted to slap himself and pull away immediately, thinking that this was a mistake. But when Peter’s arm snaked around his waist tentatively and the boy’s body started relaxing against his own, he could feel, with every fiber of his being that he had wanted that hug since forever but had been afraid to ask.

He should’ve known. Peter was big on touching but he would never try to pressure because Tony was known for being really big on not touching.

After a moment, Tony relaxed, too, and tightened his arms around this kid who had somehow managed to waltz past all the barriers and walls he had so painstakingly erected.

“Thank you, Underoos”, he said in his ear before he pulled away, “That means a lot to me.”

He had wanted to give a sarcastic retort of some sort but felt it get stuck in his throat somewhere on the way and he was glad because the smile he got in return was the brightest he had ever seen and he knew without a doubt that his answering smile was just as open and that this kid was one of maybe three people he let see that smile, his real one.

Tony coughed slightly, all the emotion suddenly getting stuck in his throat, and patted Peter’s back, “Let me show you the new feature I’m working on for Karen.”

It was like a switch had been turned in the kid when he started talking about everything and nothing all at once. Years – hell even months ago – Tony would’ve threatened anyone who dared to disrupt the silence in his lab with rambling but here he was, enjoying whatever the kid had to say just because he liked listening and knowing what was going on it his brain.

Tony turned back around to the screen, knowing that Peter would follow suit, and started working again. Without looking up again he said “Oh, and Peter? Don’t get into fights because of me, will you?”

“What’s gotten your panties in a twist?”

Peter barely had the energy to look up to see his aunt standing in the living room with her arms crossed. “Uh- oh. Hey Aunt May, didn’t know you’d be home already.” He trailed off with a deep sigh and went back to staring straight ahead at the dark TV screen.

A moment passed and he would’ve thought she had gone to her room to change into something more comfy like she usually did, hadn’t he been so acutely aware of her presence – her heartbeat and breathing pattern so uncannily familiar that it immediately calmed him down. He knew he worried her by sitting on the couch without moving a muscle, still in his Spidersuit minus the mask, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it.

Another sigh, May’s this time, and he heard her drop her bag before starting to move towards him, her already soft footsteps muffled by the carpet. He still didn’t move but when she sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders he felt his muscles start to relax and he allowed her to pull his head onto her shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

He shrugged even though he could already hear his aunt rolling her eyes at his ‘grumpy teenager antics’ as she liked to call them.

“Okay, let me rephrase that”, she said, her arm tightening around his body, pulling him a little closer still, “Are you physically hurt because of your superheroeing beyond something I can fix with my first aid kit?”

“No, Aunt May”, he answered truthfully, turning his head until his face was buried in the crook of her neck, “I’m fine.” His voice came out muffled but even he realized that he didn’t look or sound fine right now.

“Good.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head like she had done ever since he was a little child and he felt tears spring to his eyes at the comfort it provided. “Emotionally hurt then?”

He shrugged. She sighed.

“Teenager angst? Did something happen at school?”

He shook his head but stopped once her hand came up to the base of his neck, rubbing soothing circles into his skin.

“Superhero angst?” Shrug. Sigh.

“Do you want me to call Tony?” He shook his head, then changed it to a shrug.

At this point he knew she was humoring him despite being actually concerned. It was part of their routine. It was what they had always done when he needed to talk but didn’t really know how to go about it. May, in her eternally patient way, simply asked him yes-no questions until the dam burst and he spilled whatever was weighing him down. The familiarity of it all made the corners of his lips turn up slightly.

“Is it about Tony? Do I need to have words with him?” Now she sounded protective and Peter loved her even more for her readiness to go toe to toe with a billionaire superhero just because he might’ve hurt his feelings.

“No”, he let out a deep breath and turned his head until he was facing forward again, while never moving out of his aunt’s embrace, “He didn’t really do anything. It’s just- He doesn’t- Ugh.”

“Sort your thoughts, Pete”, she told him gently, “Then tell me.”

The teenager nodded and for a bit he simply enjoyed the feeling of her fingers carding through his curls, trying to make sense of everything he had been feeling ever since he had gotten home. He had been so caught up in his feelings that he hadn’t really tried to wrap his head around it so far, he had simply let himself get stuck in the emotional component of it all.

“I told you how today was this meeting with the rogue Avengers and Secretary Ross about amending the Accords, right?” It was a rhetorical question – they had had a very long, very emotional conversation about why Spiderman had to partake in that meeting in the first place – but his aunt nodded anyway, though she seemed a little tense, prompting him to keep going.

“It went okay, I think.” It really had gone good. Better than Tony had expected it to which, considering his fatalistic attitude at times, wasn’t all that surprising, but not even Colonel Rhodes had believed it to go so smoothly. “There was a lot of talking, not much screaming. It was a very grown up conversation, you would’ve liked it. There are going to be a few more follow-up meetings until it’s all finalized but the cornerstones are already mapped out. So, the meeting ended with scheduling another meeting.”

“But that’s a good thing, right? Why are you so upset about it?”

Peter lifted his head from his aunt’s shoulder then and leaned away to really meet her eyes for the first time that evening. “They scheduled the next meeting for next Thursday.” Pause. “That’s May 29.”

He watched the confused frown slowly morph into understanding first and then she smiled at him, ruffling his hair again.

“He won’t be busy with the meeting all day, though, right? He’ll still have time to celebrate his birthday.”

“You know what he told me, when I asked him why he didn’t veto that date?”, he wanted to know, suddenly feeling his suppressed anger and smoldering discontent flare up in his chest bright and red. “He told me that ‘getting the world its heroes back is a lot more important than some birthday’”, he recounted, his voice laced with mock when he imitated his mentor, “especially his. And I feel like he doesn’t even realize that he is a hero, too! You know, he goes on and on about how America needs its Captain back when Captain America was the one who left him hurting alone in effing Siberia. He doesn’t care about what getting them pardoned means for him! He doesn’t care that he’ll be miserable once they’ve been put under his care and supervision. He’s going to have to see them every day, May! And he flinches whenever Steve Rogers just moves too fast. Yet whenever I try to tell him that he’s a hero, too, he deflects and I hate it. I hate how lowly he thinks of himself. I mean that’s my hero he’s badmouthing and he doesn’t even realize it. He- It makes me so angry!”

“Sorry”, Peter added, breathing heavily after his outburst. He hadn’t meant for it all to come out like that, he hadn’t meant to put all that on May’s shoulders because she had enough to worry about as it was. Hell, he hadn’t meant to get so angry at Tony, he hated being angry. But he couldn’t stop it. It was wired deep into his soul that he had to protect the people he cared about. He just hadn’t ever had to protect someone from themselves.

It wasn’t that he was a stranger to self- doubt. No, he’d been different all his life and he knew exactly what it felt like to feel out of place and unworthy and just plain wrong but he had always had May and Ben telling him off for thinking like that and he’d had Ned in his corner who was different, too, and who helped him embrace it. They never let him talk down on himself. There had always been someone there to catch him when his doubts pushed him over the edge.

In his eyes, Tony Stark was just what this world needed, what he needed. With all his imperfections and the mistakes he had made and continued to make, he never gave up and never stopped caring about random teenage kids he found swinging through Queens, even though the world had told him off far too often.

“It’s okay, baby”, May whispered, giving him exactly the right amount of time to wallow in his thoughts before pulling him back up, “Sometimes it’s hard to see all the good you’re doing when everyone only ever shows you where you messed up. And it’s a hard habit to break someone out of. But Tony’s strong, too, and he’s got a lot of people in his corner. We all just need to keep telling him every once in a while.”

“I guess”, he sighed in agreement, suddenly feeling worn out now that his anger had run dry, “It’s very infuriating, though.”

“It is”, she nodded and opened up her arms for him to fall into which he did, enjoying how every hug felt like coming home. “But you’re pretty stubborn, I think if someone will get through his thick skull it’s gonna be you.”

Peter grinned, feeling lighter than he had ever since that meeting. “You bet. And I’m getting him to shift that meeting around. I don’t care if the other Avengers had some surprise birthday gift planned. I’m not letting him spend his birthday with people who hurt him. Not on my watch.”

“You’re invited to my surprise birthday party, too, I take it?”, Tony greeted May as she stepped out of the elevator. She didn’t even seem too shocked at the revelation that her nephew had effectively messed up the only thing making a surprise birthday party a surprise – not telling the person in question.

“You don’t have too many friends, Stark”, she gave back without missing a beat, though the playful twinkle in her eyes gave away that she was joking, “I’d be nice to the ones who actually like you.”

“So you do like me?”, he grinned, accepting her half hug graciously, “Now I’ll finally be able to sleep through the night again.”

May pulled back, now openly laughing, and found the billionaire looking equally relaxed. “You’re looking good”, she told him seriously as she took in his faded blue jeans and plain black t-shirt. He was in socks and the only accessory he was wearing was a leather bracelet with an engraved spider she knew Peter had gotten him as an alibi birthday present. There were no sunglasses hiding his eyes and no watch with built-in kill switch. Right now he wasn’t Ironman and he wasn’t even Tony Stark.

He was just Tony. Pepper’s fiancée, Rhodey’s and Happy’s best friend, Peter’s sorta-dad and her sorta- co-parent partner.

It had taken her a while to separate Tony from the masks he usually put on for the world to see but it had been worth it. She could see why his friends had stuck around for so long and why Peter had kept insisting that he was ‘one of the good guys’, why he kept looking up to the man even when he screwed up.

“Don’t tell Pep, she gets jealous.”

The smirk he shot her would’ve riled her up only a few months ago but she’s seen him with Pepper often enough to know that there was no way he would ever be unfaithful to her. He was like a lost puppy without her and he was smart enough to keep the only woman who could handle him and continuously challenged him. He didn’t even seem to realize that it worked the other way around, too, for Pepper.

“Why are you up here anyway? I thought you were all meeting downstairs to get the whole surprising going.”

May nodded, “But someone’s gotta get you to go downstairs without telling you what we’re doing, don’t we?”

“Yes, because you’ve all done such a good work keeping this party a secret from me”, Tony shook his head with a bemused smile, “What did you do to get singled out like that?”

There was that low key self- deprecating that had prompted Peter to throw the whole party in the first place but May took it in stride, knowing enough about Tony to know how to talk to him when he tried to talk down on himself. Honesty usually worked best because he never seemed to expect it.

“I volunteered”, she told him with a shrug, “Peter wanted to but we didn’t think he could get a single word out without spilling the beans and we wanted to give you the chance to act all surprised to make him happy.”

“That’s very thoughtful of-“

“Besides”, she interrupted him, watching his face closely for his reaction, “I wanted to give you your present before you meet the others so you can get those tears out of the way and don’t have to pretend you’re not crying.”

His expression was priceless, May decided, and it was a shame she didn’t get it on camera. She enjoyed every second of his micro expressions, though. How his mouth fell open, actually surprised, and he looked like he was about to protest the accusation once he had gotten over the initial shock before he decided to instead mock her, the skin around his eyes already crinkling before the – undoubtedly sarcastic – words could leave his mouth. Before he had formed a sentence, though, May pulled out his present and continued to watch.

He frowned in confusion when he took the book from her that had a small spider and two bigger ones on the cover. She had personalized the two adult spiders – one was wearing her glasses and the other had an arch reactor on its body. The little spider was ambitiously climbing up the water spout while the two bigger ones stood on the ground, looking up at the little one in concern and/ or fascination (it wasn’t that easy to interpret feelings into minimalistic drawn spiders). They looked eager to catch their little one when it would undoubtedly be washed out again.

Next to the drawing the nursery rhyme was written in artful calligraphy and after a stunned moment it was that detail that Tony decided to comment on.

“Itsy Bitsy Spider? Really?”, he asked amused, “I’m starting to think that your family has a very unhealthy obsession with arachnids.”

She ignored him and instead gestured to the book, “Open it. We’ve only got twenty minutes until we’ll be expected downstairs.”

The first page of the photo album was a picture of Peter, May and Tony at Peter’s last Science Fair. He was posing proudly with his cheap plastic trophy while May and Tony stood to either side of him, sharing a grin over the top of his head.

He met her eyes then and she had never seen him as uncertain and insecure as he was looking now. His gaze screamed Are you sure? at the same time as it begged Don’t take it away. Frankly, it broke her heart but it also made her proud that he was letting his walls down so completely with her, that he trusted her so much.

She poked him in the side, an invitation to keep going, and watched him flip to the second page, her eyes filling with tears as her own gaze fell on the slightly faded pictures of toddler Peter with his parents and slightly newer ones with Ben.

Tony didn’t say a word as he continued to go through the book, pausing ever so often on pictures of Peter he hadn’t seen before, but she watched him the whole time and she saw the two lone tears that trailed down his cheeks until they got lost in his goatee. He didn’t even seem to realize, too captured by the pictures she had chosen.

There were pictures of Peter on his own, dressed up, doing stunts, just grinning stupidly at the camera or caught off guard. There were pictures of him with his parents and with Ben and her – happy memories that had taken her a long time to revisit. Then came a time when there weren’t many pictures of him at all and were his smile seemed a little off.

Towards the end the images had him laughing more and his eyes shining brighter again. There were new pictures, just with May this time, and then came the first picture with Tony. It was a screenshot of the video message Peter had sent her from his ‘internship retreat’ in which Tony looked at Peter while the teenager grinned into the camera, obviously over the moon.

“May- I can’t-“

She shushed him and turned to the next page for him when his hand was shaking too much to grab the paper.

More pictures of Tony and Peter. Some in the lab, some in the park, some in a greasy diner or at Delmar’s. There were some with May and with Pepper and with Happy and Rhodey. In everyone, Peter was the center of everyone’s attention and his smile shone through the pages, making her smile through her own tears.

On the last page was a picture of Peter from just this week. He was in his Spiderman suit, the mask lying forgotten on the chair behind him, and he seemed oblivious to the picture being taken. He was on a video call with Ned and was hanging from the ladder of his bunk bed with only one arm and leg. The other arm held an Ironman figurine he was flying through the air, mouth open because he seemed to be commenting his adventures.

Underneath it, written in May’s chicken scratch – though she had tried her best – was a tiny paragraph.

Dear Tony,

you never had to step up like you did but thank you for doing it anyway. Thank you for encouraging him, and for chastising him when it’s called for. Thank you for being a dad and a hero to our boy.

You’re family.

May

She read her own writing over his shoulder and had to swallow past the lump in her throat once more. This was big. For both of them. It wasn’t that she was scared he would run because he’d had so many chances to run and had decided to stick around but still, she was nervously waiting for his reaction.

It took him a moment to fall out of his stupor but when he did, she was surprised that he hugged her. Not the half hug they had compromised on for greetings but a fully body hug, in which he held on to her like a life line.

“Thank you”, she heard his hoarse voice whisper again and again and again. “Thank you for letting me be a part of your family. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything, May. You’re one of the strongest women I know to have raised such a wonderful boy.”

For a while they stayed like that, wrapped around each other, until their tears had dried up and their voices weren’t as shaky anymore.

“I’d say it was a good call to give it to you up here, don’t you think?”, she joked once she got her bearings back.

“You’re a very smart woman, May Parker”, he gave back, finding his way back to his usual snarky self. “Shall we?”

“It is my distinct pleasure.”

They sauntered towards the elevator in companionable silence, hands brushing against each other as they walked as it happened with two people close to and comfortable with each other. The photo album had gone back into hiding in May’s bag but it felt lighter now that it had been put out there, like a subconscious weight she had carried with her until she had seen the honest tears and bright smile.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. didn’t need to be told where to go and so they started their descent without a word until suddenly Tony’s voice interrupted the silence.

“F.R.I. stop the elevator.”

“Wh- Tony?”, May asked, her heart beating faster in her chest when she saw the scared look in the billionaire’s eyes, “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, a fist coming up to press against his chest. His breathing was accelerating and she reached out on instinct when he stumbled forward a few steps in the tight space.

“I- I can’t do that”, he managed to get out through clenched teeth and suddenly his eyes were open again, looking wildly around the elevator until they settled on her, widening with panic.

A panic attack. Oh no.

“Relax”, she whispered, immediately going into mum-mode as Peter called it, and pulled him to the ground with her. “Breathe, Tony. It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ve got all these amazing people there to see you. We’re all with you. You’re safe.”

Tony shook his head though, fighting through his jagged breathing until he could get the words out. “I can’t- I’m not a parent, May. I’m not. I’m a mess. I-“, his voice broke and he tried to blink the tears away that threatened to take his sight, “A parent should be the one encouraging, helping. He- He shouldn’t have to throw me a party to tell me I’m alright. I shouldn’t be such a fucking mess. I can’t- I can’t, May. I can’t ruin him. Please. Please don’t let me.”

Her body worked on instinct again when she pulled his head into the crook of her neck, her hands finding his hair and soothingly carding through it like she would do for Peter.

“We’re all a mess sometimes, Tony”, she whispered, “Parents are allowed to be messes. God, you should’ve seen me after Ben’s death...”, she trailed off, voice breaking, “And I’m still here and so is Peter. We’ll get through anything, together, that’s what families do, right? You’re not going to mess him up. Just... just let him do this for you, try to listen to the people who love you more than to the ones who don’t. You can do that, right? Ignoring assholes is one of your specialties. Just ignore yourself sometimes.”

That actually earned her a wet laugh and she smiled into his hair when his arm snaked around her waist, stroking her back ever so slightly. Only then did she realize that she was crying, too.

“See, we’re all messes.” She sniveled. “Parenting is supposed to make you a mess and it’s supposed to scare you that you could mess your kid up. But you’re supposed to say ‘Screw you, doubt!’ and do it anyway. Because you’re a parent now. Parents are the strongest superheroes the world has ever seen. Nothing can come against us when it’s about our kid.”

“Sometimes part of our job is to let our kid reassure us, too. Sometimes he needs it as much as we do”, she added after a moment of silence that was only interrupted by both their heavy breathings, “This is not a one sided relationship. You get back, too, on occasions. You can’t and shouldn’t take their gratitude for granted but you should accept it when it comes.”

Tony nodded finally and pulled back, leaning back against the wall of the elevator, just as May did the same opposite of him. “Think we can get away with ten more minutes before we go in?”, he asked quietly, wiping at his eyes, and May nodded because there was no way she would go anywhere looking like this.

“Yeah, I mean they won’t start the party without their guest of honor.”

“SURPRISE!”

The doors to the elevator hadn’t even fully opened yet when he was met with the eardrum piercing yell from way up high on the ceiling and before Tony had the chance to blink, Peter was already sailing down and with him confetti started falling down from all over the place. As soon as the Spiderling had landed, he started singing – loudly, confidently and horribly off-key – and a heartbeat later everyone else had joined in, too.

Happy and Rhodey were standing in front of a huge “Happy Birthday Mr. Dad, uh, Tony” banner, grinning from ear to ear not even bothered by the purple party hats they were wearing that were complimenting their purple bowties. Each of them held a confetti gun in their hands, aimed directly at him.

Pepper stood a little to the side, rocking a dark blue glittery hat, with a champagne flute in her hand that he was about 97 percent sure was filled with apple juice. She was singing, too, almost as badly off-key as the kid and at least as happy about it, too.

When he turned around, he found that May had pulled out a green party hat, too and had joined the awful singing band, winking at him when his wide eyes met hers.

Tony had had a plan. Of course he had. He always needed plans for everything. And he needed plans in place should his plans fail. He needed so many fail saves that sometimes he ran out of letters in the alphabet to name them. Even though this had been supposed to be a surprise party, he had planned exactly how he wanted to act surprised and, as it usually happened, his plan flew right out of the window when he couldn’t even see through the thick confetti shower.

He squinted at his friends – his family – once the song had finished and was about to say something when both Happy and Rhodey made use of their weapons and added some more color to his already color-improved former black shirt. They caught him mid motion and he had to spit out a mouthful of confetti before he could start to chastise them.

“Mr. Stark! Happy birthday!”

Suddenly he remembered why this was supposed to be a happy moment – why he was supposed to be thrilled about being drowned in shards of colorful, glittery paper – just as Peter’s arms wrapped around him in the most physical hug they had shared as of yet. He let his body melt into the embrace and his hands found his curls of their own accord. The answering beam was worth the knowing smiles his friends shot him.

“Mr.Stark”, Peter giggled, still peering up at him, “You’ve got some confetti stuck in your frown.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that?”, he shot back with a smile even as he let Peter pick the offending piece of pink paper from his forehead.

“It’s kind of your fault for frowning on your birthday”, the Spiderling retorted and took a step back then.

He seemed a lot more self-conscious now that the adrenalin was wearing off and he was fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie until Tony’s hand covered his and he shot him a reassuring smile.

“You want me to throw the gang out for our heart to heart or-“

“No, no it’s fine”, Peter straightened up and finally met his eyes again, “They know why we’re here anyway. The only one who doesn’t get it yet is you. So I’m gonna need their support for this. You have to promise not to interrupt or disagree, though.”

The billionaire blinked at the teenager incomprehensively for half a minute before nodding. “Seems a little unfair seeing as this is my birthday but fine.”

“O-okay, so”, Peter started with a slight stutter before squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, “The Cambridge dictionary defines a superhero as someone who has-“

“Wait!”, Tony interrupted, hand raised to stop the kid from talking, he imagined his eyes had to be comically wide but he couldn’t help but stare, “Did you actually prepare a speech? Like you wrote it down and practiced it and-“

“Mr. Stark!”, the teenager whined, glaring at him, “You couldn’t keep your promise for, what? A total of five seconds?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just, uh”, the billionaire looked around the room and, finding no support from his friends, “I’m just gonna take a seat right… uh, right here”, he finished a little lamely as he dropped down to the ground cross-legged, watching in amusement when all the adults followed his example until Peter was the only one standing. After a moment of hesitation, he sat down as well, situating himself opposite of Tony, his gaze open and earnest.

“As I was saying, The Cambridge dictionary defines a superhero as someone who has a special strength and uses it to do good things and help other people, as well as someone who has done something very brave to help someone else.”

Tony had to physically restrain his hands by sitting on them to not start fidgeting right away. He was also biting down on his lip so he wouldn’t interrupt the speech again, no matter how much every fiber of his being wanted to protest.

“I know you don’t think you have a special strength”, Peter continued, “I know you think that special strength means being physically strong or enhanced in some way or another but that’s not true. You have so many strengths that are so much more important than any of that. Some might say that your biggest strength is your brain. You’re really really smart, Mr… Tony.”

The boy smiled up shyly at him and Tony decided then and there that he would sit through actual torture again if only he kept smiling at him like that.

“I agree. Ever since I was a little kid, I looked up to you because of your intellect. I was in awe of someone who could build their own superhero suit in a cave out of nothing but scraps and determination. Uncle Ben told me that you were hurt, too, and that made you so much stronger in my eyes. You saved yourself when almost everyone had already given up on you and you didn’t need enhancement to do it, all you needed was yourself.”

I didn’t do it alone. He wanted to scream, his chest starting to ache in phantom pain when he thought back to Afghanistan and to Yinsen. But right now he had more important things to do than fall back into that hell and so he took a deep breath and tried to listen to Peter’s words. Somehow, miraculously, the kid’s voice managed to calm him down. (It really shouldn’t surprise him anymore.)

“Then when you came back, you broke with everything you thought was wrong without a thought about what it would mean for your company. You were a hero to many for that alone. And then you told the world that you are Iron Man. You were the first superhero who held himself accountable by giving away his identity.”

Tony wondered briefly, how Peter managed to overlook all of his mistakes and all the people that got hurt on his path to rediscovering himself. If it had been some other kid, he would’ve thought they simply didn’t get it but with this particular kid he knew that to be wrong. Peter was smart enough to know that the world wasn’t all black and white, he knew about Tony’s mistakes and he was a superhero himself, he knew that people got hurt sometimes. Yet here he was, calling Tony a hero.

“Iron Man is a hero”, Peter pulled him out of his thoughts again, “But Iron Man is only a hero because Tony Stark is. You’re brave and smart and selfless and those are all traits of a hero but what makes you our hero”, he glanced around the room, waving at the people sitting around them watching him, “What makes you my hero is your heart.”

“You care so much about everyone, even virtual strangers. You care about them so much that you would give your life for any one of them and you have proven that numerous times. You cared about me when you really didn’t have to.” His voice dropped a little, sounding much softer and vulnerable now when he met Tony’s eyes again.

“You put so much time and money into keeping me safe from the moment you first made me the suit. You could’ve stopped there and I would’ve been so grateful but you didn’t. You continued to protect me from my own mistakes, saving me when I screwed up and fixing the messes I made. Again, you could’ve stopped there and I wouldn’t have asked for more, because this was so much more than I expected but, again, you didn’t. You basically took me in – me, Peter Parker, not Spiderman – and you made time in your crazy schedule to hang out with me and to teach me. You never had to do that, no one would’ve expected you to. But you did it anyway because you care so much, even about some random kid from Queens who manages to get himself into trouble every other night.”

The billionaire superhero was already blinking away tears and through the veil he saw Peter doing the same thing, but he smiled through it – the love in his expression warming Tony’s heart like only Peter could. His eyes never left the kid’s. If they did, he would’ve seen that everyone was battling with their own emotions threatening to spill over.

“You never had to step up from being a fellow superhero to a mentor. You never had to step up from being a mentor to being more – to being a dad. And yet you did. That makes you the best superhero to me. And it’s okay if you won’t believe me – us - right away but we’ll just keep telling you. Because we love you.”

Tony swallowed. Tears were running down his cheeks freely now but he didn’t care enough to wipe them away.

All his life he would’ve brushed the emotional speech off, making a counterargument to every bullet point on the list just because he never had dealt well with compliments. Now, for the first time, he didn’t feel the need, though. He didn’t want to prove Peter wrong, instead he wanted to prove him right – wanted to become that man that he saw in him – and if that meant dealing with his low self-esteem and not talking back on compliments? Then he’d work his ass of getting better at those things.

So, instead of arguing, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Peter. It didn’t take the teenager more than five seconds to uncurl his legs and throw himself into the hug, making Tony almost topple over with the force. He let the tears run freely into Peter’s curls and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“I love you, Pete”, he whispered so softly only the enhanced Spiderling could pick up the words, before looking up and waving to the others with the one arm he didn’t necessarily need to keep his kid close to his chest.

“I love all of you. Come on into the hug. This is probably the first and final time I’m offering you all a group hug.”

It wouldn’t be. They all knew that. They came forward anyway.

May hugged Peter from behind, one hand patting Tony’s shoulder. Pepper came up behind Tony to wrap her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to Peter’s hand. Happy and Rhodey gave their group hug its finishing touch by standing to either side of the bundle and acting as a cocoon around all of them.

This wouldn’t be the last time Tony couldn’t see his worth. It wouldn’t be the last time either of them doubted themselves. But that only meant the others would be there to convince them otherwise.

As a family did.

pic by @lieselfh

story by @josywbu (ao3 I FF.net)

#j&fcollab #irondad #irondad fanart #irondad fic #peter parker #tony stark #may parker #peter parker fanart #tony stark fanart #josis fic

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sparksofindigo · 6 years ago

Text

Some D&D things

So I'm in a campaign and I play an elf arcane trickster.

Yea I know, totally unique.

Anywho, we had another rogue in the group who was a half-elf thief and he was completely smitten with her from the second he met her.

But she had a pretty rough life and did not want to get too close to anyone for fear of losing anyone else she loved. She had lost her mentor, who was the only parental figure she ever had, 20 years prior and never really got over it.

So she almost always just brushed off his advances. He was a sweetheart, though.

In one last attempt to stop his pursuit, she asked him on a date. The goal was to get him drunk, cast invisibility, then sneak away, leaving him to pay the tab.

But when he got drunk, he told her about how he lost his mother and how his father is imprisoned by the elven kingdom whom everyone hates in this world. He continued on for a bit about his troubles. She caved and told him a little about her past, too.

She didn't want to go through with the plan, but she thought it was the only way he'd stop, so she did it. Unaware that our druid and paladin were eavesdropping.

So she cast invisibility and left him at the bar.

The next day, the group met up and he acted as if nothing happened. He forgave her in secret and she apologized.

He continued to fight alongside her and make sure she was safe in every battle.

That's when she fell in love with him. She tried to drive him away to keep her heart from breaking again, but it was useless.

They went on a moonlit walk through the woods when the group made camp one night and just enjoyed the time together.

That was the last time they would do that.

The group had to infiltrate a keep that was crawling with undead.

Our bard and druid managed to let us evade every single encounter when the bard made a song to avoid being seen by undead and the druid allowed us to pass through stone walls. It was amazing. And it definitely threw the DM for a loop.

So we end up fighting undead beholders and one MASSIVE one that was the ring leader of the mass outbreak of undead roaming around.

My elf was trying to get to the top of the highest tower to stop a laser from blasting Candlekeep off of the map and the half elf tried to follow her up. The druid, paladin, bard, and barbarian were all trying to climb the tower too, but kept getting stopped by traps and smaller beholders. We were essentially timed.

That's when it happened. The half-elf got hit by disintegrate and everyone was utterly stunned.

She was crushed. She never let him know how much he meant to her. How much his actions helped her trust and love people again. She never told him she loved him before he was turned to dust.

Fast-forward and that player made another character who's a mystic.

The group is riding in some sort of caravan. Our barbarian recently acquired a headband that gave him 20 Intelligence so he's now awakened as hell and figuring himself out. And he learned that he wants to be with our druid.

He and the mystic both proclaimed their love for our druid at separate times during the night, unbeknownst to the other, and the druid panicked and ran to my elf.

My elf, somewhat distant, but still caring towards her friends, said this:

"In our line of work, we are never guaranteed tomorrow. We aren't guaranteed another chance. Don't wait too long to figure out how you feel about them. Because the next thing you know, the one you love will be the one who turns to dust and you'll miss your chance"

And the entire groups' jaws dropped. None of them knew how she felt about him until that moment.

The entire session was amazing and full of RP that I honestly didnt think would ever happen and to this day, it is one of the best sessions any of us have ever had.

The barbarian and mystic discussed their feelings for the druid, and the barbarian backed down when he realized that the mystic wanted more than just her body.

A ton of character development happened and the original DM (who played our bard while taking a break to let the wizard player DM for a bit) loved the entire thing.

Fast-forward to our latest session, where it's been a year IRL since the half elf died.

Her and the druid were sharing a room at an inn while the barbarian, paladin, and mystic had their own rooms. The mystic came up to talk to the druid that night. My rogue just immediately opened the door, gingerly pushed him into the room, and walked out of it. She didnt exactly want to be there for obvious reasons.

So our wizard just became a God and 'died'. So the player who originally played him rolled a new sorcerer half elf with dragon blood. And he showed up when my rogue was getting plastered that night.

He started flirting with her as she was drunk at the bar, drowning her sorrows at losing someone else.

I rolled a D20 to see if she found him attractive and it was a Nat 20, so here's to hoping she learns how to live and love again because my poor girl has been through a LOT.

Anyway.

What I'm trying to say is.

I just.

I really love D&D, guys.

#dungeons and dragons #d&d #d&d character #d&d stories #d&d story

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anarchist-caravan · 6 years ago

Link

In addition to the content itself, I think this piece by Shaun Bartone is a valuable example of how to approach the genre of buddhofiction. Approach, not arrive at. Let me back up a bit.

I believe that a responsible and rigorous approach to the study of a system of thought like x-buddhism involves movement along a continuum of recognition and negation. A wholly realized engagement, I believe, requires a third move: redescription.

Recognition involves, literally, re-cognizing, thinking along with or re-thinking, the system’s postulates. This practice results in a deep and informed hermeneutic appreciation. If you stop there, you will be an apologetic scholar or a good-subject practitioner, or something along those lines.

Negation is necessary in order to draw out the covert ideological machinations at work in the system. It allows you to consider what Adorno calls the “social truth content” at work in the ostensibly culturally-transcendent unitary system. In teasing out complicity in the formation of the capitalist subject, for instance, much of the current criticism of x-buddhism, particularly of Mindfulness, operates in this manner. That is, the negation performs an unmasking of the neutral, innocent, timeless truth dogma to reveal a socially embedded and necessarily political formation.

What then? Once the unitary system is exposed for possessing an identity other than the one it means to project, how do you respond? Some people abandon it, others dig in deeper and defend it. Human beings are complex creatures, and so are their responses to the inevitable deflation of the dharmic big Other. The aim of this blog is to catalyze a third response, namely redescription.

Redescription is a creative response to this deflation. Redescription, in fact, requires deflation. For, it is only through deflation that the specular dogmatics of x-buddhism come to lie prostrate on the ground, and rendered mere raw material for the sustenance of us homo sapiens apes. It is an eminently destructive-creative task to redescribe x-buddhist postulates. As the root of the term implies, this requires it to be formed, fashioned, cut anew (from proto-Indo-European √skribh).

Another term for redescription is buddhofiction. Like science-fiction, buddhofiction simply spins its material into the tale. It has neither need nor inclination to justify itself. It precedes from the premise that it is too late for arguments. Buddhofiction is a genre of peace. It has done with the violence of sectarian sniping. Why? Partly out of futility. Partly out of boredom. But mainly because there is still work to be done. I remain confident that x-buddhism has some really good shit going on.

So, how do you create a buddhofiction? No one can say exactly. Saying exactly would be yet another deployment of the troops to storm Fortress Dharma. This piece by Shaun Bartone is highly suggestive of an approach; it makes a gesture toward the way. He lays out a problematic—the void that appears in the inevitable death of capitalism—and poses a question: “How can we use Buddhist Dialectics (as opposed to Buddhist religion) to deconstruct—counter-construct—what life is like after Capitalism?” A buddhofiction collides these problematics into one another, producing a text that is constructed from its elements—techno-dystopia, zombie economics, brute futuristic sociology, x-buddhist emptiness, nothingness, and lack—yet is none of these elements. So, toward the creation of a new cut of x-buddhist flesh and blood…

(Glenn Wallis)

Buddhist Futures: The Black Hole of Post-Capitalism By Shaun Bartone

What happens after Capitalism? What is life like? Now that Capitalism has captured and colonized, appropriated (stolen), marketed and sold back to us every facet of our own lives, our relationships, needs, desires, cultures, even our “spiritualities,” what is left to us when Capitalism dies? As Joe Brewer wrote, “the pain you feel is Capitalism dying.”

Are we left with nothing but a black hole of Emptiness? Is there nothing to replace it? What alternatives are there to fill the void left by the death of Capitalism? It is like the death of God, an existential crisis.

I question and challenge those who beg for the end of Capitalism. Yes, Capitalism will come to an end, but what it will be replaced with might be even worse. Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.

I see the end of Capitalism as a naturally occurring process of Science overtaking Capitalism, and this is from a functionalist perspective. As science and technology (STEM) grows, it begins to take over all those social functions that used to be managed by Capitalism. STEM will become the new Overlord, controlling every waking (and sleeping) moment of our lives, what we produce and consume, what we do with our bodies and our leisure time, how we identify ourselves, how we relate, how we think.

Then Capitalism will be seen for what it is in terms of Resource Allocation: a crap shoot, a wild guess, and not even—a blind shot in the dark compared to STEM. STEM will out-perform Capitalism at every level. STEM will have the capacity to allocate resources far more efficiently with greater exactitude and productivity than Capitalism ever could. Capitalism, with its “Economics,” which is nothing more than a self-reinforcing religion consisting of unnamed and untested premises (doctrines), will seem quaint and archaic, like the remnants of an old religion that one discovers between the dusty leather bindings of an ancient book in a library. We will look back and laugh at the hocus-pocus of “Economics” and how it pretended to manage the allocation of extreme complexity, how it was used to obfuscate and mystify its abject failures.

Capitalism has only been able to remain productive and profitable because STEM came to its rescue in the mid-twentieth century and began to take over many of its resource allocation functions, via computer technology and artificial intelligence. STEM will out-manage and out-perform Capitalism in every sector, but unlike Capitalism, its goal will not be profit—it will be CONTROL. The STEM-controlled world will be run not by Capitalists, but by Netocrats*, the technological elite. (See The Futurica Trilogy.) Entities (corporations?) that control resources will have access to everything they need and want, without having to buy or own anything. Stockpiling stuff (and “money another quaint Capitalist invention that will become useless and extinct) is inefficient and counter-productive, a waste, and STEM will not tolerate waste of any kind. Its sworn enemy is Entropy.

Eric Weinstein, a mathematician and investor began a recent video for BigThink.com: “We think of capitalism as being locked in an ideological battle with socialism, but we never really saw that capitalism might be defeated by its own child — technology.”

Is there any shred of evidence to support this foregoing conjecture?* We already have a perfect foreshadowing of a STEM-controlled world: China’s new “social credit system.” Communist China has figured out that people will submit to any authority, conform to any rule, if there are steep social consequences to pay for violating them. China is using social networking to note every action a person takes, every email, social media post, chat, purchase, bank transaction, phone call, every security checkpoint you pass through, how you behave in a queue, the expression on your face when you approach a clerk at a train station, every move you make is recorded and calculated to create a “social credit” ranking. If what you do is counted as cheating, stealing, lying, failing to pay debts, disobeying the rules, hostile or simply “untrustworthy,” you will receive a low social credit rating. Because of your low social credit rating, you will be denied access to jobs, apartments, credit, public transportation, and public services. China’s social credit system is the first to operationalize a totalizing system of social control using STEM.

And that’s only the beginning, because STEM technologies can be used to “produce the subject” that is engineered to meet the demands of STEM-controlled system, turning humans into a kind of raw meat robot. Robots are not taking over the world; rather, we are becoming the robotic subjects of a STEM-controlled world.

New computers could delete thoughts without your knowledge, experts warn. New human rights laws are required to protect sensitive information in a person’s mind from “unauthorised collection, storage, use or even deletion.” Now two biomedical ethicists are calling for the creation of new human rig… The Enlightenment is over; Neoliberalism is doomed. Techno-Fascism is the new fungus growing over the dried bones of Capitalism. Japan has decided that all its public universities will no longer teach arts, humanities, languages, or social sciences. Not even law or economics. Only science, engineering and technology. Why not? Because STEM doesn’t need law or languages, economics or psychology. It doesn’t need art or stories; it doesn’t need human culture. Because essentially, it doesn’t need humans. STEM is a post-humanist worldview. Capitalism, with its Enlightenment ideals of individuality, freedom, equality (cough), rights, law, and justice will seem downright romantic compared to the technological nightmare that replaces it. Surrounded by the digital flicker of a techno-dystopia, we may be nostalgic for the gilded glory that was Capitalism.

So that brings me back to the initial question: What happens after Capitalism? What is life like? Are we left with nothing but the black hole of Emptiness? Ah, Emptiness! How can we use Buddhist Dialectics (as opposed to Buddhist religion) to deconstruct—counter-construct—what life is like after Capitalism? Is it possible that what we need to do is embrace is the emptiness of chaotic change, the void of having nothing to replace Capitalism, so that we can actually let go of it and begin to create something utterly new, alternative, and totally unlike what is surely going to replace it, an uber-technological dystopia? The end of Capitalism is the end of paid labour for profit. It is the end of paid work, as John Holloway says in Crack Capitalism. Sometimes we will work for wages, sometimes for barter, but “jobs” will be scarce. Now we must fend for ourselves. What will we do with our lives without jobs? How will we survive? Can we enter the darkness of nothingness, the hunger of lack, of risking everything that is known and familiar, to search in the wilderness for some other way to live, post-capitalism?

Can we collectively work out our values, our desires, our existential imperatives, the basic ground of being, relating, communicating, cohabiting and subsisting? What kind of societies can we create while scarcely surviving on the margins of an over-developed world teetering on the brink of eco-cidal extinction post-capitalism?

Resistance involves renunciation. Will we live like feral monks, not [just] deprived of food and shelter, but renouncing and resisting cooperation with a totalizing technological system that would turn us into raw meat robots? It is not just the refusal to participate in a corrupt system, but the deployment of a critically conscious resistance to the ideology that operates the codes and programs of a system which metes out reward and punishment for [non]compliance.

Will we refuse to be vector vermin co-opted into Mindlessly reproducing the social credit system? Or will we develop a Critical Mindfulness that makes a cognitive break with a totalizing system? Will we be able to create relations of mutual pleasure and support? Of creativity and play? cultures of wild imagination? Or will it be an existence of brute survival?”

#buddhofiction #STEM #post-capitalism #surveillance #Technology #Techno-dystopia #Techno fascists #China #Japan

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llamaswrites · 7 years ago

Text

Spiral

Fandom: Overwatch

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Doomfist: The Successor | Akande Ogundimu/Lúcio Correia dos Santos

Summary:

Hana said it took twenty-one days to form a habit.

It should have been simple to do.

The universe only gave him four days before everything went wrong.

Read on AO3 here.

It was yet another of Hana’s spontaneous theories and, like most ideas she came up with unrelated to battle tactics (either in Starcraft or actual combat), it was completely awful.

“It’s really simple in theory,” she told Lúcio through a mouthful of chips and ice cream. It was a combination that he always found awful, but it made appearance any time either of them had something go down that required ‘bestie time’, as Hana put it. “You just need to stay so busy that you can’t think about him. Eventually, you’ll just forget to think about him. They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. Think you can do it?”

Hana didn’t know much about Akande, other than he was exactly Lúcio’s type and managed to severely bruise his fragile heart. She didn’t even know his name, because he’d never told her and she’d never asked. It was the unspoken rule when they got together that the other person didn’t pry, to just let everything flow out naturally.

This time, Hana perched on the ratty old couch she’d found in the depths of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, after having put on something awful (anime, probably) on the holoscreen at the front of the room. Lúcio sat on the floor with his back against the couch, letting Hana comb her fingers through his recently cleaned hair. After a lot of practice, he was comfortable with her helping twist his hair back into locs.

It was hard, sometimes, to reconcile this Hana with the one he went on missions with. When she was out of the MEKA, she was bright and happy and spontaneous. In it, she was cold, calculating, and brutal, everything she trained to be as essentially a child soldier.

“I’m going to bet that’s worked for exactly no one ,” he told her, eyes trained on the screen in front of him but not really watching. “How do you come up with this stuff?”

“I don’t,” she said, but then backtracked. “At least, I didn’t come up with this. It’s something 76 mentioned to me once.”

“You should leave that poor guy alone,” Lúcio mumbled, and then asked “What did he have to say? I didn’t think he really had anything or anyone outside of just being an old soldier past his time.”

“You tell me to leave him alone and still want to scoop? I don’t think that’s fair!” She tugged on a completed loc playfully.

“It’s not like you’re going to leave him alone anyway. Just spill!”

He expected Hana to spill immediately, like whenever she had a juicy piece of gossip about someone on base, but she hesitated. “I’m not really sure if it’s my story or whatever to tell, but...I found him one night when I was exploring, out near the big beacon that acts like a lighthouse over the straight. His visor was off and he was slamming back this cheap ass beer. I asked him if he wanted to have some company, to share some war stories and beer because I had some too and god knows none of us are getting therapy anytime soon and he told me, ‘That’s not why I’m out here’.

“He let me join him though, and few beers later he started talking. Said that back when he was the head of this whole shindig, he had a person that he was really close to, that he fell in love with. He never told them though and they died when that base blew up. He told me that piece of advice, though. Said that’s how he got over it. Maybe it’ll work for you.”

“Did he ever say who they were?” Lúcio asked, curious.

“Nah,” she said, flipping a finished loc over his shoulder. “But hey, his advice has to be worth something. He’s got way more age and wisdom and senior discounts than we’ll ever have. He probably knows what he’s talking about.”

He hummed softly in agreement, but couldn’t help imagining 76 up on that lighthouse tower. Hana probably didn’t realize that if he was up there mourning by himself that his tactics for forgetting hadn’t worked after all. Maybe his advice had worked once upon a time, but obviously something or someone recently dragged every bit of thought and obsession and grief back to the forefront of his mind. Lúcio didn’t plan on taking Hana’s advice, at least not originally. As was the case with everything in his life, but especially concerning Overwatch, trouble soon followed.

He told himself at first that he wanted to know more about Akande because he needed to thank him for the research and schematics left behind on the holo tablet. Not because, he scolded himself, he was still enamoured with the man despite not seeing him in over two weeks and despite the lack of any further promise. Searching for him on the web hadn’t been his immediate course of actions because it felt weird to search for someone he’d been so...personal...with in such an impersonal way. Lúcio was afraid of what he’d find, afraid that his experience that night would be far from unique, even if nothing was promised to make it that way. He soon found that with Akande, that should have been the least of his worries.

Instead, he checked the message Akande left for him on the datapad, hoping for some overt contact information he missed on his first glance through or clues in the metadata. The message itself was as unhelpful at it had been before. Checking the metadata was no better; it was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, leaving it utterly unsalvageable and utterly useless. It was too much like recovered data from old watchpoints and Talon bases, deliberately obscured and damaged to hide the fingerprints of individuals long gone, or long damned in their pursuits.

Lúcio chose to look past the oddity. Surely Akande had his reasons for masking his digital trail. From his knowledge to his (too) expensive suit to the small red plates on his head announcing the fine intraneural nerve wiring to his prosthetic, it was clear he was someone , someone who dearly didn’t want to be found trivially. It should have scared Lúcio more than it did. He wasn’t prepared for how hard the fear and realization would hit him.

It had been entirely too easy to find out about Akande on the web. Lúcio thought that he misspelled his name at first because surely this couldn’t be the intimidating but gentle man he met. A quick check of the message of the datapad confirmed he had it right and a hard, cold lump of anxiety settled deep in his gut. He steeled himself and clicked on the first biography page that popped up. His eyes lighted on the picture and the lump immediately shot up into his stomach, nausea rising quickly. He threw the datapad (the same one from Akande) violently away from him and dashed to the bathroom to lose his lunch. The datapad landed on the bed’s comforter and was fine. Lúcio’s emotional state, however, was not.

Lúcio could honestly say before he saw Akande’s picture that there was not much he regretted in life or, at least, nothing he regretted deeply. He mourned deeply those lost in the revolution he’d started, wished there had been a better way, but he knew his regret would do nothing to change the past and only dishonor their memory. He didn’t really regret the actions that led him to lose his lower legs; after all, he wouldn’t be the same person or have all the same friends today with them.

After emptying his stomach, he rested his head back against the wall. He realized, panting slightly, that this was his first true regret. The only person that could reasonably be worse in this situation might be Gabriel Reyes, if he ever really was a person when he was still in Blackwatch (there was still so much he didn’t know or wasn’t privileged to). Or maybe Widowmaker. Still, Akande -- Doomfist -- was terrible in his own right. He killed so many in his rise to power through Talon; more still would be lost Talon’s warmongering efforts succeeded. He was the antithesis to everything Lúcio stood for in his life and Lúcio had let him see the most vulnerable part of him, both personally and with his tech.

The memory of being touched gently by Akande, by the same hands that killed so many, flitted by in his brain and Lúcio smashed his head back against the tile wall, quashing down the nausea that rose violently in him with pain. He took a few deeps breaths and tried to center himself. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be. After all, Aka-- Doomfist certainly hadn’t mentioned to anyone what had happened between them and if he did, it hadn’t gotten out. Maybe this was just another passing thing for Doomfist or at most, some manipulation on Talon’s part. He couldn’t let it get to him. He wouldn’t.

The keypad beeping faintly in the distance was all the warning he got before Hana barged into his room, 76 in tow with a tray of food. Apparently in his internal angsting, he missed dinner. Hana joined him on the floor of the bathroom without hesitation, smoothing his locs away form his face. 76 positioned himself in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom with the tray balanced on a single hand, obviously irritated by being dragged along but still not leaving.

“You never miss dinner, are you sick?” asked Hana. Lúcio shook his head and smiled weakly at her.

“Nah, I’m not sick,” he said and tried to stand up. Hana pulled him back down to the cool floor.

“What’s wrong? I know something’s wrong. Is it him?” she asked once more. Lúcio glanced up quickly at 76. The old soldier seemed to be unimpressed by what the youngsters before him were talking about and studying the room around him. An arched eyebrow above his visor, though, cued Lúcio into the fact that 76 was actually listening to their conversation.

“Um, kinda,” Lúcio admitted quietly, trying to prevent 76 from listening in. It probably didn’t work; super soldier hearing made having private conversations near impossible. “Just...I think I need to take your advice, for once. I’m driving myself nuts.”

Hana helped him to his feet and together, they stumbled back into the bedroom. His prosthetics feld like dead weight as he settled back onto the bed. Hana relocated the tablet to his bedside table, where 76 also placed the tray of food. 76 averted his gaze when Lúcio undid the locks on the prosthetics but Hana just leaned on his shoulder, entirely used to seeing his legs off and knowing it just made everything more awkward if she ignored the elephant in the room.

76 took up post by the door, clearly waiting for Hana as she whispered to Lúcio, “Love sucks. It gets better though. I promise.”

“It’s not, uh, love and thanks. For the advice. And for dinner.”

She pushed herself off his shoulder and off bed. “No problem! Text me if you need anything else. And hey, maybe you should start taking my advice more often.”

“You had a good idea for once?” rumbled 76’s voice finally. “The world must be ending.”

Hana pouted at him with crossed arms as he poked roughly at the keypad to open the door. 76 waited outside in the hall as she hugged Lúcio.

“Can it, mister,” she told the old soldier as she joined him in the hallway. “Besides, this bit of wisdom wasn’t one-hundred-percent Hana Song Certified. If it goes topsy turvy, it’s your fault.”

The door closed, but Lúcio could still hear the indignant, “My fault?” from the other side as he flopped back down the bed. For some reason, he had a feeling that sleep would not come easy.

Everything that could go wrong, did so like this:

Hana said it took twenty-one days to form a habit. Simple enough, Lúcio thought. Overwatch always had a plethora of missions available, ranging from escort situations to active combat situations. He signed himself up for the most mind numbing missions he can find after he fails to not think of the night in Rio for a week straight. This will work, he told himself.

And it did, for about four days. Four days of pushing himself to the limit and falling in his bed or a cot every night, absolutely exhausted. Four days of getting up, showering, and throwing himself back into his work, healing and guiding and fighting with blood making his skin tacky.

His life hadn’t been this intense since living back in the favela under Vishkar. These missions were the most extreme Overwatch had to offer, the ones that were always waiting for one last brave soul to make them a reality. Lúcio found himself crawling through vent ducts and scorching under the heat of the Cairo sun, all in the name of justice (and keeping his mind off of Akande). He didn’t even realize his plan was working.

Everything went wrong, starting like this:

They’re up in a satellite state of Russia and the air was cold enough to make breathing physically hurt. The sun, just starting to set below the horizon, did not help the temperature at all. The mission is in an area that could be described as a slum. Each shack was built out spare parts, whether from the siding of trains or the hulls of Volskaya mechs and rats, more impervious to the cold than Lúcio was, ran underfoot.The streets were narrow and wound through it in an almost non-Euclidean manner, making it all the more impossible to avoid the sharp icicles hanging from the tin ramshackle roofs. If not for the cold, it would make Lúcio miss his favela fiercely.

There was a definite sense of poverty, yes, but also a feeling of community and belonging. Everyone here knew each other and each other’s business, which made the Overwatch team’s presence all the more glaringly obvious. Their objective was a specific omnic living in one of these shacks, particularly escorting them to safety from the harshly anti-omnic groups circling like sharks around the neighborhood. Omnics were exceedingly rare in Russia, though this omnic had managed to survive long enough to see many others of their kind to safety. Now, only they remained, trapped by those wanting to prosecute them for the crime of protecting others. The community didn’t know or trust their intentions to help, though, and so hidden the omnic remained.

Today’s squad was smaller than their usual six man. He was accompanied by Soldier 76 and McCree, of all people and was dismayed when neither man seemed very bothered by the cold. They split up early on, to gain more ground, and Lúcio found himself quietly skating through icy alleys, followed only by the quiet hum of his sonic amplifier and the stares of the slum’s residents. There was at least a clue to where this omnic might be in the form of some sort of symbol painted on the upper left of their door, but that was according to the worried omnics this one helped. Still, working on old information was better than none at all.

He barely turned a corner when an explosion nearby rocked the slums, causing some of the icicles to fall from the eaves, shattering on the ground melodiously. Lúcio quickly backtracked to the alley he came from in search of better cover, hand reaching up to the comm in his ear to consult his team about what just happened.

76 only had time to growl out, “Talon, Reaper,” before the rest of the icicles crashed down in a cacophony as something heavy landed behind him. Lúcio froze, heart in his throat and his skin prickling up from something other than the cold. He had a feeling that, if he were to turn around, he would know exactly who was behind him.

Everything went wrong because Hana’s plan couldn’t possibly account for Doomfist finding him in the middle of a mission.

Once, he read that the now extinct wolves in America proper would refuse to look at or acknowledge humans when they were caught in a trap. Sometimes, a wolf would twist itself around in a trap if that meant not looking at a human nearby. It was as though they thought trouble didn’t exist or would go away if it wasn’t acknowledged. He didn’t understand it then, but he did now.

“We meet again, Lúcio Correia dos Santos,” rumbled a voice behind him. Lúcio willed his knees to not give out and turned around finally, knowing that not facing an enemy was probably the stupidest thing he could do, next to being intimate with the same enemy.

The next stupidest thing came out of his mouth a moment later and he wanted to slap himself. “Just Lúcio is fine, but you know that.”

The corner of Akande’s mouth twitched up into a smirk as he approached Lúcio. The way he moved reminded Lúcio of some sort of big cat stalking its prey. Any other time it might have been a flattering comparison, but in this case…

The prey was a rather idiotic frog.

Lúcio skated smoothly backwards, intent on putting some space between himself and Akande--Doomfist---he really needed to stop conflating this man with anything but enemy . He hoped Doomfist wouldn’t force him to wallride to escape, as he knew there was another wall fast approaching behind his back. Escaping that giant gauntlet while having little control on a wall other than forward was not Lúcio’s idea of a good time. Really, Lúcio ought to just flee but some stupid part of him wanted to know why he was sought out specifically.

Thankfully, Doomfist stopped. Still, his huge frame filled up the narrow alley to the point where Lúcio could barely see past him. In contrast to the images he saw in his earlier search of the Talon, the mountain of a man actually wore a shirt, with one long sleeve that nearly extended past his free hand and the other tied up above his gleaming gauntlet.

“I am glad to see you once more. You were not on any of the usual missions you take for Overwatch.”

Lúcio’s first thought was that, duh, he wasn’t on any of those missions because he was trying to avoid the man, whether it was actually encountering him or simply thinking about him. His second was to question if Akande was actually looking for him . Was the man actively stalking Overwatch just to talk to him? Subtly, he muted the comm in his ear, listening with only half attention as 76 screeched commands into their line like a hoarse, old crow .

“I have to say that, uh, I’m not really that glad,” Lúcio as he shifted his weight back and forth on his skates and studied the eaves. They were just tall enough that wallriding might be possible to get past Doomfist, but there would be a problem if he wanted to launch himself on top of the building due to the eaves.

The smirk dropped instantly and Lúcio felt his veins turned to ice. Happy Akande was terrifying and intimidating but this was on a whole other level. He wasn’t sure if he would be more intimidated of Reaper if the ghast decided to show his face right then and there (it was doubtful though, if the traded gunfire between a pulse rifle and shotguns in the distance was anything to go by).

“I must admit, I thought you might be slightly more cordial, especially after how our first meeting ended.”

Nope. Nope. What man experienced in modern combat would ever say that in the possible presence of comms that either side could hear ?

“Yeah, no, not after what a quick search of you brought up. No way.” Peeking down the other alley revealed a McCree rolling by like a tumbleweed, quickly followed by gunfire. That was a definite no.

“You did not realize who I was.” It was not a question. Lúcio glanced back and met Akande’s gaze levelly. There was no referring to him as Doomfist anymore, not with his insistence of talking about that night.

“No,” he said. Akande huffed out a laugh and shook his head incredulously. The slight movement caused his giant gauntlet to gleam with the weak rays of the dying sun.

“I see. So you make it a habit then, to let total strangers make modifications that could leave you helpless? To let them bring you to the end and--”

“Could you not?” Lúcio interrupted. “Go there, I mean. To answer your question so you will stop coming back to that, no, I don’t. Now if you could stop mentioning that night, I’d be super happy because I know we both have active comms and I don’t particularly want an international syndicate knowing the details of what I do in my free time.”

“My comm is muted,” Akande said. “I assume yours is the same.”

The gears turned in Lúcio’s head, though he was quickly brought out of his reverie by another explosion, this one closer than last time. Helix rockets, maybe?

“Your team doesn’t know either,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” said Akande.

“You’re not here for Talon reasons,” Lúcio clarified and then asked, “Why are you following me?”

This gave Akande pause.

“This is not entirely Talon related, no,” he said. “I saw a kindred spirit in you that night. One who knew what it was like to fight and rise above, to overcome and be better for it.”

“So, what? You think I’m just going to follow you back to Talon because you helped me out that night? Because I fought in a war and came out on the winning side of it?”

“I did not think it would be so simple as that, but in essence yes.”

A harsh laugh rang through the air and Lúcio realized it was his own. Even Akande looked surprised.

“You really must think I’m some sort of idiot.” Akande tried to object, but Lúcio continued speaking over him, fueled by a level of anger he didn’t know that he possessed. “No, seriously. Did you really think I would be, what, seduced by you into joining Talon? Just because I fit into some part of your weird philosophy? Let me tell you a few things.

“I’m not better because of what happened with Vishkar in Rio. Just because I don’t regret my actions doesn’t mean I want to go through it all again, that I can say I’m better for everything that happened. I don’t know how you could think anyone could be better from losing their legs, their family, everything in their life, from watching children and their parents die from the labor they were forced to do or the beatings from being out past curfew. Even worse is seeing people die in the name of a cause you yourself have spearheaded, before they could ever know a better life.

“You think I’m better for that? That they’re better for that? You can seriously fuck right off with that ideology and take your rich boy self elsewhere because I’m done here.”

Lúcio rushed towards Akande and started to crouch to begin his jump. Akande, seeing the change in posture, lunged for him but missed him by inches, hurtling towards the other end of the alley with the gauntlet. Homefree, Lúcio continued to wallride and flipped around to watch as Akande pulled up short of crashing at the end of the alley before backflipping off a wall to land in the larger street.

“Lúcio, wait!”

The first shot, he reasoned later, didn’t make its mark because Widowmaker wasn’t anticipating the manner of his exit from the alley. Still, it shattered the green plexiglass of his goggles and caused him to land off kilter, not entirely balanced on his skates.

The second hit him, but also not in its intended place. Akande, having realizing the gravity of the situation far before Lúcio did, lunged out of the alley and tackled him into the ground. Still the sniper’s bullet found its way into his right lung, entirely too close to his heart. He wouldn’t know that until later, though.

Lúcio’s world seemed to grind to a halt. Some part of him dimly registered how nice and warm Akande was over him, especially compared to how cold it was. Another part registered Akande yelling into his now unmuted com, ordering Widowmaker to stand down as he was pulled into the man’s lap, while his own comm screamed in his ear.

Akande ripped off part of his sleeve and balled it up. When he pressed it against the wound on Lúcio’s chest, the pain finally cut through the haze in his mind.

Fuck.

He’d been shot.

Pain crawled through his chest like fire and he couldn’t suppress a whimper that came out even more pathetic than it should with a pierced lung. It had been so long since he was last shot -- usually his blades were quick enough to keep him out of the line of fire. It was a familiar enough of a sensation to know that something was very, very wrong with the way pain flowed through his body.

Akande murmured apologies as he cradled Lúcio’s body and kept the cloth pressed to the wound, though it was quickly apparent it was doing nothing to help. Lúcio smiled and tried to laugh, even as he failed catching his breath. There were worse ways to go than been looked after by a really attractive guy he thought and he must have vocalized it because Akande ruefully chuckled as he raised a hand to cradle Lúcio’s face. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open and the hand that was cradling his face soon turned to striking it lightly, probably in an attempt to keep him awake.

He heard footsteps quickly approaching and suddenly, the pain cut to a fraction of what it had been. Lúcio found the strength to crack open his eyes and he saw Akande still looming over him, tense and lit by a warm yellow light. Lúcio let his head loll over to the side and saw 76 crouched by them. That explained the light, most likely from one of the soldier’s portable biotic fields.

“I’m not going to kill you,” 76 said quietly. “I’m not even going to tell anyone about this. I’ve been through this same thing. Just please, give him to me. We can still save him from the venom.”

Venom? Was that what was making this so painful?

Akande hesitated, before gently lifting Lúcio up from his lap and letting 76 take him into his arms. The cold leather of 76’s jacket was significantly different from Akande’s own natural warmth and Lúcio shivered violently. Akande’s hand stroked the side of his face gently and Lúcio leaned into the warm touch thankfully.

“Take care of him,” Akande told 76, who inclined his head slightly in response. The soldier shoved the biotic emitter in his pocket and took off running. Lúcio didn’t make to the ship before losing the fight to unconsciousness, but he was awake long enough to hear the tell-tale boom that announced Akande’s takeoff with the gauntlet.

It took three days for Lúcio to wake up completely.

In the meanwhile, he woke up for seconds or minutes at time.

Once, he woke up to Hana tying his hair back in a scarf, considerate of the way it went absolutely bonkers whenever he slept or neglected to take care of it. Her face was puffy and red, probably from crying and she stroked his face gently when she saw that his eyes were open.

Another time, he saw Zenyatta meditating in the corner of the room, lit only by the afternoon light filtering in through the blinds. The chiming of the orbs around the omnic quickly lulled Lúcio back into unconsciousness.

When he finally awoke, the room was empty save for 76. The old man sat in a chair in the corner where Zenyatta previously was, snoring beneath a magazine that lay on his face. The room was darkened and from the lack of light outside, Lúcio could guess it was well past the time any decent person should be awake. Sore and conscious of the too-tight bandages that swaddled his abdomen, Lúcio carefully sat up. He was surprised when nurses didn’t immediately swarm in with the pick up in heart rate, but it was night after all. He noticed that someone had taken his legs off and it irked him slightly that they weren’t in sight.

He tucked a stray lock of hair back into the scarf and dipped his head to his chest to inspect the wound, or what little he could see of it. Purple blood vessels, so dark they were nearly black, crawled out from under the bandage, clearly damaged by whatever the bullet was laced with. It would be a long while before he was completely recovered. With the wound so close to his heart, he was lucky to even be alive at all. Sighing, Lúcio pulled the covers back up over his chest just as someone entered the room.

The omnic clearly wasn’t a nurse. His (because this was probably the most masculine omnic Lúcio had ever seen) expensive suit looked extremely out of place in the hospital and he wasn’t the standard build that any of the nurses probably were. In contrast to most omnics he knew, including Zenyatta, this one had custom sculpting done on his frame to give him a more human-like appearance, belying that he was something outside of the range of the common omnic. Lúcio also noted with some disquiet that all of the omnic’s vital lights were red.

Could this be the omnic they tried to rescue in the slum? God, he hoped so. His luck lately would have this mystery bot be entirely bad news.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” he intoned, mechanical voice belying an accent that was, again, entirely by choice and out of the common range for most omnics. The omnic placed a wrapped box, presumably a gift of some sorts, at the foot of his bed with many more Lúcio hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you,” said Lúcio. The omnic chuckled darkly.

“That is good,” he said, “for both you and me, but irrelevant nevertheless. I am here on behalf of a mutual friend to check on you and deliver a gift.”

Lúcio eyed the omnic carefully. He was starting to have a few guesses to who this omnic might be and quite a few of them led back to the hole in his chest.

“How...exactly did you get in here?” Lúcio asked and glanced at 76, who still appeared to be quite passed out but still breathing. “Overwatch’s security is pretty good and if I don’t know you…”

“Their security can be the best in the world but it’s not going to stop the owner of this hospital from walking in whenever he pleases.” The omnic tapped at the datapad on the wall, pulling up Lúcio’s charts and examining them. “And don’t go looking for my identity either, you won’t find anything worthwhile there.”

Another glance at 76. Another snore.

“Did you, uh, do something to him?”

“Just a mild sedative in the coffee creamer. Don’t worry, he’ll wake up eventually.”

“So, if your...friend....needed to know how I was doing, why not just check my records through the access you already have?” Lúcio asked and the omnic turned away from the datapad with a sigh.

“Do your questions never cease? And you never ask the right one...Humans, even the more intelligent ones, are astoundingly illogical sometimes. Seeing the records was not enough to assure his heavy heart, though I’m not sure what my presence here will do in regards to that. I will say though, you are looking remarkably well for being on the receiving end of Amelie’s gun.”

Everything clicked at once.

“You’re from Talon. Akande sent you.”

“Finally, some sign of intelligence. Yes, he did. For some reason I’m failing to comprehend at the moment, he has stake in your continued existence. Now that I’ve seen sign of life in all your lacking faculties, I shall take my leave.”

And like that, the omnic strutted out of the room just as suddenly as he had arrived. Dumbfounded, Lúcio could only stare at the small present, wrapped in red paper, sitting out of his reach at the foot of the bed. Everything was spiralling out of control. The night with Akande should have never left the hotel, but now it landed him in the hospital. Overwatch probably thought that he was compromised, Talon was probably looking at him like he was a piece of meat, and now everyone would know how much he messed up.

A short time later, 76 startled himself awake with a snore and then proceeded to act like he’d never been asleep in the first place. Lúcio didn’t enlighten him as to their curious visitor and soon enough, 76 was replaced by a weepy, but happy, Hana. With her, she brought the datapad from where he had abandoned it beside his bed. He left it closed and let her chatter away about what was happening back at the Watchpoint. Being the friend she was, she immediately picked up on his quietness though he initially tried to wave it off as a reaction to recovery and the drugs they had him on.

“76 told me what happened, you know,” she said quietly. “As far as I know, he didn’t tell anyone else. You can talk about it if you need to.”

He shook his head and his gaze caught on the box at the end of the bed for what was probably the thousandth time. Tracing his gaze, Hana grabbed it.

“You keep looking at it,” she explained as she dumped it in his lap. It was heavier than he thought it would be. “Just open it. I think I know who it’s from.”

Sighing, Lúcio carefully untied the silk ribbon binding the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a poncho of some sort, made from tan lengths of woven cloth with green stripes running parallel to its length. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to be little stylized frogs embroidered upon the cloth, hopping the length of the stripes on the front of the fabric leading up to what Lúcio presumed was the neck hole. The reverse side was lined with a heavier cloth, softer than the top fabric by far.

“It’s neat,” said Hana as she reached out to run her fingers over the texture, “but what is it?”

“I’m not really sure either,” Lúcio said. “Look, you can take off the lining.”

“It looks really warm,” Hana murmured as she smoothed her hand over the soft lining. “Which is good, you’re always shivering unless you’re south of the equator! He probably noticed too.”

Lúcio said nothing and traced the outline of a frog. Hana watched him mope for a moment before she snatched the gift from his hands.

“You should wear it!” she announced and fed her hands through the fabric, presumably trying to find the neck opening to shove it over Lúcio’s head.

“Hana, no,” he objected. “I’m fine. Also I have no idea how to wear it.”

“Hana yes,” she said, “and we’ll figure it out together. Hold still!”

Luckily for Lúcio, Soldier: 76 chose that moment to wander back in the room with Efi, a hand on her shoulder. Probably to keep her from excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet, something she almost alway did when she came to see him.

The hand failed to keep her from tackling him.

“Lúcio!” she cried as she barreled into his chest. Lúcio nearly bit through his lip to keep from crying out as her head smashed into the bandages on his chest. “I was so worried but everyone else at Overwatch said you were going to be okay but the mission details said that both Widow and Doomfist were there and oh my gosh I can’t even begin to imagine what happened, you should have taken Orisa with you--”

“Efi, it’s alright,” he reassured, prying the small girl from her tight hug around his chest. Efi didn’t seem to notice him gritting his teeth. “It all worked out okay. We’ll try to take Orisa next time, okay?”

She nodded solemnly and added, “She would have been able to kick Doomfist’s butt. Then he wouldn’t be able to hurt you or anyone else.”

Lúcio looked up guiltily to meet Hana’s pained gaze (and 76 too, if he’d actually been able to see past the visor).

It was funny how the most innocent phrase could just punch through him like a bullet.

Thankfully, Efi was distracted by the gift in Hana’s hands.

“Oh! An agbada! Can I see it?”

“Is that what this is?” Hana asked. She handed over the folded fabric to Efi, who sat back at the end of the bed and unfolded it. She traced the pattern and giggled when her fingers found the frogs.

“Yup,” she said. “It’s a super common thing for men to wear in Numbani. Or really, any Yoruba guy anywhere. Where did you get this? It’s really cute!”

“Um, a friend gave it to me,” Lúcio admitted.

“A guy friend?” asked Efi with a sly smile and Lúcio felt his face start to burn. She laughed. “It’s okay, I can tell. With the way that this was woven, I can almost guarantee a guy made it. Here, let me help you put it on.”

Lúcio leaned forward as much as his bandages allowed him to let Efi slip the agbada over his head. He was only able to get one arm through a sleeve for fear of snagging his IV, so he elected to keep it slightly wrapped around his abdomen under the cloth. Efi tugged the agbada into place, consequently dislodging the breathing tubes from his nose.

“Oops, sorry!” she said as he fixed them. “But really, you look pretty good. You’re not quite tall enough to be called agunt'asoolo, but it suits you anyway. Whoever made this for you really put a lot of care into it.”

“Yeah...he did.” Lúcio mumbled as he ran his free hand down the front of the agbada. This was physical proof of either how smitten Akande was with him, or how desperate Talon was for him to join them.

He wasn’t sure what was worse.

“I’d still wear something underneath it in the future,” said Efi, oblivious to his turmoil. “It’s really meant to be an overcoat of sorts. Maybe Orisa and I will make you some beads for your hair to match with little speakers in them. Don’t you think that would be awesome, miss Hana?”

Hana nodded with a tight smile on her face. The look she shot Lúcio plainly said we need to talk about this soon and Lúcio averted his gaze back down to the agbada. 76 was not immune to the tension in the room and checked an imaginary watch on his wrist.

“Five more minutes, kiddo,” he growled out. “He’s not going to get any better with you playing on him like a jungle gym.”

Efi plainly struck up a pout. When her parents let her visit Orisa back at whatever watchpoint she currently based out of, the pout was the demise of nearly anyone around her and she was consequently able to get away with murder.

Nearly everyone, except for Ana and 76.

Soldier: 76 stared down the small girl and when it became apparent that he wasn’t bowing, Efi turned her attention back to Lúcio, chattering about some of her newer plans and his concert schedule. When finally 76 determined her time was up, she hugged Lúcio tightly (and no, he wasn’t going to admit exactly how much it hurt, it was humiliating that the strength of an eleven-year-old’s hug made him want to cry) and hopped off the bed. It was Hana who escorted her from the room this time, leaving 76 and Lúcio alone in the small room.

Lúcio shrugged off the agbada and folded it carefully as his nurse finally came into the room. 76 took it from him and set it by the holopad at the side of the bed while his nurse ran through his vitals and started a new drip of medicine going.

“You’re going to be out like a light here in a few,” said his nurse, “so you may want to do whatever you need to before you’re dead to the world again.”

His nurse helped him walk stiffly to the bathroom and after settling him back down in bed, left. 76 settled down in the chair beside the bed and Lúcio prepared himself for a lecture. The old man said nothing, though, as Lúcio fussed with the scarf around his hair (hopefully Hana was up for helping him redo all of his locs once more). Finally, the soldier let out a sigh.

“You’re not the first to do this, you know,” he said, “and you’re definitely not going to be the last.”

“I’m not exactly doing anything,” Lúcio told him, trying to keep the snapping edge out of his voice. “Really, I’m trying not to do anything. But...but…”

He shook his head and immediately regretted it as dizziness sucker punched him from the movement. Obviously, the meds were kicking in.

“But he won’t let go,” 76 said. “And really, I don’t think you’re ready to let go either. Kid, you look like a love sick idiot anytime you so much as see that thing he got you.”

Lúcio flopped back on the bed and huffed.

“So?” he finally snapped, feeling more than a little immature. “So what? Are you going to take me off mission rosters because I’m compromised? Remove my agent status?”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I did,” said 76 and Lúcio stared at him. “Again, you’re not the first to do this. You have a good head on your shoulders and I don’t think you’re going to be leaping to join Talon anytime soon, or give them too much information.”

“So why bring this up, then?” Lúcio’s words came out slurred and his mind struggled to gain traction. He wondered if he’d remember this discussion the next time he woke up.

“I just…” 76 sighed again. “I just don’t want to see you making the same mistakes I did. There’s two sides to this, there always is. Don’t do anything stupid but…”

76 reached up to the visor as if to pinch his nose but settled for running his fingers through his white hair.

“Just know that there’s more to life than fighting, okay? If there comes a time that you’re starting to doubt if you’re in the right place, don’t ignore those doubts. Listen to them. It’ll serve you well.”

76 stood up and reached out to lightly ruffle what he could reach of Lúcio’s hair.

“Take care of yourself, kid. Get some sleep.”

Lúcio watched with drooping eyes as the old soldier marched out of the room and thought back to his encounter with Akande. The face Akande had given him when Lúcio ripped into him was one of a man who, for the first time in his life, doubted the ground on which he’d built his life. 76’s words echoed in his head as he gave into the medication and spiralled into unconsciousness.

He sincerely doubted that he was the one having second thoughts about where he was in life.

#overwatch #doomcio #doomfist #lucio #fanfiction

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lewnatic · 6 years ago

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5, 6, 13, and 22 :D

I have to do these out of order for reasons.

5. Favorite NPC.

Every character Skaaren makes in my Pathfinder game is a gem, picking a favorite would take all day.

I think the best is actually a collection of NPCs, a tribe of kobold-esque beasties called the Rapia that we convinced to worship our characters as gods, and then managed to get all 10+ of them to travel with us. They’re still with us almost a real-life year later. They all have names and unique personalities. @extravagantshoes and I cry regularly about them.

13. Introduce your current party.

I assume you want me to talk about the game we’re in, Document.So my current campaign with this nerd has a party that currently consists of three goblins.

Teeki (me!) is a rogue, and pretty standard fare for a goblin. Greedy, money-grubbing, generally not a fan of strangers who aren’t dripping in gold. She’s the party face with a whopping charisma of 9.

Bing is a paladin who doesn’t entirely understand what being a paladin means. He knows something powerful is helping him out in exchange for... something? He is generally a nice, if shifty little thing, but slips into more ruthless tendencies when the pressure is on.

Sparc’it is the newest addition. A sorcerer with draconic lineage, and it shows. He has visible scales and dragon features, and it has made him something of an outcast among his own people. He was raised by a bronze dragon, and tries very hard to live up to its way of life--something that doesn’t always come easy.

6. Favorite death (monster, player character, NPC, etc).

So remember when I said Sparc’it was the newest addition to the party?

The character before him was another sorcerer named Spook’em.

Spook’em had a thirst for adventure, always running off to the next big thing. Charging heroically into battle. There was just one problem with that.

At level 5, Spook’em had 12 HP.

The first time Spook’em nearly died, he tripped a trap that did 11 damage. The paladin healed him up. It was then that we learned of his total HP. Screaming ensued, but we soldiered on.

During the boss fight, Spook’em was almost our MVP. He used Darkness to essentially render all of the boss’s backup useless. The paladin had the boss (a hobgoblin) locked in combat and was winning.

Then the boss used Command on me when I was standing next to Spook’em, and I stabbed him for 5 HP. He freaked out and ran away, and--without realizing it would drop the concentration for his Darkness spell--cast Hold Person on me. Darkness dropped--and the enemy closest to the edge of it was within range of Spook’em. He rolled a Nat1 on his death save.

We managed through one convoluted and chaotic turn to save him, just before he had to make another.

After that, he fled the fight, and we never saw him again. He might be dead--he might not be. But until then, he’s Schrodinger’s Gobbo to me.

22. What color was your first dragon?

The first one I ever fought was blue, but it wasn’t my first dragon.

My first dragon was a gold dragon who was the queen of a country my character was loyal to. She was taking a human form for most of the time we played, and I don’t believe my character ever knew she was a dragon.

#dnd #lewnspeak #delocked

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john-laurens-the-turtle · 7 years ago

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Novel Draft...So Far

Introduction Dear reader, unfortunately we humans, have a tendency to forget. I know, we think we’re good at recalling the stories of those who lived before us. The cold hard truth is that we are not. Many honest heroes have become nothing but dust in the expanse of our memories. My job is to commemorate the fable of one specific unacknowledged martyr. A man, who truly understood the meaning of freedom in a time when the meaning was so easily misunderstood. An unlikely hero of an unlikely cause with an unlikely backstory. A truly under appreciated man who we have lost at the hands of the enemy. He once stood proudly as the son of a successful merchant and the trusted aide of our nation’s first leader. Now he has been confined to nothing more than pieces of paper in our forever neglectful collective knowledge. But from those little bits of knowledge over his very existence. We can tell various aspects of who he was. For example we can tell that he was a passionate abolitionist, and a former aide-de-camp to none other than, General George Washington himself. However perhaps the most important and crucial pice of information we still contain about him, something we consider essential to ones character. We have his name, John Laurens, born and raised on a plantation just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. A slave trader’s eldest son. I did not write this book merely to tell you what this man accomplished. I have written this book to paint the portrait of his life. John Laurens was far more than just a name on a letter. John Laurens was far more than just Henry Laurens’ eldest. John Laurens was an abolitionist, a patriot and above all else a hero. He somehow managed to befriend a man who had little liking towards others. He managed to take a stand for what he believed in against his father. But most importantly he gave his life for a cause he so strongly believed in. It was his duty to die for it and it is my duty to honor it. I am done with the useless hatred flung at his death. Historians minimize it to nothing more than a meaningless skirmish in the Carolina low country. What they are forgetting is why he was in the skirmish in the first place. Who he was leading. The army he led them in, and the state he died in. John Laurens did not die for nothing, John Laurens did not die to be forgotten. He died for the hope of the death of slavery and the birth of true freedom. It has become rather clear to me that since most refuse to I must be the one tasked with this meaningful responsibility. I will not allow anyone to forget his name. By the end of this book his name will be etched in your brain never to be forgotten again. John Laurens will become more than just a meaningless name. John Laurens will become your hero as he is mine. His name will no longer only be seen when accompanying another’s. This man has left me with more questions than answers. Why was he so obsessed with dying in battle? What got him into the abolishment of slavery in the first place? What drew him to Hamilton? Why did he attract Hamilton so fervently? Who was he? This man has managed to stir up aspiration deep inside of e that I never knew I had. Never have I felt more determined to write something than now. Never have I felt more disgraced, than now. How could I have let him slip under my nose? When did I become so clueless? I must fight for the honor of his legacy, as he did for the brith of our nation. The very fact that I live happy and free from the reign of a king is because of him and so many others like him. John Laurens’ story has made me so aware of how much I take for granted. John Laurens taught me the story of not just a soldier but of a man truly fighting for his ambitions. John Laurens was more than just a patriot. He was more than just an abolitionist. John Laurens is my hero. Chapter I Mepkin Plantation, South Carolina, 1764 A slight breeze tickled my skin as it swept across the land. It rustled the leaves in ancient oaks and blew the grass surrounding me in all sorts of directions. The overwhelming sound of cicadas flooded my mind. I giggled as a new sound joined the chorus of nature, t’was a bird . By the sound of the tune I could make out that it was a beautiful bluebird, with feathers as blue as the Ashlee River, that ran by our home. I had taught myself the different sounds of the birds on my free time, when I was not studying. I often loved to imagine what it would be like to be a bird to be able to fly away whenever trouble arose. To have such a beautiful voice that no one ignores. The birds at Mepkin, our plantation, were the most beautiful of all. They had gorgeous feathers and songs, oh how I loved them. Alas I loved all of it, the beauty of nature, the peace and simplicity of it all. I longed greatly for time to freeze and capture this moment of serenity. “Ah, Jack That’s where you wandered off to!” My attention was drawn away as my mother was overcome with laughter. She seemed a bit bewildered at the sight of me, laying in the grass. Although she didn’t seem too surprised by the sight. Of course I, John her eldest child, would be found laying here in the grass with no particular purpose other than to enjoy myself. “Sorry mama, tis just so gorgeous out today! Don't you think?” I carefully chose my words to explain the situation to my dear mother. In truth, I had run off from my studies and escaped to the outdoors. If I didn’t elaborate then I wouldn’t be lying. “Indeed…” She looked me up and down with a raised eyebrow. “But so are those books, Jack. Make haste indoors, my dear boy. Then after Mr.Brown leaves you may play out here.”   “Yes, mother.” I bowed my head with a smile as I stood up, to dash into the big wooden house that I called home. My tutor William Brown, was sitting in the library just where I’d left him patiently waiting with the books for me to continue. At this point, Mr.Brown was used to my little adventures. When I had run outside the fifth time he began to realize a bit of time outside helped me focus later on. “You know John, you’re getting too old for these escapes, pretty soon you will have to stay in here with me for the entire day. And not long after that you’ll find yourself in a fine college.” Mr.Brown had a habit of maintaining a neutral expression, so you could never truly tell whether he was or not. His lips remained a straight line and his dark brown eyes tore through me. This was my life, constantly being forced into a future I did not wish to pursue. My father Henry Laurens, was one of the most wealthy men in all the colonies. Although he owned many plantations the one we lived at was called Mepkin, just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. Mepkin was beautiful in the Spring when everything was blooming. Particularly now in April, the fresh magnolia blossoms brought with them an amazing scent that gave me a sense of hope. If it were up to me I would stay outside all day inhaling nature, exhaling stress. When my father realized I was inseparable from nature, he decided that he would gift me with a fine sketch book at my next birthday assuming I completed my studies. When life got dull and my studies bored me, I would imagine the many possibilities of things I would sketch. I would sketch nature. The various birds I heard daily, the trees that surrounding me, perhaps even some of the fish in the nearby Ashlee. But most importantly, I would sketch the magnolia trees. Their beautiful flowers would be the focus of my art, white petals like silk upon a fine gown. The scent filled the stuffy Carolina air like sweet perfume. Sweet Carolinian perfume that only the finest ladies of Charleston would wear. My mother says when my mind gets stuck on something it never lets go. Like when I would “accidentally” get molasses on my fingers and couldn’t wash it off. That was always the way my mind was when it came to nature. When I was outdoors I never could seem to leave. My mind could be one place but my body, another. Whenever it would be that I did leave Mepkin , I would always be able to take this part of it with me. The beauty on our plantations grounds brought reality to its brink. If only the world could stay this perfect. “I understand sir.” I nodded and sat down at the table, resisting the temptation to stare at the window. “Good. I believe we had just been going over ancient Greece. Specifically the tale of Achilles. Tell me, who was Achilles?” Mr.Brown raised an eyebrow, somewhat challenging me to real our previous studies. I could accept the challenge.   “Achilles was a Greek mythological hero, featured in Homer’s Iliad. He is described as the hero of the Trojan war and a man of good morals. He was part man, part god, a demigod. He had a friend…Patroclus-“ “And he matters not! What I mean, child, is that his story is unimportant to that of Achilles. You must understand that not everyone’s story matters. But yours, young Laurens, will matter. It must for your father’s sake. Am I clear?” “Yes teacher,” I nodded, I understood it al perfectly well. It was all clear as glass to me. The purpose is for me to form a legacy, a story that matters. For I surely cannot be forgotten. My father is one of the most wealthy men of the colonies. Not only that, but he is also a veteran of the French and Indian War. How am I to live up to the name he has left me to fulfill? Although I love my father much, he has made my ability to be who I wish unfathomable. Three long hours later, my mother stood at the door to the study. Young HenryJr., her arms at her hip. Henry had been born last year and what a that marvel to my parents t’was he. Now, not only did they have one son, but two. I had been the fourth child of my dear parents, but I was the first to live. Until the age of five when it was clear that I indeed would live on without constant concern, of course there was always smallpox, but that matters not, I was informed that I must live. I am the surviver and I must succeed at all aspects life. For I am my father’s son, I am John Laurens.

“Mother, must I have to stay home on the ‘morrow, can’t I join father when he goes into Charles Town?” “Dear boy, your father needs you to stay here to ensure that we stay safe and so that your father can give the proper attention to the building of our new home.

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