2LT Harper's latest mission had been a maelstrom of gunfire and chaos, yet in the midst of it, his actions had been pivotal in saving the lives of many, including his Platoon Sergeant. The PSG, a battle-hardened veteran, had approached Harper afterwards, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and concern. "You saved me out there, Lieutenant. We owe you one," he had said, his voice a blend of respect and something akin to paternal worry. Harper had responded not with words, nor with the semblance of a smile. He simply stared back, his eyes deep pools of unspoken torment. The blue mask, now an inseparable part of him, seemed to absorb the PSG's gratitude, leaving Harper untouched by the warmth of human connection. It was as if every act of heroism, every life saved, only plunged him deeper into an abyss where light, love, and joy could not reach. In his private moments, Harper would often find himself lost in thought, his mind replaying the horrors and triumphs of war in an endless loop. The laughter of his men, the crackle of gunfire, the cries of the wounded—all melded into a cacophony that haunted him. Even in the rare moments of stillness, the silence seemed to scream at him, a reminder of the peace he had sacrificed. The blue mask had promised him the power to change the course of battles, to be the shield between life and death for his men. And it had delivered, but at a cost so steep that Harper sometimes wondered if he had paid with his very soul. The mask's cold touch seemed to leech the warmth from his heart, leaving a void where his humanity once thrived. As the days melded into one long, unending night of the soul, Harper's sense of self-identity began to fray at the edges. The man who once found solace in a good joke, who felt a surge of pride at the sight of his nation's flag, now felt like a stranger in his own skin. The joy of companionship, the thrill of victory, the satisfaction of duty—all were now just words, devoid of meaning. In this landscape of inner desolation, Harper's thoughts increasingly turned to the blue mask.... See the remaining story / pics at my Artstation - https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Dvq8Ky

"Fear the Calm, Not the Storm," was the mantra that guided every action of Sophia as she navigated through the city's shadowed streets. The demons' strategy was insidious, seeping into the everyday quiet, numbing the minds of the unsuspecting. Sophia’s role in the resistance was a blend of subterfuge and digital prowess. Each night, she transformed into an unseen warrior in the realm of cyberspace. Her battleground was the vast network of social media and podcasts, where she meticulously crafted and disseminated messages that pierced through the veil of normalcy the demons had draped over the world. Her podcasts were a mix of investigative reporting and subtle hints at the truth, designed to awaken the critical thinking of her listeners. She intertwined facts with speculative fiction, creating a narrative that was both engaging and enlightening, a beacon for those seeking answers. Social media was her chessboard. Using her digital accounts, Sophia spread breadcrumbs of truth, countering the demons’ propaganda. Her posts were strategic, often masked as viral memes or compelling stories, ensuring they reached far and wide. She knew that in the digital age, information was power, and she wielded it with precision. In her car, the only place she felt safe from prying eyes, she would review her work. The red glow of the dashboard lights cast a dim hue as she scrolled through the reactions to her latest podcast episode. It was here, in this small sanctuary, that she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. With the world outside unaware of the looming threat, Sophia found solace in the fact that her messages were stirring minds, igniting discussions, and sowing the seeds of resistance. Closing her eyes, she let the faint hum of her car's engine and the soft glow envelop her. This was her moment to listen, to connect with the subtle undercurrent of awakening she was fostering. Each pause, each moment of stillness in her car, was a chance to recharge, to reflect on her next move. She was the storm brewing beneath the calm, a tempest of truth in a sea of silence, ready to break the lull that the demons had cast over the world.

"Fear the Calm, Not the Storm," was the mantra that guided every action of Sophia as she navigated through the city's shadowed streets. The demons' strategy was insidious, seeping into the everyday quiet, numbing the minds of the unsuspecting. Sophia’s role in the resistance was a blend of subterfuge and digital prowess.

Each night, she transformed into an unseen warrior in the realm of cyberspace. Her battleground was the vast network of social media and podcasts, where she meticulously crafted and disseminated messages that pierced through the veil of normalcy the demons had draped over the world. Her podcasts were a mix of investigative reporting and subtle hints at the truth, designed to awaken the critical thinking of her listeners. She intertwined facts with speculative fiction, creating a narrative that was both engaging and enlightening, a beacon for those seeking answers.

Social media was her chessboard. Using her digital accounts, Sophia spread breadcrumbs of truth, countering the demons’ propaganda. Her posts were strategic, often masked as viral memes or compelling stories, ensuring they reached far and wide. She knew that in the digital age, information was power, and she wielded it with precision.

In her car, the only place she felt safe from prying eyes, she would review her work. The red glow of the dashboard lights cast a dim hue as she scrolled through the reactions to her latest podcast episode. It was here, in this small sanctuary, that she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. With the world outside unaware of the looming threat, Sophia found solace in the fact that her messages were stirring minds, igniting discussions, and sowing the seeds of resistance.

Closing her eyes, she let the faint hum of her car's engine and the soft glow envelop her. This was her moment to listen, to connect with the subtle undercurrent of awakening she was fostering. Each pause, each moment of stillness in her car, was a chance to recharge, to reflect on her next move. She was the storm brewing beneath the calm, a tempest of truth in a sea of silence, ready to break the lull that the demons had cast over the world.

Ethan and the Scout Sentinels Ethan, a spirited youth, lived amidst the gentle bustle of Crestwood. He was an integral part of a remarkable troupe known as the Scout Sentinels, their name echoing the courage and vigilance they embodied. Every day was a quest for Ethan, fighting against playful nuisances that were as much a part of Crestwood as its white picket fences and manicured gardens. One such nuisance was the band of petite, childlike slimes that loved causing chaos. The small green creatures were more messy than malicious, their pranks often turning the neat gardens into wild jungles. Yet, even when tired from his endeavors, Ethan's victorious smile sparkled brighter than the midday sun. Just as unpredictable were the capricious skeletons, their mischief often directed towards the kind and patient Miss Agnes. While their pranks were endearing in their way, there were times when Ethan needed to intervene, ensuring that their antics didn't cross the line. On one such day, having managed to round up the skeletons and find Miss Agnes's hidden spectacles, Ethan was met with the old lady's gratitude. She extended her hand, offering him a few coins as a token of appreciation. He was tempted, his hand instinctively reaching out, but then he paused. His father's words resonated in his mind, an echo of lessons past, "A true Sentinel serves without expecting rewards. He must be brave, helpful, and kind." Guided by this wisdom, Ethan recited the motto of the Scout Sentinels with a polite decline of Miss Agnes's kind offer. At the end of another day of service and adventure, Ethan's spirit was undeterred. The tiredness that hung on him was overshadowed by the fulfillment he felt. His actions weren't for material rewards; it was the satisfaction of a good day's work, the smile on Miss Agnes's face, and the sense of harmony restored that were his true reward.

Sunset Serenade As the sun slowly dipped beneath the horizon, bathing the world in warm, ethereal hues, Aki, Emi, and Sora stood by the ocean, their faces lit up with joy. The twilight shimmered in their smiles, their laughter, their shared memories... . . . . .

Clockwork Outlaws Their eyes glowed ominously in the twilight. Shades of blue and orange flickered, casting an unnerving light. Neither heroes nor saviors; they were the outlaws, the misfits, the feared. . . . . .

I broke my leg 1.5 months ago. I've been spending time with family, healing, working on my website, generating art, and gearing up for virtual production. Regular posting returns this week. Thanks for your patience. イラスト

I broke my leg 1.5 months ago. I've been spending time with family, healing, working on my website, generating art, and gearing up for virtual production. Regular posting returns this week. Thanks for your patience.

Aisling's Path, the Beacon's Journey

In a world where the mystical subtly danced with the mundane, there lived a fiery young girl named Aisling. Her vibrant red hair was as untamed as a flame, and her blue eyes, as captivating as the endless ocean, sparkled with a resolute spirit. From her early years, Aisling exhibited a profound connection with nature's creatures - a silent communion that guided her and fed her vibrant spirit.

Her childhood was a tapestry of wild dreams and endless adventures. Aisling, with her fiery red hair dancing like an untamed flame and her bright blue eyes brimming with determination, embraced every day as a new expedition. She was a beacon of laughter and joy in her village, her fearless spirit infectious.

Aisling's transition into her tween years brought a subtle change. The wild fire of her spirit began to temper into a calm flame. Her red hair danced less wildly, and her bright blue eyes, though still glowing with spirit, hinted at a wisdom beyond her years. A sense of calmness graced her features, her smile softer, reflecting a deeper understanding of life.

The late teenage years brought Aisling face to face with the shadows that lurked beyond her village. However, she greeted the challenges with unwavering determination. Her hair, a vivid reminder of her fiery spirit, and her bright blue eyes now held a quiet resolve. Her smile was a symbol of perseverance, each curve telling tales of battles won and lessons learned.

As she blossomed into a young woman, Aisling had fully embraced her destined role. Her fiery red hair, now both tamed and untamed, and her bright blue eyes, carrying the wisdom of her trials and the hope of her people, stood as a symbol of resilience. She was no longer just Aisling; she was the beacon, ready to safeguard her village, her tempered spirit a light for all.

Aisling’s journey from an effervescent, wild child to a beacon of resilience and hope marked her growth and the unfolding of a prophecy foretold. As she stood at the threshold of her future, her bright blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. She was ready, the fiery spirit within her had been tempered, and she eagerly awaited the adventures that lay ahead. The world, with all its challenges and mysteries, awaited the arrival of Aisling, the beacon of light.

The Sealed Sacrifice

Dawn broke through the thick blanket of mist, casting a melancholy light on the colossal figures of Longshot and the Crimson Watcher. Silent and imposing, they served as eternal reminders of a past struggle, their stillness echoing the sacrifices made in a harrowing battle.

Within the heart of each Mech, the mortal remains of their pilots bore silent testament to their final acts of valor. Once the beating heart and the vigilant eye of these behemoths, they had given their all, trading their lives for the safety of their world.

The Longshot's pilot, renowned for his unerring accuracy and calm under fire, had fired the crucial shot that shifted the tide of the battle. However, the power needed for such a shot was immense. The energy backlash ripped through the cockpit, maiming him and irreparably damaging the systems. His life ebbed away within the cool metal confines of the Longshot, the silent giant cradling its fallen hero.

In contrast, the pilot of the Crimson Watcher, a master strategist with a spirit as bright as her Mech's single red eye, had made her sacrifice in a different way. She intentionally overloaded the Watcher's core, creating a massive shockwave that stopped the enemy advance. The resulting surge was catastrophic, her body caught in the violent maelstrom within the cockpit. She died instantly, her steely gaze forever etched in the eerie glow of the Watcher's red eye.

People moved around these silent memorials, their voices hushed in reverence. The sealed hatches were a testament to the pilots' ultimate sacrifice, their bodies entombed within the Mechs, their spirits forever part of the silent giants. As the mist swirled, whispers of their bravery flowed with it, their stories forever bound to the silent figures of Longshot and the Crimson Watcher - the tombstones of humanity's saviors.

The Transliminal Synergy Expedition - RuNV Codex

In the darkened shroud of the night, the Arc Voyager 'Beacon' punctured the shadows of Rutilance, its glowing amber light a solitary source of illumination. The ship was more than just a mere transport; it was a bulwark of hope and a haven for its diverse human crew. Aboard this beacon of fortitude sailed Orion, a stalwart warrior, Elara, an intelligent archaeologist, and Kael, a battle-hardened soldier, navigating the tempestuous ocean of darkness.

Their united quest revolved around a mythical artifact: the Golem's Core. A relic of immeasurable power, the core was believed to encapsulate the primitive essence of the universe. Its power, much like a double-edged sword, held the capacity to either propagate life or wreak havoc, contingent on its wielder. It was this formidable power that they were determined to shield from the claws of the feared demons.

"Can we rely on its efficacy, Orion?" Elara queried, her gaze affixed to the ship's digital console — a sophisticated device that charted their expedition, basing their trajectory on the coordinates she had deduced from age-old scriptures. Her gear, brimming with digital drives and scientific apparatus, was a silent testament to her role as the Beacon's chief navigator and in-house archaeologist.

"I trust your deductions implicitly, Elara," responded Orion, his hand deftly navigating the ship's control panel, steering the Beacon proficiently through the treacherous terrain.

Meanwhile, Kael observed his comrades, a spark of unyielding resolve flickering in his eyes. His battle-scarred gear silently bore witness to their ongoing resistance against the demons.

Their voyage was riddled with threats and uncertainties. The pursuit of the Golem's Core had drawn them into the wild frontiers of Rutilance, with every destination testing their grit and their hold on hope. Despite the hardships they encountered, their willpower stood unscathed. The Heart Shards of the Beacon, the very lifeblood of their ship, pulsed with an energy that echoed their combined resolve.

During a night of particularly perilous navigation, Elara lifted her gaze, her voice a mere murmur, "Orion, can we actually turn the tables on the demons with the core?"

"We must, Elara. Survival is not our sole aim; it's about exacting vengeance and amplifying our might to push back these demons.” ——- This is part of a world I’m building called Rutilance under Night’s Veil that I intend to make into a Video Game -

Here are Other Excerpts of the World

Liminal Thresholds - https://www.artstation.com/artwork/Ry5DJE

Summit Sentinals - https://www.artstation.com/artwork/qeO25y

The Still Point - Amidst the gentle sway of the sea, she found her still point. Illuminated by the sun, her gaze was a silent language of her tranquility and oneness with the deep.

Here’s a writeup of what I did for this Chestnut Haired Librarian. It goes over my methodology, my tools, and my organization. The subjects may vary, but this is my current process - https://www.notion.so/intertwyne-post-share/Brown-Eyed-Girl-edfc79308e324337a3921ca86ce8baa2

The Chronicles of Serendipity - Hidden in the library's labyrinth, the girl with the chestnut hair was always lost and always found. With glasses perched precariously on her nose, she was both a seeker and a keeper of stories.

Through Mist and Moors: A Clue to Ewan's Disappearance - In the heart of Glenbroch, where rugged hills brushed against the endless sky and ancient legends echoed with every rustle of the wind, a story of camaraderie and resolve unfolded. Ewan, their kindred spirit and an inseparable part of their band, had inexplicably vanished.

His lifelong friends - Hamish, Alistair, and Duncan - traded their jovial conversations and fond memories for a search fraught with tension and uncertainty. Their journey commenced on their tried and true steeds, as seasoned as their friendship and as unwavering as their mutual resolve.

Across three misty days, they navigated the vast green moors, trekked through the whispering woods, their usual hearty banter silenced by growing apprehension. From atop a ridge, their forms hazy in the predawn fog, they surveyed their homeland, their hearts burdened by their missing companion.

On the dawning of the third day, their weary eyes caught a sight in the distance. Through the dense mist, the ancient silhouette of the Standing Stones of Cairngorm emerged. The stones held a cherished place in their shared past; Ewan, intrigued by their mysterious aura, often led them to this place on their childhood escapades. Amidst the foggy distance, a faint glimmer sparked their attention - it seemed strikingly similar to a piece of Ewan's beloved tartan.

As dawn prepared to break, casting the world in a soft, ethereal glow, the trio stood on the ridge, their gaze locked on the distant glimmer amongst the stones. Their hearts filled with a potent mix of hope and concern, they held onto the sight, wondering if they had finally unearthed a clue in their quest for their missing friend.

Through Gilded Veils: A Search in Shadows

A continuation of Gilded Shadows - https://twitter.com/lionroot/status/1663673719607181315

Moirai traversed the spectral realm, her path obscured by the heavy mist of the twilight. Her heartbeat kept pace with the mournful hum resonating through the gilded shadows. The realm evoked a strange mix of apprehension and intrigue. Every path was a riddle, every turn, a mystery.

She found solace in the weight of the golden bracers on her arms, their familiar coldness a stark contrast to the eerie warmth of the surrounding haze. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the subtle rustle of fabric, and a figure materialized from the shadows. His attire was pitch black, accentuated by the ethereal gleam of white and gold buttons and buckles.

"Erebos," he said, his voice reverberating through the spectral fog with an echo of spectral serenity. The air around him shimmered as if each button and buckle emitted its unique pulse. His face, hidden behind the black cloth, gave nothing away.

"Lost are we?" he echoed, his words floating like spectral whispers. As he spoke, one of his buttons quivered, the vibration slowing until it matched the rhythm of her heartbeat. A sense of calming energy radiated from it. Moirai stood tall, her defiance cutting through the spectral silence. "Not lost," she affirmed. "Searching."

Erebos remained silent, the slight tilt of his head suggesting a contemplative state. "Aren't we all?" he finally answered, his words leaving a lingering resonance in the gilded shadows. In the ensuing silence, Moirai could feel the pulsing energy from Erebos' button calming down. The subtle ebb and flow hinted at Erebos' past — a child lost in the spectral realm, who had grown into a finder, guiding others and himself through the gloom. Moirai's heart resonated with an unexpected hope.

Could it be that her curse of eternal wandering would be broken? The answer lay hidden in the depths of the gilded shadows, and only time would reveal it.

"The Spectral Sisterhood"

In the heart of the Neverlands, a domain teetering between the tangible and the spectral, roamed three ethereal entities known as the Triptych of Fated Femininity. Eternally bound to the world of the living, they manifested as wraiths, each with a poignant story of their mortal plight.

First was Tenebris, once a fearsome pirate queen. Known far and wide, she commanded her ship through treacherous waters with a temerity unmatched. It was her insatiable greed, however, that eventually led her to a cold, watery grave. Bound by her past, she drifted as a wraith, the essence of her audacious life echoing in her ethereal form.

The next was Vivara, a sorceress of unmatched beauty and allure. Consumed by vanity, she fell prey to her own magic in a quest for eternal youth. Trapped in her spectral form, she roamed the Neverlands, her tragic tale echoing the spell she had spun and the beauty she had desperately sought to retain.

Finally, there was Ossium, a queen who stood fearless in the face of war. With her kingdom at stake, she fought with unyielding spirit but was tragically slain in battle. Her spectral form lingered, a symbol of the realm she fought so valiantly to protect and the sovereignty she tragically lost.

Together, these three wraiths roamed the Neverlands. Their mortal tales were etched into their very beings, their shared feminine strength tying them together. Bound to wander in eternal restlessness, they remained forever lost between life and death.