#AND THIS BRIDGE. SICKENING I MUST SAY
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#Idk if anyone else on the planet knows 4th curtis but i 🩷 them theyre music is crazy man. This and julius ceaser are prolly my fave songs#AND THIS BRIDGE. SICKENING I MUST SAY
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ethereal pt. II
A/N: Hey, guys! This part two of ethereal pt. I!!! So sorry for not posting as much, tests are running me over like a train rn. Enjoy!!! Send requests!!!!
(divider by @saradika-graphics)
Previously on ‘Ethereal’.....
“Can we please go now?” Rex asked, itching to get out of the garden. He glanced back at the house, staring at the candle’s flickering in the windows. He was holding Ahsoka close to his chest, worry evident on his face as she nodded eagerly.
“I suppose we should,” Obi-Wan agreed, brow furrowed. “But I am confused. How and why are the statues of us in this garden?” They all murmured their agreement, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation, but to no avail.
“Because,” a gentle, silky voice called from behind them and the five turned to see a young woman - around Anakin’s age - with stormy grey eyes, long wavy golden hair and tan skin, dressed in a strange white toga. “We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”
Now on ‘Ethereal’.....
Anakin had his lightsaber in his hand instantly, the blue glow scattering over his body like water. He grit his teeth and stretched his other arm out to protect the others. Ahsoka had her two lightsabers in his hands as she stood in front of Rex and Cody, all three of them covered in the green glow. Obi-Wan stood by Anakin’s side, hilt in hand but unactivated. Yet, he was covered in the glow of Anakin’s lightsaber.
“Pardon me, who are you?” Obi-Wan asked, stepping slightly ahead of Anakin, sending a wave of calm through their bond. The young woman smiled lightly, taking a step closer.
All three Jedi thought of Mortis. Although Ahsoka and Anakin couldn’t remember the times when they were under the influence of the Son, they all remembered the planet. This planet had a sickening familiarity to it.
“My name is Kamari,” she replied, and her name floated through the air like a hypnotising song. It was mesmerising, and so was the girl. She looked, frankly, like some kind of Goddess. Now, as Ahsoka looked closer, she could see that the girl’s eyes weren’t grey. In fact, they were silver. A whitish silver, like full moons were trapped in her eyes.
“Alright, Kamari,” Obi-Wan responded, his brow furrowing. “Where are we, what’s going on, and what do you mean by ‘we’ve been awaiting your arrival’?” Kamari smiled, as though he were an oblivious child who didn’t know anything.
“That,” Kamari began, her smile as eerie as the house. But it was also warm, just like the house. “Is something you must discover.”
Ahsoka opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted when a roar split through the air. It was loud, deep and fierce, and so was the creature. The creature burst through the forest and Cody cried out upon seeing it.
The creature was at least three metres tall, with a muscular body, four paws, a long tail with a bushy tip, and white fur with long gold stripes. It had six ears that were short and curved, and it had six eyes that were a magnificent glowing blue. The creature had three heads, each identical with two eyes, two ears, a muzzle with a pink nose and gold antlers.
It leaped to stand next to Kamari, the middle head bumping against her gently. The five soldiers gasped and shuffled closer to each other, Ahsoka shuffling forward. She’d had her fair share with animals and creatures as such.
“Mahnoor,” Kamari breathed out, reaching up to stroke the nose bridge of the creature. The huge animal let out a content purr, all six eyes closing. “Have no fear, my friends, this is Mahnoor. She is an Ophelia.”
“An Ophelia?” Ahsoka asked, taking a step forward, curiosity grasping her. She was reminded of the creatures of her home world.
“Yes, they are unfortunately on the verge of extinction, Mahnoor is one of the last of her kind,” the young woman murmured, a sad smile on her face as she scratched behind one of Mahnoor’s ears. She played with the tufts of white fur. “Just like us.”
“‘Us’?” Anakin called, glancing at his Padawan worriedly. He didn’t like how she was now in line with him, too close to the stranger. “As in my friends and I, or you and others?”
Kamari looked up to the sky, a wistful expression adorning her features. “All of us.” The words fell from her lips in a murmur, mystical and floating in the air.
The group exchanged glances before Rex spoke up. “Who lives in the house?” He asked, unnerved by what she had said. Everything about Kamari was freaking him out.
The smile previously lit on Kamari’s face faded and the usual warmth seeping from her turned sharply cold. “No one has lived there for many years,” she replied, gritting her teeth.
Ahsoka shivered at the sudden iciness of the previously calm woman, her eyes darting to Mahnoor instead. She flinched slightly when she noticed the Ophelia’s six bright blue eyes already on her. Studying her.
Instead of fear, curiosity sparked in her stomach. It flowed through her veins like blood and she crept forward, reaching her hand up.
Rex placed a hand on her shoulder and tried to pull her back, but she shrugged him off effortlessly. She took a step forward and gazed up at the Ophelia. Now, she couldn’t be more than a few centimetres from touching its neck.
To her surprise, Mahnoor bent down and brushed its centre head’s nose bridge against Ahsoka’s palm. She let out a sigh as she scratched the creature with a content smile, a sense of bliss settling over her.
A gasp interrupted her solace and she opened her eyes, taking in the shocked expressions of her friends. That’s when Ahsoka noticed it herself.
Safe green sparks flitted around her form, bathing her in a beautiful light green glow. They looked like tiny snowflakes or fireflies as they circled her. Instinctively, Ahsoka reached a hand up to touch one of the little wisps. It floated around her fingers, hundreds swirling around her hand.
“What?” Cody breathed out.
Anakin dashed forwards, swatting at the wisps with confusion. They darted from his grasp like he was poison, avoiding him and wrapping themselves around Ahsoka.
“What is this?” Anakin snarled, turning to Kamari. Ahsoka continued to pet Mahnoor, a content smile adorning her features. Kamari smiled sympathetically at Anakin, but the sympathy looked more like passive aggressive pity to the brunette.
“They are Ahsoka,” Kamari told him, giving Ahsoka a relaxed grin.
Rex murmured, “We never told you our names.” He said it so quietly no one else noticed.
Kamari reached over to Ahsoka and lightly touched her shoulder. Instantly, the same wisps - but golden instead of sage green - floated around her. The girl smiled as she moved hands to create what looked like a twig made of the wisps.
“Rex,” she spoke up and he flinched. She beckoned him over and he hesitated, but then glanced at Ahsoka and moved to Kamari. If Ahsoka was in danger, he needed to know.
Kamari placed her hand on his shoulder and blue wisps danced around Rex. He gazed in awe at them.
Kamari then did the same to Cody - who’s wisps were yellow - and Obi-Wan - who’s wisps were cyan. But as she moved to rest her hand on Anakin’s shoulder, he jerked away.
“What have you done to them?” He growled. A light, melodic laugh spilled from Kamari’s lips like cotton candy; featherlight and sweet.
“I am helping you,” she whispered. “I am explaining.”
Before Anakin could protect, she brushed his shoulder and his own beautiful red wisps danced around him.
Anakin tried desperately to brush them away, but they always returned. They never touched him, but were always close.
As the group were mesmerised with the wisps, the bushes to their left shuffled. Even caught up in wonder, they noticed the movement and turned.
That’s when a figure emerged from the bushes.
“Hello, brother,” Kamari called to him.
“Hello, sister.”
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please send requests!!!
(taglist: @skellymom, @transmascanakin, @techs-goggles9902)
#the clone wars#tcw#501st legion#captain rex#clones#anakin skywalker#clone troopers#star wars#clone wars#ahsoka#sw#sw tcw#ahsoka tano#obi wan#obi wan kenobi#212th battalion#212th legion#commander cody#ka’ra writes ❤️
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Steel - Chapter 2 (draft)
Previous chapter: 1
🔞🔞 Adult Content 🔞🔞
Made me, unmake me
Green eyes leveled at him, glinting like a freshly sharpened and polished blade. Pastel lashes lowered to shade jade eyes, casting a shadow that colored them darker, like rain soaked leaves after a summer storm.
“Brute strength might have made you,” he muttered, taking slow, lazy steps around the circumference of the invisible boundary of Sakura’s turf.
He came to a stop, five paces behind her left shoulder. Her right ankle twitched, the heel shifted back by a tenth of a tenth of an inch.
“If left unrestrained,” he continued, marking the ripple of tension that rolled from the top of her head to the soles of her feet, “I can unmake you with nothing of the sort.”
“Save your riddles, Kakashi-sensei,” she snapped. “You agreed to train me.”
“So I did,” he sighed. Her next breath whooshed out audibly from between her teeth. “What if I told you it was to humor you in your moment of elevated emotion?”
Using the right foot, she pivoted, appearing before him in the blink of an eye, her fist curled tight in the front of his shirt. The flexible fabric popped under the strain of her grip.
“I’d say that you owe me,” she murmured. Despite the cool quality to her tone, her fingers yet trembled, ever-so slightly. “For all the time wasted, and the days you ignored me before. It’s the least you can do.”
“I acknowledge my failures,” he replied. He swallowed thick, eyed the deepening furrow between his former student’s fair brows, the dancing of freckles along the wrinkled bridge of her nose.
“I’ve moved past wanting your acknowledgement.” Sakura released him with a shove that smarted, no doubt leaving a bruise. “I want you to create in me what you made of Naruto and Sasuke.”
He dodged her next blow, his blood pressure spiking in response to the reverberation of her fist smashing into the spot where his face could have been. The world whipped around in a whirlwind of color as she launched herself at him again and again, taking direct blows to her abdomen, her legs and face without as much as a flinch.
With a frustrated growl, Sakura heaved herself up from the ground, swaying into an offensive stance. He stood rooted in the spot he was in before, unruffled and unmarred save for the throbbing bruise at his sternum.
“If you have to break me apart to make me strong,” she panted, sweeping dirt from her cheek with the back of a torn glove. “So be it.”
“That’s not a healthy mentality,” he mumbled, scratching at his chest. He glanced down lazily at his feet, toeing a bit of rock with his sandal. “I suspect this is perhaps a twisted sort of coping mechanism, and I must say I do not recommend it.”
Kakashi attempted to keep his tone light, aiming for brevity and familiarity. Inside him something curled in his gut, sickening him with the image of a pale, youthful face splattered with strangers’ blood and tiny gobbets of flesh.
“You’re the last person to talk to me about coping mechanisms,” Sakura spit, commingled saliva and blood falling, splat, to the side. “You’ve killed or found dead most of your loved ones and spend your free time reading porn or talking to headstones. I couldn’t care less to know what you consider ‘healthy’.”
“Now, that isn’t very nice.” His jaw clenched before he inhaled deeply through his nose, becoming the picture of relaxation once again. “My sweet Sakura-chan would never have talked to sensei like that.”
She scoffed, rushing toward him with yet another full frontal assault. Even as he maintained his composure and twisted away and around her attacks, his muscles strained and heart raced with adrenaline.
Despite the assumed simplicity of her battle style, her technique was near-flawless. Sakura was fast, precise. Lethal. Each movement had a purpose and nothing was wasted from the flexing of her forearms to the touch of her toes to the ground. Kakashi knew that if she were to get her hands on him, he could very well be a dead man.
She fought with a ferocity born of trauma and marrow-deep determination. Her only failure was being fresh, lacking the experience that had festered inside of him for decades; her terrors had accumulated over only a handful of years.
His knowledge of her talent was now supplemented with the new awareness of her capacity for cruelty. It frightened him, even as the part of him buried deep inside who once sought out shinobi for qualities just like that was…intrigued.
Her voice tore from her throat, ripped through his musings and brought him back to the present just in time to duck below a kick that likely would have freed his head from his shoulders:
“You never had any qualms about ruining your students before. Why do I have to be different?”
Because you are different, he thought. He wanted to say, this isn’t you.
Kakashi had to stop completely in his tracks, locking his hands around her wrists in a hold that he knew she could break. He stared down, into her green eyes that were so bright they seemed to glow, at the thick locks of pink brushing past her shoulders.
He had seen that face so many times, watched it age and change slowly through the years. But everything, at this moment, looked so very unfamiliar. As if he hardly knew the girl–no, woman now– at all.
He wondered if he ever knew who Sakura was, if there was a Sakura to know— or if the young woman standing before him was an amalgamation of the people who had been there to form her. The compassion of her mother, wit of her master, quick temper from Naruto, hatred from Sasuke. That just barely cruel edge masked with pretty snark, everything Yamanaka Ino pruned her to be.
Kakashi wondered what, if anything, she might have inherited from him.
“If you want me to treat you like everyone else,” he said, shifting his feet ever-so-slightly, rolling his shoulders back, “so be it, then.”
Her next swipe of a chakra-laden hand cut through a billow of leaves. In the next moment, her legs were kicked out from under her, Kakshi’s knee pressed to her nape, a kunai glinting next to her cheek.
She growled in frustration, the tips of her ears stained red as she bucked and thrashed, dislodging him from his position on her back.
“There is no honor in the field,” he said, watching her face as her eye flitted between his feet and hands. “There are no standards of ethics, no codes of conduct.”
“I have been in the field before,” Sakura hissed, her limbs almost trembling with pent up energy. “I haven’t just been sitting around playing pretty nurse.”
“Assume what you know of shinobi to be a lie,” he continued, marking how she bristled at his lack of response to her quip. “We are not heroes. Not ninja like us. We don’t fight to protect the weak and the poor, nor do we fight enemies because it is the right thing to do.”
“Let Naruto and Sasuke be the heroes,” she spat. Mint-green chakra condensed around her fists, morphing into blade-like protrusions between her knuckles. “I just want to get the job done.”
“If I asked you to assassinate a man who is not even a shinobi,” he asked, lowering his voice so he knew she would have to strain to hear it, “would you do it?”
A beat passed, a minute shift in her features come and gone within the span of a blink.
“Yes.”
“Hesitation,” he sighed. “You don't have the heart for it, Sakura-chan.”
“You don’t know me,” she barked, her hand snatching him by the collar for one brief second before his form slipped away with a poof, leaving a log in its place.
“I do.”
“Everyone thinks they know who I am, what I’m capable of,” Sakura panted, swiping moisture from her brow and whirling to face him with a kunai glinting in her hand. “They make assumptions based on my background, on how I look, on who trained me–”
Their blades clanged, the force reverberating through the bones of his arm.
“–on who didn’t,” she whispered, baring her teeth and narrowing her eyes.
Kakashi allowed a tendril of electricity to zip between his fingers and crackle down the edge of his blade, watched as his former student flinched violently for a fraction of a second before she schooled her expression and steeled her grip.
“I don’t need to assume,” he said cooly, tightening his grip on his blade and his own emotions. He allowed his voice to deepen, his gaze to harden as he stared down into her pale, pinched face. “I know exactly who and what you are.”
“Yeah?” she grunted, bared her teeth. The tendons and his wrists began to ache, muscles bunching with strain as she slowly increased the force of her hand. “What am I, then?”
She had been angry since she arrived on the training grounds. But even as she cursed and spit nastiness at him, he knew that she was still restrained. By respect and her own inherent composure.
He also knew just how to strip that all away.
“Just a civilian girl,” Kakashi whispered, “playing shinobi games.”
When he had pushed Sasuke to his limits, the immediate response was pure, unadulterated rage. Anger that had festered into a pestilence, that carried with it the stench of rotting trees and old blood. He could see in his mind’s eye that way the young boy’s features had twisted like gnarled roots, how his eyes had bled the deepest red.
As always, Sakura was different. In the split second after his words filled the air around them, an agonized expression stole across her face, slackened her jaw and pulled her eyes wide until the green pupils seemed like pinpricks in the whites of them. Her breath stalled in her throat, lips trembling and jaw clenching tight.
Within the blink of his eyes he was slammed backward, pain radiating like a vibration to his spine as a crater formed to his shape around him. He twisted his fingers through hand signs furiously, throwing a barrage at ninjutsu in her direction. It bought him a few seconds, just barely long enough to pull himself to his feet unsteadily, lock his knees as she threw herself at him again in a flurry of feet and fists.
“Tsunade’s tricks, as usual,” he grunted, ducking low to avoid a blow he was sure was intended to actually free his head from his shoulders this time. “I suppose you’re a creature of habit.”
The sound that spilled from Sakura’s mouth could only be described as a garbled roar of fury. She kicked up a chunk of earth and launched it in his direction, following up with a veritable storm of kunai that it took more effort to avoid than he cared to admit.
Kakashi was equal parts proud and terrified at her performance.
“What about you,” Sakura shouted, her voice raw and broken. He fought to hear her still, over his thundering pulse.
“Me?” he questioned mildly. He sent a crackle of lightning toward her that ate away at the waist of her clothes, leaving bubbling, burned skin behind.
It was healed, fresh skin covering the area within moments.
She drew closer than anyone who truly knew him dared, and he managed to snag both of her wrists and lock her against him with a kunai pressed to her sternum.
“Friend-killer Kakashi,” she breathed, her breath hot on his face. Sweat tricked in rivulets from her temples, blood crusted at the corner of her mouth.
Deep inside of him, something ached. But he simply arched his brow, poising himself for the moment Sakura would break his hold, hoping he could avoid losing a limb or more when it happened.
Instead, she only stared. Until both of their breaths began to slow and silence settled like a weight on his back.
“You see her in me, don’t you?” Sakura asked, her voice quiet but piercing in the unnatural quiet around them.
“Are you ready to end our training session already?” he quipped. “I have quite a large pile of paperwork waiting on my desk.”
“The little civilian girl,” she continued, voice taking on that soft, child-like quality it had that blood soaked night that changed their lives. “One you could not save from a shinobi’s fate. I’m sure it keeps you awake at night.”
“Be careful, Sakura-chan,” he replied in a low voice. “Remember that you asked me for help.”
“Of course I did,” she grinned, and it looked sickly, false. There was no light to be found in her wide, wide eyes. “Because how could you deny me? Poor little Sakura-chan. So much like the friend you lost.”
“Training is over,” he stated. He loosened his grip on her wrists and inhaled deeply before stepping back. “Next time we work on your focus and control of your emotions.”
“Was Rin a deadweight, too?” Just as he turned his back and took the first step away, that name slipping past her lips made him falter.
“Sakura,” he whispered. “Enough.”
“I’ve thought about it many times,” she sighed, and he heard the shift of her feet over pebbles and upset soil. “Eventually I came to the conclusion that you neglected my development to somehow make up for the ways you failed to protect your teammate. If I never got into a fight, I couldn’t die in one, ne?”
Kakashi began taking tremulous steps forward, determined to leave the training grounds and this twisted turn of conversation behind. He would deal with his so-obviously cracking former student later. He had his own splintering glass to patch over, for now.
“I’m sure you thought you were protecting me,” Sakura raised her voice, her words falling upon his unwilling ears even as he sauntered away. “But did you ever think that instead of keeping me safe, you could have got me killed?”
Guilt burrowed so deep in his bones he struggled to breathe around it. He closed his eyes, unwilling to look into the memories and truth.
“You almost killed me, Kakashi-sensei,” she cried, something like mirth but far darker clouding her voice.
“I didn’t mean to,” he breathed.
“Kakashi,” a whisper, carried through the wind. His blood froze in his veins. “You killed me.”
Every single one of his muscles locked into place, his heart stalling for a long handful of seconds before resuming at a thunderous, violent pace. His hands shook, knees becoming weak as he toiled to pry his stiffened lips open–
“Kai.”
“You killed me, Kakashi,” the voice whispered again, tremulous. “Why?”
Kakashi’s body jerked, and he clenched his fists, allowing his blunt nails to bite sharply into his palm and uttered the phrase again.
Yet the air did not change, nor his visage of the ruined training ground. His breaths became shallow and a lump lodged in his throat as quiet, tiny footsteps sounded behind him, drawing closer.
“Why did you kill me, Kashi?” she asked. “Aren’t we friends?”
“Stop.”
He flared his chakra, snatched it inward. Fire danced over his knuckles, scalding him and yet–
Wake UP!
“Kashi,” she whispered, voice thick with pain and sadness. “How could you do this?”
As in all of his nightmares, he was helpless and unable to prevent his stiff neck from turning, to avoid the sight of a small girl soaked to the bone in blood, a gaping darkness where her chest should be.
“I’m sorry, Kashi,” Rin whispered. Black marks like diseased veins snaked from the edges of the maw of her wound, up her throat, webbing across her cheeks.
“No,” he rasped.
The scent of blood, pungence of burnt flesh filled his nose and mouth with every gasping breath. He stumbled backwards, clutching at the area above his own wildly beating heart.
The fabric of his shirt stuck to his fingers, and he snatched the hand away, staring blankly at the streaks of red spread thickly from fingertip to forearm, bits of sharded bone and fibrous clumps of flesh clinging to the fine hairs.
He gagged, nearly losing his footing again.
“Why would you do that, Kakashi-sensei?” The sound of Sakura’s voice caused his head to whip upward, but he was once again met with Rin’s small, ruined face.
“Stop this,” he begged.
“Kaka-sensei,” Sakura whispered.
Suddenly it was her, wide green eyes glossed with tears, pink hair stained with blood and small, pale hands prodding tenderly around the bleeding hole in her chest.
“Why, Kakashi?” she sniffled.
“Why?” Rin echoed, her face flickering over Sakura’s. “Why?”
“Why,” they both whispered, such different voices somehow entangling and becoming one, “did you kill me?”
Kakashi crumbled to his knees, clutching at his ears and shaking his head, unable to free himself from the lilting cacophony of the two voices, questioning and taunting him. They refused to be quieted or drowned out, even when he began to scream. It was as if they had multiplied into a chorus, hundreds of his failures joining to ask him why, why, why-
WHY?
WHY?
“Kakashi-sensei.”
He came to awareness with a violent gasp, back arching upward and sending a bruising ache rattling down his spine.
Sakura gazed down at him, the sunlight forming a halo around her head, lightening her pink strands until her hair resembled more a rose-gold. Sharp rock pressed into the backs of his legs and neck, and an incessant pressure against his chest urged him to look downward.
“Get off,” he croaked.
She moved her foot away from his chest without a word, taking a step away from the crater within which his body was stuffed. He pulled himself up to stand on shaking legs and swallowed his panting breaths.
“A new trick,” she eventually murmured, after minutes of standing by as he struggled to grasp reality. “You told me once that I had an affinity for genjutsu. So.”
Kakashi barked a laugh that burned in his throat.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “That you do.”
Finally, he met her eyes. Her expression was blank, her eyes downcast. Not even a tell-tale twitch of her brow or crinkle of her nose cued him into what she could possibly be thinking.
“Well,” he exhaled, straightening and shoving a hand into the pocket of his pants. His fingers stroked against the edge of his kunai. “You’ve proven your point. See you tomorrow, same time. Have a good day, Sakura-chan.”
As he walked away, in the direction of the Hokage tower, he could feel her stare on his back. The feeling persisted for hours after.
Give up the ghosts
Sakura peered down at the sleeping Mitokado Homura, still and silent as the dead. It was easy to do so, considering she felt as if her own heartbeat was but a mere illusion. Her focus remained on the rise and fall of a frail chest, the webs of blue-green veins barely visible under paper-thin skin illuminated by moonlight.
A shinobi who had served under the second Hokage, one who had lived at least three shinobi lifetimes, laid so peacefully— face marred with wrinkles of age rather than the horrors of death and murder and generational strife. Sakura did not think it possible for any shinobi to indulge in such a peaceful slumber.
A pale hand, littered with tiny scars and roughened with callouses reached out, fingers fluttering over the pulse thrumming gently in his neck. To his credit, his cloudy eyes snapped open immediately upon the faint contact, but it was already too late.
Fingers crushed around his windpipe, effectively bludgeoning his vocal chords and choking off the exclamation she knew would fall from his lips.
“Shhh, Mitokado-san,” she whispered, hands glowing faintly as she smoothed over the damage she had done to his trachea and esophagus.
A terrible, wheezing croak slipped from his lips as Sakura moved her hand back, leaving behind a dark, gritty stain.
Then a kunai swung toward her face, but—the poor wretch—it was far too slow. She snapped the wrist holding the blade like a rice cracker and went about hauling the man from his bed and tossing him none-too-gently into the plush armchair at the center of his room.
Planting her hands on thin thighs, she knelt in front of him, fingers dipping deep into the muscles, the tips of them coating with warm, sticky blood.
Homura’s breaths were coming out in frantic pants, his eyes shooting around the room as he squealed and whined helplessly, words shaping intelligibly on his thin, wrinkled lips. For a long moment, Sakura only stared, feeling oddly light and ungrounded as she watched the practically ancient man struggle desperately, numb to the weak blows rained upon her shoulders and head.
“You don’t look like a man who could eliminate an entire community of people,” she whispered eventually. The man froze at the sound of her voice, gaze widening in horror as she withdrew her nails from the flesh of his legs and reached for his face with blood-caked hands.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to your friend, Utatane-san,” Sakura continued, smearing blood in lazy patterns over his quivering face. “I made it quick, too quick for her. Because I was mad. Shishou would be ashamed that I let my anger control my actions that way.”
“Y-you,” the murderer rasped, voice sounding ripped and warbling. He began choking, unable to say more as red bubbled from his lips.
“I want to talk to you,” Sakura nodded slowly, voice soft. “I want to talk about why you soaked your hands in the blood of innocents, why you ruined Sasuke-kun’s life.”
“Uchiha...not...innocent,” he wheezed and Sakura tilted her head.
“Are you? Innocent?” she inquired. There was no answer as the pressure of her hands increased and with a sickening crack, Mitokado Homura’s jaw crumbled against her palms.
The sound of his attempted cry of pain was barely audible above the roaring in her ears. One hand fell from his face and the familiar glow of her chakra illuminated his slackened, terrified face for a moment before it condensed into a scalpel that she cut into his side.
“I did this before,” she murmured, pushing her hand into the neat incision, reaching between ribs to wrap her fingers gently around the hot, pulsing organ in his chest, “in the war, to save Naruto’s life. I’m sure you hate the fact that I did that. Like how you hate that we brought Sasuke back, that you weren’t able to execute him. Pity.”
Her grip tightened around the frantically thumping heart in her hand; instead of steady compressions to a still, quiet organ, she mapped the arteries and cavities with her fingers and chakra and after a breath sent a thrum into a particular spot. The chunk of flesh in her grip seized, hardening, misshaping itself before twitching erratically. As the organ struggled to find its rhythm, Sakura noted the convulsing of its cage, glancing up to see the way the old man’s eyes rolled white into the back of his head.
She withdrew her chakra for a split second before it flowed out again from her fingertips, gently guiding the flow of blood to the lungs and brain, calming the erratic twitching of the fickle organ once more.
“Sasuke-kun told me he’s haunted by the ghosts,” she informed, watching as tears flowed thick down her enemy’s face, pooling in the divots and valleys of his worn flesh. “Are you? Do they visit you in your dreams, too?”
She disturbed the flow of her chakra again, clutching the malfunctioning organ as Homura once again thrashed, legs kicking uselessly at her belly, spittle foaming white at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you want to see them, Homura?” Sakura pushed her face close to his as she once again stabilized his heart. “Don’t you want to talk to them about your innocence?”
An otherworldly feeling rose up like a wave in her chest as the frantic, glazed eyes above her suddenly sharpened and began darting about the darkened corners of the room. Faces that were mostly unfamiliar to her, but so very recognizable to him bled out from the shadows, drawing closer, closer still.
The furnishings of the lavish room fell away, filled to the brim with pale faces framed with pitch-dark hair, glinting crimson eyes floating toward them.
“P-plea-,” Homura choked, a weak hand rising to clutch at his face, bony finger tips catching in the fragile lids framing his wide eyes. “St-st…”
His gaze grew more horrified by the moment as the room filled with the faces of young men, old women, small children, infants cradled in the arms of black-haired ladies with bleeding irises.
“Look at them,” she breathed, fingers undulating about the slick surface of the heart thundering in her grasp. “Look.”
What would have been a high pitched scream ripped from his throat in the form of a wheezing squeak as the blood-red eyes of his demons fell from their heads, leaving behind gaping darkness in their skulls as they continued to move forward, ever advancing.
“Shh, Homura,” Sakura cooed, reaching up to force his gaze back down to hers. “They can’t hurt you. They’re just ghosts. I am your reckoning.”
Cracked lips gaped in a silent shriek as her once green irises bled red.
“M-m-monster,” he gurgled.
“I know you are,” Sakura replied, sinking back onto the heels of her feet and holding his gaze, “but what am I?”
Then she was ripping her hand from the cavity of his chest, blood, bone shard and viscera splashing hot over her cheeks as cloudy brown eyes widened before the light in them faded and his entire body went slack, sinking lifeless into the back of the armchair.
The taste of iron bit at the tip of her tongue as her lips spread into a crooked smile.
Forgive me not
Sasuke pretended that his gaze was focused on the tepid cup of tea cradled in his palm when the door creaked open and closed. As if moments before he had not been watching, waiting for it to swing open, for the sound of shuffling footsteps and rustling fabric to reach his ears in the ambience of the night-time hours.
“Okaeri,” he greeted quietly, voice raspier still than he would have liked. More internal wounds to heal from, he supposed.
“Tadaima.”
It was more of a sigh than a response. And so he allowed himself to look toward the doorway, to watch as Sakura trudged further into her tiny living room. She flicked on a lamp, casting the space in a weak, yellow glow.
“We don’t all have night vision like a cat, Sasuke-kun,” she muttered. Nearly each word was chased by an exhalation, a release of breath that made him wonder if words weighed like burdens on her tongue, too.
“You look tired,” he stated. His eyes tingled and the room became clearer, if less colorful as he engaged his dojutsu. “Chakra reserves are low.”
“Yeah, well,” she replied stiffly, footsteps pausing for a beat before she shuffled forward slowly. “I have a job. No special house-arrest vacation for me.”
“Hn.”
Sasuke let the snide comment wash over him, inhaling deeply through his nose and out of his mouth. Had Naruto said it, they might have come to blows. But this was Sakura–she had more than earned the right to tug on his nerves now and again.
“There’s dinner in the refrigerator,” he said softly as she finally swept past him, the scent of antiseptic thick, hints of jasmine seeping through.
“I’m not hungry,” she replied without turning.
“You must be.”
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug and she did not respond, swaying her way around various obstacles on the path to her bedroom. A low table, a small stack of heavy tomes. The tall, flowering plant that Sasuke watered and clipped every other day to give himself something to do other than sitting and stewing in his own thoughts. It had a strong fragrance, almost cloying, and it made his nose burn and head ache if he spent too much time in proximity to it. But Sakura would smile a little when the flowers looked vibrant.
When he stepped behind her, she froze, formerly slumped posture overcorrecting as her spine became rigid and her neck stiff.
“I’m not hungry,” she sighed. Sasuke only stared as she rotated slowly, bracing one of her hands on the doorframe leading into her room.
“You’ll sleep better on a full stomach,” he stated.
“I’m too tired to eat,” she countered. Indeed, her lips parted and jaw elongated on a wide yawn.
“It’s not poisoned.”
Sakura rolled her bloodshot eyes, “I know you wouldn’t poison me, Sasuke-kun.”
“I waited to eat with you.”
When her eyes finally met his head on, he knew he had won.
“Come on,” she grumbled.
Her shoulder brushed his chest, just barely, as she stepped around him. Sasuke traced the slope of her shoulders with his gaze, tracking the rhythm of her slow gait as she shuffled to the kitchen.
Sakura wrenched the fridge open and collected the collection of tupperware, scraping their contents into plates and bowls and shoving them into the microwave in silence. Sasuke stood quietly on the other side of the counter and watched.
“Are you,” she bit her lip, sliding his food toward him, “waiting for me to attack you, or something?”
“What?” he blinked, absently reaching for the chopsticks she had slid across the counter as well.
“You’ve been staring at me with the sharingan since I walked in,” she waved one hand in his general direction. Her chin stayed low, eyes fixed on the food in front of her.
“It scares you?” he asked, blinking again and letting his dojutsu disengage. “Sorry.”
“That’s not what I said,” she mumbled around a mouthful of food, chewing somewhat aggressively. “Just…I don’t understand why you’d use it when you’re at– here, with me.”
Sasuke took his own bite, studying her face as he considered.
“Sometimes I want to see more than I can with regular eyes,” he finally said.
“Hm. Okay,” she muttered. She continued to shovel food into her mouth.
“Are you sure it doesn’t scare you?” Sasuke asked, suddenly unable to take another bite. He set his chopsticks down and opted to swirl his spoon around the steaming bowl to his right.
“Should it?” she asked quietly. Her eyes flitted up to his briefly before focusing lower, perhaps on his chin.
“No.”
She stared downward, motionless. His fingers tightened around the spoon.
“Then, no. It doesn’t.”
Sasuke stirred his broth some more. Sakura resumed eating and silence blanketed the kitchen again.
“You don’t look me in the eyes when it’s engaged.”
“That’s shinobi 101,” she said briskly, sipping a spoonful of her own broth. “Never look directly in the eyes of someone who has the sharingan. I would do the same with anyone.”
“I’m the only one left,” he whispered.
She stilled, before lowering her spoon with a quiet clack to the counter. Her mouth opened as if she were going to speak, then closed again.
“You never looked away from it before,” he stated. His fingers tightened around the spoon once more, the metal warming in his grip.
Sakura glanced up to his eyes again, her full lips turning down a fraction. Then she shook her head, and let loose a quiet laugh.
“The last time I looked into your sharingan,” she said, lips twisted in a rueful smile, “you wrapped me up in a pretty nasty genjutsu, Sasuke-kun.”
An ache settled in his chest and shame washed over his head like an angry tide. He dropped the spoon and dropped her gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I forgave you long ago, Sasuke-kun.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “But your instinct tells you that I’m a threat. I have made you uncomfortable in your own home.”
“Sasuke-kun. That’s not true.”
“You hardly eat,” he replied, voice low. “I hear you awake in your room at night. You spend more hours at the hospital than you are scheduled for to stay away as long as possible.”
“Sasuke-kun…”
He lifted his head, watched as she flinched at the sight of his red iris. A sick feeling swirled in his gut as he let the crimson bleed away.
“It was better for you when I was tied up and blindfolded in the prison. You probably felt safer.”
“Sasuke-kun, please,” she choked. Her palm smacked into the surface of the counter. “Don’t say things like that. Don’t be cruel.”
“I mean it,” he said quietly. “It makes sense that things would be easier when you actually felt safe with me.”
“I’m going to bed,” she said thickly, whirling away from the counter and taking heavy steps toward the exit of the kitchen.
“You never ran from me before, either,” he murmured. Sakura froze midstep.
“I can’t do this tonight, Sasuke-kun,” she breathed, voice barely audible with how she faced away from him. The desperation rang clear yet.
“I won’t stay here if you’re afraid of me,” Sasuke replied tightly. “I want you to feel safe.”
Sakura remained silent. He stood, the sound of his chair scraping the ground causing her to flinch.
He decided against approaching.
“Sakura,” he whispered.
“I can forgive you for anything, Sasuke-kun,” she said quietly, her voice tremulous and so very tired. “Anything. But I can’t forget so easily. I can’t help that my mind clings to certain images and that my body reacts. Call it fear if you want.”
Her head turned slightly, pink tresses shielding the majority of her face.
“Maybe it scares me to sleep under the same roof as the boy who put his hand through my chest in a dream,” she rasped. “But it scares me more to sleep under this roof alone, without knowing you’re somewhere close by. So let me have my fear–let me have you in the only way I can, until I get over one or the other.”
Shame, his oldest friend, clung heavy on his shoulders. It pressed upon his back and caused an ache in his chest, dragging especially on his left-hand side.
“If there was something I could do to take it back,” he rasped, “I would. Doing that to you is the worst crime I have committed.”
“Maybe not the worst,” she muttered. A heavy sigh brought her shoulders up, then down into a slump. “What’s happened, happened. I forgive you, Sasuke. You have to let it go as much as I do.”
Sasuke took a step forward despite himself, despite the way she stiffened.
“Sakura,” he whispered, drawing closer and daring to touch her arm with the tips of his fingers.
“Sasuke-kun, you can’t take it back,” she whirled and looked at him, chin tilted to stare straight into his eyes. “We both have to live with it. We can't unsee it or undo it; we just have to live with it.”
His lips turned down into a frown, an ache settling between his ribs.
“I’ll stay with Naruto,” he murmured. “I will leave– tonight.”
Yet his feet remained rooted to the spot, his body looming mere inches from hers. Staring, breathing.
“You won’t,” she whispered. “Not unless I tell you to go.”
“Tell me then,” he replied thickly. “Tell me to go.”
“No,” she breathed. She began shaking her head slowly, blinking as if meeting his eyes was the same as staring straight into the midday sun.
“Don’t let me hurt you more than I already have,” he begged. His hand lifted, drew close, cupped her face just as it turned away.
She slipped free from his gaze and grasp.
“Good night, Sasuke-kun.”
#steel#sasusakufanfiction#sasusaku#sasusakuangst#morally grey sakura#anbu sakura#alternate universe#silentfics#dark content#silent writes#canon divergence#silentvoicescryingout#this shit is gonna be intense#expirimental writing#slow updates#draft#steel chapter 2
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Spiny Ape
Image © Traci Shepard, accessed at Arcane Beasts and Creatures here
[Cryptozoologists have a field day with Africa, sometimes demythologizing magical creatures, sometimes unearthing old reports of the colonial era, sometimes drawing from new rumors and sightings. And sometimes they just make stuff up. Supposedly, a troop of chimpanzees with spines on their back was filmed attacking a monkey in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, but the video was taken during a covert op by Navy SEALS, so is currently classified. If you believe that, there’s a bridge I have to sell you. Like the bagodaemon or Ozark howler, this appears to be a monster created as a hoax by a single individual. Still, the idea of a quilled ape is a fun one, and I wanted to have a critter that actually works like a folkloric porcupine.]
Spiny Ape
CR 3 N Magical Beast
This creature looks like a chimpanzee, with long arms, short legs and a heavy brow. The main difference is the coat of quills that covers its back.
Spiny apes are relatives of chimpanzees, with sharp quills growing from their backs that they can fire like arrows. The improbability of this attack form has led some sages to suggest that spiny apes were created by some mad mage or disgruntled druid. Another hypothesis is that the creatures were created by the fey in the First World as an experiment that was discarded because chimpanzees are dangerous enough without missile weapons.
A spiny ape troop typically hunts by ambush, attacking from the trees and firing down on passing prey. If a foe is capable of fighting back, say with ranged weapons of their own or magic, a few members of the troop will descend to the ground and engage them in melee to distract them. Spiny apes are reasonably skilled at teamwork before the first kill is made, but then begin to compete to get their share of meat.
Spiny ape society is organized like that of common chimpanzees—males are violently aggressive towards strangers and towards females, and females typically mate with multiple males in order to confound paternity and reduce the chances of infanticide. They are omnivorous, but eat mostly meat, supplemented with fruit. They happily attack and eat other apes, and populations of gorillas and chimpanzees are low where spiny apes live.
Spiny Ape CR 3
XP 800
N Medium magical beast
Init +4; Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +6
Defense
AC 16, touch 14, flat-footed 12 (+4 Dex, +2 natural)
hp 30 (4d10+8)
Fort +6, Ref +8, Will +3
Defensive Abilities quill defense
Offense
Speed 30 ft., climb 30 ft.
Melee bite +6 (1d4+2), 2 slams +6 (1d4+2)
Ranged 2 quills +8 (1d4+2 plus pain)
Statistics
Str 15, Dex 19, Con 14, Int 2, Wis 14, Cha 7
Base Atk +4; CMB +6; CMD 20
Feats Point Blank Shot, Precise Shot
Skills Acrobatics +8, Climb +14, Perception +6, Stealth +8
Ecology
Environment warm forests
Organization solitary, pair or troop (3-12)
Treasure none
Special Abilities
Pain (Ex) Whenever a creature takes damage from a spiny ape’s quill attack or its quill defense, that creature must make a successful DC 14 Reflex save or one quill breaks off in its flesh, causing the target to become sickened until all embedded quills are removed. Removing one quill requires a DC 15 Heal check made as a full-round action. For every 5 by which the check is exceeded, one additional quill can be removed. On a failed check, a quill is still removed, but the process deals 1d4+1 points of damage to the victim. The save DC is Strength-based.
Quills (Ex) A spiny ape can fire two quills from its back as a standard action. Treat this as a ranged attack with a thrown weapon, with a range increment of 20 feet. A spiny ape has ten quills ready for use each day.
Quill Defense (Ex) A creature that strikes a spiny ape in melee must succeed a DC 16 Reflex save or take 1d4+1 damage from its quills and be exposed to the spiny ape’s pain attack. Weapons with the reach property do not endanger their wielders in this way. A spiny ape that has used all ten of its quill attacks for the day still can use this ability, but the creature gains a +4 circumstance bonus on its saving throw. The save DC is Dexterity based.
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❛ cards ? show ? wha' — ? ❜ agitation couldn't even fully cover the scope o' what he's feelin' right now.
there's confusion, he reckons, and a bit o' fury there, 'ven though he doesn't want t' feel that, he doesn't. 'cause he knows what that looks like, and it ain't pretty, rage, even if many men said that tha's exactly what won the war against the dragons once. that robert baratheon was the most o' his house he could've become: he was strong, and mighty, and righteous. and when he brought down that war hammer t' the plate o' rhaegar targaryen's armour, the last livin' dragon that could've opposed him on the battlefield, there was fury in it strong enough, it quelled the power o' the dragon dynasty right there.
rhaegar targaryen died, and in his death, a new kingdom was borne.
this is no place o' fairytale such as that. fury may works as tool t' bridge the bonds of fightin' men with stories like that, but people often forget that outside of it, all tha' rage, all tha' temper ... it just ruins. gendry doesn't want t' ruin this, 'ven if he barely has an idea, he hasn't, of what this is. people are callin' him m'lord and suddenly treatin' him with more respect than he deserves, but it's ridiculous, is what it is. they just wanted a tool, they did; another baratheon they're hopin' to fashion, to end, the dragon dynasty once more. it's sickening.
❛ wha' are y' talkin' about ? ❜ the frantic in his voice is true, as gendry comes forward, surges t' touch myrcella's shoulders in his panic. any other time, he would've minded his manners — this was a princess — though he's far too hasty t' consider properly. ❛ i've got no cards here, m'lady. i'm uneducated. i'm baseborn. surely they can't just name me legitimate like that, could they ? ❜ @forgaeven
he is sincere, she can feel it, can see it in the frantic tone of his voice, all words, hurling against one another as if there was never enough time, like watching a carriage wreck itself against another, unable to look away, the disaster hypnotizing. no matter, myrcella has no claim to any of it, born a woman, born of disputed parentage, there is no hope for anything, only her beauty some kind of lighthouse in the storm, she only hopes to find shelter far away, PEACE really. but gendry is powerful, no matter how much he denies it, running after his anonymity as if he could escape the wheel he was sure to be crushed under.
her steps are certain as she steps closer to him, green eyes looking around, trying to spot spies, ears on the wall. ❛ you're my brother, gendry, no matter what anyone say, your father was mine and my love was pledged to you the day we were born. ❜ she is made of love, wrecked by it, some call her beauty but those who knows her tragedy call her the goddess of broken hearts. they are not wrong.
❛ they will declare you lord paramount of stormlands, they will declare you heir of the baratheon family, they will do it because they need someone there they can trust and they will obtain your fealty by giving you those titles. ❜ she worries for him, all alone in this pit of snakes, unaware of the dangers that lie on his path, the traps they will lay for him. ❛ you're the only one that is left, gendry. i only wish to warn you, only wish to provide you with as much advice as i can. ❜
there is an URGENCY to her tone, she knows they will not have much time in privacy, a need to protect him as much as she can guiding him, a fondness for those baratheon looks he sports, reminding her of uncle renly, of father. ❛ but once you're legitimized, they can't take it away, you have to remember that gendry, remember that please. ❜ he must save his life, must make certain only a certain happiness awaits him : do not get caught in their webs she wants to plead.
#forgaeven#writings.#myrcella : divergent.#( i adore the both of them#he's like the brother she didnt have :') )
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Good Intentions: One
"I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind." Shakespeare, Hamlet.
The odd collective of fugitives step from the humid, deeply verdant shadows into a clearing that is only slightly brighter. Nestled between large standing stones, the ramshackle wooden ramparts and scaffolding, and the shattered remain of the great stone bridge that once traversed the whole of the island, Reaper's Eye, strains of sunlight filter down on the verdant pathway. It is still not as bright as the shores where they had washed up, not as bright as hot sand and glittering waves rolling out to a far horizon, but still bright enough to make them squint, and pause—just long enough to let their eyes adjust.
Standing too still in one place is to invite the hellish parade of things that want to chew them up a chance to come nipping at their heels, but to go forward blind is to walk into the hungry maw themselves.
And as with everything on the island, this place too had been sullied by violence.
Arboren's fellow fugitives fan out to survey the damage, and to pilfer supplies where they can. There is no space for them to be picky when they have been kicked and tossed from one skirmish to the next with hardly a chance to breathe. It was not difficult for Arboren to justify the looting, not when the elf's people consumed the flesh of the dead to see their memories (and even that had been horribly perverted by the endless fight—the memories were not precious treasures to keep loved ones in his heart but screaming, sickening clues on trails of murder and massacre).
No, none of the ones who follow him underneath the leaves of Reaper's Eye hesitate. Why would they? Fane takes the faces of the dead, while Ifan is too practical to overlook supplies that would keep them alive. Even Lohse, with all her good humour is driven by a will to be free—she has not yet put up a complaint and Arboren hopes to keep it that way.
He moves forward, scanning the corpses for signs of what had done this, and looking for intact parts amidst what appeared to be a thoroughly ransacked caravan wondering if it was worth absorbing another memory of a Magister, another memory of fighting and pain and death. It seems so painfully obvious what happened. He does not know the exact details, such as the perpetrator, but what did it matter whether it was Voidwoken, Seekers, the Undead, or the wildlife bucking off the unnatural incursion of people dragging their wars with them? They were still corpses, rotting in the mire, rotting in the sun.
Arboren hears him before he sees him, and the elf drops a hand suddenly tense with apprehension to where his wand is belted to his hip. He listens closely to the voice, weak and pleading, and his eyes drift to meet with the equally wary gazes of his companions who are now just as on guard as he.
Ifan has more experience, Arboren knows, and would make the better leader. But he has deferred that role, and somehow it became Arboren's. Fane could not be bothered, and it often seems as if he is simply following them because they were the first and most convenient option. Lohse is charming, but easily distracted by the companions that sometimes steal her mind and her eyes and her voice. They have come to move on Arboren's signal, to follow his decisions, and they do so now, expectant, and watchful.
The elf holds up a hand, cautiously. There is only one voice, and it is muddled and pitched by pain and fear. This is often a volatile combination, but there is also pleading in that voice, and Arboren will not aggravate a situation that does not need it. For now, he allows his companions to return to their looting, confident they will have his back the minute things turn dangerous.
He steps forwards, around the overturned cart, and his fingers are twitching with uncast magic.
The Magister standing there is a young human—perhaps it is too much to say that he is standing when it appears the only thing keeping him upright is the splintered base of the cart that he is leaning against.
Arboren feels conflicted at the sight of the armour, and the red uniform. It has brought nothing but pain to him for as long as he has known it. It is the colour of blood and fire and pain and every nightmarish mass grave and tortured corpse Arboren has seen.
But his pity and his mercy has always been a fickle thing. It is why the elf was more suited to the life of a scholar before he was handed weapons and made to guard his people as their homes and history were sundered by fire and cruelty. It is also why he wonders how anyone could cede leadership to him, when too often he feels a naïve need to stay his hand countered by errant surges of grief and bitterness that freeze his heart over like a deep winter cold. How temperamental his morality, his sense of justice must seem to others.
Arboren finds his attention pulling towards the distress that lingers in the soldier's tense shoulders, the quiver in the other man's voice. It is the mark of someone untried, and the human's vulnerability is almost embarrassingly exposed. This would-be foe has their back to a wall, both figuratively and literally, and his whole being cowers in the face of his own defenselessness—utterly forlorn but for the corpses of comrades that have been scattered like fallen leaves.
The young magister has not escaped whatever skirmish occurred unscathed, fingers fumbling with a frantic sort of tenderness at two obviously fresh gashes across his eyes and face. His fingertips hesitate just shy of his closed eyelids; he has been blinded.
Arboren decides to count this as a blessing, though he feels grim sort of loss to have had such a thought. Still, he stows that feeling away for another day, when he can afford the luxury to ponder on how far he has been twisted by this unfair and deeply cruel world. For now, he decides to take his chances, to gamble once again on something like goodness, or at least some form of hypocrisy disguised as goodness.
Anything to let him sleep better at night.
He lets his foot fall on a twig, allows the other one to scuff slightly against the dirt. It is Arboren's way of giving this Magister a chance to hear that he is not alone. To catch the human entirely off guard could only be read as a threat, and that is not what Arboren wants. Not yet anyway. Not if he doesn't have to. For now, he is seeking a well in his heart where he keeps his gentleness and compassion carefully hidden away so that it can't be completely poisoned by the things he has seen and has had to do.
The Magister spins, the motion fast and panicked, taking him a little too far, so that his ruined face scans the earth slightly to Arboren's side. He pulls his shield in front of him and Arboren knows from experience that it is too close to his body to be effective. If he got hit like that, he wouldn't be able to deflect the blow of an attack and only end up staggered. No, this is more as if the human is but a child clutching a blanket close, hoping it'll protect him from monsters in the dark.
Unfortunately, this is a world where monsters pour forth from the dark and care little for such petty securities. This is a world where people are often the more frightening monster than the things crawling from the void.
"Stop. Stop! Who—who goes there?" The magister asks, and if the near hysterical stammer had not ruined his attempts to be intimidating, the crack in his voice certainly does.
Arboren considers for a moment how to approach the situation without it catching like an oil flask and burning him in the end. He wants to indulge himself in mercy, but he has no desire to die over it. And so, he decides to choose deception. It will be easier that way. Admitting that he is a fugitive, that he is the very thing this Magister is duty bound to hunt will only poison the interaction before it can really begin.
"I am Magister Groate," Arboren lies, trying to recall his days as a soldier, when discipline and duty stiffened every voice he knew, fortifying them with authority. He chases away the tired drawl he has picked up on this thrice cursed island as best he can, and hopes it is enough. Hopes that this stranger does not pick up on the brief hesitation as he seeks out a false name to give.
"Groate? I don't… I don't know any Groate. Tell me the truth: Who are you?" The Magister is drawing back slightly, trying to settle into an exhausted battle-ready position. His face is turned towards Arboren now, as if he is trying to see beyond the mutilation of his eyes to uncover the elf's deceit.
Arboren straightens further, pulling back his shoulders, and settling his feet hip width apart. It is not an aggressive posture, but the formal drill-like stance of someone who has served in the military. There is no point in the performance as it goes unseen, but he does it anyway, dredging up the memory of a time that feels like both forever ago and like it is still happening. For a second Arboren smells the burning of trees, feel the memory of heat and fire on his face.
"Relax," the elf directs, dragging himself away from that time. Then wonders if perhaps had been too casual if it had been too telling. "I am Magister Groate," He insists, and then decides that sounds more defensive than he should be. He hurries on, hoping the man is too out of sorts to pick up on it. "Word got back to the Fort about the situation down here. I am here to provide aid."
The elf's prayers that his performance will be convincing enough go unheard, as so many of his prayers do.
"I don't believe that for a second. You're a prisoner, aren't you?" The Magister begins to move forward, groping blindly in his direction, each movement jerky with apprehension, and faltering under the burden of his recently deprived sight.
Arboren can't tell if he is impressed by this human, or if he thinks this situation deeply pathetic. For one thing, the Magister should have been disoriented from pain, blood loss, and from whatever other injuries he may have sustained. He could not even see—he had to know there was nothing he could actually do under his own power. Not at the moment. However, for him to be driven by the mad delusions of his vile organization, to be so thoroughly trained that even in such a situation he would push to fulfill his duty either said something deeply horrific about the Magisters and how they brainwashed its people, or something about the man's understanding of his own situation.
"Another step toward me, and it will have to be your last," Arboren warns, dropping his façade fully.
He knows that Lohse is making her way around the rim of his eye line, putting herself closer to the Magister's back just in case, but it is a casual, cautionary thing. She has no yet gone for her weapons, and much of her attention is focused on the corpse of the lizard-person which lies slumped over crushed barrel. Ifan is to the side of the clearing, on a slight rise, slowly loading a handful of grenades into his bags, but his eyes are dark and watchful. Fane is somewhere to his back, and he thinks he hears tearing flesh.
The Magister is unaware of this though and continues onwards, irrationally. "I… I can't let you go. It's my job! It's why I'm here!"
Arboren lets his eyes slide closed, if only for a moment. He just wants to shield himself in some way from the tide of regret that hits him. In the end, it comes down to purpose, and he knows the feeling. He knows what it is to cling to some mission long after it has fallen through, if only because if he didn't then what was the point of it all? It is a bitter, broken feeling to have, the feeling that came when there is nothing except for ash and smoke left and it seems as if nothing will ever grow again. Sometimes he thinks that is all which keeps this endless fight going—everyone had already lost too much to give up and turn back. It was too late for them, each and every one, far too late.
The compassion stirs in the shadow of that well where he kept it, like a sleeping creature yawning awake. "You have been wounded, very seriously by the looks of it. For now, you must trust me. What other choice do you have?" The tired escapee softens the reprimand with a voice that is placating, steering away from threatening as much as he can. The Magister is naïve, and ideally, he will not hear a threat there.
"Don't you understand? You're so dangerous. It isn't your fault, but you are." The Magister is so earnest as he tries to convince Arboren of what a terrible threat his mere existence poses.
And, to some degree, Arboren agrees, though for different reasons, he knows. He thinks of himself as dangerous because he is a weapon forged by dire circumstance, the same as the Magister. He is dangerous because he has been backed into a corner and has been violated so horrifically of a piece of himself and of his freedoms that he will turn into a beast if it means getting free. There is danger in his kindness too because it brings greater risk to him and those who put their trust in him. It is dangerous because he cannot take responsibility for it, not when he is threatened and pursued at every corner. It is dangerous because it is as wild as a storm, and selfish in nature.
"If you leave this place, you could bring a Voidwoken on your head at any time," the Magister presses, sincerity in every word he pushes towards Arboren.
And the elf feels a dreadful, sad smile on his face. It has been so long since he has encountered someone who believed that they were doing what was best for him. How long had it been since someone feared not the danger he would bring to them, but the danger he could cause to his own self? When had he last been viewed as a pitiful victim in need of saving rather than a malicious chaos-bringer to be reviled and persecuted?
He cannot remember, and while this impression leaves a sour taste in his mouth, a simmering exasperation that hides a much deeper resentment, he allows that to also be swallowed up by his distorted sense of sentiment.
The injured Magister continues to cast about, lurching forward unsteadily. There is a sword bared in one hand, a shield in the other, and the metal glints with a filtered sunlight, mirroring the carnage that Arboren sees, but which its' owner cannot. He tries, his eyes pulling open, tugging at coagulated blood and torn skin. It must pain the human, because they only open a fraction before he winces and, distracted, he stumbles. His foot catches in a rock hidden by the thick mud and he staggers, balance ruined by injury.
Arboren steps forward instinctively, reaching out a hand to steady the human with his grip. One hand braces against the chest plate of the Magister typical armour, and his other arm blocks the forward momentum, only faltering slightly at the weight. The fugitive feels a stillness overcome him, an apprehension, because now he is vulnerable too. It will be harder for him to retrieve his weapon if he needs to, harder for his comrades to aim weapons at the Magister without causing him harm too, and it puts him range of the Magister's sword, hand, and ill will.
Immediately Arboren feels the risk of his position.
But the soldier in his grip clings tightly to his forearm, making no move to strike as he gets his bearings on the marshy ground. And it hits Arboren that they are both in a precarious position here, mutually at each other's mercy.
And that's how things were supposed to be. Where one party had power in a relationship, the other surely became slaves to their whims. Better that people learned to trust each other with their weakness, better to respect the fragility of each life.
With a gentleness that borders on being tender, something the elf typically would have reserved for friends and trusted ones, he clasps the Magister's ravaged face in his hand, taking care to avoid the injuries and cup his jaw instead. Close inspection reveals the extent of the damage—Arboren has picked up an odd collection of skills as both a soldier and a hunted person, basic first aid being one of them. He is slowly adding to his healing abilities where he can, scrounging up the skill books any chance he gets; if only because it has been so vitally necessary given how he and his small band toe the line of death every chance they get. It is because of this that he can tell right away how bad the soldier's wound is. There will be no healing of his eyes. There isn't much left to heal.
When the human speaks, it is very quiet and there is an uneasy lilt to it. "How… How bad is it?" He hesitates, as if he dreads the answer he will receive and must steel himself against it.
Arboren wonders if the human knows. The elf wonders if he is already anticipating the return to his home, wherever it may be, with a stipend that will do nothing to replace what he has lost or ease the burden of what has happened. The renegade Sourceror wonders if the soldier is imagining the days ahead, as he tries to find a new way of living, as he tries to move forward as irrevocably changed as a tree struck by lightning.
It is a weak gesture of consolation, the way Arboren holds the palm of his hand gently to the Magister's cheek. It is a motion he remembers his mother using to hush him once, long ago when he was a still only a child. It means nothing here, when his presence is nothing more than a liability to the lone Magister.
He does it anyway, hoping it is soothing. "It's bad," Arboren utters, the words grave with meaning.
The human stands still, very still. The moment stretches, between the call of a bird, and a gust of wind. It yawns underneath the afternoon sun, slow and heavy in the muggy humidity, a gaping inhale of silent comprehension. And then a cloud passes over the sun, casting them in shadow. The grip on Arboren's arm tightens, and then the Magister is letting go, and standing to his full height.
"Look," the Magister begins, before clearing his throat of whatever emotion lingers there, and Arboren can already feel his heart sinking.
"Look. I have a job to do here. I need to guard this cart, and... and more than that I… need to protect people. You and the people out there. I… I can't let you leave." And then he pulls a pair of shackles out his bag, slow and awkward and clumsy. He holds them out, open.
Arboren stares, wondering if he is really expected to walk himself back to the gallows that waits for him, the hell that waits for him. He realizes that this poor, poor misguided fool is both blind, and blind. He does not understand what he is asking Arboren to do. He does not see the suffering that will await the escapee at the other end of his erroneous good intentions.
The elf feels disdain spike in him, savage and cutting, sharpened by the affront of having his care thrown back in his face. And beneath that is something more twisted, something darker. He wonders very briefly what this Magister would feel if Arboren were to turn the situation around, if Arboren were to force the shackles on him and tell him it was for his own good, that he was being rescued before he hurt himself and anyone else. Silly imbecile, out here alone, didn't he need someone to save him from his own foolishness?
What an ugly feeling it was to have, and Arboren's teeth grind as his stares at the cold cuffs sitting hungrily in the Magister's hands.
The fugitive steps back, preparing to fall back in with his comrades, and the soldier must sense the motion because he presses forward, back into Arboren's space.
"Please!" He insists. "Don't make this any harder. You're dangerous! I need to keep you safe. I need to keep everyone safe! Have you seen a Voidwoken? Have you?"
A laugh claws its way up Arboen's throat, harsh and unfriendly. He was making things harder? It was not his fault the world had gone mad! It was not his fault that this person was operating under the same delusion as most everyone else. It was not his fault there were still simpletons who thought it was their job to protect everyone, even those who did not ask for it and for whom such protection was nothing more than a cold cage.
The laugh dies as quickly as it was born (like so many things, too many things, weak and not yet fully formed, struggling to breathe). "I have seen Voidwoken. You can put me in shackles, but it will not keep them away." The Voidwoken cared not for such petty securities after all.
But it is as if the Magister cannot hear him. "They come in the night. They come by morning. They… they kill everyone. I've seen it. I won't let it happen again. Hold still!" He jerks forward, having realized that Arboren has no desire to submit.
However, the fugitive has not made it this far by being someone easily caged. He steps back lightly, and the desire to say something malicious swells in him. "They are no more a plague to my kind than yours is," Arboren hisses. "But I guess no one sees that. You've all blinded yourselves to the atrocity of what you have done!"
"Please! PLEASE!" the human begs, and he is letting the truth of his desperation slip into his words. His face twists with some mangled emotion, and it elicits a pained moan from him. "Come here!" He demands, a needy, anguished cry.
Arboren can see the pain trace through the ragged wounds on the man's face, and suddenly he is arguing with himself again. He tries to remember that this person was horribly injured, bleeding and suffering, and had no doubt been a victim to a horrible trauma as he was made to helplessly listen to the last of his squad. Even if Arboren cannot and will never forgive the atrocities that have been committed against Sourcerors, against Elves, against him, maybe for just this moment he can let go of the absurdity being spouted at him.
His group watches, waiting to see what he will do. Really there's no need to even entertain the Magister any longer. They have what they came for. They can simply walk away. Maybe the Magister will be collected by his people, and maybe he will tell them that there are escaped prisoners, but that is known already, and he can't even provide a description. He isn't even aware of anyone other than Arboren being present. There is nothing keeping the escapee there.
His fingers twitch and the magic pools in them, familiar and refreshing like holding cool water from a stream in in his hands. He twines it through the air, and then levels it at the Magister.
It hits the distraught human like a spring shower, and he hesitates, confused by the onslaught of regenerative magic. Likely, he had been expecting to be left. Or for Arboren to lash out at him, for his pleas to elicit wrath.
But Arboren was capable with responding beyond the wild thrashing of a snared animal.
"Stay," the Magister urges, voice quieting slightly.
"I won't," Arboren returns, and nods to his group that it is time for them to go. They return the gesture and begin to slink away into the deep green shadows once more, on to the next peril waiting to trip them up.
The Magister must sense that his chance is coming to an end. He panics, and hastily lashes out with his sword, the movement clumsy and sends his sword sinking into the mud.
Arboren steps to the side easily, and watches as the human tries to pull his weapon free for another swing, to defend himself, something. Again, he cannot think it is anything other than sad, and shakes his head quietly. He has fulfilled his desire to show an arbitrary kindness, and now there is nothing left for him to achieve. With a heart filled with frustration, and some other unnameable emotion, the elf begins to follow his friends.
He can hear the cries of the Magister, calling for him to come back, crying out that he has to protect them, and then turning to shouts for his own people once again. Arboren thinks he hears weeping, he thinks he hears names chanted like a prayer, and it chases him through the dense foliage.
Next
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The team is so clearly disjointed it's insane.
Social media anon here again.
This time the other driver gets a grid job and it's silence. No 'luckily this brings Charles up' tweet. It's so obvious now it's sickening to witness.
I try to tell myself that they aren't really managing their social media admin, there hasn't been a PR crisis because of a tweet made. But the admin's behaviour keeps feeding into the sabotage allegations. It's like they aren't realizing that articles in the media saying they are looking to keep Charles gets contradicted by their tweets.
I wouldn't be surprised if Carlos' team vets the tweets too. It's just really odd and inconsistent behaviour. Even during races. They take forever to update on the driver's positions.
In Spain, Charles was gaining positions like crazy, and they weren't updating us at all. It's ironic because whenever he dropped back down the grid it was because of team mistakes.
I understand if others don't understand my frustration with their social media behaviour. However, this is a team that will rewrite history to make themselves look good and the driver look bad. They can't tweet the team fuck ups if they're planning to make Charles look like the one that's always messing up.
Hey!
I must confess - I unfollowed all Ferrari SM after Silverstone last year.
I must confess second time - I don't support the "uwu don't write bad comments, admins aren't guilty of Ferrari incompetence" agenda. I mean of course people has no right to send death threats (what an idiot would do it but anyway) and being rude. And I get that Ferrari is such a brand that they can allow themselves not to care about their fans feeling at all. BUT. SM admins are the bridge between the team and fans. And it's their job to work with negative comments and probably pass it to higher person like "we got slandering every time maybe we can do sth better than posting shirtless Charles?"
But to be honest I really don't get what's going on in the team. Math isn't mathing. Logic doesn't work. Cavallino Rampante is a live personification of chaos.
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Pine Pavillion 📍.
Rusong: *sitting and looking at his gifted sachet, while running his fingers against the fabric*
Rong: Dianxia. The things you ordered are organized.
Rusong: *rests it down* oh, delightful. Thanks.
Rong: aw, it's that your gift from Miss Qing?
Rusong: yea. I don't know why I felt so warm inside when she gave it to me.
Rusong: anyways, I'm maybe overreacting. But I do appreciate her gift.
Rong: what are you going to put into the sachet?
Rusong: *jokingly* princey things, heehee.
Rusong: I think I'll put taels and a handkerchief in.
Rong: ah, that's an excellent idea.
Rong: she seems really sweet, Dianxia.
Rusong: yes. *smile* she does.
But she seems a little mischievous like uncle muffin.
Do you think she would like sweet stuff.
Rong: yea, she seems like that type.
Rusong: *sighs* I want to stretch my legs. Come let's stroll.
Rong: certainly Dianxia. I'll get your coat.
It's cold out.
Rusong: thank you. *opens fan*
On the other side, A-qing was taking a walk around the Jing Manor compound.
In addition, Rusong's face was still fresh in her mind.
A-Qing: aiya, rich gege, can you leave my mind. I don't want to turn into a simp like xue yang.
But why is rich gege so attractive?
A-Qing: no no no. A-Qing never finds anyone attractive! Their hulijing Dianxia is far from attractive. *gasps* he's a hulijing! I forgot.
Did he seduce me with his hulijing powers. Am I going to become a simp.
Jiggy had captured the entire Jianghu in his dimples. Is Rich gege capable of doing that?! I don't want to be sucked in!!! Ahhhh!
A-Qing: *bumps into someone again*
Watch it!!! I'm trying to forget about Rich gege!
*looks up* r....r...rich gege? Hehe. Hi.
Rusong: are you alright.
Please *smile* watch where you're going.
A-Qing: you don't need to be so concerned about me!
Rusong: sure. *smile*
A-Qing: what are you doing here, rich gege?
Rusong: I live here.
A-Qing: hahahaha right. I mean why are you out?
Rusong: I can't remember when you had put me in a cage.
I'm just strolling, A-Qing.
A-Qing: ohhhhh. I see I see. Dianxia needs some exercise. Stretch those Dianxia legs, am I right.
Rusong: yep, that's it! *dimpled smile* you're so smart.
A-Qing; *hides*
Rusong: what happened?
A-Qing: I don't want to be seduced by those dimples. I know that's a weapon. Jiggy had used them on the Jianghu.
Rusong: *laughing* relax A-Qing. And I must say, I'm much flattered.
A-Qing: how dare you say I try to flatter you. There wasn't any flattering involved. *blush*
Rusong: *calmly* alright alright.
A-Qing: *trembling in the cold* this breeze.
Rusong: *covers her with his coat* here you go. This will keep you warm.
A-Qing: *blushing* w...what....what about you?
Rusong: it's fine.
Their eyes locked.
A-Qing: are you sure?
Rusong: I can turn into a fox if I feel cold, as I'm 50% fluff. But for now, I'm fine.
A-Qing: why are you so charming. It's sickening. But I like it!
Rusong: it's good to consider others.
A-Qing: ooohhh. That's fair.
Rusong: do you want to look at the garden together?
A-Qing: *blushing* fine then!
Rusong: mn.
A-Qing: (I'm going to annoy the heck out of him, so that I won't further be seduced by his charm. A-qing doesn't fall in love with anyone! And definitely not a hulijing!)
Both: *walking through Jing Manor's backyard garden*
Rusong: here's the newly installed bridge, over the lotus pond.
A-Qing: I thought that Jiggy loves peonies. Lotuses are a Jiang thing.
Rusong: yes but it symbolizes the alliance he has with the Jiangs. Uncle Jiang is A-Die's brother-in-law after all.
A-Qing: aw cute.
Rusong: we do have koi and peonies.
A-Qing: mn.
Do you have orchids! I heard that Jiggy and Lan lips are married.
Rusong: *laughs slightly* yes. But the orchids are planted around Huan Hall.
A-Qing: what's Huan Hall?
Rusong: Shizun's residence in Jing Manor.
A-Qing: why is he your Shizun?
Rusong: because he was my teacher in the cloud recesses.
He took good care of me, due to A-Die's request.
A-Qing: I thought that Lan Qiren was the teacher! You can choose?!
Rusong: not really. I took fewer classes with Master Qiren. So it was more of private tutoring with Shizun. Yet I still respected him.
A-Qing: you and your Dianxia privileges. Hmpf!! And what's about homework. Minshan told me that there's a lot!
Rusong: it wasn't a problem for me. But Shizun was the one who used to test me other than master Qiren.
A-Qing: waw.
Rusong: during my time in the cloud recesses, I felt like Shizun was a second Diedie.
A-Qing: aww. Tell me about team D.
Rusong: love them to bits!! I wouldn't wish for anyone else to be my uncles. I love team D, uncle Zish and of course my A-Die.
A-Qing: who's Zish?
Rusong: uncle Zixuan, he's my A-Die's brother. And emperor of peacock spirits.
A-Qing: every time I talk to you, you just get richer and richer. Lol, your uncle is an emperor? Do you have an uncle who's a clan leader too? Haha.
Rusong: uncle Su. And yes, he's chief cultivator.
A-Qing: hella rich. Dude!!
Rusong: I can't wait to introduce you to uncle Zish. You'll love him.
A-Qing: he sounds scary.
Rusong: ahahahaha. Noo! He's not. He and A-Die have a lot in common.
A-Qing: ok.
Tell me about the halls! You accommodate your guests in a corridor.
Rusong: ohh no Xiao Qing.
Halls are mansions on the Jing Manor compound that are used as residences and for leisure purposes. An office can't be referred to as a Hall.
The resident can change the name if their like
A-Qing: ah. Tell me the layout then.
Rusong: there's reformed Fragrance Hall which is Huangdi's room in Jing Manor. Jing Manor's main house is his residence. A-Die's room is as large as a 4 bedroom apartment.
There's Huan hall, Team dimple's Mansion, which is close to fragrance Hall. Sometimes they spend the night over at Fragrance hall because they're simps....I mean they're very close to A-Die.
As you know, there's the court, the banquet and conference halls, and living room.
There are some unnamed halls.
Then there's some with fancy names, like Hall of the Phoenix, Hall of peony, fox Pavillion. Pine Pavillion. Room of eternal bliss and so forth.
Uncle Zish stays in Xuan Pavillion, which has it's own indoor jacuzzi. Actually every mansion has its own spring jacuzzi.
A-Qing: that's so cool!!!
I stay with team dimple in their mansion. But i didn't know that they had a name for it.
Rusong: yes it does *smile*
Now tell me about you.
A-Qing: you want to date me?
Rusong: ah no A-Qing. I just want to know about your life.
A-Qing: now you want to break my heart. Can you make a decision.
Rusong: A-Qing. It has nothing to do with that. And we just met.
A-Qing: *pouts*
Rusong: let's chat over tea. We're right next to the garden's teahouse.
A-Qing: fine. How can I say no to those dimples. Those are your biggest weapons.
Rusong: lol.
*entering the teahouse*
Rusong: *organizing the tea pot.
A-Qing: wow, it has so much greenery in here though!
Rusong: yea, A-Die is a green plant lover. And some of them can be used as tea ingredients.
A-Qing: ahh. Are you going to make tea????
Rusong: well it's only both of us, and a few bodyguards. Heehee.
Of course I'm going to make tea.
A-Qing: I thought that you can't cook.
Rusong: I could!! Jinling can't.
A-Qing: *laughing*
Can Zixuan make tea?
Rusong: you know.....I don't think so.
A-Qing: what about Jiggy?
Rusong: yup. And he used to make tea and soup for me whenever I'm sick.
A-Qing: awww.
Rusong: Now A-Qing, tell me about you!!
A-Qing: where to start.
Well I was raised on the streets. Yea, I'm a thug!
I used to pretend that I was blind to take people's food and money.
Rusong: oh my goodness.
But I'm sorry that you lived on the streets.
A-Qing: it's ok! It shaped me into a tough and independent individual who don't take no BS from anyone. If you're wrong, I'll tell you that you're wrong and trash you.
Rusong: I love that spirit.
Things in life do shape an individual.
But A-Qing: are there still homeless people in Yi city? Maybe A-Die and I can help, despite it not being a district of ours.
Here's your tea.
A-Qing: huh, maybe a few. Xue yang killed out half the people there.
*sips*
Rusong: oh.
A-Qing: well in Yi city I live with white gege.
Xue yang and white gege are my guardians.
White gege is Xiao xingchen. Xue yang told me that Songlan, his homwrecker, dug out xingchen's eyes. So that's why xingchen wears a blindfold.
But then xingchen said that he offered them to songlan to help him out.
Anyways I find xue yang's explanation is funnier so I stuck with that.
Rusong: *laughing* your family sounds so fun.
A-Qing: chaotic too.
I have sleepless nights.
Rusong: oh sad.
A-Qing: nah! That's the norm. It just means that Song Lan and xue yang are fighting on the roof again.
Rusong: ahahah, on the roof?!! Lol.
A-Qing:
They break the same old roof countless of times. And Xingchen just smiles at them. I told them if they break it they fix it. That has nothing to do with me.
Rusong: yea! Exactly. You do have a point..
Xiao Qing. I admire your personality.
A-Qing: and I like your tea! It's delicious.
Rusong: thank you. Thank you.
*sips* something to warm you up.
A-Qing: indeed.
#the huli jing emperor#foxyao#dimpledlianfang#jin guangyao#jin zixuan#Rusong#a qing#meng yao#part 2#su she#the untamed#hulijing emperor 2
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‘ comforting ‘
send me ‘ comforting ‘ for my muse’s reaction to yours gently wiping their tears away after they’ve been caught crying
( placed between botw & totk ! )
he stood at the broken bridge to akkala — the bridge he broke so many years ago … it felt like a dream now , trying to remember what exactly happened back then but dream isn’t quite the right word now is it ? it was a horrid nightmare filled with the cries of families running & his men falling like flies to the might of the machines . thousands gone … ray closed his eye for a moment — he could almost hear the screams . he felt his own throat tightening … he recalls how he could barely speak from yelling orders , yelling names as they fell with a sickening thud before going lifeless .
his shoulders tense .
the sounds of lasers & screams were impossible to remove from his ears — he could hear them now ! he could feel the aches in his legs from running ! blood all over him as he carried half dead men to shelter . he begged them to hold on just a little longer ! it was going to end ! it had to end ! the gods where watching them , surly they must intervene soon ! hylia — hylia are you listening to the pray of a demon begging you to save these humans ! please forgive him for fighting against you as a child — he will turn a new if you just save these people !
he heard foot steps — quickly he turned , blade drawn from its sheath in an instant as he aimed it at the intruder … only to see princess zelda .
“ you’re grace ?! w-where is link !? he is to protect you while you went to mount lanayru ! ” the demon is quick to grab the princess by her wrist & yank her with him as he dashed away from akkala citadel — he would have to get her back fast if she is to awake her sealing powers . perhaps if he carries her & runs as fast as he can they could get there in a few hours ! ray was quicker than a mortal man nor would he get tired ! then if she awakens her powers she could stop the guardians ! the man turns once more to lift her but freezes —
her hair .
it’s short .
it wasn’t short … it was long ? why is it … where is her dress ? the one that looks like hylia’s …
ray blinks a few times & the sounds of screams leave his ears & all is silent . a soft breeze rushes past carrying no smoke but leaves that land around them ever so gently . there is no one here but them . he frees her as his hands fall limply to his sides .
tears form in his eyes as he stares past the princess into pure nothingness . ah . he went away again , didn’t he ? he’s been doing that more & more … perhaps spending so much time here in akkala was not good for his mind but the guilt … he needed to fix it . he needed to find all of his men & give them a proper burial: the resting place they deserved for dying for the kingdom if he didn’t … well, he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself anymore .
finally the tears feel down his cheeks — & a soft hand brushed them away .
the demon says nothing . he allows her to touch him & gives no emotion . finally his eye regain it’s light as he looks at her — not through . the demon stares for a moment or two as she continues to wipe away his tears .
she looks like someone he knew once , so many years ago … the sage of time . sonia quite liked her … no — no he must be getting lost again , isn’t he ? that was one of the first times he’s watched the world he helped create die to the hands of ganondorf . he must remain here . finally he pushes her hand away gently . normally he meets the princess with ire in his eyes but oh , he simply can’t hold onto this anger anymore… at least not after her so carefully brush away his tears . he can be a grouchy old man but he isn’t heartless .
“…they say when akkala citadel fell … the kingdom fell with it … i did my best , zelda … why wasn’t it enough ? ”
#regnantlight#⸻ ray : answered ✦ i keep everything i get ˎˊ˗#⸻ RAY : in character ✦ i am a weapon & weapons don’t weep ˎˊ˗
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The Fall of the House of Usher Part One
Part 1:
IT WAS A DARK AND SOUNDLESS DAY NEAR THE END OF THE YEAR, and clouds were hanging low in the heavens. All day I had been riding on horseback through country with little life or beauty; and in the early evening I came within view of the House of Usher.
I do not know how it was — but, with my first sight of the building, a sense of heavy sadness filled my spirit. I looked at the scene before me — at the house itself — at the ground around it — at the cold stone walls of the building — at its empty eye-like windows — and at a few dead trees — I looked at this scene, I say, with a complete sadness of soul which was no healthy, earthly feeling. There was a coldness, a sickening of the heart, in which I could discover nothing to lighten the weight I felt. What was it, I asked myself, what was it that was so fearful, so frightening in my view of the House of Usher? This was a question to which I could find no answer.
I stopped my horse beside the building, on the edge of a dark and quiet lake. There, I could see reflected in the water a clear picture of the dead trees, and of the house and its empty eye-like windows.
I was now going to spend several weeks in this house of sadness — this house of gloom. Its owner was named Roderick Usher. We had been friends when we were boys; but many years had passed since our last meeting. A letter from him had reached me, a wild letter which demanded that I reply by coming to see him. He wrote of an illness of the body — of a sickness of the mind — and of a desire to see me — his best and indeed his only friend. It was the manner in which all this was said — it was the heart in it — which did not allow me to say no.
Although as boys we had been together, I really knew little about my friend. I knew, however, that his family, a very old one, had long been famous for its understanding of all the arts and for many quiet acts of kindness to the poor. I had learned too that the family had never been a large one, with many branches. The name had passed always from father to son, and when people spoke of the “House of Usher,” they included both the family and the family home.
I again looked up from the picture of the house reflected in the lake to the house itself. A strange idea grew in my mind — an idea so strange that I tell it only to show the force of the feelings which laid their weight on me. I really believed that around the whole house, and the ground around it, the air itself was different. It was not the air of heaven. It rose from the dead, decaying trees, from the gray walls, and the quiet lake. It was a sickly, unhealthy air that I could see, slow-moving, heavy, and gray.
Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I looked more carefully at the building itself. The most noticeable thing about it seemed to be its great age. None of the walls had fallen, yet the stones appeared to be in a condition of advanced decay. Perhaps the careful eye would have discovered the beginning of a break in the front of the building, a crack making its way from the top down the wall until it became lost in the dark waters of the lake.
I rode over a short bridge to the house. A man who worked in the house — a servant — took my horse, and I entered. Another servant, of quiet step, led me without a word through many dark turnings to the room of his master. Much that I met on the way added, I do not know how, to the strangeness of which I have already spoken. While the objects around me — the dark wall coverings, the blackness of the floors, and the things brought home from long forgotten wars — while these things were like the things I had known since I was a baby — while I admitted that all this was only what I had expected — I was still surprised at the strange ideas which grew in my mind from these simple things.
The room I came into was very large and high. The windows were high, and pointed at the top, and so far above the black floor that they were quite out of reach. Only a little light, red in color, made its way through the glass, and served to lighten the nearer and larger objects. My eyes, however, tried and failed to see into the far, high corners of the room. Dark coverings hung upon the walls. The many chairs and tables had been used for a long, long time. Books lay around the room, but could give it no sense of life. I felt sadness hanging over everything. No escape from this deep cold gloom seemed possible.
As I entered the room, Usher stood up from where he had been lying and met me with a warmth which at first I could not believe was real. A look, however, at his face told me that every word he spoke was true.
We sat down; and for some moments, while he said nothing, I looked at him with a feeling of sad surprise. Surely, no man had ever before changed as Roderick Usher had! Could this be the friend of my early years? It is true that his face had always been unusual. He had gray-white skin; eyes large and full of light; lips not bright in color, but of a beautiful shape; a well-shaped nose; hair of great softness — a face that was not easy to forget. And now the increase in this strangeness of his face had caused so great a change that I almost did not know him. The horrible white of his skin, and the strange light in his eyes, surprised me and even made me afraid. His hair had been allowed to grow, and in its softness it did not fall around his face but seemed to lie upon the air. I could not, even with an effort, see in my friend the appearance of a simple human being.
In his manner, I saw at once, changes came and went; and I soon found that this resulted from his attempt to quiet a very great nervousness. I had indeed been prepared for something like this, partly by his letter and partly by remembering him as a boy. His actions were first too quick and then too quiet. Sometimes his voice, slow and trembling with fear, quickly changed to a strong, heavy, carefully spaced, too perfectly controlled manner. It was in this manner that he spoke of the purpose of my visit, of his desire to see me, and of the deep delight and strength he expected me to give him. He told me what he believed to be the nature of his illness. It was, he said, a family sickness, and one from which he could not hope to grow better — but it was, he added at once, only a nervous illness which would without doubt soon pass away. It showed itself in a number of strange feelings. Some of these, as he told me of them, interested me but were beyond my understanding; perhaps the way in which he told me of them added to their strangeness. He suffered much from a sickly increase in the feeling of all the senses; he could eat only the most tasteless food; all flowers smelled too strongly for his nose; his eyes were hurt by even a little light; and there were few sounds which did not fill him with horror. A certain kind of sick fear was completely his master.
“I shall die,” he said. “I shall die! I must die of this fool’s sickness. In this way, this way and no other way, I shall be lost. I fear what will happen in the future, not for what happens, but for the result of what happens. I have, indeed, no fear of pain, but only fear of its result — of terror! I feel that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my life, and my mind, and my soul, together, in some last battle with that horrible enemy: feaR!”
Part 2:
RODE RICK USHER, whom i had known as a boy, was now ill and had asked me to come to help him. When I arrived I felt something strange and fearful about the great old stone house, about the lake in front of it, and about Usher himself. He appeared not like a human being, but like a spirit that had come back from beyond the grave. It was an illness, he said, from which he would surely die. He called his sickness fear. “I have,” he said, “no fear of pain, but only the fear of its result — of terror. I feel that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my life, and my mind, and my soul, together, in some last battle with that horrible enemy: fear!”
I learned also, but slowly, and through broken words with doubtful meaning, another strange fact about the condition of Usher’s mind. He had certain sick fears about the house in which he lived, and he had not stepped out of it for many years. He felt that the house, with its gray walls and the quiet lake around it, had somehow through the long years gotten a strong hold on his spirit.
He said, however, that much of the gloom which lay so heavily on him was probably caused by something more plainly to be seen — by the long-continued illness — indeed, the coming death — of a dearly loved sister — his only company for many years. Except for himself, she was the last member of his family on earth. “When she dies,” he said, with a sadness which I can never forget, “when she dies, I will be the last of the old, old family — the House of Usher.”
While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so she was called) passed slowly through a distant part of the room, and without seeing that I was there, went on. I looked at her with a complete and wondering surprise and with some fear — and yet I found I could not explain to myself such feelings. My eyes followed her. When she came to a door and it closed behind her, my eyes turned to the face of her brother — but he had put his face in his hands, and I could see only that the thin fingers through which his tears were flowing were whiter than ever before.
The illness of the lady Madeline had long been beyond the help of her doctors. She seemed to care about nothing. Slowly her body had grown thin and weak, and often for a short period she would fall into a sleep like the sleep of the dead. So far she had not been forced to stay in bed; but by the evening of the day I arrived at the house, the power of her destroyer (as her brother told me that night) was too strong for her. I learned that my one sight of her would probably be the last I would have — that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.
For several days following, her name was not spoken by either Usher or myself; and during this period I was busy with efforts to lift my friend out of his sadness and gloom. We painted and read together; or listened, as if in a dream, to the wild music he played. And so, as a warmer and more loving friendship grew between us, I saw more clearly the uselessness of all attempts to bring happiness to a mind from which only darkness came, spreading upon all objects in the world its never-ending gloom.
I shall always remember the hours I spent with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I would fail in any attempt to give an idea of the true character of the things we did together. There was a strange light over everything. The paintings which he made me tremble, though I know not why. To tell of them is beyond the power of written words. If ever a man painted an idea, that man was Roderick Usher. For me at least there came out of his pictures a sense of fear and wonder.
One of these pictures may be told, although weakly, in words. It showed the inside of a room where the dead might be placed, with low walls, white and plain. It seemed to be very deep under the earth. There was no door, no window; and no light or fire burned; yet a river of light flowed through it, filling it with a horrible, ghastly brightness.
I have spoken of that sickly condition of the senses, which made most music painful for Usher to hear. The notes he could listen to with pleasure were very few. It was this fact, perhaps, that made the music he played so different from most music. But the wild beauty of his playing could not be explained.
The words of one of his songs, called “The Haunted Palace,” I have easily remembered. In it I thought I saw, and for the first time, that Usher knew very well that his mind was weakening. This song told of a great house where a king lived — a palace — in a green valley, where all was light and color and beauty, and the air was sweet. In the palace were two bright windows through which people in that happy valley could hear music and could see smiling ghosts — spirits — moving around the king. The palace door was of the richest materials, in red and white; through it came other spirits whose only duty was to sing in their beautiful voices about how wise their king was.
But a dark change came, the song continued, and now those who enter the valley see through the windows, in a red light, shapes that move to broken music; while through the door, now colorless, a ghastly river of ghosts, laughing but no longer smiling, rushes out forever.
Our talk of this song led to another strange idea in Usher’s mind. He believed that plants could feel and think, and not only plants, but rocks and water as well. He believed that the gray stones of his house, and the small plants growing on the stones, and the decaying trees, had a power over him that made him what he was.
Our books — the books which, for years, had fed the sick man’s mind — were, as might be supposed, of this same wild character. Some of these books Usher sat and studied for hours. His chief delight was found in reading one very old book, written for some forgotten church, telling of the Watch over the Dead.
At last, one evening he told me that the lady Madeline was alive no more. He said he was going to keep her body for a time in one of the many vaults inside the walls of the building. The worldly reason he gave for this was one with which I felt I had to agree. He had decided to do this because of the nature of her illness, because of the strange interest and questions of her doctors, and because of the great distance to the graveyard where members of his family were placed in the earth.
We two carried her body to its resting place. The vault in which we placed it was small and dark, and in ages past it must have seen strange and bloody scenes. It lay deep below that part of the building where I myself slept. The thick door was of iron, and because of its great weight made a loud, hard sound when it was opened and closed.
As we placed the lady Madeline in this room of horror I saw for the first time the great likeness between brother and sister, and Usher told me then that they were twins — they had been born on the same day. For that reason the understanding between them had always been great, and the tie that held them together very strong.
We looked down at the dead face one last time, and I was filled with wonder. As she lay there, the lady Madeline looked not dead but asleep — still soft and warm — though to the touch cold as the stones around us.
Part 3:
I WAS VISITING AN OLD FRIEND OF MINE, Roderick Usher, in his old stone house, his palace, where a feeling of death hung on the air. I saw how fear was pressing on his heart and mind. Now his only sister, the lady Madeline, had died and we had put her body in its resting place, in a room inside the cold walls of the palace, a damp, dark vault, a fearful place. As we looked down upon her face, I saw that there was a strong likeness between the two. “Indeed,” said Usher, “we were born on the same day, and the tie between us has always been strong.”
We did not long look down at her, for fear and wonder filled our hearts. There was still a little color in her face and there seemed to be a smile on her lips. We closed the heavy iron door and returned to the rooms above, which were hardly less gloomy than the vault.
And now a change came in the sickness of my friend’s mind. He went from room to room with a hurried step. His face was, if possible, whiter and more ghastly than before, and the light in his eyes had gone. The trembling in his voice seemed to show the greatest fear. At times he sat looking at nothing for hours, as if listening to some sound I could not hear. I felt his condition, slowly but certainly, gaining power over me; I felt that his wild ideas were becoming fixed in my own mind.
As I was going to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after we placed the lady Madeline within the vault, I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep did not come — while the hours passed. My mind fought against the nervousness. I tried to believe that much, if not all, of what I felt was due to the gloomy room, to the dark wall coverings, which in a rising wind moved on the walls. But my efforts were useless. A trembling I could not stop filled my body, and fear without reason caught my heart. I sat up, looking into the darkness of my room, listening — I do not know why — to certain low sounds which came when the storm was quiet. A feeling of horror lay upon me like a heavy weight. I put on my clothes and began walking nervously around the room.
I had been walking for a very short time when I heard a light step coming toward my door. I knew it was Usher. In a moment I saw him at my door, as usual very white, but there was a wild laugh in his eyes. Even so, I was glad to have his company. “And have you not seen it?” he said. He hurried to one of the windows and opened it to the storm.
The force of the entering wind nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a stormy but beautiful night, and wildly strange. The heavy, low-hanging clouds which seemed to press down upon the house, flew from all directions against each other, always returning and never passing away in the distance. With their great thickness they cut off all light from the moon and the stars. But we could see them because they were lighted from below by the air itself, which we could see, rising from the dark lake and from the stones of the house itself.
“You must not — you shall not look out at this!” I said to Usher, as I led him from the window to a seat. “This appearance which surprises you so has been seen in other places, too. Perhaps the lake is the cause. Let us close this window; the air is cold. Here is one of the stories you like best. I will read and you shall listen and thus we will live through this fearful night together.”
The old book which I had picked up was one written by a fool for fools to read, and it was not, in truth, one that Usher liked. It was, however, the only one within easy reach. He seemed to listen quietly. Then I came to a part of the story in which a man, a strong man full of wine, begins to break down a door, and the sound of the dry wood as it breaks can be heard through all the forest around him.
Here I stopped, for it seemed to me that from some very distant part of the house sounds came to my ears like those of which I had been reading. It must have been this likeness that had made me notice them, for the sounds themselves, with the storm still increasing, were nothing to stop or interest me.
I continued the story, and read how the man, now entering through the broken door, discovers a strange and terrible animal of the kind so often found in these old stories. He strikes it and it falls, with such a cry that he has to close his ears with his hands. Here again I stopped.
There could be no doubt. This time I did hear a distant sound, very much like the cry of the animal in the story. I tried to control myself so that my friend would see nothing of what I felt. I was not certain that he had heard the sound, although he had clearly changed in some way. He had slowly moved his chair so that I could not see him well. I did see that his lips were moving as if he were speaking to himself. His head had dropped forward, but I knew he was not asleep, for his eyes were open and he was moving his body from side to side.
I began reading again, and quickly came to a part of the story where a heavy piece of iron falls on a stone floor with a ringing sound. These words had just passed my lips when I heard clearly, but from far away, a loud ringing sound — as if something of iron had indeed fallen heavily upon a stone floor, or as if an iron door had closed.
I lost control of myself completely, and jumped up from my chair. Usher still sat, moving a little from side to side. His eyes were turned to the floor. I rushed to his chair. As I placed my hand on his shoulder, I felt that his whole body was trembling; a sickly smile touched his lips; he spoke in a low, quick, and nervous voice as if he did not know I was there.
“Yes!” he said. “I heard it! Many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard it — but I did not dare to speak! We have put her living in the vault! Did I not say that my senses were too strong? I heard her first movements many days ago — yet I did not dare to speak! And now, that story — but the sounds were hers! Oh, where shall I run?! She is coming — coming to ask why I put her there too soon. I hear her footsteps on the stairs. I hear the heavy beating of her heart.” Here he jumped up and cried as if he were giving up his soul: “i Tell you, she now stands at the door!!”
The great door to which he was pointing now slowly opened. It was the work of the rushing wind, perhaps — but no — outside that door a shape did stand, the tall figure, in its grave-clothes, of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white dress, and the signs of her terrible efforts to escape were upon every part of her thin form. For a moment she remained trembling at the door; then, with a low cry, she fell heavily in upon her brother; in her pain, as she died at last, she carried him down with her, down to the floor. He too was dead, killed by his own fear.
I rushed from the room; I rushed from the house. I ran. The storm was around me in all its strength as I crossed the bridge. Suddenly a wild light moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see where it could have come from, for only the great house and its darkness were behind me. The light was that of the full moon, of a bloodred moon, which was now shining through that break in the front wall, that crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the palace. Then only a little crack, it now widened as I watched. A strong wind came rushing over me — the whole face of the moon appeared. I saw the great walls falling apart. There was a long and stormy shouting sound — and the deep black lake closed darkly over all that remained of the house of usher.
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June 16 - Arashiyama Bamboo Forest and Iwatayama Monkey Park
Today we went to the Arashiyama Bamboo Forest and the Iwatayama Monkey Park. We started off by heading to the bamboo forest. In the train station, we ran into this silly little robot guy just vibing and going around the station.
It took like an hour total for us to get to the bamboo forest. Emily and Ana had gotten there early to rent Kimonos and I have no idea how they managed to and survived hiking in them. Absolute troopers I tell you. The bamboo forest was cool, but it was way overhyped in my opinion. It was kinda just a path through bamboo with a million tourists shoving you forward and cars that drove through the crowd practically. The experience would have been exponentially better if it weren’t for all the people.
After the forest, we then walked down to the river. It was very hot outside and people were remarking on how refreshing the water looked and how they just wanted to go jump in it, and I cannot say I disagreed with them on that. The river indeed did look very pretty and quite refreshing.
We then broke for lunch, and some of us went to this one vegan place nearby. We had to split into groups, and Lauren and I ended up getting seated alone. Okay, so I’m not even trying to be dramatic when I say this, but it would be better to starve than to have to eat the food there. I got cold noodles, which was my first mistake. I did not realize they were gonna be cold, and I must say that I have no earthly idea how literally anyone enjoys those. It was actually sickening to me. Noodles must ALWAYS be served at the very least warm, if not hot. The rest of the little side dishes it came with were also not edible. ESPECIALLY this one pudding type thing with soy sauce on it (see top middle of the picture of the plate). I took one little bite of it and genuinely almost threw up it was that bad. Lauren said she wanted to try it, then quickly changed her mind. I wouldn’t’ve allowed her to suffer through that regardless. Also, Lauren, who is vegetarian and eats vegan food often, agreed that it was literally not edible. She had gotten like a rice dish and could not eat it. The food was so terrible I cannot express. So we basically didn’t eat lunch. At least we got ice cream though. Lauren got Sakura ice cream and I got vanilla with yuzu honey which was pretty good.
We then walked to the bridge to meet up with the group before hiking to go see the monkeys. While waiting there, a group of university students walked up to us to ask us to participate in a survey for them. It was on our views of caronavirus. They were really nice about it and both Lauren and I participated. I found it kinda funny that out of our whole group, they only asked Lauren and I.
Next, we hiked up to see the monkeys at the Iwatayama Monkey Park. My favorite part of the hike up is that they had a rest area partway up that had like a playground, and the best part a slide that was, and I quote, “out of order.” Bro, how’s a slide gonna be out of order??
Eventually we made it to the top, and immediately when we got up there, we saw a mother with her baby walking by, which was quite cute. The view from the peak was my favorite view we got of Kyoto on the trip. It was very beautiful, especially since you could see Kyoto Tower my beloved.
I liked that the workers at the park had monkey friends that would hang out with them as well.
You could then also purchase apple pieces and peanuts to feed the monkeys through fencing. Everyone wanted to feel the babies of course, but the mom would just steal all the food. One thing that Lauren and I found hilarious is that the one mom would let her baby walk freely around, but the second it rounded the corner of the feeding area, she would chase him down and bring him back. Also, this entire time, and I’m talking the entire time, Lauren and I were going on about my “sir” bit. It’s something I started doing a while back where you just go like “sir, a moment of your time sir, a handshake if you will sir, sir it would mean the world to me for just a moment of your valuable time” and so on like that. I’m so glad Lauren likes that bit so much, as it’s one of my favorites and no one else has ever really seemed to appreciate it until her. It’s just something about saying it to like animals or like characters in video games or like statues even that absolutely cracks me up.
Feeding the monkeys was cool, but they had a limit on how much you could feed them. The monkeys very much preferred the apples over the peanuts, and it showed. Another thing that Lauren and I found hilarious was that the one mom would just drop food and crumbs on her baby whom she was holding. She wouldn’t share any food with the baby, but she would like crunch peanut shells over it’s head and it was really funny. We compared it to like using a baby as a lap napkin in a nice restaurant and dropping food on it.
On the way back to the hotel, Lauren and I got two different strawberry cakes to compare, and I got an Italian lemon soda in a glass bottle. We both agreed that the slightly more expensive cake was a lot better in every way, and I really liked my soda. Lauren tried the soda, but it was too sour for her taste.
For dinner, we got Emily to join us in going to a vegan place that had like pizza and pasta and burgers and stuff. I thought it was pretty alright, but they both seemed to really enjoy it which I was happy about. It’s been difficult for them to find good food on this trip, especially Emily who had said it was her first real meal in three days. Lauren and I then decided we would drag Emily to more meals with us for the rest of the trip so that she could eat.
Academic Reflection
Today I learned about the Arashiyama Bamboo Forest. It is an extremely popular tourist destination in Kyoto, and has over 10 million visitors per year. The land is protected, and houses a ton of bamboo, as well as cherry blossom trees, red pines, and others. Beginning in 1870, the Japanese government implemented a new forest management system focused on maintaining the ideal landscape and or function of different areas of forests. Under this legislation, the Arashiyama Bamboo Forest is protected due to its landscape. Seeing it in person, it honestly didn’t live up to the hype in my opinion, but it was still cool to see the bamboo forest and I understand why it is protected.
I also learned about The Tale of Genji and The Shrine in the Fields. In The Tale of Genji, Prince Genji and Lady Rokujō have an affair. Somewhere along the lines, Lady Rokujōs jealousy leads to the death of Genji’s wife. At least that is how this version of the Nō play depicts it. The Shrine in the Fields differs from this in the sense that Lady Rokujō is treated with sympathy and there is no notion that she caused Genji’s wife’s death. I find it interesting how different interpretations can arise from the same story. We unfortunately didn’t see any Nō performances on the trip, but it could’ve been cool if we did.
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Watch "War Of The Worlds Tour" on YouTube
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It's like the bridge in Boston my husband says and it's in another movie too that's very pivotal and the kind of these regular sleazy kind of low-level movies and it was a mob movie but the other one is at the bridge and it meant something very significant and have this code in that area in the North end and swear to my husband used to go with his family to get fruits and vegetables and things that were fresh and to go out and have Italian food and they go back and then sing songs and things and count Volkswagens but really they made this evil plan for him and a place that he liked and they went there a lot and they kind of ruined it and we think that they're mean okay and it's dumb because what they're doing was is mean. It's been around for a long time and it's the names of the streets and such but here's a bridge and there's the same kind of thing and they're saying they're doing it to relatives and they are and what they're doing is ridiculous they're incurring a lot of damage and they're trying to say that these people are fighting us and it's enough and really it's not and we knew it the whole time but they continue doing it and saying that he's going to get caught because of being deceived and it's not like we deceived them in a big way according to them so we'd hate them very badly because not only is it ruining the place which was kind of fun it's really like the concepts and things of them being human at all and caring about anything but really he says it's a benefit cuz that's the way they are they're just animals and that's the way we're going to think of it is it really is true and it's playing it out and it's Max we're doing it more than anyone and he said this is a sick area and I said the code is sickening and it's one thing that helps people not see it they think so he went examined it and he got it out stand looked at it and said this is perfect this is what I'm saying and said this other areas just like it right near the bridge and Jeff Bridges must figure it out and they're going through it now they found that big analogy that you found it made me a little sick I'm not a good time now there's a lot of foods and a lot of them are recreated but it's nice big sausages and hot dogs and it's like things as fake meat but they have meatloaf and it's really good and it fills you up and you're really feeling a lot better it's better protein in a meeting a lot of things that people will call starchy and pasta it's wonderful but the candies are terrific I haven't had candies like this in a long time it's really great I'm glad he wondered what I was doing. So I did have some nuget and he's jealous about that which is good he needs to be
Hera
I don't know why but she says that so I'm glad she's having a good time here's kind of like really Spartan and there's nobody here and Ken hasn't even responded yet but Ken is alone too and these people are not receptive or corresponding with him and they should have been because he could help them but they're being mean and say they run everything in their stupid f****** assholes I'm really angry because they don't recognize anybody as useful and they suck really bad but I'm happy Hera's having a good time and she needs to this is very stressful
Zues
I thank you Zeus and I'm having a good time at the party and we're drinking and talking regular beverages and having sparkling champagne like you thought and suggestion is good I will say something I thought I was going to have a bad day but it's turned out to be good I like this and people helping me I got some gifts already and we're going to sit around a big tree and unwrap gifts one at a time they said we're going to do that and I said awesome cuz I used to do that it says the big one is mine. I'm saying you shut up for crying out loud no it's that one over there that looks like a Jeep so I'm laughing cuz it's going to wait back around a white background so you're dreaming of a white Christmas and it almost happened to you that would have been great I have a little boots so I know they don't fit but okay tiny Tim I'm off to my party
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Not Your Hero
Chapter 3
Run Ins and Out Runs
Griffin stares at the angry eyes in front of him, searching for any kind of answer.
"Dad was never around, Grif. Mom took care of us the best she could as a single mother."
Once again, the man was stunned into silence.
"What are you talking about? She was never a single mother when I was around. She would cook for us nightly and dad would take us hunting, fishing and fighting almost every weekend."
Axel shakes his head violently while Griffin takes another step toward the shorter man.
"Who do you think taught you to fight the way you can? Did she teach you how to do that?"
"That's not our father. That may be mom's friend that agreed to step up to take his place, but that's no father."
Griffin lets out a bitter laugh "Is that what she told you?"
"Yes, and I would believe her over anyone."
He rolls his eyes as his brother keeps monologuing.
"Unlike you, dad and just about everyone else in the village, she hasn't left me."
Scoffing, Griffin walks past his brother, shoving him by the shoulder as he makes his way for the door instead.
"Just like she said you would, you're walking out on me again."
The reality of what was said hit him hard. Griffin had seen this situation unravel before. He had seen the way the truth could be twisted.
He heard the same foolish words that his brother was spouting, time and time again, just from different lips.
Griffin couldn't tell anyone the last time he heard something that his mother said from her own lips. He could remember what was said, every wound that was inflicted, every pained expression that passed the faces of the people around them.
Every time his mother said something about him that he heard, it was that Griffin, her own son, was nothing more than a vile beast. Without fail, she would follow it up with every accident he could have ever possibly made, blown out of proportion.
Shaking himself out of the memory, he glares up to Axel.
"You truly must be more naive than you look. I pray to whatever you might believe in that you receive mercy in place of the brains that you weren't blessed with."
Blind rage overtakes the smaller man as he throws his weight into Griffin's chest. The taller man didn't budge very much, but there was too much pain in his heart to truly care in the moment. Pounding his fist into his brother's abdomen angrily, he growled out.
"You don't know a single thing about me! You left before you could ever take the title of my brother! Who told you that you could just come back here, help me out on one thing, and then lecture me on a family tree that you were barely a part of?!"
With no real struggle, Griffin turned and aimed his fist to the bridge of Axel's nose. Tears sprout in the corners of his eyes. Blood dripped to the floor and stained the taller man's shoes. Another punch. Then another.
A sickening crack. Both men take steps back, panting heavily and trying to collect themselves. Griffin keeps himself to the left wall, and Axel to the right, holding his nose and letting his eyes water freely. Griffin drops his head and shakes it.
"I can tell you every single thing our father did for us and you're going to sit there, stare at me and say it was someone else? I can tell you for the ten years that I was a part of the family what we did and where we started to fall apart, WHY we started to fall apart, and you want to believe that she is the patron saint that saved you?"
Axel slides down the wall and sighs heavily, defeat clear across his face.
"Go ahead then. Tell me. Please, tell me the truth."
—---------------------------------------------------------------
"You look unwell." Obsidian eyes trail up and down the body in front of the oppressor.
"No thanks to you, my love."
A heavy sigh echoes through the room.
"You are in no state to voice your frustrations with me. You are the one who let my sons get away alive. Do not disappoint me again."
The woman's voice held no sympathy, which came as no surprise to the man in front of her. The man takes off his mask tainted with a smile as he nods.
"As you wish, Ximena."
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August 7th, 1997
Crossing the Bridge
Somewhere Else Under the King
In today's entry, Jon and Trilby have some nightmares and Martin learns about the founder of the Order of Blessed Agonies:
Jon watches. All he can do is watch.
That awful, inevitable day has come when Martin is more afraid of Terminus than he is of the Ceaseless Watcher.
“It was bound to happen.” Jon Knows this from Martin. “You were already part of the Eye when we got together. I wasn’t afraid of you then. And I’m not afraid of you anymore.”
With that, Martin begins his grim pilgrimage.
“Martin!” Jon shouts, pouring as much compulsion into his voice as possible but to no avail. “Martin, come back!”
“We both know how this must end,” Oliver Banks says.
“This is an outcome of the choice you made,” the Caretaker says.
The sickening, pulsing black root creeps up Martin’s ankle.
Jon puts his hands to his head and whimpers, “I didn’t want this.”
Oliver asks, “What did you think was going to happen?”
The Caretaker adds, “You cannot escape the consequences of your actions.”
The tendril-like root slowly slithers up Martin’s leg. Martin continues his walk.
Jon can’t stomach Martin’s fear, but he can’t turn away, either. He dutifully catalogs every terrified hitch of his breath, every tremble he makes, every wary look as he continues towards fate. Jon is nearly overwhelmed by the now-familiar desire to gouge his fucking eyes out to make it stop.
"If that is a choice you can make, why not do it?" the Caretaker asks, holding out an awl.
Martin clutches a hand to his chest, a root wrapping around his wrist and reaching towards his heart.
“It will still happen even if you can’t see it,” Oliver points out.
“Jon,” Martin tearfully shudders as the roots take their fatal hold.
Jon violently grabs the awl and rapidly swings his shaking hand up to his eye.
Jon lurches up too fast, his face already wet with tears from crying in his sleep. He presses his hands on the back of his head and sets his elbows on his curled up knees, grateful for the pain in his side telling him the truth of what happened. But he can’t stop his sobbing, can’t even attempt to keep it quiet.
He doesn’t hear it at first when Trilby wakes up in a similar state.
-
Trilby feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Someone is here with him, their whispers carrying through the halls of DeFoe Manor. The whispers creep closer, loud enough in his ears that he should feel their breath on him yet still too indistinct to understand. He whips his head around, but no one is there.
The whispers move, and he turns forward again. He can see a light on in the kitchen. His feet move forward of their own volition. He’s there, and Simone is there on the floor. He can’t look away from the awful gaping wound in her ribs, red blood so dark it’s almost black. He tries to step back, but he’s frozen in place.
His view of Simone is blocked by someone stepping between them. It’s all there just as he remembers it: the leather apron, the metal mask, the bloody machete, the Welder. Trilby can’t stop his hand from reaching out, fingers hooking on the mask to pull it off. He finds Jon beneath it.
“Jon?” he asks, fear tempered with confusion.
Jon’s face holds no expression, and he makes no move.
Trilby takes hold of the machete and pulls it from Jon’s hand, who offers no resistance. He drops it to the floor, his hand trembling. “Jon, can you hear me? Did you touch the idol?” he asks, the tension flooding him again.
When he gets no answer, he realizes the whispering has stopped. He strains his ears against the silence, but it doesn’t last long. In mere moments, the air is filled with the nauseating notes of a harpsichord.
Jon reaches for his throat without a word. His mouth is open, but the blade through his neck won’t let him speak.
Trilby falls back at the same time that Jon collapses, the blade removed from him. The Tall Man towers over them both, his body stretched impossibly tall and limbs thin and sharp. Trilby cowers under what he knows is the Tall Man’s stare, somehow able to convey just how much predatory pleasure he takes in the situation without a single physical feature on his face.
The Tall Man steps forward and kneels in front of Trilby.
Acting on panic and instinct, Trilby kicks up towards the Tall Man’s chest.
Trilby shouts and kicks the thin hospital blanket off, unaware of Jon’s crying. “Fuck,” he gasps, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and grabbing his bag. He rips it open and pulls out a small case, grateful that the case’s latch is simple to undo. He takes a pair of gloves from it and frantically yanks them on. It’s doing this that helps him calm down enough to realize he’s not the only one distressed.
“Jon?” he asks while he closes the case. No Welder mask, no apron, and most of all no machete. That’s good, though that comes with its own issue.
Jon jerks his head up with a shudder, his crying past its peak. “Trilby?”
Trilby sighs and gets to his feet, grabbing his IV stand. “Give me a minute,” he says, fully aware that neither of them are likely to get back to sleep. He slowly walks to Siobhan’s bag and drops to his knees. Unlike before, he carefully opens the bag and gently reaches inside. He takes out the bundled shirt and unwraps it, his hands shaking the whole time but knowing he’s not going to be satisfied unless he actually sees the thing. He stares at the wooden idol, feeling it through his gloves, sick from the mix of anger, relief, and medicine.
“God,” he says as though throwing the word from his mouth.
He wraps the idol up again and returns it to the bag. He keeps his gloves on as he forces himself on his feet and makes his way back to bed.
“So, not having a good night?” Trilby asks.
Jon swallows, having had a moment to calm down, and says, “That’s an understatement. You, too?”
Trilby huffs. “To put it mildly.” He puts the case back in his bag and finally takes his gloves off, setting those in the bag as well to leave them easier to access. “First rule for us traveling together, Jon: do not touch what’s in that bag with your bare hands.”
Jon nods and says, “I understand.”
“I want to be sure that you do,” Trilby says. “That artefact is dangerous, fatally so.”
Jon sighs, followed by, “I’m used to that. Dangerous artefacts, that is.” The room is quiet after that, and he gestures towards Trilby. “Mrs. Gilkenny said you were an occult researcher. I have an idea of what to expect. I won’t touch the bag or its contents.”
Trilby turns this over in his head, sets aside what he intends to follow up on later, and nods to Jon. “Okay.” Then, “Do you plan on going back to sleep?”
“No,” Jon answers.
Trilby nods at this and takes some papers out of his bag. “Good. Won’t have to worry about disturbing you.”
“What are you doing?”
“Working. Consider me officially on your case.”
-
Martin takes the time to explore the library, properly explore it. He’s got a general idea of its layout by now, having pulled this text or that to bounce ideas off of Jackson during their initial poetry discussions, but now he’s thoroughly sweeping over each shelf. It doesn’t take long to find the section he expects will be the main focus of their discussion today: religious texts. Near the shelf is a small table holding a sleek, black case. Above the shelf is a portrait: a young clean-shaven man in a wig and fine Georgian era clothes. His smile draws focus, and Martin wishes he could praise the artist for capturing the elusive nuances of skepticism and indulgence in that smile.
“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Jackson comments as he joins Martin.
Martin shakes, surprised by how taken he was with the painting. “Yeah,” he admits. “Is he your ancestor?”
“Ah, no,” Jackson says, fondly shaking his head. “My ancestor was Jack Frehorn. That’s Wilbur Yarrow. He was Jack’s favorite lover.”
Martin gestures to the painting and goes, “I mean, I’d hope so if he’s got a painting of him in his family’s library.”
“Thank you! Seems like every time I look into an academic text about Jack, they call Wilbur his ‘friend,’” he says, complete with air quotes. “It’s ridiculous. Jack even wrote about himself and Wilbur being lovers in his scripture.”
“Yeah? Seems like that’d take away the ambiguity,” Martin says. “Was Wilbur responsible for his awakening as a cult leader or something?”
“In a way.” Jackson approaches, looking up at the portrait. “To be honest, the story is partly about them getting into a fight about a harpsichord.”
Martin laughs, taken aback. “Really?”
“Really,” Jackson answers. “Occultism was starting to take hold, and Jack was among those who got interested. So he began hunting down whatever relics he could find tied to supernatural occurrences. The harpsichord was one of these purchases, made from the remains of an inn called the Unicorn that had seen such happenings. Wilbur, being the one with the sensible head between the two, chided him for wasting his family’s money on it. It’s after this that things take their own turn towards the supernatural, and thus are difficult if not impossible to verify.”
“Go on,” Martin says. “I’m well past ‘you’re never gonna believe this’ when it comes to that sorta stuff. Only-” he holds up a hand “-spare me the most gruesome details?”
Jackson nods. “All right. That night, Jack woke up to an empty bed and somebody playing his harpsichord. Fearing it was a robber playing a joke on him, he took his pistol and went downstairs. What he saw instead, in short, was a demon. So he fired the gun, but it wasn’t the demon that dropped dead.”
Martin shivers with a grimace as he’s left to draw his own conclusion. “And then?”
“The demon came to Jack, who begged for his life. And Jack got what he asked for, but in return...”
Jackson lets the sentence hang unfinished, instead turning his attention to the shelves. He tugs one of the books free and holds it out for Martin, the simple white cover with black text reading, “The Annotated Books of CHZO.” It says the original author of the scripture was Jack Frehorn with the annotations done by a Dorian Lovelace. In one corner is a symbol in red ink, a circle with four triangles put together so their sides form a square in the middle, making it look a bit like a compass rose.
“Chzo?” Martin attempts to say.
“That’s probably as close as a person can say it. The book’s technically meant to be used to better understand the scriptures, but to be honest, I’m not sure what would be a more effective way to warn you about the Order of the Blessed Agonies,” Jackson says.
Martin takes the book, raising an eyebrow as he does. “Besides the fact that they call themselves the Order of the Blessed Agonies?”
“As well as the Friends of Jack Frehorn,” Jackson points out. “Some other names, too, over the years, but Friends of Jack Frehorn is what they like calling themselves in public nowadays. They had a holiday recently, which is probably why that one yesterday felt bold enough to approach us in a public place.” He waves his hand a little. “The introduction gives you a good overview of their core beliefs. And anything we work on with my poetry will probably come from either Frehorn’s section in the Book of Victims or the Book of the Bridge.”
Martin brings the book to the desk and opens it up, saying, “The very fact that there’s a Book of Victims is pretty telling.”
“Believe it or not, the Book of Victims is a selling point for a lot of new followers,” Jackson says. “I guess it’s that idea of purity through pain.”
“That...would do it,” Martin agrees with a nod. “Something about suffering feeling productive? Or at least like being in control if you do it yourself.”
Jackson nods. “But it’s a lie. Don’t forget that, Martin.”
“Which part?” Martin asks.
“Suffering being the same as progress.” Jackson pauses a moment before asking, “Martin, do you think Jack had a choice?”
Martin looks up from the book. “What?”
Jackson rolls his hand a little as if drawing the words out of himself. “I’m sorry, I think I skipped ahead a little. Let me try again. Choice is the way to exercise control. No choice means no control. Do you think Jack had a choice in his story?”
Martin considers the question, the two letting it stand in the silence. Finally, he breaks it with, “Hard to say, really.”
Jackson nods. “It’s worth thinking about. How to see choices, I mean.” He then grabs a chair and joins Martin at the desk. “So! Order of the Blessed Agonies, also known as the Friends of Jack Frehorn. Pretty standard pain cult, I guess. I don’t know how many there actually are in the world, but doubt they’re the only ones. Not only think pain is the way to enlightenment but actively worship pain, believe it’s experienced in body, mind and soul. Stop me if I’m going too fast.”
“Nah, I’m with you so far,” Martin tells him.
And with that, they continue their makeshift lesson.
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jigsaw
pairing: severus snape x reader
reader’s pronouns: he/him
author’s note: sigh. sev. brain rot. i mean huhhhh. typo, sorry.
“Finally going to ask Evans on a date?” you grin, elbowing Severus in the arm. The dark-haired boy growls and pushes you away rather exaggeratedly, and you pretend to nearly fall over in return.
“No,” Severus eventually replies, shoving his hands in the pockets of his robes. It’s an entirely mundane habit, one that you don't remember him ever doing before. You have half of a mind to remark he got it from you. The rational part of you quickly dismisses the idea.
“Why not?” you badger him, ignoring his clear annoyance. Severus is always annoyed. If you stopped talking whenever he was feeling frustrated, you wouldn’t ever get to say anything. “Scared?”
“I’m not scared,” Severus hisses, as if the notion is entirely ridiculous. Despite the fact that he is telling the truth, there’s still clearly something he’s hiding. You would like to know what it is.
“Come on,” you sigh, scratching your arm. Your friend doesn’t say anything to that, instead deigning to continue walking at your side moodily. For a while, the two of you are entirely silent. You swallow hard. “Sev. You know I wouldn’t judge you for anything. And I mean anything.”
You think you hear him murmur well, in that case, but you put it down to your imagination. The dark-haired boy does, however, stop in his tracks and turn to look at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “I like someone else,” he says, his gaze intense. You raise your eyebrows, not quite expecting him to say that.
“Who is she?” you grin, and somehow you immediately lose any progress you thought you made. Severus manages to look even more disappointed in you, if that’s even possible. You squint at him in confusion.
“It’s not a girl,” Severus mutters under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest rather defensively. You raise an eyebrow at him, admittedly feeling a little bit surprised. It wasn't surprising that he liked a guy- you’d suspected him to be gay for a while now- but, rather, that he hadn’t told you of his crush sooner. The two of you tell each other everything. The betrayal you’re feeling must show on your face, because Severus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was planning to tell you.”
Despite the admission, your friend doesn’t seem at all eager to say who it is. This leads you to the conclusion that guessing the person might be fruitful, rather than forcing him to say the person’s name.
“Malfoy?” you ask. Severus shakes his head, his gaze flitting from your face to somewhere else. He is acting rather cagey, and you almost wonder if you should just drop the subject altogether. You’re dying of curiosity, admittedly, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. You say as much to Severus, who just shakes his head at the assumption.
The dark-haired boy seems to become more downcast with each person you guess. His mood completely plummets, his fists clenched at his sides. You’re not sure why he hasn’t just named the person yet. You rack your memories for anyone Severus has ever interacted with, when suddenly a disturbing thought comes to your mind.
“Oh Merlin, it’s not Potter, is it?” you ask, immediately regretting it when you see Severus’s nose scrunch up in disgust.
“Never,” Severus spits out, as if the mere idea is sickening. You laugh at the revolted expression on his face, a far cry from the typical uncaring mask he usually wears.
“I’m kind of running out of guesses here, Sev,” you sigh, moving to sit on one of the alcoves that looks out onto the grounds. Severus leans against the pillar adjacent to you, a strange expression on his face. “Just tell me who it is.”
“I can’t,” the dark-haired boy whispers, and this time, you can’t stop the frustrated groan that escapes your lips. You grimace and turn to Severus, looking at him with a pleading expression.
“Seriously?” you sigh, looking up to the sky for a moment and closing your eyes. You try your best to summon the patience you know is required from you as a friend, before you open your eyes once more. The moment you tilt your head back down, Severus is standing right in front of you. You just barely suppress a flinch at the sudden proximity.
“I can’t tell you,” Severus repeats, his eyes never straying from your face. He takes another step forward, and you nervously place your hands next to you, trying to give yourself something to do that distracts you from the closeness. “But I can show you.”
“Okay,” you nod, pushing yourself to your feet. To your surprise, Severus doesn’t move a muscle, leading you to practically crash into him. He steadies you with a hand on your forearm. “Um, let’s- let’s go then?”
You’re so incredibly confused, and the impatient expression on your friend’s face certainly isn’t helping. His hand is still on your arm, and you’re standing so close that your noses are almost touching. You immediately move to step back, only to nearly trip on the alcove behind you. Severus’s hold on your arm tightens as he wrenches you back from falling.
“Why aren’t we moving?” you whisper, and Severus sighs so hard that you can feel his breath on your neck. You definitely feel like you’re missing something, but you have no idea what it is. Clearly, it’s something important, if Severus’s increasing annoyance at your cluelessness is anything to go by.
“He’s right here,” Severus murmurs, his eyes meeting yours. His gaze is expectant, and his hands are trembling at his sides. You squint at him, wracking your brain for who this could be. “For Merlin’s sake.” He hisses, grabbing you by the collar of your robes and tugging you towards him. He presses his lips to yours, and instantly everything starts to make sense.
“Oh,” you remark when you break apart. Severus’s cheeks are flushed, and he has a soft smile on his face. You can’t help but return his happiness with a grin of your own. “Why didn’t you just say so?” Severus sighs in exasperation, grabbing your hand and yanking you to follow after him.
#NOT A PROMPT#snape x reader#snape x male reader#severus snape#severus snape x male reader#hp x male reader#x male reader#male y/n
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Hello! Call me Anarchy Anon! Take your time with this please. Can you maybe do a c! SBI + platonic husbands that are all exploring the nether and they find "The NetherVoid" Also find the "Quartress" Then Tommy drags Tubbo and Ranboo to the "Quartress" to steal stuff, but Blaze Empress reader caches them and about to send blaze guards, but Philza (first one to realize the trio was gone) stopped reader and reader recognized Phil [because he is a old and good friend of hers] {Season 4 Lore}
Don’t Steal From The Empress
Ooooooooh, this is such a cool idea! Also, hello new anon, could I have your pronouns please! I changed it up a bit. Hope its to your liking.
Pronouns - She/her
Warnings - slight explicit language, small mention of nsfw (just saying that someone got busy and nothing else)
The sickening humid air flowed around the crimson dimension. The heat is almost unbearable unless you are used to it.
Loud footsteps rang out around the blonde as he ran through the large nether fortress, two pairs following close behind.
“Tommy! Wait up!” The ram hybrid called after the blonde haired boy. Ranboo followed after the two, close behind his husband, Tubbo.
The blonde skillfully weaved around the monsters which roamed the hall of the fortress, the other two struggling to keep up.
After around a few minutes of non-stop running the blonde boy finally came to a halt. Tubbo was the first to reach Tommy while Ranboo was huffing and puffing behind them, trying to catch his breath.
“Tommy,” Tubbo paused, letting out a huge breath of air before he continued, “where are we going.”
The blonde gave the hybrid his signature innit grin before he began to speak, “Well yesterday I was exploring the nether void and was messing around when I found something that was almost as cool as a big man here.”
Tommy began to mine away at the ground when all of a sudden he dropped down into the abyss. Ranboo let out a gasp while Tubbo looked down the hole noticing the boy falling onto a white thing down below. Tubbo glanced at Ranboo before jumping in, Ranboo following after.
When they soon were greeted with a large white fortress which they fell on top of, no it was more castle than a fortress. It’s quartz walls stood around thirty blocks tall, a tower on each corner. In the center of it stood a large castle with towers on all corners of that as well. In front of them was a beautifully crafted bridge that hung over the lava.
The two husbands looked on in awe at the castle, I mean they had seen amazing builds before but nothing like this, it was marvelous.
“What, who's is it?” Questioned the enderman. Tommy shrugged his shoulders and continued down the path leading towards the kingdom.
Tubbo noted the two guards standing at the entrance of the large doors, they were tall and looked buff.
“Tommy don’t you think this might be a tad bit dangerous,” Ranboo’s tail flicked from side to side as he continued, “I mean what if these people aren’t friendly, we might be killed.”
Tommy let out an annoyed huff, “Has that ever stopped me before?” he questioned.
“Look, I have a plan! We sneak in there, find some shiny things, borrow them and get out of there.” Tubbo raised a brow at the ‘borrow’ part.
“Are you going to be returning what you ‘borrowed’.” Tubbo air quoted when he spoke.
“No."
“Then that’s not borrowing. It’s stealing Tommy.” Tommy rolled his eyes and glanced at the guards.
“Look, I promise nothing bad is going to happen, okay? We get I and then we get out! kapeesh?”
Ranboo and Tubbo glanced at each other, going with what the other would say.
“Okay, we're in.” Tommy pumped his fist in the air. “Let’s goooooo.”
Tommy struggled against the grip of the guard, he was much shorter than them.
“Let go of us, and we won’t tell the great Technoblade about this!” The guard only let out a small chuckle as he led Tommy to a larger room.
Behind Tommy was Ranboo and Tubbo who were being forced to go the same way as he was going.
Ranboo was panicking, his heart beat picking up to high speeds. Tubbo placed his hand on Ranboo’s shoulder, “Everything is going to be okay."
They were led into a large room, which Ranboo believed to be the throne room possibly due to the large throne which stood at the end of the room.
As they made it down the hall Ranboo began to make out the person sitting on the throne.
She stood around nine feet tall, maybe taller than that. Around her were 3 pairs of arms on either side of her, they weren’t attached to her body which made Ranboo wonder how she could move them. Around her arms were the regular blaze rods which circled around her.
Her crown looked like antlers; it was a crimson red. She was a sight to behold. Her dress.
Standing beside her throne were two guards, the one on her right had their mouth gaped open and the one on her left had a smile on their face, they stood around 9 feet.
The woman narrowed her eyes when she spotted the boys coming down the hall, standing up to her full height. She was actually thirteen feet tall, making her tower over the enderman and the others.
When they finally came to a stop the four guards kneeled in front of the empress. She glared at the three boys before drifting over to them.
Ranboo stared in awe when he made eye contact with her, she snarled, "I didn’t think that the Ender King would send one of his own kin to die, oh wait I forgot he already did that to every single one of his subjects, now the only ones left live in the overworld and here in the nether. He was too greedy, he wanted every biome and dimension in his world, he instead fucked it all up and caused a mass extinction.” her voice echoed around them.
“You talk too much, woman.” She narrowed her eyes at the blonde and growled, “You were caught stealing, and I do not-"
“We weren’t stealing, we were just borrowing.” The Empress let out a thunderous laugh.
“A thief and a liar, now what I was about to say, thieves in my kingdom are given the penalty of death.” Ranboo’s heart stopped.
“Now how would-“ she was interrupted by a loud voice, “Y/n! Stop!” The empress lifted her head trying to locate the source of the voice, when she saw it.
“Philza Minecraft,” she called out, he flew down the hall and landed in front of her, bowing his head in respect.
Phil had been brewing some potions with Techno when he noticed something was off.
“Techno. Does something seem a tad bit off to you mate?” Techno paused for a moment before shaking his head no.
“I think today has turned out to be a good day though, its been a while since we’ve had one of those.” Phil nodded before returning to brewing.
All of a sudden he let out a loud gasp making the pigeon hybrid jump slightly.
“The boys!”
“Y/n L/n, s’been a while.” he let out a small chuckle. He glanced at the boys shooting them a ‘we’ll talk when we get home’ look.
“We can talk in a few moments. I'm in the middle of something if you can’t see.” she glanced back at the boys.
Phil put his hands up in front of him, “Yeah, I noticed, but I have to interrupt you with this. I can’t let you execute them,” he let out a loud huff, “they’re mine."
The empress raised a brow, “They are your kids, I would have never known, I mean the blonde here shows no manners, and is a liar. The next one here is a ram hybrid and the other an enderman hybrid.”
“Yes, yes I know. The blonde is my son, the other two are his friends.” She let out a small chuckle, “For a moment I thought you had a way with the ladies."
“I must apologize for the three of them, if you may spare them and punish them some other way.” She raised a brow and let out a sigh.
“As long as they return what they have stolen and apologize, I will give them no punishment.” The blonde cringed slightly at the thought of apologizing to her.
The other two apologized right away while it took Tommy a bit more to get himself to apologize.
“Thank you Y/n,” Phil dipped his head for her. “We will meet again soon.” she nods a goodbye before taking her place on her throne once more.
Once they had been escorted out of the kingdom Phil had smacked all three of them on the back of the head. “What were you idiots thinking.” he placed his hand on his head, “My god you three could’ve died if I didn’t show up.”
“We had it under control.” The blonde whined, “No we didn’t.” the other two said in unison."
“You guys are supposed to have my back on these kinds of things.” Tommy let out an annoyed huff.
Let's just say that they were all grounded.
#SBI#Tommyinnit#Tommy#WIlbur Soot#WIlbur#Technoblade#myct#dsmp#dream smp#sbi x reader#sbi x you#sbi x y/n#Sleepy bois inc#Sleepy bois inc au#sleepy bois inc x reader#Tommyinnit x reader#Tommy x reader#tommyinnit x you#tommyinnit x y/n#tommyinnit x sibling reader#tommy x you#platonic dream smp x reader#platonic ranboo#Ranboo#dream smp reader insert#dream journal#dreamsmp#dream smp x y/n#dream smp headcannon#dream smp x reader
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