#Riota
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a lot of text!! that info about my golden kamuy oc! (there can be mistakes sorry, also it's like some "waves of thoughts" )
name is Riota
in general he has three names and he himself is German by nationality
the first name is German, Isaac Muller (in the first version there was a Schlosser, but I decided to change it because I wanted a big reference to the person from whom I came up with it)
the Russian name he took upon moving to Russia: Boris Belov
and Japanese Ryota
based on Siegfried Müller who was known for his "devilish smile" and was himself a brutal mercenary in African countries
Ryota himself is also a mercenary who is known to a sufficient part of the cities of Hokkaido, where he mainly created his reputation as a ruthless and cold-blooded killer for money
Isaac lived in a small German village (I haven’t chosen one specifically here yet, I think to tie all the events together) in a family that was not
very rich, but had enough to live on
mother died when Isaac was 5 years old
after the death of his wife, the father became very strict towards his son and showed little love or tenderness, starting to raise him in strict discipline and wanted his son to stay in the village itself and help his fellow villagers work in the fields
father knew how to write and read, which he taught him at an early age, so he could outstrip many children in the village at least in this sense
the mother died of illness and various rumors spread throughout the village, which they heard and the children began to bully Isaak; subsequently, in one of the skirmishes, Isaak was seriously wounded in the eye
Father cared little about this and all he could do was find a doctor who diagnosed that the eye could not be restored and Isaac would never be able to see with it again
it hit him pretty hard
at a certain point, rumors spread throughout the village about Isaac himself, regarding his eyes, which were brightened up with notions that he was sick like his mother and was completely contagious, which forced his peers to avoid him more than to bully him, but did not get rid of the latter
in one of the skirmishes, Isaak decided to use rumors in his favor and began to intimidate the offenders that he would infect them, which of course frightened the not very educated children and gave Isaak a sign that now he could stand up for himself at least this way
Soon Isaak began to threaten his peers more and more, adding that he could deprive them of their eyes if they did not stop.
at that moment he became really harmful and embittered in part and the former timidity and fear began to disappear (in the future this will play a strong role in his relationship with other people)
the older Isaac became, the more he dreamed of leaving the village because he didn’t see any prospects here
he really wanted to see other countries, and if he did live, he wanted to live in a city where there were more opportunities
These ideas diverged from father, for which Isaak received home more than once
however, having reached an older age (I’m also thinking about this for the time being in connection with other events), he treats his desires more decisively and declares that he is leaving whether his father wants it or not
father wanted to object and hit Isaak, but this time Isaak fought back, hitting his father with his fist; he falls and hits his head on the edge of the table
Isaak collects his things in a hurry and only glances briefly at the body of his father, blood accumulating at his temple
he didn’t want to kill him and at that moment he didn’t think about it, all he could think about was that he just hit himself and would wake up and now he had to run no matter the cost to him
for a certain time he moves between German cities (I will also look at the dates, because he grew up around the end of the 19th century when Bismarck united Germany)
Isaak decides to leave for Russia because he heard about it from his neighbors
he was really interested in seeing what was there and, moreover, just staying in the new conditions since Germany did not give in to his desires
in one of the cities he found a person who taught him basic knowledge of Russian since although Isaak spontaneously planned to go there, he still prepared
he moved like a hare just during the move, he nevertheless decided to glue a bandage on his eye, because all the time before he had covered it with ordinary cloth
the first bandage was not made of very good material, but he was happy with such a little thing that he made himself
first of all he comes to St. Petersburg
(initially there was a slightly different option, but now I’m thinking about making it more logical)
here he moves from one workplace to another, but this is how he finds new acquaintances and establishes certain connections (in general, there were also a lot of Germans here)
he meets a weapons collector who was a very compassionate and lonely person, finding Izaak’s situation and his story very tragic, and out of the kindness of his heart, decides to help him and partly takes guardianship over the young Isaak
this man begins to tell Isaac a lot about the weapons that he received about the beauty of battles and the valor of soldiers
Isaak is very impressed by the stories of the trustee, especially the expression with which he tells it is that he gradually develops a love for weapons and, in addition, a genuine interest (the expression of a collector is deeply deposited in Riota’s consciousness, which will become a trait of his character, then this will especially manifest itself in his behavior)
the collector even begins to teach him to shoot (with one eye this is not so easy) but Isaak’s interest and desire play into his hands
they develop quite a trusting relationship and maybe partly parental, because the collector was lonely and found in Isaak something like a son whom he never had and never will
he places Isaak through personal connections in Krondshtat where Isaak enters service in the navy
here he takes on a new Russian name, Boris Belov, to make it easier to communicate with his colleagues
During all this time, Boris diligently improved his conversational Russian skills, but still wrote not competently, but at the level of a foreigner who knows the language not so badly but not well enough either
in his service, Boris is increasingly passionate about military affairs and weapons in particular
still in his free time he visits the collector and begins to study the various calibers and their intricacies of use
at this stage, Boris begins to develop ideas for making money
firstly, he wanted to connect it with the shooting
he finds the most understandable and simple way to connect money and weapons in murders for hire
(old sketches)
here he begins his career as a mercenary but is quite inept because he didn’t shoot at people
he did not try to aim high and deal with influential people
it was the first experience
It was during this period of time that Boris became further and further away from moral values and the value of human life, questions about which had long since begun to be raised in Russia at that time
The Russo-Japanese War is about to begin, which is what the collector is talking about with Boris
he admires Asian culture (in general, the attraction to such exotic countries was just popular in Russia), in particular guns and other things, and urgently asks Boris to go to Japan (with which there will soon be a war, which the man himself is aware of from personal connections) and bring him several models for his collection
Boris cordially agrees and even begins to get excited about it, but what comes to the fore for him is the opportunity to use weapons and develop his skills
if Boris goes to the front he can do it without breaking the law
Boris does not end up at the very beginning of the war, but only when the front lines have formed only then does he enter the service
here he really finds his place and hones his skills
he was never passionate about this war
During the entire time he lived in Russia, Boris fell in love with this country and its traditions, but was never able to become an adherent of the culture of tsarism
he did not fight for the fatherland, for his homeland for the tsar, he fought for his own benefit
It was here that Boris distinguished himself with excellent shooting from a machine gun, which his comrade-in-arms noted that despite the fact that in general you could hit someone with a machine gun, Boris “shot with it especially accurately and practically”
he tried himself with shotguns and rifles, whenever possible he tried to learn secrets from experienced fighters and took note of everything
the love for fire only grew in him
there were times when Boris killed soldiers on his side
this happened in the forests if the soldier was alone, he shot at him from behind the trees to hone his skills from a long distance
he really didn’t care who to kill right now
the stage of the war became the final point for him when he lost and lost his conscience and guilt for this
stopped thinking about it and stopped being tormented by doubts
it was something he liked, something he wanted to do
but obviously not at the front
at a certain point, he finds an opportunity and leaves the combat zone, going to Japan, namely to the island of Hokkaido, after which no one heard about him except that he was called a deserter and a traitor to his homeland
here he takes the name Riota and begins his real career as a mercenary, having previously been a soldier and an aspiring weapons lover
his orders and hires are becoming larger and his name is being talked about more and more in certain circles
he's really starting to gain popularity as a thug and a great weapons expert
In addition to his thoughtfulness, he was distinguished by the fact that he was good at setting up mass murders, which was quite difficult
but even here he developed certain methods of work
violent torture did not bring him pleasure or frustration, so he never fulfilled requests to mock the victim before death, which very offended and sophisticated customers could ask for
he did everything quickly
it is worth saying that he truly became a master of his craft and if the orders concerned children, women, old people, not a single muscle on his body trembled and there was no feeling of pity in him that could stop him
he did not show that human weakness that anyone else in his place could have done
gradually people begin to recognize him and by his smile they begin to call him by the same name “a mercenary with a devilish smile” (again a reference to Müller’s Congo)
Having started to explore Japan, he also learns Japanese
he knows it worse than Russian and German (he speaks Russian without an accent)
in Japanese he can make semantic errors and sometimes he himself does not understand what is being said to him
Ryota can say something completely wrong, so the Japanese can relatively often lose the logic of a conversation
contacts the seventh division only because of tsurumi who pays him money as a mercenary
he does not have much contact with its members, however, almost everyone evokes contempt and disrespect in him, which is manifested in his openly boorish behavior towards the soldiers
(I'll still be refining it)
thank u! :)
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Welp, they asked in the blog if I could draw Riota.
Here it is
By the way, designs are from @justanechoflower and @drawingprincess
I know I can still do it better, but who cares :P
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YOOOOO BROOOOOOO
LMAO
imagine Riota vs Chara it will be cool
i mean
Riota Design looks very cool and imagine if Chara and Riota are enemies who will win?
Pretty sick dude!
Oh wow I never actually thought about that
And yeah, it's actually a very good concept
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Riota, Sachi’s best friend and famous author when it comes to horror and murder mystery
He prefers getting called Rio and lives for the drama
His ability allows him to control one person and calls it “Puppet Control”
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❤️🔥 | RIOTA CHILD TODOBAKU | 💥
Ещё как-то давно я представляла образ или образы детей todobaku, но сейчас не помню ни один и это очень печально. Суть не в этом, я планировала доделать других детей, а конкретно по narusasu, и начать их рисовать, потому что в симсе они хоть и выглядят внешность как мне надо, но не одеждой, вообщем образ не тот. Ладно, сохранилась и сбросила семью и вместо них появляется как обычно сим, который ну грубыми чертами лица смахивает на Бакуго. Ну, я весь вечер сидела над ним, подбирали тут все ему образы, получилось по сравнению с другими довольно таки быстро
🧠 🌸 🍧 🦩 📷 ⚪️ 🔴
Риота весь бело-розый, кроме одного глаза, который здесь просто оранжевый, но он цвета глаз бакуговского красно-оранжевого что-ли, я думала, что его глаза оранжевого цвета, оказалось они просто красные. Посмотрела я на него с красным глазом и оранжевым, ну, и, как видно, оставила последний, потому что меня бы тошнило от переизбытка белого и розового, а оранжевый, как глоток свежего воздуха на его лице
Я, походу, не загрузила ещё один повседневный образ. Риоте добавила тату, и сейчас подумала, насчёт реакции его родителей. Шото не то чтобы возможно был бы не доволен, хотя на первый пирсинг ушей они точно всей семьёй пошли, но так все мы помним его детство, мне кажется у него появились капельки мыслей, что он плохой отец. У Бакуго не было таких мыслей, едиснственое, что его волновало это калол ли он в хорошом салоне и не подцепил ли этим какой-нибудь хуйни, но его реакция была типа:"Какого хуя?! Шото, съхуяли, ты сделал такие выводы? Послушай....." и там идёт пояснение в его стили почему это не так. Насамом деле, они не такие уж плохие родители, но все таки раз они герои, то это повлияло на Риоту и его решении, что он не хочет быть героем. Хоть он сильно восхищается и уважает своих родителей, у него не было сильного желания им стать и такого впечатления как у них в детстве тоже не появилось. Ребёнком детство он провел у матери Бакуго, но все таки Мицуки относилась к нему точно не как с сыном.
Риото кстати считает, что легко сдал бы экзамен. Правда, учиться в этом месте, даже если он хотел бы стать героем, пустая трата времени. Да, и он подрабатывает фотомоделью со времен школы. Вот, что он говорит всем, чтобы отвязаться, когда у него спрашивают, почему он не герой как его родители
#todobaku child#todobaku#не люблю хештеги#симс 4#симс 4 кас#sims 4#sims 4 cas#my oc#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#bnha#shouto todoroki#bakugou katsuki#моя геройская академия#Тодороки#Бакуго#todobaku love child
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Riota Not Diets
[Yellow paint pen on city property]
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Chapter Three: Blood and Fur
When I awoke again, the angle of the sunlight at the mouth of the cave let me know that it was near-unto noon. I pushed myself up, folding my legs beneath me, and looked around. The others were all awake, although it was difficult for me to tell if they had slept or not. Metka was the only one I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt had gone without any rest. She had hardly moved. Small dark circles under her eyes were just barely visible, and it looked like she may have been crying.
I pushed myself to my feet. We needed to get moving.
The Hand’s progress was significantly slowed now. None of us were quite as eager about what we were set to do after Riota. We would still do it, but we found each step difficult. Metka especially looked grim, with her mouth knitted into a tight line and her brow constantly furrowed. Perhaps worst of all, none of us dared go out as a forward scout again, lest the shrieker return.
Of course, we worried about what might happen if the caravan went off-route. We couldn’t know until too late, now. We’d probably still catch up with it, should the worst happen, but it would be a wrench in the works. Unfortunately, the Hand couldn’t afford to risk another of our members - or even the first. Had we known a shrieker was in our way, Riota wouldn’t have been let out to scout ahead.
Nileas was the only one to seem back to normal. He was still a bit curt with Lek, but with the rest of us he was the same perfectly charming man he always was. His walk felt energetic in a way the rest of us couldn’t quite muster anymore, and he was mouthing equations and formulas near-constantly, occasionally slipping into chant-like recitation out loud. None of us minded; we were used to it, and the silence which would have hung over our band otherwise would have been torture.
By nightfall, Gerevor had begun to spin a joke-filled tale about the days before the Cataclysm. It was full of half-truths, blatant lies, and characters who couldn’t possibly have existed in the time and place he was speaking of, but it was enough to raise most of our spirits a bit. Metka remained just as tight-wound and miserable, but even she cracked a thin smile once or twice.
We found cover again underneath a bridge in the path. It was remarkable that the bridge was even there, this far from one of the Crown cities. I found myself looking closer than I normally would have, faintly confused by its existence. The bridge was woven almost entirely of metal, with thin cords Nileas told me were metal, and somehow worked to keep it standing without much in the way of support. It was clear it was pre-Cataclysm in design, and that fascinated me even more.
Not many pre-Cataclysm structures were still standing today. Even in the days before, our people were said to have regressed technologically, leading to architecture that was closer to that we used now than anything else. The few structures which could stand through it all were truly old, predating the Cataclysm by many lifetimes, and yet this bridge bore few marks of its age.
I took the first watch, mostly wanting to continue studying the bridge, rather than truly keep watch. We were sleeping again earlier than was natural, with the shrieker serving as our impetus. We would have to travel during the day, rather than as we usually did, and while none of us were eager for that, it was better than being picked off by the horrible creature.
Metka was the first to fall asleep, curled up against Riota’s side atop the cart. Lek, Gerevor, and Nileas sat around a small fire beside the cart for a full hour before any of them fell into sleep’s welcoming arms. Lek offered Nileas some of his redleaf, clearly attempting to soothe the ill will which had arisen between them, and smoke curled out from their mouths and into the bottom of the bridge above, pooling between the beams which made up its bottom.
We heard the cry of the shrieker only once through the night, well into the distance. It might have been comforting that it was so far away, but for the fact that we all knew the ground a shrieker would cover for prey. If we could still hear it, we were definitely still at risk. After an hour or two, Lek pushed himself to his feet, stretching out his arms as he walked over to me. “My watch. Go rest.” He said, his soft voice spilling into my ear like the smoke Nileas still trailed up into the bridge’s underside.
I waved him off. “I slept longest today. I’ll take the first few watches.”
Lek stared at me for a moment. His face was, as ever, unreadable, but after the moment passed he nodded, walking back to the fire and stretching out over the ground without so much as a bedroll. I shook my head, a tiny grin splitting my lips. Gerevor and I had a running bet about if Lek doing that was a wylding thing or if he was just strange. Gerevor maintains to this day that it couldn’t possibly be a wylding thing.
Settling in for a long watch was second nature to me by this point. I had a habit of taking multiple watches, even when I hadn’t slept long. I still don’t know where it came from, in honesty, but the rest of the Hand accepted it without much complaint, since it gave them longer to rest.
I sat atop an oddly square block of white-grey stone which wrapped itself against the metal base of the bridge, looking out into the forest. Idly, I wondered if there had been a river here once. The gap the bridge covered would certainly be a bit difficult to traverse, but it was hardly a ravine. It mattered little, but idle thought was really all one had when on watch.
A sound something like a chirp came from the other side of me. I turned, surprised that anything would come close enough to our camp to sound that close. Standing atop the same odd white-grey stone was a silver-furred fox, head cocked to one side as it stared at me in an oddly human gesture.
Slowly, I tore a small chunk off one of the pieces of preserved meat I had in a small bag inside my jacket and reached it out to the fox. It darted forward, snatched the meat from my fingers, and scampered away. I smiled faintly and shook my head. Ungrateful little creature.
~
When I woke the next morning, Metka and Nileas were awake, with Nileas on watch. Gerevor and Lek were soundly asleep beside the embers of our fire - Lek didn’t look like he had moved at all, although I knew he had taken at least one shift on watch. Nileas had his back turned to the rest of us, staring out at the forest from where he sat atop the stump of a tree.
I stood and stretched. We needed to get moving earlier today, if we were going to get back on pace. Pushing at my neck while tilting it to one side, I heard a small crack and sighed in relief. Damn thing always locked up a bit after sleeping out in the wild. I walked over to Gerevor and kicked at his side. The lanky man came to his feet in a clumsy, fumbling motion, his hand outstretched in front of him like one of the unarmed fighters so common in the west, and I laughed at him.
Gerevor gave me the sign of the lady, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his other hand, and went to wake Lek. Metka was sitting atop the cart again, tending to Riota. I gave her a pensive morning greeting, and she gave me a half-hearted wave. Nileas turned, most likely hearing movement in our little camp, and came off the stump, joining us in packing up what little was out.
Setting out again was significantly easier, now that we had settled back into something approaching our routine, albeit shifted into the light of day. We made good time, by any metric I could think of.
Partway through the day’s travels, I noticed the silver fur of the fox from the night before flitting from tree to tree alongside the Hand. Smiling, I waved for the rest of the Hand to keep moving and faded into the treeline. The art of moving silently had been one of the ones which came to me easily during my time with the Hand, and doing so inside a forest was easier than one might think.
Everyone always worries about how branches will break under your feet, or how there are always eyes of the animals watching from angles you can’t possibly predict. In truth, it is likely harder for most people than it was for me, but I took to it all like a fish to water. I stepped over branches with steps so light that I never worried one would break, and glided from tree to tree like a shadow. I was never seen. Even Riota, who had started my teaching, fell behind me on that front, although the rest of her woodcraft was, admittedly, far superior to my own.
I found the fox staring around the trunk of a tree, silver fur glinting softly in the bits of sunlight which dripped through the boughs of the trees above. It looked after the rest of the Hand with its head cocked to one side yet again, and I got the odd impression it was trying to work out where I was. I crouched down beside it, extending one hand with a bit of meat out in front of its face, and the little creature leaped backwards, hackles raised and a growl in its throat.
It settled very quickly after seeing me - or possibly the food I was offering, who can say. I gave it a little smile, and it stepped closer, taking the meat and biting it back with a single motion. I gave it a little wave and slipped out of the treeline and back onto the path, running after the Hand until I caught up.
Glancing back, I saw that the fox had slipped out onto the road as well, and was following us, black-furred feet in an odd, prancing rhythm. It made little effort to catch up, but just the sight of it following along made me happy enough, and I turned back to the road ahead.
~
We made camp again under an overhanging lip of the Shining Cliffs. This was the last night before we were set to come across the caravan, and each of us prepared in our own fashion. Nileas mostly seemed to sit beside the fire, sketching complex magical equations into the dirt around it with his finger. Occasionally, he went back, brushed out a portion of one of his equations, and wrote in something new. Lek tuned and re-tuned his crossbow compulsively, working in complete silence, back against the cart. Gerevor and Metka duelled, Gerevor with his odd, lopsided spear and Metka with the ever-present sword she so cherished.
Gerevor’s story about where he had gotten his spear changed every time he told it. The first time I asked, he told me he had taken it from a knight of the Crown after winning it in fair combat. The next, he said the spear was made in the western fashion, and he had stolen it from a caravan the Hand had hit travelling from the Crown with tribute. Nileas said Gerevor had made the spear himself, and as much as it was difficult to disbelieve something Nileas said, the tiny smile he wore when he said it told me that, too, was one of Gerevor’s stories.
In any case, the spear was a strange thing. Its haft was a near-white metal, as long as Gerevor himself - and just as thin. Tiny silver cracks covered the entirety of the metal, making the weapon look as if it were constantly on the edge of shattering into pieces, but I had seen Gerevor use it long enough to know this was an illusion. Strangest of all was the spear’s head. The blade sat alongside the haft’s head, rather than atop it, curved into a crescent. One of the crescent’s points reached upwards, like the head of a normal spear, while the other pointed out from the haft at a near 90° angle, with the whole of the edge between the two points just as sharp.
From what I could tell, none of the others in the Hand knew where the spear had come from for sure, nor where Gerevor had learned to use the thing, but he was the only one of our number who could hope to match Metka in purely martial single combat. Nileas could easily turn the tides with his magic, and Lek’s crossbow preempted most fights, but the two of them were by a wide margin the best in a pure fight.
Their duels were always a spectacle, but this one was shorter, almost curt, as Metka took apart Gerevor’s defence piece by piece, blade flickering like lightning around each block and through each spinning dodge. I watched absent-mindedly, picking apart pieces of grass and reminding myself to never be the reason Metka was angry.
Once Gerevor called for a halt to the duel, the Hand settled in for the night, each taking slots on watch and preparing to sleep. The fox, silver fur shining even in the lesser light of the moon, watched us from behind a tree, and I set out a tiny piece of meat for it before settling in to sleep.
~
When the morning came, I woke to half-laughing whispers. I had fallen asleep sitting up, back against the cart, and with the morning I found that the fox was sitting in my lap, curled into a silver ball. I smiled and put my hand atop it softly. The fox jumped to its feet and scampered off into the treeline, and I pushed myself to my feet. Gerevor nudged my shoulder, laughing. “Found a friend, even out here, huh Khem?”
I slapped away his hand, smiling. “Won you animals over, didn’t I? Just an extension of that.”
Gerevor shook his head, poking my nose with one long finger. “Won us over by ripping out Titus’ throat, kid. Little Khem Junior over there couldn’t have had the opportunity to know that particular facet of your charm.”
I snapped my teeth in his direction, laughing as he jumped back comically, clasping a hand to his chest. The rest of the Hand just smiled - even Metka, who looked as if she may have even caught a couple hours of genuine rest - at our antics.
The laughter settled into something more serious as we began to move again. The river that I predicted the caravan would attempt to cross was only an hour or two ahead, if we kept up a decent pace.
And a decent pace was what we settled into, by any measure. Gerevor led us off, long legs covering more ground than any of the rest of us could manage. He never moved far enough ahead to get out of sight, but kept far enough forward to give us early warning when the river would be coming into view.
When it did come into view, we were atop the crest of a small hill in the road, giving us a decent vantage from which to see the swift-moving blue scar in the land. The caravan, more or less as expected, lay stopped on the other side of the river, wagons circled and its soldiers standing guard around them, small clusters of the armoured men and women dotted near each wagon.
Gerevor shaded his eyes with one hand, lips moving silently for a moment, then held up one hand with all five fingers extended, and the other with one. Fifty soldiers. At the closest edge of the caravan’s circle, a pair of men in ridiculous finery were arguing, their flailing gestures occasionally indicating the river between us. They hadn’t decided if they would cross.
Sighing heavily, I waved for the Hand to move past the treeline, just to be sure that the members of the caravan wouldn’t spot us. If they did, we would lose a significant edge in the attack. We drifted into the trees in practised unison, Lek and Metka bringing the cart in behind them and beginning to drag up branches to obscure it as best as possible.
I moved to the edge of the treeline, watching from behind a tree as the bright-clothed men argued about whether to pass the river. The argument was loud, and even from across the rushing river I could make out bits and pieces of it. One of them had apparently financed a piece of the voyage, and didn’t want to lose any of his investment. The other seemed to think he was going to become a de facto commander of the outpost once they reached it, and wanted to do so as quickly as possible. I had to restrain a laugh at the idea of the foppish man and his red, purple, and gold robes taking charge of a military outpost, but it seemed his belief in the idea was genuine.
We had to watch for only a few minutes longer, as it quickly became clear that the man who had financed the caravan had little actual control over its actions. In short order, the soldiers and caraveneers alike were getting everything moving. Several of the soldiers began to chop down trees, anchoring them in place on their side of the river as best they could in order to give the wagons something to move over that would be a bit more reliable than the fast-moving river and the wet earth below.
Before the logs were even in place in full, several of the horses - particularly those not set on the duty of moving the wagons - had begun to cross, with those in command of the caravan atop them. Amusingly, several of the rich bastards pulled their feet atop the horse, leaving it unguided across the river as if they were afraid of getting even a little water in their precious clothing.
The process of fording the river properly took a bit longer, though those who had already crossed the river via the horses seemed less than happy about it. The wagons moved over slowly and shakily, even with the logs in place to move on, with soldiers coordinating each shift in weight so that the wheels wouldn’t slip out of place.
Once half of the wagons had crossed, I raised my hand and made a fist. Lek nodded, took aim, and loosed his bolt. By the same magic which had let him take down the horse more than a year ago, the bolt expanded in size and speed as it flew. The spell was the only one Lek knew, and he worked meticulously to recalculate it each time he prepared again. This would perhaps be its largest moment yet.
The bolt tore through one of the logs the soldiers had set up across the river, splitting it easily beneath the shaky wheel of one of the wagons. With bated breath, I stared at the wagon, then released a relieved sigh when it tilted and fell, spilling into the river. Nileas broke from the treeline in the moment after it fell, holding his blade overhead, its fine blade reflecting the sunlight magnificently. One of the gems sparked green, then yellow, then blue and red, and Nileas’ voice boomed out over the area, magically enhanced to the point that each of us heard it in our chests as much as our ears.
“Stand down, soldiers of the Crown, and you will go unharmed! Stand down and let your so-called masters fall by our hands! Stand down and you may be given the chance to avenge any injustice you have faced at the hands of your… Great Nation.” This last phrase he said with something approaching a sneer, and each of us felt his voice twist into our hearts, silently telling us how much better he would be than the Crown. Even magically amplified and resonating throughout my entire body, I could not help but find his voice faintly musical. At the time I suspected those qualities of his were in some way magical as well, but now I know that was simply who Nileas was.
The soldiers on either side of the river looked uneasy, and to punctuate our leader’s ultimatum, we began to emerge from the trees. A second gem on Nileas’ sword flashed, colours of the rainbow spiralling outwards and upwards, then fading. As its light faded, countless shades began to follow us out from the forest, each walking in time with one of us. They weren’t corporeal in any way, of course, but how could the soldiers have known?
Our bluff was enough. Many of the soldiers began to lay down their arms, and as they did, we rushed into the wagons which had already been brought across the river. Those who did not lay down their arms came to meet us, though with Metka and Gerevor at our head, whirling as twin dervishes at the front of our little column, few stood for long.
I breathed in deeply as my feet pounded, bringing me into the fray. The world once again turned silver, slowing to a crawl around me. A feral smile wrapped itself around my face, and I leapt in, the dagger my teachers in the art of combat had given me suddenly in my hand. I slipped past the first soldier I found, blade flashing underneath the lip of his helmet for a moment as I did, with the silver world moving so slowly that by the time I was on the next, he still had not yet begun to bleed.
Sliding past soldier after soldier, blade flashing in time to an unheard rhythm, the silver world began to fade only as I stood in front of the two overdressed buffoons who had argued at the side of the river a half hour before. I let the whole of the silver fade, and those soldiers I had cut down finally fell. I must have looked like a demon from the storybooks, with my black hair slicked back, silver eyes wide and wild, and my teeth bared in something midway between grimace and predator’s grin - and the nobles reacted as if I were.
A pair of twin screams erupted from the two, and they began to kick at their horses, crying for the beasts to move away, to run, to carry them as far away from this inexplicable demon-child which had appeared before them. Their horses obeyed, darting away with terrified whinnies, only for the nobles to be caught by twin bolts from Lek’s crossbow and driven from their horses, falling into the mud at the riverside, just like any number of sacks of stolen goods we had acquired over the years.
I turned away from them and back towards the fray. Nileas’ shades had surrounded this side of the riverbank, obscuring what happened from the view of the other side. Arrows flitted over the river and into our fight every few seconds, but few hit any mark. Gerevor’s strange spear had made short work of several of the soldiers, while Metka’s newly furious blademaster arts had decimated several more. Nileas stood just inside the circle of shades, observing us all with a faint smile. Once the last of the soldiers on this side had ceased resisting or fallen, he waved his sword, and the shades parted, revealing us to the other half of the caravan once more.
The soldiers on the other side appeared taken aback by the carnage wrought. Even had the shades been manifestly real, what we had done to the soldiers who had not surrendered on this side of the river would have been shockingly one-sided. Nileas turned towards the remainder of the caravan, sword dropped to his side, and the rest of us gathered silently at his sides.
Nileas levelled his sword at the survivors across the river. His voice was no longer magically enhanced, but even over the rushing of the river, I have no doubt that the soldiers and caravaneers alike heard every word, focusing in as if their lives depended on it. “Hear me once more, soldiers. Surrender, and you will not only be spared, you will be given opportunities you could not dream of under the Crown.”
They couldn’t know that our feats on this side of the river could not have been replicated again so quickly. They knew only that we had appeared from nowhere with an apparent army of magical shades, and had fallen upon the others with such force that we had escaped more or less unscathed. What choice did they have, in the face of all that?
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I will make this :]♡..
( oc from @maxdrawer )
Sorry if bother u :p... im just giving credits to you since its ur oc<3♡
#undertale au#undertale#undertale oc#undertale art#undertale fanart#my artwork#digital art#my art#art#artwork#My oc<3#oc x oc#maxdrawer#Riota
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LA RIOTA feat Karles Toràh (Mr Tartaria)
Este es un video cuyas imagenes se corresponden con una emision de radio que hace una emisora local del extrarradio de Barcelona (España).
El titulo, La Riota, se puede traducir como…La Carcajada, y es en ese ambito de desenfado y enfoque de los temas con humor, por importantes que sean o parezcan, como se desenvuelve la emision.
Los que intervienen lo hacen en catalan, que es la lengua propia…
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How many oc's you have in this AU or its only Max??
(I ask cause your gf have like 6)
Well, if you count MY OC's there's only 2, Max and Pam, and well, I still haven't drawn Pam
But, if you count all the non-canon characters, there are tons of them, because I also count all the multiverse.
But, the ones on this specific AU are Max, Pam, Charlie, Dianna (which is kind of Player in a alternative multiverse [AM for short]) Bettê Noire and (I have plans of adding) Riota.
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What if u meet riota ?
Or Max?
Or u already meet them?
Since this is ur AU and u add ur characters here Chara knows them?
:p
*pat pat Chara*
Yeah, well, about that, Chara already knows them.
And yeah, she also knows about other AUs.
Sorry that I couldn't draw it, there were many issues..
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Smile Riot
A YCH for Riot! First time drawing dreads and I had fun shading them!
Still open, but I will work slower on the weekends to avoid burnout. $20 flat or $25 shaded
Info: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/54076499/
Posted using PostyBirb
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Chapter Twenty-Six: Child/Soldier
Khem had said that I was darker, after the attack on one of our bases had killed most of my family. Only my mother had survived, and she may have taken it even worse than I. Now, though, things were far worse. My mother had been with us in that tavern on what the Kadiens were now calling the Night of the Fallen Hand. She had survived a second massive assault wiping out swathes of our numbers, and while I had a loyalty to Khemora and our cause built up over the process of finding friendship with her where no such opportunity had previously remained, she had only a rage against those who would destroy that which belonged to her.
It was difficult to speak to her, to try to comfort her, to even attempt to direct her rage. For all that I was her child, much of my life had been spent apart from her, tested by her, and denied my place at her side. I loved her, deeply, in the way one only truly can one’s parents, but I did not know her well enough to attempt comfort. Similarly, while I truly do believe she loved me in some distant, warped way, she had long grown used to viewing me as something other than family. And so, when the time came to search the other pieces of the Crownlands for the means to retake this one, we went our separate ways.
My mother, once the fabled Lady of Roses, a figure known amongst all those in the Crown as one who would pursue the safety of her people even where it meant the imprisonment and torture of her own children, stayed back. Her claimed role was to infiltrate the Kadien Empire, and to find ways to break it apart from within. She could not bear to simply leave those responsible for the loss of her family and soldiers alike, even to find a solution to their presence.
Riota and Metka travelled together, up the face of the Shining Cliffs and towards the lands beyond. There was no easy way apart from travelling through the city of the Crown, and so they would take the hard way. In the meantime, Lek and Gerevor would also travel together - but not towards the ends of the Hand.
I did not know these people nearly as well as Khemora did. Riota and Metka I knew as comrades, fellow soldiers in the fight against both the Crown and Morati. Lek and Gerevor… I barely knew at all. What I did know was that the two had lost any drive to fight before Khemora’s capture and the obliteration of the Hand. Khem being taken had brought up some flames in their hearts, but not enough to drive them back to the battlefield after whatever had happened to them with Morati.
Instead, the two men sought homes within the city of the Crown, promising to act as a safe house for Hand operatives travelling through the city to another piece of the Crownlands - or on the run from something. It was not what I would have wanted from two people who so obviously had the capacity to fight like few others, but I didn’t have it in me to tell them that the fight was still both worth it and possible after the slaughters we had been put through - much less the torture they had clearly gone through themselves.
Liara would return to her homeland. She said it was to dredge up support among old compatriots, but I found myself assuming I would never see her again - that none of us would, as she faded out of our fight to return to a land where her skills were in high demand without high risk.
Perhaps it was unfair. I minded little, anymore.
I headed east. The ravine separating this piece of the Crownlands from the rest on that side was broad. Apart from a few bridges spanning its width, it was made functionally impossible to cross by the Cataclysm-spawned creatures which lived in its depths. Even an accomplished climber with infinite supplies would make it halfway down and be torn to shreds by beasts which the mind could hardly fathom.
Fortunately, with the surrender of this piece to the Kadien Empire, the soldiers of the Crown at this side of the bridges were recalled back home, and Morati had not yet seen fit to replace them with his own - meaning the only challenge was the soldiers at the other side of the crossing.
And that was a challenge suited perfectly to slipping.
(~)
This side of the bridge felt strangely empty. I can’t honestly say that I expected it to be busy, but a part of me had assumed that there would be an influx of ‘normal people’ seeking the ways out of our home in the wake of the more official instatement of the Kadien Empire. It was humbling to realise that, to many people, a change in ownership meant very little. Perhaps their taxes would change, but that happens anyways. Perhaps those able would be asked to join the military, or those who had joined would be returned changed from what they had seen and done - but that happens anyways. Only those at the epicentre of the changes - like those living in the city of the Crown or in Ketwin itself - would truly feel them, and few of those would truly have the option to leave.
A pack of burners found its way out of the inner pocket of my jacket. In a practised motion, I slipped one out, returned the pack to its pocket, and slipped it between my lips. Holding it gently between them, I swung my pack around and slid open the tiny window on the oil lantern dangling from it. Carefully, I held the end of the burner in the flame for just a moment before returning it to my lips and letting my pack settle back in place on my back.
Soft, soothing smoke shored me up enough to take the first step onto the bridge. After the first, the second was easier, and the third even easier. Before I knew it, I had stopped counting - although I still kept from looking down too much. The gaping maw of the earth itself below me would be enough to frighten the strongest of men, and for all that I had needed to become strong, one needed only look to Khem and I responding to the dragon to see that I was far from the strongest.
The bridge swung slightly with each step. It wasn’t enough to truly seem dangerous, but it was enough to make me take each step slower than I might have otherwise. The going was slow, and I cycled through two more burners before I drew close enough to the other side that I could bear to look up from the bridge beneath me and look at what lay in wait.
(~)
I had lived most of my life within the city of the Crown. It was only this last piece which had been lived out within the piece of the Crownlands which Khemora and the others called home. Living within the city of the Crown, one came to think of the Crownlands as homogenous - or at least uniformly separate. We were taught that the world - at least, the portion which we inhabited - was divided into three portions, nestled within each other and easily thought of as individual unto themselves.
The smallest, at the core, was the city of the Crown. Around that was the Crownlands - what Khem called the Shattered Kingdoms. Around that in turn was the Wyldlands, where Lek’s people hailed from. The city of the Crown was smaller than the Crownlands was smaller than the Wyldlands, but each piece was functionally mentioned as singular.
Of course, having lived within the city of the Crown, I knew not even it was truly singular. Even with my limited experience of the city, training under Landry had given me enough exposure to know it had at least three major parts, each of which had its own divisions. The agricultural district, for instance, may as well have been a completely different world from the central one I had spent most of my time in.
Had I truly thought about things, then, it would have been obvious that the Crownlands weren’t really homogenous. Nevertheless, the difference was shocking.
(~)
Across the bridge, view blocked only partially by strange, twisting trees with oddly-coloured leaves, was a city which more closely resembled the city of the Crown than Ketwin or Chester or Bemrick or any of the other ‘large’ cities of the piece of the Crownlands the Hand had operated in. It wasn’t truly on the same scale - the Crown would never have allowed them to build themselves up that much - and rather than the massive walls and sprawling width, the place was large mostly by metric of its buildings reaching higher than nearly any I had ever seen, but it was still far greater than I could possibly have foreseen.
For a moment, I felt wonderment thinking of what could possibly be atop the Shining Cliffs or in Liara’s homeland, before cursing as I realised the burner had slipped from my lips in my shock. Furrowing my brow, I narrowed my gaze to the crossing ahead. Two small wooden towers, one on either side of the bridge, acted as the gatehouse. There was no actual gate, which was a blessing, but there was a guard standing in the centre of the bridge, as well as two more atop each of the towers - one looking inwards towards me and one looking outwards towards their piece of the Crownlands in each.
Bypassing such a checkpoint would be blessedly easy, and I found myself breathing a sigh of relief. Glancing sadly downwards at the quickly-fading point of orange light spiralling into the abyss below, I prepared myself to slip, shaking out my arms and legs with each step forward, letting myself relax as much as possible in order to eke out every second I could.
Suddenly, I was stopped by the tolling of a bell. I froze, my mind suddenly back in the city of the Crown, Khem and I rushing out of our shack as the watcher we hadn’t realised was behind us called us out to the guards. My breath came heavily, and the relief the burners had brought to my stress faded. Only when I realised that the tolling was far too distant to be from the guardtowers did I relax, bending over and putting my hands on my knees. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing in and out as slowly as I could manage until the fear left me.
When I stood straight again, the guard who had been standing in the centre of the bridge ahead was walking towards me.
I restrained a second burst of panic, throttling it down inside me and putting on my best smile. It was weak - I didn’t have anywhere near the practice Khemora did falsifying my emotions. Years of life under constant scrutiny, with any deviation from the expected and detectably true punished harshly by agents of the Crown had made developing those skills somewhat difficult. I had learned some during my time with Khemora’s Hand, but I doubted it would hold up under a close observation.
Blessedly, the guard’s expression was not one of suspicion or anger, but concern. As she came closer, she called out in a voice which sounded softer than I would expect from a guard working with the Crown.
“Are you okay, kid? Where are your parents?”
My eyes widened for a moment, and suddenly I became glad for the burner slipping from my lips. Fate and my own forgotten youth had presented a path through this encounter which might even be superior to simply slipping past.
I must admit, while on some level it was humiliating, on another it felt truly wonderful to finally let go of it all. I had been seeking maturity and stability since I was old enough to understand that they would see me treated better. Finding myself among the leadership of a rebellion had only made my desire for it all stronger. The soft comfort of burners had let me hold things back even easier, despite the cost to my lungs.
Behind it all, though… I had been given over to torturers by my mother, isolated from family and denied friends. I had witnessed others like me come through the city of the Crown one after the other, only to be taken away to be culled time and again. I had made a friend and escaped, only to run directly into the greatest horror in our world. I had been freed and reinstated to my family, only to be thrust into a war and have that family ripped back away. Finally, my first real friend was taken by a man whose works I saw reflected in the desiccated bodies of Riota and Gerevor and the missing limb of Lek.
As I collapsed down on the bridge and simply let the tears come, the heaving sobs and tearful wails which wracked me were the truest expression of emotion I had made in years.
(~)
It took a few hours for me to stop snivelling. The guard was nothing like those I knew from the city of the Crown. She was soft, even kind, and had brought me into one of the guard towers and wrapped me up in a blanket she dragged out from the barracks, bringing me a cold drink and warm bread and simply holding me through it all. When she first took me into her arms, I think I may have begun crying harder.
She was a mother, it turned out. Seeing me alone on that bridge, buckled over in the aftermath of my panic attack, she thought of her children and couldn’t help but worry. I felt a little guilty, taking advantage of her genuine care and kindness to slip through the checkpoint, but… I hadn’t faked the emotion, and while I likely would have held it in longer without the opportunity she presented, I very much did need the support she offered - even if I would have preferred it from my own mother.
The guard offered to bring me to her home, offered me a warm meal and a bed to sleep in. Her voice was warmer even than the blanket. I think she meant to offer me a home, reading - correctly, although still misleadingly - my lack of family in my sobs. Even when I looked up long enough for her to see my silver eyes, she froze only for a moment, then drew me closer. In another life, in another time, with none of the stakes which currently weighed on me, I would have taken her offer gladly. Her children were lucky to have a mother like her.
Instead, I asked to be shown the outhouse, and slipped away from within, a knot in my stomach as my legs drove me away from the silver-tinted concern in her face as she stood outside waiting for me to complete my business.
(~)
Three hours and two more slips to get past small checkpoints in the road - a true road, paved with cobbles, rather than the beaten-down paths which Khemora’s piece of the Crownlands knew as roads - later, I found myself within the city I had seen earlier. This close, it was even stranger. None of the buildings was taller than the city of the Crown’s wall, but a few were close - and dozens upon dozens of them were more than half its size. Within the city of the Crown, only the Hall of the Crown was large enough to rival these - and it was a marvel, crafted by the chief architects and engineers employed by the king and his nobility. Here, though, it seemed that every building was at least three stories, and most were taller, with another blade jutting up into the sky on every street corner.
From this close, it was clear that the tallest buildings were built into shards of something older. Unfamiliar materials jutted unevenly up the length of them, with our own carved stone and worked metal fitted into place around whatever it was that came before to complete the buildings. It was a marvel, completely unlike anything in the city of the Crown or the piece of the Crownlands I had believed to be representative of their whole.
I did my best to fit in among the crowds. From a dark gap between two buildings, I retrieved clothing which suited the fashion of the place from a bin which said “donations.” In retrospect, I’m fairly sure that meant the bin’s contents were meant to be taken in to the building it was beside to be sold for cheap, but I doubt anyone was harmed by my taking a single set of clothing. Walking around the city, I listened to its people, trying to orient myself to the culture.
It was difficult. Their accent was closer to the one found in the city of the Crown than in Khemora’s piece of the Crownlands or wherever Liara had come from, but acclimating to any new accent can be a challenge - especially when the language they speak is so filled with unfamiliar slang as to seem like another entirely. Nevertheless, I did my best. Piece by piece, I filled in what I needed to know to operate here for a time.
The residents of this place called it Redhill. Like I had surmised by looking at it, it had been built in the ruins of a far older city. Redhill was nearly as advanced as the city of the Crown itself, thanks to its mayor being highly positioned within the nobility of the Crown. In fact, it was a name I knew well enough to fear - despite the fact that he was almost certainly too busy in the city of the Crown to be here at the moment.
Requis Landry, first blademaster of the Crown, Lord of the Three Hills, champion of the king, and my old instructor ruled here. Redhill, it seemed, was one of the three. I could only pray that the shifting plates up in the city of the Crown kept him - and his other students - far away.
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