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xazz · 4 years

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Summery: Malik is in southern Turkey researching the former practice of white smithing, a now dead practice involving “magic” white rock. He’s got a lead and more than he could hope for in there being a still intact white rock forge that’s since been forgotten and neglected over the generations as the world moved away from magic.

Then he finds an old sword in the decrepit forge and brings it back home with him.

This chapter is NSFW but you're only able to read that part on my patreon.

*Vibrates excitedly*

Modern person having to deal with someone from the past is a favorite trope lols

Chapter 2: Sword of the Eagle

Come the fresh morning Malik had two tasks once he got back from mosque with the Tazim men. One was to start cleaning the sword and the other was to start digitizing his notes. He still didn't think the sword was very old or valuable so he wasn't super worried about the restoration process. But at the least he could clean it up and make it a display piece for back home. Which was why the first thing he did was fill up a bucket with water and baking soda and let one end soak in it. It wouldn't damage the sword beyond making it wet and the baking soda would start to break down the grime, dirt, and hopefullly what Malik thought was blood.

While the sword was soaking Malik was using his lap desk sitting right in front of the old window unit and working on his notes. He copied the notes he'd taken yesterday to his notes on his computer while downloading the five hundred pictures he'd taken yesterday. Once they'd downloaded he started going through them, finding the best ones.

Unfortunately, the lighting hadn't been that good yesterday. He'd known that but hoped it wouldn't have mattered. He had some good pictures closer to the flash light but a lot of them were dark and while Malik’s eye had been able to see it pretty well the digital camera had failed to do so. Only about a quarter of his photos were usable and none of the ones of the white rock pit were useable at all.

Malik was disheartened at first before realizing that since they were bad that meant he could just go back and take more! He wrote in his field notes book which areas of the room he needed pictures of still.

After lunch he took the sword out of the bucket and wiped it off. “Huh, you’re kinda pretty,” he said as he cleaned the baking soda off the hilt. There was still nasty dirt all over it but he could see the metal of the hilt now. It looked like a gilt metal of some sort. He wiggled the sword in the scabbard to try and pull it all the way out.

With a few grunts and thanks to some water getting into the scabbard he managed to yank the sword out of the scabbard. “Yeah, just a mameluke,” he said, disappointed. “Sorry bud, wish you were something cooler,” he put the sword blade first and the scabbard into the bucket along with some more baking soda. He'd check on it in a while.

When it wasn't so ungodly hot out Malik finally ventured out of his room and went out to just wander the city a little. It was a nice place and the people friendly even with his horrendous American accent all over his Turkish. He'd gotten a lot better in the past two weeks thanks to speaking it exclusively at his home stay since Yusuf only spoke some English and his parents no English.

He ended up finding a bar and getting food and drink for dinner. A live band played and he made some bar friends who were talkative drunks and got him to drink probably too much raki.

Far later than he intended he stumbled out of the bar. It took him three times to correctly dial Yusuf’s number and about fifteen minutes to get around to asking for a ride. Mostly because Malik kept just talking about random shit and was just sort of gay over the phone and making Yusuf laugh. Malik was out at home but didn't talk about it here in Turkey. He hadn't said anything too obscene, just told Yusuf he was handsome and had pretty blue eyes and was funny and had a nice beard. He'd just said all those things about twelve times.

Yusuf arrived with his moped and all Malik had to do was hold on. He ended up with his face pressed into the back of his shoulder because the movement of the moped made him nauseous. Yusuf smelled nice.

Before he knew it they were home and Yusuf just found Malik’s drunkenness amusing and helped him into his room. Malik just took off his shoes before face planting into the bed.

When Yusuf knocked early for dawn prayer Malik was still fast asleep. “Whatttt?” he groaned from the bed.

“You coming to mosque?” Yusuf called.

Malik blinked. “No,” and he rolled over, “hung over.” He said it loud enough for Yusuf to hear and heard him laugh through the door. Malik went back to sleep soundly.

He only woke when the heat became unbearable and he had to get up and turn on the AC. He tore his shirt off and stood in front of the cold air to help dry his sweaty skin. Blinking in the bright light he grabbed around for his sunglasses, found them, and glued them to his eyeballs. Then he put on some new clothes and went to beg Jawna for some food because he was starving and had missed breakfast. She just tutted him gently and gave him a carby meal with rice and, of course, some delicious bread and cheese.

Once Malik was fed and feeling not so hung over with a belly full of food he went back to his room and picked up the sword out of the bucket. He wiped the baking soda and water off but it was still nasty. He'd change the water out later. In the meantime he just threw the water out the window. He ended up taking a shower and laying in bed most of the day watching American cartoons on a pirate site before it was time for dinner.

Thankfully the next day he was over his hangover and could get back to work. That was mostly research of other whitesmith forges and cross referencing pictures from there to the Tazim forge. He made more notes and wrote about his day yesterday in his journal.

After lunch he turned his attention to the sword while watching something on his laptop. He got out his tools for careful cleaning of historically significant relics and more water and baking soda. It was some busy work to do he stopped every few minutes to watch his show before going back it.

The hilt was a real mess. Just caked in dried dirt and disgusting grease and grime and some blood that had solidified into something nearly like stone while it had been in the white rock pit. He just carefully chipped it away and used a toothbrush and fine tooth picker comb to scrap it clean.

Around dinner time he’d cleaned half of the hilt and only then did he really look at it. “Wow,” he said. The hilt had really good craftsmanship to it and surprisingly the pommel was made of some sort of porous stone like pumice but it glittered like white rock. The metal part was gilt, probably iron or steel, but with actually several large faceted gemstones imbedded in the metal. The facets just made Malik think it was a newer sword all the more and the gaudiness of it meant it was probably some sort of ceremonial sword. He rubbed the grime off one last time on this side of the hilt, the gilt gleaming in the light of the ceiling light. And it had a slight shimmering quality like the white rock in the pit. He was sure it was because powdered white rock had the consistency of fine glitter and was thus difficult to remove completely without multiple washes.

“You’re actually real pretty,” he said to the sword in English. “Dunno how you ended up in that pit but,” he shrugged. “You'll be a good souvenir. Kadar is going to lose his mind when he sees you. He'll be so jealous,” he laughed a little. Then he got up from the floor, put the sword aside, and went to go have dinner with the Tazims.

The next day Malik planned to visit the forge the following morning. He went out and bought some equipment he might need. Mostly a bigger backpack and a high luminosity flashlight with a removable battery he bought a spare of. He got all his equipment in order and spent the rest of the day watching football with Yusuf and Ubaid between two Turkish teams. Once he could finally get away he returned to his room and started cleaning the other side of the hilt. He removed about half the dirt before going to bed.

The trek up to the white rock forge was even worse that day. Yusuf had work so it was just Malik and Ubaid so Malik had to carry most of everything. Ubaid carried their food and half their water but Malik had to carry the rest plus his equipment. It took them two hours to reach the forge that time and Malik needed about half an hour to recover before he could actually start to work.

He set up his tripod with his camera and directed the flashlight to points of interest. It was as bright as natural sunlight with the flashlight on what he pointed it at and could take good pictures of the forge. He spent most of the day taking pictures and rubbings in the forge. In the afternoon he started emptying the pit in the room so he could see the entire thing without the white rock dust obscuring it.

Malik opted to leave any undrunk water and some of his heavier equipment in the oven. No one came up here and if someone did steal it tripods and big flashlights weren't super expensive. That would also be less weight to carry up the next time.

Upon arriving back home Malik attempted to wash off the white rock dust all over him. He managed it but like the sword, there was still residue all over his clothes, skin, and boots. He'd be like a sparkly vampire for a few days because of that. He slept good that night.

In the morning he immediately set to work on his notes and research. He worked furiously all morning and in the afternoon Yusuf came and dragged him west out to a beach to hang out with some friends. Malik ended up getting a mild sunburn for his troubles. After dinner back home he worked a bit more on cleaning the sword.

Over the next week, the pattern continued. Malik would get up, spend the morning working and after lunch do something else, either cleaning the sword and going and doing something in the city. He and Ubaid went up to the forge two more times that week. Malik also made significant headway on the sword, cleaning the entire hilt and most of the scabbard. Cleaning the inside of the scabbard was easier said than done thanks to its curved shape but he just worked on it a bit at a time.

The next week was much the same except Malik turned his attention to the forge’s entrance and the fresco murals painted so beautifully across it. He also started trying to clean the blade itself. But the damn thing was stubborn and no matter how much he scrubbed or rubbed the rust wouldn't come up. It was frustrating.

One day he was so furiously trying to clean off the rust that his hand slipped. He let out a yell as it sliced his hand and he dropped the sword. He rushed out of the room to find Jawna to help him clean the wound and let her coo over him as he blubbered at the cut on his hand.

He also went and got a tetanus booster.

When he came back from the clinic he found the sword where he’d left it. “Huh,” he picked it up. He’d cut himself on the backside of the curve. Normally mamelukes were single-edged, like most sabers and scimitars, but this one had an edge on both sides, not unlike a more traditional wedge-shaped sword. “Who made you like that, huh? And why? That’s so weird. Who makes a curved sword with two edges?” There was, of course, no answer. He put the sword back in its scabbard. He'd work on it again later. His hand hurt still and he should probably clean up the blood on the floor.

Except there was no blood on the floor. He knew for sure he’d bled on the floor. Maybe he’d exaggerated. Being cut made him think he'd bled more than he actually had.

The next few days he worked to clean the rust off the sword blade when he had some downtime. He was rewarded for his effort with several more cuts on the hand and one on the top of his arm. Nothing too serious beyond a yelp of pain and running to Jawna for sympathy and her to bandage him up and give him some mother's attention for his slips.

But it was weird because sometimes he wasn't even sure how the sword cut him. A few he absolutely deserved by handling it stupidly. But several it was like the sword moved to knick his finger. He knew that was impossible but still.

The rust still didn't come off no matter how much he cleaned it and he was starting to get frustrated with it. So he just started keeping it sheathed and cleaning the hilt and scabbard because at least that he could clean.

The sword itself was beautiful honestly. Under all the dirt and caked-on grime the scabbard was lacquered red with a white stripe and studded with what could have been round polished jewels or colored glass. The end was capped with gold and it had a golden spine shaped like a flowering vine. The hilt was equally ornate, pretty and gilt with several faceted gems or colored glass. The pommel ended in a hooked claw shaped like an eagle’s head, the beak perfectly shaped for ripping and tearing. Malik didn't know what an ornamental sword like this one needed a pommel claw for. But it made it all the prettier since the eagle was done in a lifelike cast and like the rest of the sword gilt in brilliant gold.

The craftsmanship put into it was insane and unlike anything he’d ever seen except in ancient epics. It looked almost like how Odysseus’ sword was described in the Iliad save for the shape. Or like the sword in the epic of Gilgamesh but it had the eagle hook at the pommel. Whoever had made this sword had put a lot of time into it. He also didn't know where something like this would come from other than a prop maker or something like that for how extravagant it was. It wasn't old enough to be anything but. That didn't explain what the hell it was or why it was a double-edged saber.

After a few days of getting over his annoyance about not be able to get the rust off, he decided to take another stab at it.

When he unsheathed the sword the blade was clean.

There wasn't a speck of rust on the steel. It was shiny and new and when Malik gently tested the blade it was so sharp it gave him a paper cut just from touching it. “What the actual fuck?” He just looked at the sword in confusion. The last time he'd drawn the sword it had been a rusted mess.

He left the scabbard and went out to find Yusuf who was leaning close to the TV watching a football game. “Yusuf,” he said.

“Huh?” Yusuf looked up but was distracted by the game playing. Then his eyes darted to the sword. “Oh! You finally got the rust off! Awesome! Knew you could do it. Just took some elbow grease, yeah?”

Malik blinked, “I… so the sword has no rust to you too?”

“Uh, yeah Malik. You okay?”

Malik blinked some more, “Yeah. I guess I’m just in so much shock I finally got it clean I couldn't think straight,” he said. No way he could tell Yusuf that the sword had just untrusted itself. That would sound insane. “It’s nice right?”

“Yeah. It's cool. Did you need something?” He motioned with his head back to the football game.

“Oh. No, I just wanted to show you. Go ahead,” and he stepped back. Yusuf immediately returned his attention to the TV and Malik slowly went back to his room.

He held the sword gently across his palms, aware of how deathly sharp it was. “What happened to you? How did you unrust?” The sword just sat there across his palms. He shifted his hands a bit and cried out when the sword cut him, so clean was the cut he didn't even feel it at first. He tossed the sword onto the bed and left. “Jawnaaaa,” he called as he entered the kitchen where she was making dinner.

“Malik— did you cut yourself on that rusty sword again?” she scolded him and he just whined pathetically. She scolded him and then cooed over him, helping to clean his wound and like the grandma she was also gave some bread, jam, and nut butter. He thanked her before going back to his room.

“Stupid ass sword,” he muttered in English as he opened the door. He closed the door whining over the fresh cut on his hand. He needed to just keep it in its sheath. It was way too sharp to keep it out. He went back to the bed to do so but when he looked up… his sword was gone. “…. Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

Lying belly down on his bed with one of the GQ magazines open was.. a man. A naked man. Bronze skin and dark brown hair that curled around his ears. They looked over at Malik casually and his eyes were nearly golden they were so amber. “Welcome back, Malik,” he said in Arabic in a shockingly polite voice.

Malik stared and looked around to make sure he wasn't being punked. There was a naked guy in his room. A hot naked guy! A really hot naked guy. Oh fuck. Oh no oh fuck. This was so bad. He didn't even want to think about how bad this was. On a scale of shitty to manageable this was get arrested and deported level. “W-what?” Malik managed to get out.

The man held up the magazine open to him. It had some well-dressed men on it. “Buy me this,” he said.

“What? No! What the fuck!” Only then did he realize he needed to lower his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” he whisper yelled.

“You left me here,” he said and put the magazine back on the bed. He sat up. “It isn't my fault you left before I’d finished. Is your hand alright?”

“My hand— how do you know I cut my hand? Who are you? Where is my sword?”

The man blinked at him in annoyance. “I am your sword. I’m a sentient weapon.”

Malik gaped at him. Just full-on jaw on the floor. “You’re what?” he squeaked. A sentient weapon!? Those were just things in stories. Odysseus had had a sentient weapon in the stories. So had Gilgamesh. It was said Julius Cesare had one and even Ghengis Khan. They appeared everywhere in mythos. Every legendary warrior had a sentient weapon and every evil in those stories wanted to possess it. Mythical weapons imbued with great ‘magical’ power infused with the soul of a sublime warrior giving the wielder superhuman abilities.

It was all stories. Everything about sentient weapons was a myth. There had never ever been a confirmed sentient weapon since the contemporary when people turned away from mysticism for morality based religion and science. They weren't real.

The man cocked his head at Malik. “Malik?” he asked.

“I need to sit down,” he said and there was no chair in the room so he just slowly lowered himself onto the floor feeling dazed.

A moment passed and he looked up and saw the man had gotten up and was leaning down in front of him, a concerned look on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Y-you’re actually a living weapon?” his voice felt small.

“I am.” Malik just stared at him and oh no he was even prettier up close with smooth skin and long lashes, his dark hair curling around his face prettily. This wasn't at all fair. “My name is Altair by the way,” he added.

Malik rubbed his face. “What?” he felt so lost. So utterly confused and like he didn't know anything.

“My name. It’s Altair,” he said, slowly getting more annoyed with Malik for acting like a fool.

“Oh— okay. I— living weapon? Shit- oh shit,” he rubbed his face with both hands. Then he looked up at Altair and realized he was very naked. “You’re naked.”

“Well I was a sword until approximately three moments ago,” Altair said.

Malik pushed himself up numbly and shuffled over to his dresser. He pulled out a thobe he’d bought when he’d first come to Dörtyol to fit in a bit better with the local populace. “Put this on,” he said to the naked human-shaped living sword holy shit that sounded so out of this world.

Altair reached out, touched it but didn't take it. “No,” he said.

“What? Yes. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Malik demanded.

“It feels cheap,” he folded his arms and turned away, nose up snootily. “I’m better than that.”

Malik’s eye twitched. “You’re putting this on. You’re fucking naked in my room and I can’t have that.”

“I’m not wearing that cheap trash,” Altair said dismissively.

Malik scowled at him. “Yes you are you dumb ass hunk of metal,” and Malik attempted to wrestle it onto him. Altair was scrappy and batted at him which just freed up his hands for Malik to shove through the garment.

“Get off,” he said, trying to push Malik off. “I’m not wearing that.”

“Yes you are,” Malik snapped and they ended up scuffling a bit on the floor. Malik managed to yank his limbs through the sleeves and his head through the hole when he froze as someone knocked on the door.

“Malik? You okay in there? Mom said she heard some noises in here,” Yusuf asked, voice heavy with concern and it took Malik a moment for his brain to switch back over to Turkish.

“Ah- yeah, I’m fine,” he called back. “Just moving some stuff around.”

“You need help?”

“No!” he hoped it didn't sound panicked because he felt a bit panicked.

“… Okay,” Yusuf said slowly. “Dinner is going to be ready soon.”

“Okay! I’ll be out in a minute,” Malik called and was glad when he heard Yusuf’s footsteps walk away. “Don’t get me into trouble, brat,” Malik hissed in Arabic and yanked the thobe the rest of the way down Altair’s body.

“Then get some class,” Altair glared back.

Malik frowned. “Enough. What the fuck? What did you do? What are you? Actually, hold that thought. I need to go have dinner. Keep your damn clothes on.”

“Or what?” Altair growled.

“Or I’ll be pissed off,” Malik snapped. Altair folded his arms moodily as Malik climbed to his feet to go get ready for dinner.

“Everything alright, Malik?” Yusuf asked when he joined them at the table.

“Yes. Everything's fine,” he said shortly. He didn't really talk during dinner and just ate quickly in silence excusing himself as soon as it was socially appropriate. He didn't imagine the Tazims looking after him in concern as he quickly washed his dish in the sink and went back to his room.

Altair was sitting on the bed, naked, looking at the GQ magazine again. “Where are your clothes?” Malik asked. Altair just looked up at him and rose an eyebrow. Malik looked around and found the thobe on the floor by the bed. He picked it up. “Put it on,” he said sternly. Altair just looked at the thobe and then Malik like he was crazy. “Put the thobe on.”

“I can’t understand you,” Altair said in Arabic.

Malik blinked. Right. He just naturally switched to his shitty Turkish when talking with the Tazims. “You know damn well what I'm saying even when I talk Turkish,” and he motioned with the thobe again.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“Stop being so fucking annoying. You want to get in trouble huh? Because that's what’s going to happen if you don't put this on.”

“Trouble with who?”

“The government. You're a naked man, in my room. Put on some damn clothes before I get arrested.” To say nothing for the fact that he was beautiful and that was a distraction for Malik who didn't need to be distracted when he was having a bit of a freak out over his sword turning into a sexy naked man! Who apparently was a sentient weapon!

Huffing Altair took the thobe and pulled it on. “Happy?”

“Yes, actually,” Malik said sternly. Altair’s lips twitched in something like a smile. “Now what are you doing?”

“Could you be more vague?”

“This,” Malik motioned sharply to Altair's form. “This body thing. You’re a sword.”

“You just took such good care of me after I’d been abandoned I wanted to see what you looked like and not just what your hands felt like, or your voice sounded like,” Altair said, surprisingly soft spoken and kind about it. Malik bristled in a flush high in his ears and across his face. That was the gayest thing he'd heard in months unless he was on a call with his brother.

“Ah— oh— well— can you change back?”

“No.”

“No? What? Why not?”

“I don't have the energy to do so. It took me all the energy I had just to get here from my reserves and from you.”

“Well, then what? You need food?”

“No.”

“That isn't an answer,” Malik said sternly.

Altair frowned at him in annoyance. “You were much nicer to me before. If I knew you were an asshole I would have stayed rusted,” he said.

“Excuse me for being freaked out my sword turned into a man. Which, by the way, WHAT!? And second: HOW?”

“Magic,” Altair said.

“Magic isn't real,” Malik scowled at him.

Malik looked at him, rose his eyebrow and then motioned to himself. “Like you said, your sword turned into a man. Or rather, a man was turned into a sword and he turned back into a man. How do you think that happened?”

“Sentient weapons are myths and not real.”

“And yet here I am,” Altair stood up and Malik flustered when he stepped over to him and got real close, looking up at him. He was pretty short all things considered and the top of his head only came up to Malik’s chin. “You should be grateful.”

Malik bristled. Being mad was better than being turned on by the weird guy in his room. “Oh really now? How you figure that?”

“Because I’m a magic weapon. And judging by your reaction they don't make things like me anymore. I didn't understand you every time you spoke around me but I do know you're a man of history. You should be thrilled I exist.”

Malik frowned at him, annoyed he made sense and annoyed he should have been too. “Okay, look,” he gently pushed Altair back and away. “Magic isn't a thing. Sentient swords are a thing in stories. And this country is super against homosexuality so you showing up naked in my bed like nothing is wrong freaks me out because if anyone found you here I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh,” Altair said slowly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are they like that?”

“Because they're stupid.”

“They are,” Altair nodded.

“So you need to not be naked. I don't want to be thrown in jail or deported.”

“I don't want you to either,” Altair said and Malik hated he got all flustered when Altair put his hand on Malik’s chest, worry written across his face.

“So you’ll not try to take your clothes off all the time?”

“I guess,” Altair sighed. “Buy me nicer ones.”

“Sure, whatever. Now can you turn back into a sword?”

“No.”

“Right, energy thing. So what do you need to get more energy?”

“I need to feed.” The way he said it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.

“I can get you food.”

“No. I don't eat,” he said.

“But you just said-

“My sustenance is no longer food.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Okay, then what do you eat you picky asshole?”

“Blood,” Altair said with a straight face.

Malik blanched. “So you’re a vampire?”

“A what?”

“You know, a vampire,” Malik said again.

Altair blinked in confusion. “I don't know what that word means. What is a vampire?”

“Uh— it’s a monster that drinks blood for food.”

“Oh, you mean an ekkimu? Those are still around?”

“Wha- actually you know what, no. I don't want to know. We’ll just go with yeah, like that.”

“And I’m not quite like that. I don't have to bite someone like they do. And I don't need much to return to my natural state. It takes much more energy to become this altered state,” Altair said.

“But you can't turn back into a sword without blood?” Malik clarified.

“No.”

Malik sighed. “Does it matter what sort?”

“No.”

Malik sighed again. There was nowhere to get blood this time of night. All the butchers were closed for the night and Jawna had used the last blood she’d bought for blood pudding last week. “So that means… you need my blood.”

“If you don't want me here… yes.”

Malik rubbed his face. “Okay. How about this. I’ll get you some blood tomorrow but you absolutely cannot just turn into a person whenever you want.” Altair made an annoyed face but nodded. “Wait here,” he ordered and left his room quietly, went into the bathroom and found the medical kit Jawna used to patch him up from Altair cutting him several times. In it there was some roll bandages, some medical tape, and some antiseptic. He grabbed all of those and went back into his room, closing the door as softly as he could.

Altair was waiting for him when he came back and his eyes brightened with interest as Malik sat everything down and rolled up his sleeve to over his bicep. He used some of the bandages to wipe part of his skin with the antiseptic. “What’s that?” Altair asked as Malik opened his bedside drawer and pulled out his pocket knife. “Oh!” he cried in delight when Malik pushed the button on the side and the knife unfolded. “Magic,” he declared.

“Not magic, just some springs,” Malik said and wiped down the blade with antiseptic too, letting it air dry.

“Springs? How do you fit all that water in there?”

“… Nevermind,” Malik sighed. Then he clenched his jaw and put the knife against the skin of his bicep. He felt the touch of the cool steel but his hand hesitated. He just needed to get it over with.

His hand wouldn't move.

He hissed in annoyance when he lowered his hand. He couldn't just maim himself like that. “Malik?” Altair asked and sat on the bed next to him.

“Just a second. It isn't easy to just cut yourself,” Malik said. Unless you were a cutter, he supposed. Malik had never done that sort of self-destructive behavior. He lifted the knife back up to try again and again his hand wouldn't move even when he tried to will it. He sighed heavily and dropped his hand again.

“Do you want me to do it?” Altair asked him.

Malik didn't totally trust him. “You drink blood and you’re a sword. How do I know you won’t just cut me up?”

“If I wanted to do that I would have done it already,” Altair said. “No one touches me unless I allow them to.” Malik couldn't dispute that. “I am very precise and light. You won't even feel it.”

“I doubt that,” but Malik still handed him the knife. “Don’t touch the blade and cut where I wiped,” he instructed.

Altair took the knife with a serious face, nodding. He held the little pocket knife with what looked like great reverence. He put his hand on the front of Malik’s arm and very carefully put the knife against his skin. Malik looked away. “Do you want me to warn you?” Altair asked him.

“No, just do it,” Malik said and squeezed his eyes shut. Altair didn't respond there was at once just a faint searing sensation on Malik’s left arm as Altair cut a wide mark across his bicep. He hadn't even felt the cut. The skin around the cut hurt but it had been shockingly painless. He looked back and saw Altair draw the knife back. Malik stared when he licked the blade, his tongue against the sharp edge, leaving no trace of his own blood on the knife and carefully folded it back up.

Malik swallowed when Altair leaned over and licked up his arm to catch where the blood was starting to trickle out and seep down the curve of his arm. Malik was very aware of Altair’s tongue on his skin and the way his arm never actually got bloody. He was also very aware of how oddly reverent Altair seemed about the entire thing. It reminded Malik of his Catholic friends telling him about taking communion at church. A holy act of taking something into their body.

Malik was getting the weirdest and most awkward boner in existence about the entire thing. It was making him really uncomfortable.

After a minute Malik cleared his throat. “You— ah, you done?” he didn't know why he was so flustered by this. Why would he be flustered? This was weird and he really didn't like this at all. Altair looked up at him, tongue splayed against his arm. Was this why people had vampire fetishes? Shit, this was why people had vampire fetishes.

“Almost,” Altair said softly and looked away from him. Thank god.

Another awkward (at least for Malik) minute passed. The bleeding had subsided quite a bit to his surprise when Altair pulled away and licked his lips, making sure he got every drop. Malik quietly had a chub now too and wow he hated that so much. “Done now?”

“Yes,” Altair said, his eyes lidded in content. “A good snack if nothing else.”

Malik refrained from saying the actual first thing on his mind. Instead, he said, “Good, don't get used to it.” And he quickly applied more antiseptic, cursing at the stinging pain of it and wrapped his arm in the bandages. “Now you going to change back into a sword?”

“I suppose. I did say I would,” Altair sighed. “I did rather miss being human,” he said and stretched out his arm in front of him to look at his hand. “It’s nice to be able to see what’s going on and not rely solely on touch or vibrations to understand the world.”

“Yeah— well- later, when the family isn't home.”

“Finnne,” he said as a complaint and leaned back on one arm on the bed. Malik hated it was a distracting motion. “I suppose you aren't that bad of a master,” and Malik was sure he blacked out for a second because the next second Altair was gone. In his place was the sword, resting innocently on the sheet, in its vibrant, jewel-studded, red scabbard.

Malik stared at where he’d been. “What the actual fuck?” he asked the room in English. He just could not deal. He ended up putting the sword in his dresser and closing the drawer.

He poked his head out of the room. He heard the TV on in the living room. Now and then he heard the Tazims laugh at some show on it. Okay good. They were none the wiser. That was how he wanted it.

Malik ended up pacing back and forth in his room for a while, stressed beyond belief by the fact that his sword could just, at will, become a naked man. What was he going to do about this? He’d told Altair he would get him blood. How would he do that? Could he just have him around in the room? A thousand other questions raced through his mind as he calmed down a bit now that his initial panic was over. Like how old was he? What sort of first-hand experiences did he have?

Malik stopped pacing at that thought. Altair could potentially be a mother lode. First-hand accounts of whatever time he was from. Deep insight on whatever time he was from that might be lost to them. But it was a long time ago. Would he remember? Did he have memories as a sword? Had he forgotten thanks to the time between then and now?

By the time it was bedtime Malik was beyond curious and less stressed about the naked man thing. He just had to get Altair a nicer set of clothes and bam, problem fixed. He could do that.

He brushed his teeth, said goodnight to the Tazims, and got into bed. But he ended up staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His mind was abuzz with a thousand questions and what this could mean for his research. What this could mean for his career. If he had real, tangible proof, of what he’d come out here to study and not just pissing in the wind they’d have to take him seriously. They’d realize his ideas were right.

#altmal #Altair Ibn La'Ahad #malik al sayf #Assassin's Creed #worship

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ununniliad · 6 years

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Writer’s Block Person #39: “Too Much Time Inside My Own Skull" Part One

[Early March 2018]

Writer's Block Person was having a nice picnic. The periwinkle grass shuffled musically in the minty-cool wind, and the robinfruit sang in the trees. Their picnic partner, a human-shaped collection of tropes named Todd, handed them a gyro and a can of god.

"Really?" said the purply-orange hippo, sunning xerself by the pond. "We're starting another issue in the Mindverse?"

Yes. Now shut up.

"Todd, could you get me a passport to Turkey on rye... huh?" A coolness shivered through the grass and the trees and the sky and the sun. Writer's Block Person turned around and walked to the edge of the pond.

It was a thousand feet deep. The water was dark, and dinosaur skeletons jutted out of the sides, but at the bottom, Writer's Block Person could see the outline of a door. A door that was more solid than the dream.

Writer's Block Person felt... a memory, something they'd forgotten... running and jumping, strength and warmth... energy flowing, undammed...

They dove into the pond. Down, down. The warm yellow sunlight softened, became blues and greens, purples, exotic flavors of darkness. The door was a rectangle, a symbol of a door. The knob glistened in the darklight.

They hovered in front of it. They held out their hand...

No. No, couldn't. No, it wasn't-- they had to do something else, they-- they were drowning, they thrashed about--

BONK!

A heap of blankets lay, tangled, at the side of the bed. Writer's Block Person sat up out of them. They shook themselves out, stretched, hopped up, stretched more, went to get some water, and allowed the dream to fade from their mind...

Later that day, Writer's Block Person was talking on Discord with... deep breath Whisperion, Gives Hugs Impetuously Lass, Dr. Puppy, Redink, Distraction Damsel, Barnabas McGillicuddy, and Edwina the Ultimate Editor. They liked to keep all their net.heroing allies in the loop, because miscommunication is the engine of boring plots.

|| So, || they typed, || I've now used the Heavy Black Heart emojiform to dispel dark magical energy from four different people. ||

|| Wait, really? || said Dr. Puppy (don't think too much about how she types with paws, okay). || Totally offscreen? ||

|| Turns out I didn't really feel like writing a bunch of darkness-victim-of-the-week stories! ||

|| A number of different people, all happening by coincidence to have contact with and infection by dark magical energy within a short period? || said Redink. || That's a break of suspension of disbelief! ||

|| It's definitely not a coincidence! There was an artist who was frustrated they couldn't get the images in their head down on paper, a student who was frustrated that their teacher didn't understand they were getting overstimulated, a comic book artist who was frustrated about being screwed over by the company, and a cat who just couldn't catch that goshdarn laser. It's a consistent pattern, like a season of Sailor Moon. ||

|| so this is some kinda new spook on the block || said Barnabas McGillicuddy, ignoring both proper capitalization and the meta-story references.

|| Yeah, but I don't know what kind yet. I'm fighting the symptoms, but the cause of the problem is somewhere out on the streets right now. ||

|| Don't worry! || said Gives Hugs Impetuously Lass. || The good guys are on the case, together! It won't slip by us! ||

|| Right, || said Whisperion. || So, what are these darkness-influenced people like? ||

|| Well, they look pretty normal at first, but they're really angry - they're hyper-focused on whatever problem they're having. When someone really pisses them off, they turn into these sort of organic-looking shadow monsters, and they start yelling about whatever frustration it is they're focused on. You gotta get them to move forward at least a little on their emotional problem before the darkness can be properly dispelled. ||

|| Let's see, what else... Oh, like, I always talk to them after, and all of them reported, like... these thoughts, like if they stopped caring about hurting people, they could get stronger? It sounded like some kind of weird intrusive thought. But none of them really cared about getting stronger - honestly, it probably helped distract them from the thing they were really angry about. Which made my job easier. ||

|| Got it. - Ed. (UE) || said Edwina, whose screen name was on every message anyway. || Updating my records now. - Ed. (UE) ||

|| Hey guys!! || said Distraction Damsel.

|| Hey, DD, || said Whisperion.

|| Sorry I'm late for the meeting! There's this guy on the sidewalk outside who keeps talking about how he's going to show them all, or something, and there's black smoke coming out of his eyes? ||

|| ... ||

|| ... - Ed. (UE) ||

|| ...welp, time for action! ||

Eight minutes later, Whisperion's moped arrived in Distraction Damsel's neighborhood. Writer's Block Person dramatically stepped out of the bucket seat, ready for action... put their foot down on an icy patch, and immediately fell on their butt. "WAUGHow! ah jeez."

Whisperion slid off the other seat, planting her feet and helping Writer's Block Person back up. "Careful now," she teased.

"Rrrgh." Writer's Block Person didn't respond to the teasing with their usual gay cheer; their forehead wrinkled in frustration and their cheeks colored in embarrassment (and not the fun kind). "God, why's it gotta still be icy?" They straightened up and ran their fingers through their scalp, burning off energy. "It's freaking March, alla these people not caring about climate change, alla these people just not CARING--" They took a deep breath, let it out, looked up at Whisperion. "Just, um, not caring about clearing their sidewalks and such." They looked to the side, calmer, and just a bit guilty about their outburst.

Whisperion leaned in, found Writer's Block Person's hand, squeezed it. "Are you okay?"

Writer's Block Person pulled in a deep breath, let it out, sighed. "Yeah. Just..." They rubbed their arm, not letting go of Whisperion's hand yet. "I'm a really happy person but I'm also a really angry person. I don't show it as much, not to y'all, but it's been getting tough lately. It's been so gray for so long... this winter's felt like it's lasted forever. And there's been so much shitty stuff going on, both in our world [See LNH20 Comics Presents #21 for the newest status quo, true believers! - Ed. (UE)] and in the world of the Writers and the Readers. [You probably already know! - Ed. (UE)] And now this, coming into my cute little life... I just want to protect everybody, and I'm mad I can't."

"Awwww." Whisperion pulled on their hand and they half-collapsed against her chest, leaning, sighing. She put her arm around them and squeezed gently. "Look... we all know you're doing your best. You're not the only hero around here, not by a long shot, and you don't have to be."

"I know..." They took a big breath, let it out. "Hokay." Whisperion let go, and Writer's Block Person straightened up and shook themself out. "I'm okay now. Thanks for carin' so much, hon~"

"Very welcome, are you~" Whisperion looked around. The neighborhood was full of leaf-denuded trees, small but well-kept houses, sidewalks with rock salt laying on them. Nothing especially weird... until a white dude in a T-shirt and boxers walked out from behind a fence, shouting something incoherent at the sky. "Aha. Think I found our man."

"Right!" Writer's Block Person pulled out their pen. "Time to get serious! HENSHINSPIRATION!"

As Writer's Block Person transformed, the man swung around to watch them. Frankly, Whisperion thought his expression was kind of creepy - a wide, artificial-feeling smile with staring eyes, hidden slightly by a veil of darkness - but she supposed that was the kind of thing that happened when dark magical energy was affecting you.

All armored up, Writer's Block Person affected a casual demeanor. They walked up to the man, slowly, hands behind their head like they didn't have a care in the world. "Oh, hey, man," they said, leaning against a tree. "Are you okay?"

...then they dodged out of the way as the man took a swipe at them. "Mmmmm!" he grinned. "Now you'll understand that I'm here, and I'm not going to be stopped!"

"Right," said Writer's Block Person, pirouetting back out of the way of the blows. "Let's go more into that! Who put you down before?"

"Hahaha! They don't matter now! You don't matter now!" The man was breathing hard. He was sweating a lot for someone dressed the way he was in this weather, Whisperion noticed. "You fucking idiot! What are you even doing here!"

Right. Whisperion put the butt of her staff down on the ground. Writer's Block Person didn't need support yet, but this guy wasn't stopping, and better safe than sorry.

"Well I'm trying to help," Writer's Block Person grumbled. Then they blinked and shook their head. "I mean... whoop!" They dodged under a kick. "Dude - whatever's going on with you, I'm here to help!"

"Hah! What are you doing! What are you even doing here!" His grin growing even wider, the man planted his feet and flexed. Steaming shadows burst from his body, surrounding him. "You IDIOT!" He was wrapped in a cloud of darkness. "YOU! CAN'T! FIX! ME!"

The darkness burst away, to reveal a strange humanoid form. Panels of cloud-gray hardened material over muscle-red flesh. Exaggerated form, with bulging muscles and large hands and feet. Face hidden behind panels of gray, but for two glowing green eyes.

"Jeez." Writer's Block Person took several steps back, ending up next to Whisperion. "I gotta bad feeling about this. He's already keyed up way more than the others, and he's not responding to me reaching out. This guy is way more advanced-looking than the others were, too. Look at that color palette."

Whisperion nodded, frowning. "Think we might have to beat him down?" That wasn't usually their kind of conflict. What was going on?

"Maybe. Let's try it the fun way first." They pulled out their pen. "EMOTICONVERSION! CODE POINT HEAVY BLACK HEART!" Hearts swirled around and they switched to their bright sparkly form.

Writer's Block Person held up their hands, and took one encouraging step forward towards the monstrous man. Then another. "Hey!" They stopped in place. "Look, it's okay! I'm listening."

"And I'm not talking!" Shadows burst out of the monster's chest and whumphed against Writer's Block Person's armor. Lines of cold pain lanced across their muscles and nerves, and they choked and fell to one knee.

"Ow ow ow ow ow!" They rolled away. "Nnnf, it feels numb..."

Whisperion pointed her staff at Writer's Block Person, transforming the dark energy in their system into life-force. "Jeez, man!"

Writer's Block Person hopped to their feet. "Right! Magic time! Emphemeral-Eternal-Doki-Doki-Blissful-Emotion BEAM!" They thrust out their hands and a beam of pink and red and white hearts and sparkles crackling with pink-white lightning shot out.

It was immediately met with a beam of shadows, a cloud that seemed ephemeral yet was solid against the coruscating energy of Writer's Block Person's beam. For a moment, the light and the darkness were evenly matched... and then the shadows swirled straight back around the beam and right up to Writer's Block Person's body and they lost concentration and BOOM!

They rolled away, steaming, panting, detransformed, palms scraped up on the concrete. "Ow ow... nnngh, fuckin' ow..."

Whisperion pressed the blossoms on the end of her staff into Writer's Block Person's back. The grass turned green under the snow and ice as she channeled life-force into them. "Okay, so, it's time to pull back and get some help, right?"

Writer's Block Person pressed their fist to their chest. "That'd be smart, but..." They took a deep breath, letting the life-force saturate their body and mind. "I think there's something else I have to do. I think this might be the next chapter in my story."

"...huh?"

"I had a dream last night... about a door that... that I couldn't make myself open." They looked up at her. "A piece of my true self I've never let myself touch."

"...okay, but dreams aren't real. Even in our weird, magic-y, technicolor lives, dreams aren't real."

"No, but feelings are real." Writer's Block Person took a step back and stared at the monstrous man; he stared back, green eyes glowing, claws clicking, ready for the next move in the fight. "Feelings are real, and feelings are the power at my heart, and there's something I need to let myself feel." They shook their head. "But... I don't know what's going to happen. I'm a nice and cool and kind person, but... not everything inside me is nice."

"Yeah, because you're human." Whisperion punched Writer's Block Person's shoulder lightly and smiled. "You nerd. You're my best friend. I've seen inside your soul." She stepped past them, held up her staff. "Whatever's inside you, I'll fight alongside it."

Writer's Block Person breathed deep, let it out. "Okay."

They stepped back and held their pen up. Without words, light bloomed, and the transformation happened. Behind the helmet, Writer's Block Person closed their eyes, and reached down inside themself.

Down, down... past the everyday feelings, past the troubles and worries of this and that...

Past the deeper, harsh-edged worries about where life was taking them, about what if they were fucking up and no one was telling them...

Past the strange warmth of their preferences and their ideas, all the other people they could possibly be and sometimes were, the friendly monsters...

Down, down, into the silent depths of their mind...

Meanwhile, the monstrous man took Whisperion's step forward as a challenge, raising his fists and charging at her. Whisperion sidestepped, knocking the punch away with her staff, and started channeling the dark energy around her, pumping it into herself as life-force. I can't do this indefinitely, she thought, but buffing my own energy makes me a good enough tank to buy us a bit of time!

The fight was somewhere far away. The image of the door rose up in Writer's Block Person's mind. They felt, again, the currents of energy that moved beneath it - leashed, but just barely, moving in the darkness, affecting them even when they weren't aware of it.

They reached out their hand... and held it there. They could feel the warmth... they could feel the tingling fear... this was risky... but it was also exciting... but...

What if? What if?

The monstrous man released a burst of shadows, right against Whisperion's body. The cold numbness blasted across her skin, but she channeled the pain into strength. Around her feet, grass poked through the frozen soil in the cracks in the sidewalk, dislodging chunks of salt.

...well, thought Writer's Block Person, what if? What if something terrible happened? Then they'd deal with it like they'd dealt with all of the other terrible stuff in their life.

What if something wonderful happened?

They reached out and grabbed the knob. Pure sensation tingled through their self. They turned it and tossed the door open, and--

Their eyes opened. "Oh, shit."

It was powerful and cold and shot up through their mind like a geyser, their body freezing in place, muscles trembling slightly, taken over by the sudden rush of pure, unfiltered rage.

The monstrous man roared and thrust their arms out, and Whisperion fell back several paces. "Nnnf!" She looked over. "Writer's Block Person, you okay?"

"I..." Oh god. They'd forgotten so many people were so awful. Why did they have to be so awful? "I don't, um..." They just wanted to protect all of their friends and all of the people but every day they had to give money to assholes and work for people who didn't care about them and sometimes they would try and talk about it and fuck it up and everyone would get angry and why couldn't people just give them a break? "I don't... fuck."

Whisperion stepped sideways, keeping her staff between herself and the monstrous man. "Writer's Block Person, what's going on?"

She was such a good person and they couldn't protect her, and that was so fucking unfair, and right now they just needed to tear out these demons and tear out the roots of the world until it stopped being so. "I'm just... um, just so..."

She grabbed their shoulders. "Drew, what's going on!?"

They tried to get these thoughts together, but it was too much, it'd hurt someone-- but wait-- no-- needed to let it out-- but it was too much-- but--

And the rage surged and they threw their head back and SCREAMED! A scream of defiance! A scream of pain! A scream of just fucking stop it already!

A wave of blood-red energy burst out of their body, threw Whisperion back, and knocked down the monstrous man.

Whisperion landed on her butt. "Uff!" She shook herself out and looked up at Writer's Block Person.

They were breathing hard, looking off into the distance, eyes intense but unfocused. Their hands clenched and unclenched as they tried to get ahold of themself. Tendrils of red and black lightning coruscated over their body. Their armor seemed to flicker in and out of existence around them, and something darker seemed to flicker into its place.

"I guess..." they whispered hoarsely. "I guess it's too late to hold it back any more..."

They threw their head back again, chest thrusting out, and screamed. Above their chest, in the air, a symbol appeared - a flat CGI image of a skull, cracking with red and black lightning. It started moving towards them - ground to a halt - shattered into pieces - the pieces pierced their flesh--

Everything went dark, like the sun had turned off--

The light was back. It shone on a bone-white suit of armor, with accents that burned a resentful crimson, and a black bodysuit laced with painful-looking red veins. A ragged white cape with burned edges. Oversized red gauntlets, with long claws burned soot-black. A bloodstone gem in the center of the chest in the shape of a cartoon skull, cracked down the middle, radiating crimson energy from the crack. And for a helmet, the skull of an ancient, saurian predator, the eye sockets glowing red.

From within the helmet came a voice, swallowing, struggling to get the word out. "Skull..." They threw their head back and howled. "SKULL WRITER'S BLOCK PERSON!"

#Original Fiction #Superheroes #Adventure #Silliness #Legion of Net.Heroes #LNH20 #Writer's Block Person

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knightofbalance-13 · 7 years

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http://dudeblade.tumblr.com/post/159701855606/riproarrude-the-writing-has-always-been-flawed

Okay, I’ll only be tackling Dudeblade’s Reblog because I’m pretty sure the OP will never change their mind about RWBY and since the OP has no other posts about RWBY, it’s just their opinion at that point and I’m not fighting out right haters.

Just haters posing as fans.

They also can’t write major topics properly.

For this discussion I will be using Neon Genesis Evangelion to prove just how stupid the thoughts surrounding this subject truly is.

Neon Genesis Evangelion is a stated inspiration for RWBY (doubly so since another anime stated to be an inspiration, Gurren Lagann, is itself inspired by Evangelion). Unlike RWBY, Evangelion’s creators were well known anime content creators. Unlike RWBY, Evangelion is praised for it’s handling of mature themes. Unlike RWBY, Evangelion is world renowned and as much as I hate it, it is a famous anime. SO by all logic NGE should knock RWBY out in each category right? Well...

Racism? - Only three characters were seen to actually be racist! And one of them literally overcame hers overnight! Not to mention that it made no sense! Weiss should have been angry against her father, not the faunus. Also; “Menagerie” literally means “Zoo.” It’s the equivalent of a bunch of African Americans calling their community “Plantation.”

Yeah, Cardin, Roman and Weiss. Each of whom is treated as in the wrong. SO even if it is just three people, that’s three for three of showing that racism is bad and should be despised.

And do you see racists every single place you go? Because I have rarely ever see racists in my hometown and even then the people who say the N-word once every years or so grew up in a time when it was cuturally acceptable and have been telling me my whole life to never use that word. Racists don’t exist everywhere left and right.

There’s also the fact you ignore a lot of what Weiss’ arc and character. For one, the only Fanaus she was ever exposed to was through the White Fang, terrorists that killed family members and made her life a living hell, and Sun, and that was a first impression where he stowed away on a boat, stole a banana and resisted arrest. It’s akin to black person being racists because their only interactions with white people where racists and murderers their whole life: Can you really balme her? And It’s made clear by the end of that Weiss had stowed away her racism for Blake.

And only Blake. In Volume 2, Weiss is obviously uncomfortable and distrustful of Sun but gets over it as she gets more and more suited to him, just as she did with Ruby and just as every high strung person on the planet. It takes time and she only ever truly gets over her racism in Volume 3 where she risked her life to save Velvet, someone she didn’t know or should care about.

You also act as though changing the name of a country is easy. People have known that area as Menagrie for decades, it’s been recorded in history books for decades as Menagrie. You can’t just change that name overnight and expect everyone to go long with it. Very few humans (AKA 80% of the population of remanant) would care enough to call it that way (just as many people don’ give a shit about calling Native Americans “Indians”) and as seen with Sun, most of the Fanaus outside of Menagrie wouldn’t care either so not even every member of the Fanaus care enough to shake up the foundation of history because of a name. There’s also the fact that Menagrie is representative of the racism that still exists today so it can be usedas a motivator to overcome oppression.

And now to NGE. In NGE, one of the main heroes, Asuka, is clearly racist in that she calls Japanese customs weird and she shows obvious disrespect for them. And unlike the Fanaus, Asuka is the weird out of place one so it makes much more logical sense for her to adjust. But she doesn’t, keeps calling Japanese customs weird and stupid and keeps being insulting towards the culture she is in...despite being one fourth Japanese herself. So why does Evangelion get a pass when RWBY doesn’t and does a better job?

PTSD? - Overcame overnight! Without any hint of actual therapy or psychology shown. Also, treating PTSD as if it were ‘moping.’ And having the character doing the comparison being treated as in the right! They also can’t write how a person gets used to a prosthetic in a respectful manner.

Yang’s PTSD was not overcome in one night, she only started overcoming it after the beginning of Volume 4 which has a canonical six month minimum time skip and she is only shown to fully recover in Episode 9 which Yang CONFIRMS weeks have passed since then.

And the show wasn’t treating PTSD as moping, that was a joke made by Yang’s father Taiyang. I will not go into how you twisted the joke into your own meaning that is far removed from what the show has intended and you are not one allowed to use unfortunate implications considering your fanfic implied Tifa is using Yang’s PTSD to separate her from her father an best friend to get a date and talk about how only one character ever even treated as such as well as the fact that the Tv Tropes page for Awesome/RWBY clearly shows that they could have been way more disrespectful so you are not allowed. I will also point out that what you are demanding is actually even more disrespect as you expect Yang to just get over PTSD completely and utterly in one season when such an event would span the entirety of her life, something RT has a documented vase of doing.

And just as well, you disregard the fact that Yang was trained in two armed combat by a two armed instructor meaning they would need to create a whole new fighting style which would no doubt be inferior due to the fact that Taiyang cannot replicate one armed combat as well as the fact that brawling requires two arms. You also ignore the fact that Yang choose to put on the arm with her father only being an influence. She could have choose to not to and itw as her choice but then you rob that choice from her and demand that she be forced from her arm without her consent because YOU want that for YOUR selfish reasons.

And you should know just how badly a situation like that can truly be portrayed. In NGE, the major issue of DEPRESSION, which was the real focus of Yang’s arc as the PTSD was a side effect of the depression. And unlike RWBY, Depression is a major theme in this show and s the major focus with every character suffering from it in some way or form. And unlike in RWBY, the focus is on the de facto Protagonist, Shinji Ikari. And unlike RWBY, Shinji’s depression extends all throughout his life which is NOT comparable to Yang’s seven month period. And unlike RWBY, Shinji is constantly punished and harmed and tortured for his depression. And unlike RWBY, NGE demands to be taken seriously. And unlike RWBY, NGE actually did have Shinji overcome his depression overnio- no, he overcame it in twenty minutes. So it can be a whole hell of a lot worse. And unlike you, I actually did suffer from depression so I know what I am talking about.

LGBT Representation? - They have the time to show three heterosexual relationships, but they can’t be bothered to have two female models or two male models holding hands in the background? - “We want it to feel natural! Believe us!” - Yeah, when you say “Believe us” it makes me less inclined to believe you because you have to try to reassure us. Those don’t mean anything, actions do.

Actually, many people have criticized the show for showing numerous one dimensional heterosexual relationships such as Jaune and Weiss which was criticized for the lack of interaction and foreshadowing and Weiss and Neptune, which was criticized for coming out of compeletely nowhere (and SHOULD HAVE BEEN CRITICIZED for robbing Weiss of any agency as a character whenever Neptune was on screen, turning her into a lovestruck dumbass even though her character is about a 175 degrees AWAY from that. Real fucking great job there rwde.) The only relationship that was three dimensional was Jaune and Pyrrha and that took three volumes of heavy focus, conflict and trials to be three dimensional and that relationship isn’t even canon as Pyrrha admitted to it only when she was about to die so we never know if Jaune felt that way. So the score currently stands at 0 - -2 for LGBT versus Hetero.

And that would be shoehorning an LGBT couple for tehs ake fo shoehorning it in. I would like to point out that you, a self proclaimed ciset straight man, is botching more about representation than @mageknight14 and @phoenix-theurge who are bisexuals. You are complaining about a lack of representation than the people who they would be representating.

And again, this topic was handled in NGE where Kaworu was a gay kid for Shinji. Expect Shinji never got with Kaworu despite the fact that he was literally the only person who showed the kid unconditional love, appeared out of the blue in the third to last episode, is a villain and is out right stated to be pandering to yaoi fans. And yet NGE gets away with demonizing the LGBT community than RWBY being careful.

In the end, many of your complaints have nothing to stand upon and are just twisting facts to fit your agenda. Andc what little is there pales in comparison to what shows that are criticially acclaimed get away with and even be praised for so it’s obvious that the suspension of disbelief should cover these instances unless you are willingly being bias against the show and not being fair in your analysis. And yet you call yourself a fan.

#rwby #rwby4

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