#day four: reforge
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Nitearmor Week Day Four - Reforged
COWBOY AU NITEARMOR GOEAS SO HARDDDDD YEE-HAW!
@nitearmorweek
#it is cowgirl bo katan and farrier and ranch manager armorer#and they live on a ranch together with all the mandalorians#and they have a bunch of cute banthas#and they’re all gay#and the armorer and Bo-katan are married#star wars#milks artsies#nitearmor#nitearmor week#armorkatan#wlw#star wars sapphics#black!armorer
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what is cosmere? (is that what its called?)
The Cosmere is a big, interconnected fantasy universe that is the setting of most of the works by the author Brandon Sanderson. The cool thing about his books is that each series is contained to its own world, and you can read any of them in isolation without realizing you're missing anything, but if you read them all you get a sense of the larger plot happening behind the scenes as those worlds start to collide and things cross over.
Brandon's magic systems tend to be very rule-based and well-defined, with a lot of twists being characters finding interesting ways to use those rules of magic. This lends itself well to the crossovers, because all the magic systems (as different as they are) share the same underpinning principles.
Here's some quick rundowns of different series and standalones in the Cosmere:
The Stormlight Archive
Planned ten-book series, currently four books are out.
A massive sprawling epic about the world Roshar, that's hit by a hurricane about every four days, and all the life has adapted to survive that environment. Knights Radiant -- superpowered individuals with a close bond to a spirit -- are starting to re-emerge in the world after being absent for centuries.
Because there are so many characters, this is where a lot of the character fandom tends to focus their efforts. I wouldn't recommend starting with it, though -- the first book alone is a thousand pages. I'd wait until you have a sense of Brandon's writing. But it's very good.
Mistborn
One trilogy (completed), one tetralogy set a couple hundred years later (completed), two trilogies some time in the future.
One cool thing about this series is that it follows one world (Scadrial) from a vaguely Renaissance tech level in the first trilogy, to 1920s in the second series, and eventually 1980s in the third and space-age magic in the fourth.
The magic itself is very intricate and all woven around metals -- there are people called Metalborn who can ingest metals and burn them in their stomachs to get different effects, including super-senses, strength, and Magneto-ish metallokinesis. That last bit makes the gunfights in the second series particularly fun.
The first book is a heist novel about robbing a thousand-year-old God-Emperor blind. It's a pretty good place to start, although it's a pretty hefty novel to start with.
The Emperor's Soul
I'm putting this one in a different category from the rest of the one-offs for a very good reason -- it's, in my opinion, the single best place to start reading the Cosmere.
It's a novella (just over a hundred pages) about a forger named Shai who uses magic to rewrite the histories of objects. She is captured by the government of an empire to reforge the soul of their Emperor, who has been left braindead after an assassination attempt, in the 100 days before the mourning period is over.
It's a fantastic meditation on art, a cool introduction to the way Brandon writes both characters and magic systems, and Shai herself is one of my favorite Cosmere characters. If any of this sounds at all interesting to you, I recommend you check it out.
One-offs
Brandon has also written a bunch of one-off novels in the Cosmere.
Elantris: His first book, and the one that my tattoo is from. About a prince who is affected by a dark transformation and thrown into a city of fellow undead, and the princess betrothed to him who arrives just in time to be told he died. Good, but suffers from some first book issues, pacing problems, and weird plot cul-de-sacs. Set in the same world as The Emperor's Soul, although there's basically no crossover.
Warbreaker: About a world where souls (Breaths) are bought and sold, and used to animate objects to do work, ruled by The Returned, living gods who require a steady dose of Breaths to live. One of my favorites, and an essential if you'd like to get into the crossover-y parts of the cosmere, as it introduces a bunch of elements that show up later (Especially in Stormlight)
Tress of the Emerald Sea: The first of his wildly successful Kickstarter project books, it's a fairy tale style story about a girl who braves a sea of bubbling, deadly spores to rescue the man she loves. It's lovely, especially if you're into a more Diana Wynne Jones kind of vibe to your fantasy. Probably a pretty good place to start!
Yumi and the Nightmare Painter: The third Kickstarter book. About a shrine priestess who stacks rocks to draw spirits, and a man who paints the nightmares that roam the streets of his city to banish them -- they become trapped in each other's places and must learn about each other's worlds to survive. This is currently my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE cosmere novel, oh my GOD it's so good. I'm not sure it's a great place to start, as a lot of the conclusion might feel a bit rushed if you don't have a good feel for the vibe of how Brandon writes magic, but honestly it might stand alone just fine even then.
The Sunlit Man: Fourth Kickstarter book. I haven't read this one yet.
Novellas: There are a bunch of novellas and short stories, some set on worlds we haven't otherwise seen, some set on Roshar or Scadrial.
If any of this sounds good to you, I recommend you give his writing a shot. He's one of my all time favorite writers (the tattoo should prove that, lol) and the Cosmere fandom is by and large wonderful and welcoming. I've made many lifelong friendships there.
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I think Four would like ube (or purple yams.) They're sweet, and savory, and filling, and how often do you get to eat something that's purple?!
Wild makes anything with monster extract or ube and Four is thrilled because Purple! Do you think he and the Minish would leave gifts for each other in the eras he travels through with the chain? Like, the Minish know he's the hero of the four sword and wields the blade given to the hero of men, reforged by the smith Melari, so they leave things out for him and Four does so in turn. He fuses a kinstone in another era and a few days later spots something suspicious left on a tree stump. It's another kinstone piece and a couple purple yams. Four asks Wild if he'll throw them on the fire to go with dinner. Wild: Aren't you the master of heating things to a consistent temperature throughout? / Four: WILD PLEASE.
#linked universe#rays random ramblings#lu four#Four and Wild pestering each other is everything to me. they are like siblings poking each other's buttons#also ube is very good. and purple
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Nitearmor week day four: reforge
Heres a lille something for armor repairs;-)
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Hello! I love Lionheart (literally started four days ago and have read continuously since and am, in a word, Obsessed).
One thing I've noticed that is a common theme among Dramoine fics is how Draco gets away with his pureblood ideology and essentially has no consequences (besides Hermoine's anger/disgust) until his eventual redemption arc through their romance. However, I've noticed that your fic is unique in the way that Draco is constantly held accountable, especially backlash from Ron (btw, love the way you characterized Ron, my boy deserves some justice) and Harry, but especially through Hermoine, who fights back in any way she knows how. So my question is: what are your thoughts on this common trope within the Dramoine fandom? Do you think that Draco's eventual love for Hermoine negates the harm that he's done in the past?
I absolutely believe that love can be redemptive, but that doesn't mean you redeem yourself by loving. It's not about how you feel, it's about what you do. You can love someone a whole lot, but if you don't treat them well, and make a real effort to be good to them, well — I mean, I'm not saying it doesn't "matter," because everything always matters, but I wouldn't say that love has really changed you. Which is to say, I don't know that it's really love at all.
Draco can't be made better by the fact of loving Hermione, but he can make himself better because of it. Reasoning past, getting over, and making amends for his past wrongdoing should — ideally — be part of that development. Now, this is assuming that you want to do a real, honest-to-God, "I'm going to drag this horrible little wet blorbo kicking and screaming into Heroism" redemption arc. Maybe you don't! Maybe you want to write a story about two fucked-up people who fuck each other up more. Maybe you want to write about a bad man who isn't held accountable, and the kind of person that produces. Draco Malfoy can be many people, depending on where you take him, and many of them are interesting without being particularly nice or good. And you can still do great fiction about that! Romances with and between horrible characters can be totally delicious. I'm a big fan of 'em. But the kind of love I personally prize the most — the kind that makes us, if anything can earn this word, really, truly holy — is a love that's so selfless you are willing to be changed by it, and to change for it, and to constantly reforge yourself in order to do justice to the object of your love. It's veneration. It's finding in each other a reason for goodness. That's what I think real humans should look for, and so I guess I can't help trying to write about it when it comes to fake humans.
So when we talk about love as the catalyst for a redemption arc, I think what we mean is: love can awaken you to the personhood of others and ignite latent capacities for empathy that might not have existed otherwise. It opens you up to new ways of seeing, of being — James Baldwin in The Price of the Ticket has a brilliant quotation that captures it perfectly:
"If your lover lives in Hong Kong and cannot get to Chicago, it will be necessary for you to go to Hong Kong. Perhaps you will spend your life there, and never see Chicago again. And you will, I assure you, as long as space and time divide you from anyone you love, discover a great deal about shipping routes, airlines, earth quake, famine, disease, and war. And you will always know what time it is in Hong Kong, for you love someone who lives there. And love will simply have no choice but to go into battle with space and time and, furthermore, to win."
#thesis statement of my personality and all writing ever probably. so. guess i'll casually drop that on a friday afternoon#thank you for prompting this incredible long spill of rambling. I'm sorry. I love you. thanks very much. <3
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My Headcanons for Sebastian Sallow for Hogwarts Legacy:
• He puts up a charming front but deep down he is insecure about himself because Solomon compares him to his father which he wonders why is that a bad thing when he looked up to him and that he was a great man before his passing. As Solomon calls him stubborn and headstrong.
• Him and Ominis were best friends from they’re first day at Hogwarts. Always watches over him even though Ominis can handle his own, but will get worried if Ominis stumbles or trips.
• Him, Anne & Ominis we’re quite the mischievous trio in their first four years of Hogwarts. But when Anne got cursed it hasn’t been the same without her at Hogwarts her absence cussing a drift in his friendship with Ominis. Until the trio was reforged when the MC arrived at Hogwarts and he has hope for finding a cure for Anne.
• He has a notable record for detention from Mrs. Scribner as he said it “keeps him well-rounded.” But he wouldn’t be a Slytherin if he wasn’t ambitious like one seizing every opportunity to learn everything at Hogwarts.
• He has a huge rivalry with Leander Prewett. Butting heads and testing to see whose the better wizard.
• He is quite messy which Ominis reprimands him and the other roommates all the time when their bedroom is dirty and Sebastian’s area is always the space that’s the most dirty.
• He gets along well with Natsai Onai for them being a Slytherin and Gryffindor which you’d think would clash but they understand what it’s like to lose someone close to you which formed a mutual respect for one another.
• He is part of the Slytherin Quidditch team and I believe his position would be a Chaser.
• He is very protective of those he cares about. He fears losing anyone else close to him and will do anything to make sure that they are safe.
#Sebastian Sallow#Ominis Gaunt#Anne Sallow#Natsai Onai#Leander Prewett#Solomon Sallow#Hogwarts Legacy#Slytherin#Harry Potter fandom#Wizarding World#Hogwarts#Headcanon
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Preorders for Reforged: A Winteriron Zine will open on February 14th at 11pm CET/5pm EST!
Happy Valentine's Day! Celebrate love by ordering your Bucky/Tony zine before Saturday, Feb 18th ends (anywhere in the world), and you will receive a full set of FOUR additional prints featuring some of the art from the zine, as an “Early Bird” bonus!
The zine store will be open until March 11th with a variety of bundles available, from downloadable digital content all the way up to a limited edition collectors edition with an original Winterion sketch inside!
Choose from:
1) Digital Zine: Just the PDF - €12
2) Printed Zine: Printed and PDF - €35
3) Small Merch Pack: Printed, PDF, postcard, 2 stickers, washi tape - €45
4) Big Merch Pack: Printed, PDF, small merch, 3 acrylic charms, enamel pin - €65
5/6) Big Merch Pack PLUS an additional, original sketch by either KotaRiverroad or MassiveSpaceWren - €90
+ Add our NSFW bonus book for 50 pages of steamy, 18+ comics, art, and fic! - €3 Digital/€12 Physical
This zine is a big boi and contains over 50k words of fanfic, multiple fancomics, and many artworks made by a total of over 45 contributors! You don’t want to miss this!
The shop launches at reforgedzine.com on Feb. 14th at 11pm CET/5pm EST - see you there!
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LINK, FRIEND OF THE MINISH
Minish Cap, Four Sword
[From my original Linkverse, That Broken Promise]
GENDER: Genderqueer (amab)
PRONOUNS: He/They
HEIGHT: 4'8"
AGE: 20
HEALTH: Photosensitive migraines, "Not-a-Deer" vibes
FAMILY: Grandfather, Zelda
WEAPONS: Cane of Pacci
ITEMS: Grip ring, power bracelets, kinstone bag
SPELLS: Din's Charm, Farore's Charm, Nayru's Charm
Minish reforged the Four Sword in the wake of Vaati's attack on Hyrule when they were only ten years old, then defeated him when all others were rendered helpless around them. Six years later when checking on the seal they and Zelda had made, they took up the sword once more after it failed and Zelda was taken. The years in between had changed the sword and, in turn, changed them into something not quite right. It doesn't bother them, but it can make them a little unnerving.
Minish is very calm, agreeable, and easy to get along with if one can overcome the sheer weight of uneasiness they tend to carry into any space. The changes they underwent don't bother them much day to day, and only other people's reactions remind them they're different the majority of the time. They're very fond of Zelda and their grandfather both, but does enjoy wandering alone. They are missed back home, but Zelda will be slow to worry.
Minish speaks rarely, is literate, and uses minimal sign language. Glossed as anything; kitchen sign.
Minish has never thought much about their sexuality, but is game to try most things. They and Zelda are a couple.
CURRENT MEDIA:
Will You Still Trust Me..., rated M for moderately graphic injury
Not to Me, Not if its You, rated M for blood and horror
Minish with Ezlo, child art from before he was changed
One WIP
A stimboard for them, by @fable-stims
Songs from the Playlist for Minish:
Come by Jain
Marigolds by Kishi Bashi
Zimzalabim by Red Velvet
#That Broken Promise#Minish Cap#LOZ: Minish Cap#my art#LOZ: MC#TBP Minish#updated his artwork so new post it is#Gonna go through and redo a few of them
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Hypnovember Day 29 - Happily Ever After
(CW: male to female transformation, identity rewriting, noncon)
The door to the tower flung off its hinges as Sir Gwain burst into the final room. His armor burnt and scratched. In his hand, a sword, broken and reforged together, the cracks across it marking the battles long past. He reached up, removing his helmet. Fresh stubble clung to his face.
The early morning light shone through the dusty curtains covering the window. It illuminated the mostly empty room. There, sleeping on the four post bed, lay Prince Lan, dressed in his royal robes. A shimmer shone over his body, the curse that kept him preserved.
Sir Gwain reached into his belt and removed the dagger tucked safely inside. It shimmered in the light, the magic causing the blade to glow with iridescence. Slowly he approached the bed. He raised the dagger, his hand slowly tracing a small cut just above the princes’s bare skin. It cut, barely breaking the skin, drawing no blood. A small, ghostly scar running over where the blade touched.
The prince did not stir. The effects of the blade’s magic immediate. Where soft skin once sat, new pockets of fat and flesh began to grow. His chest swelled outward, two large breasts beginning to grow. The noticeable bulge in his pants began to shrink, flattening down. His waist began to shrink, hips pushing outward. Long blonde hair burst free from his head, billowing outward in rich curls. The outfit began to shift as well, his princely robes turning into a large flowing gown. Even now, after many uses, Sir Gwain still marveled at the dagger’s powerful magic. He carefully tucked the dagger away, locking it within its sheath. He made sure it was latched before leaning down. His hand cupped the former prince’s face. Their lips connected, a soft and tender kiss to seal in the magic.
Immediately the shimmer of the curse began to break. The former prince, now princess, stirred. Their eyes opened gracefully as they awoke after their long slumber. They yawned and wiped their eyes, brushing away the edges of sleep.
“Princess. I have awoken you from the curse that has kept you trapped in this tower.” Sir Gwain said sitting on the edge of the bed, his armor banging against itself as he did.
“Princess?” The girl said confused. “But I thought-” She scratched her head, fingers tangling in the long curls.
“Yes. Princess Lani. Perhaps your mind is still confused after your long slumber.”
Princess Lani mouthed her name over and over. It sounded correct to hear it, but it felt slightly strange to think about it. It was as if she couldn’t remember anything about herself, and the things that she did, felt wrong.
Sir Gwain watched the confusion on Lani’s face. She was not the first “princess” he had awoken from a curse and would not be the last. Each one always had the same reaction of confusion as their memories began to rewrite themselves.
“Where am I good knight. And who are you?”
“Why I, I am Sir Gwain, your betrothed. Tell me princess, do you remember what happened to you?”
Princess Lani shook her head. She slowly pushed herself up to sit next to the knight. Her hands toyed with her dress, the fabrics and colors seemed so much more vibrant now, and everything felt so much softer under her hands.
Gwain took her hand, letting her fingers trail over the cold metal. “You were placed under a sleeping curse by a foul witch. Only I, after venturing far and wide over many years, was able to find and save you with our true love’s kiss.”
Lani’s eyes perked up brightly. “True love….” She turned to look at the knight. Her vision began to cloud as feelings of adoration and love began to bubble up inside of her chest. She couldn’t remember meeting the knight or even falling in love with him, but she knew that it had happened. They were in love, true love and she would stand by his side forever.
“Yes my darling. Come now let us go collect the reward from your family. I’m sure they miss you dearly.”
“My family?” Lani muttered the words letting them roll off of her tongue. She didn’t remember them much, but it was becoming clearer by the second. As if her memories were parting through the fog of sleep.
“Yes. And then afterwards we will return to my castle, where you will meet my family, and all of my other wives. Don’t worry, by then everything will make so much more sense.” Princess Lani found herself nodding along. Everything Sir Gwain said made so much sense. He was so smart and perfect, and her true love. With him, she could finally find her happily ever after.
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Hope you enjoyed that. I’ll be following @h_sleepingirl prompt list for the entire month because I really like a couple of the prompts on the list. You should also definitely check out and support them.
You’ll also be able to find all of my writings under the tags on my page. Hope you enjoy and see you tomorrow!
#brainwashing#mind control#mind conditioning#my writings#hypnovember#jam out hypnovember#transformation
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there is a parallel universe where the final battle of the reforged campaign (a homebrew dnd game I've been running since november 2019) is a multi-day event where everyone gets to level-20 the fuck out of the Big Bad. where everything is super dynamic and exciting and the map is dope (maybe even something commissioned for the occasion) and every round of combat is my best work.
unfortunately, that universe is not the one we live in, where the campaign has been on hiatus since august and (for my own sanity) I've given myself a maximum of five sessions to wrap everything up into what i hope will be a coherent and satisfying ending.
however. in january of 2020, only a couple months after i had officially started the campaign with a bunch of strangers, i sat in a sonic parking lot with my spouse and hashed out the details of reforged's Big Bad and the forms i thought the final battle would take. and it is very cool that a lot of those musings will exist in some form, four years later, for the final fight.
i am perhaps too tired and overwhelmed (etc etc etc) to fully appreciate reforged for what it has been, what it is and what it will become as we wrap everything up. but one day, i know I'll be proud of it for its own sake.
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Hello please take this as an excuse to go off about cat mom bc I am Intrigued by Wander now 👀
sldjkfslkdfc thank you for enabling me iz 🥰🥰
wandering eye is a mountain lion tabaxi scout rogue and her stats are terrible but she's SO fast. I made her as my backup character for ingot after the very first session of reforged bc jd had been talking about what a shame it was that none of us were playing rogues lmfao. in like session six or something the party ran into wander while out traveling, and jd played her as an npc, and I've been sitting on the fact that that was me the whole time for the past four years.
wander grew up in an insular tabaxi community in the mountains that devoutly worshipped eyhemet, the g-d of the sun and fate and harmony (a cat lying in the sun is a holy experience). one morning when she was seven years old, the wind blew just right, and she locked eyes with a girl named sunrise over ashen peaks (ash for short, a snow leopard), and they both knew. fate had struck. they were destined for each other. they got married in their late teens, and ash became a cleric.
the continent where reforged takes place has a mountain range splitting it down the middle, and the two nations on either side of the mountains have been at war for the past fifty years, with the entire mountain range being disputed territory or active war zones or otherwise difficult to cross. one day when wander and ash were in their early twenties, a goblin refugee stumbled into town, seeking help to pass through the mountains. wander and ash volunteered-- wander being fast and quiet and knowing the land better than anyone, and ash being strong and protective and having healing magic made them the perfect pair for the job. so they did it. and they kept doing it. they built their lives around smuggling people across the border in both directions.
eventually ash got into a bit of strife with her g-d and they broke their faith. they met suri (one of the campaign's major npcs), a follower of the secret g-d of thieves, the unnamed thirteenth. suri told them she was planning to start a thieves' guild in the capital city and asked them to join, so they did. they found their new home in the city, and their new home in the unnamed thirteenth.
wander and ash kept doing their transport work, constantly traveling. when they were in town, they'd be surrogate moms to all the ruffians joining the guild, but they were usually gone, especially as the war continued. one day they were sneaking a prisoner out of the capital, but he changed his mind about the destination halfway through the trip, which ultimately led to them getting caught. wander was quick enough to break away from the cops, but ash... wasn't. ash was imprisoned in a magical tower designed to make people forget about their loved ones inside. soon enough the details of their existence just fade from your memory.
by the current point in the campaign, they're in their mid-40s and ash has been locked up for about five years. most people by now have forgotten all about ash. but not wander. nobody knows why. maybe it's a gift from the unnamed thirteenth. maybe it's a gift from eyhemet. maybe it's something stranger than that. but wander remembers. she dresses for stealth and concealment, but she always leaves her wedding band visible. she talks in the plural-- always saying "we," "us," and "our" instead of "I," "me," and "my"-- as a constant reminder that there should be someone beside her. she has extremely high dex and charisma but all the rest of her stats are garbage because those are all ash's skills and wander is incomplete without her.
wander has the keen mind feat and burns all written correspondence as soon as she's read it. all written correspondence she sends includes instructions to burn it, too. do not keep traceable evidence of her existence, and do not ever use her name. if anyone asks, her name is sight unseen, and her wife is named mist on the horizon. (for security, she doesn't use anyone else's name, either-- she refers to everyone by coded monikers and nicknames and epithets.) the government made sunrise over ashen peaks a ghost; wandering eye has become a shadow in kind.
basically, wander is an excuse for me to cry every time I listen to skeleton key by dessa.
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Hey!! What are your thoughts on pogtopia calling c!quackity Schlatt’s bitch? This is very important. (Also I hope you had a good vacation!!)
(Thank you, it was fantastic!) What have you done. Why would you remind me of - yes, yes, I have many thoughts.
Wilbur speaks to Quackity a few days after the election, while the wounds from the arrows that stole his second life are still healing. Quackity gushes about romantic walks and gloats about broken walls, and Wilbur can't take it anymore. He snaps at him to go back to being Schlatt's useless lackey. Quackity laughs, the same shrill cadence Wilbur remembers following a deeper, harsher cackle. He thinks of the bright, naive young man who challenged him, the precocious politician he would have graciously accepted defeat from, and can't reconcile it with this petty, simpering lapdog. He thinks of those two, the President and his b... vice, laughing together - at him - in the home that he and Tommy built. It makes his stomach churn. He says as much, then says it again in private, in the echoing ravine where it lingers for days. It feels like triumph. (It tastes like poison.)
Tommy picks it up quickly. It's a joke, it makes him feel better - more importantly, it seems to make Wilbur feel better. And it's not much different from the playful insults they bandied about during the elections and even earlier. But when he runs into Quackity on the Prime Path below the city, when he hastily tosses him a small bag of drugs to keep him quiet about what he's sniffed out, he catches a glimpse of his old friend from the cartel days, squeezed back into a suit that's loose and tight in all the wrong places. Tommy doesn't remember the circles under Quackity's eyes being quite so dark, not even after he did one too many lines and went on a pranking rampage that left them both exhausted from laughing. Something about Pogtopia's favorite joke feels a little bit... wrong now. He doesn't dwell too long on what that is.
Tubbo hears it too, from two different angles. One by day, casual and dismissive and always chased by nervous laughter; one by night, bitter and mocking and falsely lighthearted. When he hears it from Tommy's mouth, he stops cold. He has to remind himself that these are his friends, they're not cruel for no reason, they have the right to be upset. Still, he quietly gives thanks that Quackity isn't here to hear it; god knows, he hears it enough already. Tubbo never says the words aloud. But when he remembers those blank eyes behind the sunglasses, the halfhearted "are you sure," the trembling steps backward as Technoblade loomed over them all, the agony of his skin melting and lights bursting against his eyes, and the twenty-four hours afterward that Quackity still stood by his master, some tiny vicious part of him can't help but think them.
And when Quackity hears it, he's fresh from a fight, caked in sawdust and spattered with blood, an escaped pet who's no longer worth the trouble to find. Tommy says it under his breath, looks around like it's a shameful secret, lets Quackity expect the worst. But the word itself is all too familiar, and all too casual from his old friend's mouth. Half his blood boils; the other half freezes solid. It's awful, it's sickening, it's humiliating, it's infuriating, it tastes like sweat, blood, and tears, like alcohol and Hawaiian punch, like lilies in an empty church and ink stains on his fingers and gunpowder that won't wash out of his clothes.
And worst of all, it feels true.
He swallows his shame, reforges it into anger, strikes a deal to help free them all because making deals is what he does best (and it's never worked out badly for him before, right?). He paints himself as a dog beaten one too many times, who barked out one too many warnings, who finally decided to bite and would bite again in a heartbeat. He counterfeits documents, gathers seeds, trains with his weapons, contributes to the cause and fantasizes openly about dancing on the tyrant's grave. He convinces himself that he's safer here, no matter what anyone says, that at least he can earn back more respect than he ever had in Manberg.
But Pogtopia remembers, and so does he. There are too many ghosts here, winding through the shadowy ravine and dragging their fingers across his back when he least expects it. There's resentment and pain and grief, weeks and months of it, seeping into the stone. He can sense the eyes on him, he can smell the hate in the air, he can hear "traitor" and "murderer" and "weakling" in their voices. And if he closes his eyes, this treacherous, murderous weakling can picture the cobbled roof closing in above him, see the flickering of glowstone in the corners and moonlight through glass windows, and taste sour, wheezing breath mingling with his own. Schlatt's bitch - it tastes too much like home.
They didn't know. They don't know. They'll never know.
#dsmp#c!quackity#c!wilbur#c!tommy#c!tubbo#c!schlatt#tw abuse#tw drugs#writing#analysis#asks#jo's fic
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REFORGED AU TIDBITS PART 2
Still won't be able to draw for the next couple of days (thank you horrible traveling weather). So here is some m more information on my reforged AU! The link to the master post for this AU will be at the end of this post!
All of the brothers have tails and claws. Those that have the longest tails have the most animal DNA. This means that Leo and Mikey have the longest tails. Their claws can be used as impromptu melee weapons, and are kept fairly sharp. Donnie has the shortest claws because having long claws makes it difficult for him to work.
Leo can only be around the forge for so long, being a turtle and all. He can potentially dry out and suffer heat exhaustion/heat stroke if he is not careful. This meant it was a slow process to learn how to forge weapons, as Splinter didn’t need to take breaks.
Donnie does not enjoy the animal side of him and is gracious that he has the least animal DNA in his system. There are advantages to being a turtle, while there are other aspects that simply waste time. He does not envy his other brothers who deal with their animal DNA the most.
Once they’re older, Donnie enjoys Mikey’s company in the lab though still pays careful attention to chemicals. Mikey has burned himself on the chemicals more than just breaking stuff.
Raph LOVES music and considers it his outlet. He plays multiple instruments (drums, keyboard, bass, and guitar), and even writes his own music.
Raph is the BEST at making tea and often makes some for Leo while he’s meditating. Leo doesn’t know how he does it. Raph watched Splinter constantly from around the corners, trying to feign interest in most things, but at the time wanted to gain as much knowledge as possible to shove it in Leo’s face.
Mikey loves his brothers to death and will do anything to be around them. HATES being alone. So he’s either with his bros or with the mighty mutanimals.
These four brothers are heavily codependent on one another, whether or not they admit to it or not. Now that Splinter is gone, they are all they have left for the most part. Where there is one, there is another brother close by.
Leo is the first brother to actually kill someone. Then Raph, then Donnie, and then Mikey is the last one to make a kill.
After many stuck sheds, they installed a large glass and steel pool in a section of the lair. Donnie hooked it up to where it fills with hot water. It can comfortably fit all of them.
Reforged AU Masterpost
#tmnt#tmnt 2012#2012 tmnt#tmnt2012#reforged au#2012 leo#2012 mikey#2012 raph#2012 donnie#tmnt leonardo#tmnt michelangelo#tmnt raphael#tmnt donatello
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Here are three different prompt lists I made for Drawtober 2022. Tag me if you use any of this, because I'd love to see what you can make from it.
Text version is below the cut.
List A:
a pattern in the trees
faces turned towards you
everything has bones
in the eye of the storm
the transformation is spreading
someone else’s lives
assume a spherical cow
woven out of stolen dreams
favours come due
coins for your eyes
ruler of all that crawls
the end of a world
it goes even deeper
preserved in ice and amber
four days of waiting
seen only in silhouette
scavengers of an ancient mind
fear the shepherd
plagued by bells
you are what you eat
entwined around and within
the source of the screaming
what might be a dragon
anything that sinks will end up here
hold back the light
one last pilgrim
between summer and winter
fed to the father
knight of the middle
any colour but red
gift of vultures
List B:
deer
multiple
crossroads
judged
outbreak
dreaming
sirens
control
invisible
harvest
web
oracle
incarnate
twisted
reforged
well
hound
favour
within
fingers
lofty
shattered
sleepwalkers
generation
chamber
vines
gossamer
blister
waves
strand
scratches
List C:
growth unrestrained
not alone
vanishing act
a bug
beyond recognition
veins within
turned grey
the boatman
eat it
empty vessel
another line
bear witness
alluring music
grafted together
lost time
twisting fire
embedded horns
never landing
conspicuously absent
the exile
imperfect mimicry
mismatched shadows
countless blades
deep roots
complex anatomy
cloven hooves
dragged away
unaffiliated dancer
grave blossoms
looking back
in perpetuity
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Reforged (excerpt)
Fill for my Merlin Bingo 2024 adopted square “Aliens” 😉
Hello! For context (if you haven’t already heard me ramble about this WIP in one Discord server or another), this is the first half of Chapter 1 of a loooong and not remotely complete WIP, hence sharing it here rather than AO3 or FFN. It’s a modern-with-magic reincarnation fic.
(TW: graphic violence)
Fic summary:
Arthur Rhydderch had spent years trying to ‘find his calling,’ as his thesis advisor described it. This wasn’t quite what I had in mind, the reincarnated Once and Future King thought as he gave his sword a twirl and launched himself at the alien before it could breathe another blistering spurt of flames.
Up-and-coming paleontologist Dr. Merlin Emrys had thought he was adulting quite well; most days, he even managed to avoid getting yelled at by his landlady. Then secrets from his past life resurfaced, and everything fell apart. Facing an impossible choice, Merlin must come to terms with who he was, who he is, and—most importantly—who he wants to become.
Or:
When Albion’s greatest need arrives in the form of an alien invasion, the reincarnated figures of legend must deal with the consequences of their shared past even as they fight for humanity’s future.
Chapter 1 (excerpt):
Arthur was in the library when the world ended. It was barely 10:00 AM on a Tuesday, and it was shaping up to be one of the worst days of his life even before the sky rained fire.
Six hours ago, Arthur had shaken off the claws of a nightmare for the third night in barely a week. Running, always running, with watering eyes and screaming lungs as the soot threatened to choke him. Four hours ago, he’d paused in the middle of his training run through the city to sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watch with bleary eyes as the pale dawn crept up from the horizon, silhouetting Capitol Hill against the clear autumn sky. His t-shirt stuck to his skin as his sweat cooled. Blood and sweat mingling, trickling down his back as he twisted away from vicious claws that slashed his shoulder from behind. The fresh air hadn’t banished the phantom tang of acrid smoke, so he’d dragged himself home and attempted to drown the taste with a fourth cup of caustically strong coffee, nearly scalding his tongue in his haste. Burns blistering on his forearms as he gripped the sword hilt with white knuckles while hissing creatures stalked him from the shadows. The shifting shadows had still dogged his thoughts as he’d headed to an early one-to-one meeting with the head coach of his college soccer team.
Three hours ago, his coach had informed him, not unkindly, that he wouldn’t be nominating Arthur for the pro soccer draft at the end of the semester, despite Arthur being co-captain and the best on the team. Arthur understood his coach’s reasoning, but it did nothing to ease the sting. The prevailing industry view was that most players peaked in their mid-twenties, and Arthur was already twenty-six. His American uni scholarship had already been his fallback option, a new route to the same professional goal after he’d aged out of Manchester United’s football training academy without a pro contract at twenty-three. Now, the coveted draft slot would go to a younger player—a domestic player who wouldn’t have to deal with visa complexities—and Arthur would simply have to find another calling.
Two hours ago, Arthur’s thesis advisor—never particularly interested in Arthur’s athletic goals—had inadvertently poured salt in that raw wound by asking, as he did at least once a semester, if Arthur had “found his calling” yet.
Arthur’s self-control had slipped, and he’d answered bluntly, “If it’s a calling, then it needs to make itself heard.”
Dr. Taliesin had simply sighed and said, “Someday you will know your destiny.” Then he’d asked to see the latest draft of Arthur’s senior thesis and proceeded to spend the remaining twenty minutes of their meeting eviscerating it.
One hour ago, Arthur had clocked in for his work-study shift at the campus library. The students who’d pulled all-nighters on midterm assignments had all gone to bed or to class by the time Arthur arrived, and it hadn’t taken him long to reshelve the trail of reference texts they’d left in their wake.
Thirty minutes ago, he’d settled at the circulation desk with a stack of books which Dr. Taliesin had just recommended. Arthur had tried—and failed—to concentrate on his thesis research instead of his imploded career plan, even as he’d tried—and failed—to ignore how the silence amplified the harrowing echoes of his nightmares.
Fifteen minutes ago, Arthur had scrubbed a hand over his itchy stubble, regretting that he’d forgotten to shave in his distracted state that morning. His neck had popped audibly in the quiet lobby as he’d stretched and had given up on his thesis research for the moment. Having concluded that he needed to distract himself from anything having to do with his future, he’d pushed aside the heavy books and pulled out the latest reading assignment for his Medieval Lit elective.
One minute ago, Arthur had realized that he’d been staring blankly at the same Middle English paragraph for several minutes. He’d given up on studying altogether and gathered up his reference books to shelve. When he’d stood, his rolling chair had skittered sideways out of his reach. He’d been ready to chalk it up to caffeine tremors and jittery nerves when he’d heard the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling windows rattle.
That was when he’d glanced up and discovered that the world was ending.
He blinked—once, twice—and craned his neck to get a better look. Well, his tired brain amended as it struggled to process the latest milestone in his terrible day, perhaps ‘ending’ is too strong a word. Maybe just the ‘start’ of the apocalypse?
Semantics aside, the sky was raining fire.
The ground shook as each flaming meteorite crashed, one after another after another. One hurtled toward the window, and the prospect of his impending fiery death finally jolted Arthur into action. He dropped the books and dove behind the circulation desk, throwing up an arm to shield his face as the glass shattered and the fireball barreled through.
Over the greedy crackle of flames as a row of study cubicles caught fire, Arthur heard an unnatural hissing. It grated across his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He peeked around the edge of the circulation desk and froze.
Am I dreaming?
From within the smoldering wreckage of the thing that hadn’t been a meteorite, a creature emerged—a creature unlike anything Arthur had ever seen. The firelight glinted off its burnished scales as it unfurled leathery wings like a monstrous bird hatching from a cursed egg, like a cassowary made of fire and brimstone. The creature fixed its glowing red eyes on him and uttered a shrieking hiss.
Arthur knew that sound.
So that’s what they look like, he thought, half-hysterical. He ducked back behind the desk, even though he knew it was too late to hide. The beast had seen him, and just like he knew that horrible cry, he knew that thing would hunt him down. He heard the creature flap once, and then a spurt of flames shot past the edge of the circulation desk where his face had been moments before. The industrial carpet melted.
Arthur’s instincts took over. One. There was no hope of getting out through the burning front entrance, so he scrambled away from the flames and ran the length of the circulation desk, staying low as another fiery blast raced over his head and immolated an oil painting on the wall above him. Two. Just like in his nightmares, he counted, and just like in his nightmares, he had no idea why. He reached the end of the circulation desk and made a run for it across an exposed stretch of the lobby, dodging more fireballs—Three. Four.—as the creature chased him toward the winding, windowless corridors that formed the only route to the back exit.
He skidded into the corridor and ricocheted off the wall as he took the first turn at full speed. Another volley of flames hit the wall just after he’d turned the corner; he felt the heat at his back as he continued his flight. Five. The fire alarm kicked in, and the reverberating noise in the corridors nearly drowned out the creature’s shrieks and hisses. After several more turns and another near miss with a fireball—Six.—that left one sleeve of his red hoodie singed, Arthur hit a dead end.
He cursed colorfully under his breath as he realized he’d taken a wrong turn on autopilot; he’d been so focused on dodging fireballs that he’d turned left instead of right at the special collections display case. He’d reached the central elevator’s windowless alcove rather than the exit. The elevator was out of service, he’d already passed the nearest stairwell, and he didn’t have time to retrace his steps to the turn he’d missed. He heard a crash followed by scuffling as the creature—the alien, his brain so helpfully supplied—slammed into the display case before approaching the final turn. I’ve got thirty seconds at best. Arthur backed away from the sound, wracking his brain for any remaining options. His shoulder bumped into something sharp; he glanced back and saw it was the corner of a wall-mounted display case containing a medieval-style sword from the university’s eclectic collection of artifacts. On the lower right corner of the plate glass front, a snarky student had added a sticky note that read:
In case of emergency, break glass :)
What have I got to lose? he thought, glancing around. There were no fire extinguishers—Ironic, he lamented—nor any other heavy objects in the alcove to break the glass. Out of time and options, he raised his hood for protection like a knight’s coif and shielded his face with his right arm before slamming his left elbow into the glass as hard as he could. It cracked but didn’t shatter.
The hissing grew louder. Ignoring the pain in his arm, Arthur struck the case a second time, and then a third.
Razor-sharp shards grazed Arthur’s hoodie as the glass shattered and spilled out onto the floor. As the security alarm blared in concert with the fire alarm, he reached into the case and drew out the sword.
It felt strangely comfortable in his hand. Not quite like the sword in his dreams, but familiar all the same. He gave it a quick twirl with his wrist, then faced the hallway just as the alien appeared.
It stalked toward him on all fours with its folded, bat-like wings curving up from its clawed forefeet; the barbed tips met in a sharp arch over its back like crossed lance poles. Its glowing red eyes were nearly level with Arthur’s as it paused, tilting its large, draconic head side to side on its long neck as though sizing up the sword in Arthur’s hand.
Arthur stood his ground. Not like I have anywhere left to run, he thought as he tightened his grip on the sword. Might as well go out fighting.
The alien hissed, and smoke curled out through its nostrils. It opened its jaw wide and coughed out a sulfurous black cloud. Arthur gagged as his eyes watered. The alien hacked again like a chain smoker, but no flames burst forth.
Arthur saw his window and took it. Just like on the footie pitch, he feinted left, then spun to the right. With a screech, the alien fell for the trick and lunged, leaving its neck vulnerable to Arthur’s attack. Arthur used the momentum of his spin to throw his full weight into his one shot at survival, bringing the blade down squarely on the creature’s neck.
The steel sliced clean through sinew and bone, and the creature’s head hit the ground mid-snarl. Arthur dodged the body’s writhing death throes and vaulted over the convulsing tail as he raced back down the corridor toward the exit. He slipped more than once on the wet linoleum—the emergency sprinklers had finally activated—before he stumbled out through the back exit into the deserted alley, soaked and bleeding, still clutching the sword.
#merlin bingo#bingo fill#alien invasion#aliens & swords#bbc merlin#fanfic#wip#shameless self promotion#my stories#writing#angst with a happy ending#wip wednesday#aliens#fic: reforged
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I think Vanya should come up with a day that he decides it is Vi's birthday and bake him a little cake.
When they first met, in a hull full of steel, the acrid scent of smoke slowly wafting, with only the sounds of alarms and flurries of feet in the distance to cut through the tiny, hushed whispers of his partner whispering to him 'What do you think you're doing. They want to kill us' the stage for future friendship was drastically under-prepared. Even if they were in the midst of a war with an unaccountable number of moving parts, even with all the circumstances against them on all sides, he still extended his hand in kindness with a smile to Violette. Looked at him with the same warmth he has carried in himself for lifetimes unfathomable "I can see you mean us no harm, and we wish you none, so let us see you to safety."
Vanya is no stranger to skepticism, to the look the man soon to be named Violette gave him. Still, he smiled as they - three soon to be four, and four forevermore - fled from peril. He smiled still when Violette and Iris eyed him critically, where Iris looked upon he and Mal with entertained disbelief, Violette looked at him as if searching. Waiting. The way he had seen many other people look at him, expecting his kindness to be two sided. To be less an offer and more a mandate, that it was a precursor to want. Where Iris was much like the cats that roamed the isolated forest, who were content to be fed and watched from afar so long as they may occasionally use another roof for shelter; Violette was a starved dog, stalking the underbrush ready to flee when the time came.
It was easier then, to be friends with Iris. For Iris was straightforward in the approach, disbelieving in the ideas of steadfast kindness, but not closed off entirely to it. So long as he was entertained, he could be talked to until eventually reaching a point where Vanya could see in his eyes that there was no running anymore. A cat stuffed full on the regular, loved and pampered, and given shelter to come and go from is after all likely to stay. Violette was much a different case, brusque and cold. Unwilling to meet another in the middle. Acts of kindness were met with a wary gaze and curt words; but his mother taught him well, taught him to show kindness until ones hand is bit and Violette never quite took a bite but turned the other cheek. Looked away. Refused.
So Vanya adapted, gregarious displays became muted. It was memorizing what ingredients got any vague reaction from Violette during a meal, finding that he favored something warm and filling, but not heavy. He may eat anything put in front of him, but there is hiding little from a creation meant to observe and adjust to another. He keeps his hands to himself in clear display of respect, where he can never seem to stop himself from holding and hugging, he leaves Violette be. He uses what little magic he has to stitch Violette together with a smile when Mal is spread too thing, listens to every "I'll be fine in an hour." with patience and a gentle countenance. "I know, but I want to help you." he has replied to every single one and took note of how, eventually, Violette quit pushing him away.
He takes the old uniform of Garlemald away, in a guise of need help he provides catharsis; he teaches Violette how to remove the stitching, dismantle the armor, imparts the knowledge of the many trades Vanya threw himself into to be useful. Teaches him what to use the left over fabric for, what the metal can be reforged into. Vanya does not use them. No, he donates the materials to those who will use them better. Instead Vanya makes something from scratch, with fabrics woven by his own hands and metal whose ore he harvested and forged. The first milestone is that Violette lets Vanya dress him, lets him fit the first thing he has ever worn for himself, something made for him and him alone.
Vanya made no mention of it then, simply smiled as always, bright as the sun. "I'm glad you like it. I think it suits you perfect." he had said and moved on. It was that little inroads made that set his heart aflutter, that let him dig a little deeper about his friend; a term said with a cold sort of fondness as he watched the other man warm up to the idea. He never learns much but enough. He learns little trivia, he learns about how long Violette has served, he learns the voidsent that clings to his friend has a name and that frankly speaking, Violette does not seem to like him. He learns Violette does not have a birthday, because such things are of no importance to acknowledge when you are conscripted.
The next day, Vanya makes him a cake. A small thing, made exactly for one; he toils over it for the better part of a day, frets over chocolate and decor and making every little decoration by hand before settling on arranging it nicely with a topping of painstakingly and precisely distanced fruit. He does not write happy birthday on it, he knows better, but instead in icing he takes too long to get to the perfect shades of green and purple, Vanya puts two little rabbits in a corner. There's a fondness in the way that the man remembers how the other viera looked at him: incredulous "I don't have a birthday." delivered with a flat indifference that was there solely to mask honest bafflement. "I know, so I decided today was your birthday. Eat up, I spent all day on it to make sure it was extra delicious!" Was the retort and the quiet threat of Vanya's watering eyes: 'I'll cry if you don't'. An extremely potent threat; Vanya was soft, tender, in the worst of times and cried as easily as one could but it was one thing to cry when the world became too much. It was another thing entirely for someone to make him cry.
The plate was clean when it came back to him.
And that sealed Violette's fate.
That year flew by and so came the next with their ever continuing journey. On a different day, there was a different cake, a different "It's not my birthday." because this time Violette added his name to it with actual emotion behind it. "It most certainly is your birthday today, because I decided so. Happy birthday, Violette!" became the traditional reply. Every year the date moved with no rhyme or reason, announced only with a single serving cake and eventually a present to accompany it. Again, and again, and again. Vanya wraps them both in ritual, in a spontaneous moment shared between friends. An acknowledgement. Vanya will remember him, will remember Violette, and all he has told him. He will remember the little details, the things Violette himself disregards, and Vanya will spin them into a tapestry of meaning. In the life Violette will live, he will be loved. In all ways, adored, valued. Cherished.
In a kitchen full of scattered bowls and plates, utensils and measuring cups, bottles of this flavoring and that, Vanya makes a cake. Different from last years that he makes with every ounce of love he can give for he can be no other way, the icing is painstakingly smoothed and shaped with more a variety of knife and patisseries paddle than necessary. Two dollops of fresh whipped cream with little sugar eyes and little sugar ears. Like always he does not write happy birthday and leaves it at that; ready to be served the moment Violette steps through the door, as he will because he does not reject the call from a friend. On the table a little box, jewelry that he knows Violette will find too rich for his blood, but will take anyways because Vanya had made it for him.
Every year, the same ritual, every year the same message. Every year, without fail.
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