#marco monarch
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Welcome Home: Our Neck of the Woods Au
Meet and Greet the Neighbors
We have uncovered a few scripts and character artwork about the wonderful new cast neighbors. Meet the fearless explorer of the neighborhood who is always ready to explore the great outdoors.
Marco Monarch
"Hello, Hola, Bonjour! Ready to embark on an exciting exploration and see some new and exciting places? Marco Monarch is happy to be your fearless and colorful butterfly guide in the beautiful great outdoors. Whether near the woods or far beyond the rainbow tree hills, adventure is always out there, and Marco is there to seek it."
Marco was known for being quiet, the knowledgeable explorer around his neck of the woods. He was described as being very confident and sharing stories about his adventures outside of the neighborhood. He would sometimes show off his souvenirs to his and tell them interesting facts about where the object came from.
Having some scenes where he would reminisce about his travels to different locations, both fake and real. Based on some findings about Marco, he was a very unique puppet who would be seen in real-life locations around the world. Teaching veiwers about different countries greetings, cultures and various souvenirs from them.
Based on the script of the special, he found the neighbors of Home just by taking a different flying route than the one he normally takes. A big storm passes by making it unsafe for him to fly, causing him to get lost and make a crash landing at Howdy's Bodega. He introduces himself to Wally and gang while telling them about his own home in his neck of the woods, which sets off Wally and the residents to help Marco back home and meet the new neighbors.
#our neck of the woods#welcome home#welcome home oc#welcome home: our neck of the woods#welcome home au#welcome home fan project#welcome home fandom#welcome home fanwork#marco monarch
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An unprecedented female monarch in her dynasty, Rudrama Devi (r.1262-1289) presided over an age of prosperity. A successful warrior queen, she triumphed over both internal and external threats.
Her father’s heir
Rudrama Devi was the daughter of King Ganapati Deva (r.1199-1262) of the Kakatiya dynasty, who ruled over parts of present-day Telangana and Andhra Pradesh in Southern India. Their capital was located at Orugallu (Warangal).
Ganapati Deva was a successful monarch. His kingdom was famed for its’ diamonds and beautiful fabrics. He had no son to succeed him and his older daughter was already married. He thus decided to make his younger daughter Rudrama Devi his heir and gave her the requisite training.
A female monarch would nonetheless be a in vulnerable position and see her legitimacy questioned. To make female rule more acceptable, he arranged a Putrikayagna ceremony for his daughter. This religious rite allowed a sonless man to declare his daughter or his daughter’s son as his son. After that, Rudrama Devi was also known by the masculine name of Rudra Deva. She also attended all public meetings in masculine attire.
Her story is similar in that regard to that of her near-contemporary, Raziya Sultan of Delhi.
A warrior among warriors
In 1259, Rudrama Devi became her father’s co-ruler and assumed sole rule in 1262. She married the Chalukya prince Virabdhadra, who played no part in her administration, and with whom she had three daughters.
Rudrama Devi faced many threats at once. Her neighbors saw an opportunity to conquer her kingdom and her feudatory noblemen couldn’t stand being ruled by a woman.
She stood her ground and prevailed, proving her might as a warrior queen. Many of her nobles rebelled, but she successfully defeated them. The Seuna Yadava king, Mahadeva, invaded her territories and reached her capital. Rudrama Devi chased him after 15 days of fighting and forced them to pay a heavy tribute in money and horses.
To commemorate her victory, she styled herself “Rayagajakesari” or “the lion who rules over the elephant kings”. In the pavilion she built, she was depicted as a warrior mounted on a lion, holding a sword and a shield, with an elephant trunk holding up a lotus to her in sign of submission.
In 1262, another of her neighbors occupied the Vengi region. She was able to recover it after 12 years of fighting. She was nonetheless unsuccessful in fending off the attacks of her southern rival Ambadeva.
Meritocratic policies
Rudrama Devi completed the construction of the nearly impregnable Warangal Fort. She bought large tracts of land under cultivation, increasing her kingdom’s revenue. She also recruited non-aristocratic warriors from diverse castes. Only 17 percent of her subordinates were of noble background. Prominent commanders could receive lands and become feudatory nobles. She thus established a new warrior class. Since the nobility had rejected her rule, this meritocratic policy allowed her to surround herself with loyal retainers.
Marco Polo, who mistook her for a widow of the previous king, wrote about her very flattering terms, calling her a “lady of much discretion” and a “lover of justice, of equity and of peace”.
A warrior to the end
At the end of her reign, she chose her grandson, Prataparudra, as her heir.
Rudrama Devi likely died in 1289 (though some sources date her death from 1295) according to an inscription made by a member of her army commemorating her recent death and that of her army chief. The cause and location of her death are unknown. She likely died facing Ambadeva's armies, leading her troops as she had always done.
Further reading
Gupta Archana Garodia, The women who ruled India, leaders, warriors, icons
Janchariman M., Perspectives in Indian History From the Origins to AD 1857
Talbot Cynthia, "Rudrama‐devi, Queen of Kakatiya dynasty (r. 1262–1289)", In: The Oxford Encyclopedia of Women in World History.
Talbot Cynthia, Precolonial India in Practice: Society, Region, and Identity in Medieval Andhra
#rudrama devi#13th century#history#women in history#women's history#historyedit#women's history month#india#indian history#queens#powerful women#women warriors#warrior women#historical figures#herstory
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The type of person you are.
Animorphs 22: The Solution, Chapter 1/Worm, Monarch 16.13/Animrophs 22: The Solution, Chapter 4/Worm, Cell 24.5/Avatar The Last Airbender Season 3 Episode 5: The Beach.
IMAGE IDs: A series of screenshots.
The first is from Animorphs. It reads:
"If David had hurt Tobias, I would... But what was the point in making threats? I didn’t need to make threats. I knew what I would do. So did Jake. That’s why he’d sent Ax for me."
The second is from Worm. It reads:
"I took a step forward, then made myself take another.
'It doesn’t have to be you,' Tattletale told me.
'No,' I told her. 'I think it does.'"
The third is from Animorphs again:
"<Ax? Tell me something. When Jake sent you to get help, why did you come for me and not Marco or Cassie?>
<Prince Jake was specific. Get Rachel.>
<Did he say why?> Ax hesitated a moment. Then he said,<Jake told me Tobias was probably dead. I said this was a terrible thing. And Prince Jake said, 'Yes. If David’s killed Tobias, we may have to do a terrible thing, too. Get Rachel.'>
I don’t know how that made me feel. I’m not a person who obsesses over her feelings. You know what I mean? Some people can’t stop “looking inward” constantly, and that’s not me. But it definitely made me feel strange. Jake had called for me specifically. Because he wanted someone who would do precisely what I was planning to do. Like I say, I’m not big on feelings, but something about that felt wrong."
The fourth is from Worm again:
"It was Tagg, dead.
I’d killed a man, and I had done it with my power, which somehow felt more intimate than the gun that killed Coil. My power made the bugs an extension of myself, and I’d used them to murder the man. It was little different from wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing, or biting him in the throat and tearing deep enough that he couldn’t survive.
I couldn’t bring myself to feel anything meaningful about it. I wanted to. I wanted to think of his daughters, apparently college students overseas, and his apparently loving wife, and the fact that I’d just taken a member of their family from them, much as my mom had been taken from me. I wanted to feel terrible, to cry, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I felt bad, but not as bad as I should have."
The fifth is from Avatar the Last Airbender and is the only one that's not text. It's a close up on Azula's face as she looks down, somewhat vulnerable. The dialogue reads:
"I don't have sob stories like all of you. I could talk about how mom liked Zuko more than me, but I don't really care. My own mother thought I was a monster. She was right, of course, but it still hurt."
END IDs.
#animorphs#worm#atla#webweaving#web weave#webweave#web weaving#quotes#taylor hebert#azula#rachel animorphs
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Taylor Nick Variant Universe Brain Rot Part 2
Remember this? When I went unhinged and started coming up with an iPartment-inspired Taylor/Nick characters crossover rom-com universe???
WELL I GOT AROUND WORLD BUILDING, BUT I KIND OF NEED SOME HELP/INPUT
And yes I handwrote my ideas on paper that is my real handwriting I just think better when I write physically
So three parts:
Part 1: Family Relations
Explanation:
I made some of the characters relatives because of convenience and because it was fun
Henry's family follows the movie version, so Henry's surname is Hanover-Stuart Fox
Both the King from RWRB and the King from M&G are named James lol (the former James III of the UK; the latter James I&VI of England and Scotland), both bear the name Stuart but it's fucking weird for brothers to have the same name so I made Hanover-Stuart a joint surname only for Catherine and her children: Henry's Grandfather is a Hanover, Henry's Grandmother is a Stuart, George's lover/sugar daddy is Henry's Grandmother's younger brother
Robert (Cinderella; Nick) is from a (trashy) musical theatre movie and since Arthur Fox is an actor, I gave him a stage actress sister who's Robert's mother: Henry and Robert are cousins
During the pillow talk scene in RWRB Alex mentioned his father has a sister so I made said sister Marco's (The Kissing Booth; Taylor) mother: Alex and Marco are cousins
Part 2: Jobs/Studies
Explanation
Alex and Henry are what they are
At the end of KB3 Marco said he wanted to go to New York and become a musician so yeah
Robert is from a musical so might as well make that his study
Being a sugar baby is the best way I can translate George's situation into a modern setting
Henry's parents are as they are, with the modification that Catherine is a professor at Oxford
Oscar Diaz is as he is
Arthur's sister/Robert's mother is a stage actress
Questions/Input/Help Please
What music school in New York can Marco go to? I only know Julliard but it seems a little too unrealistic
I don't know how the American government system so if Ellen isn't president what position can I put her in? Senator too? Or something else?
What job works for Henry's grandfather and James Stuart? Does old money work? What's a modern substitute for a monarch?
George was historically a really good dancer and we're gonna see that in M&G, does it make sense to translate that into a club dancer or something? I ask as someone who has never in her life gone to a club
Part 3: Living Arrangements
Explanation:
I want them to be roommates? The fic and the show that inspired this idea was the characters living in two neighbouring apartments: 1 with 4 residents and 1 with 3 residents
I kind of want to start with all of Nick's characters in one apartment and all of Taylor's in another, then maybe mix it up as relationships develop
So for the 4-person apartment right now I have Henry and Robert
For the 2 or 3-person apartment I have Alex and Marco
George, as a sugar baby, has James giving him a luxurious loft where he lives on his own
Question:
I... don't really know how apartments in New York/ the states work? My understanding of an apartment is like one complex with a living room, dining room, bedrooms, kitchen and washrooms, and one floor of one building has a couple of those for each floor. Is the States the same? 'Cause yall live in houses and we don't really have that here? The building my apartment is in has 42 floors and each floor has 8 apartments.
Suggestion for roommates for each apartment? I need 2 Nick characters and 1 Taylor character who would be reasonable enough to share a new York flat with college students
Final Question:
Suggestion for a name for this universe/fic?
Tagging @luainthewild @henryfoxisgenderqueerandautistic
#rwrb#red white and royal blue#rwrb movie#taylor zakhar perez#nicholas galitzine#alex claremont diaz#henry fox mountchristen windsor#henry hanover stuart fox#firstprince#meraki fic#rwrb thoughts#marco peña#prince robert#george villiers
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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY
based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … February 6
1453 – Girolamo Benivieni was a Florentine poet and a musician. His father was a notary in Florence.
He suffered from poor health most of his life, which prevented him from taking a more stable job. He was a leading member of the Medicean Academy, a society devoted to literary study. He was a friend of Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, whom he met for the first time in 1479; it was Mirandola who encouraged him to study Neoplatonism.
In the late 1480s, he and Mirandola became students of Dominican friar Girolamo Savonarola (1452–1498). In 1496, he translated the teachings of Savonarola from Italian to Latin. After he began following Savonarola, he rejected his earlier poetry and attempted to write more spiritually. He participated in Savonarola's Bonfire of the Vanities, and documented the destruction of art worth "several thousand ducats".
Pico della Mirandola experienced "an heavenly love" with Benivieni, ten years his junior, who ardently reciprocated his affections. Theirs was, they declared, a fervent but chaste love kept under watch by rigorous morality and Christian mysticism. However, during a sermon after Pico's death, Savonarola made a revelation which caused a sensation: Pico's soul had not immediately gone to paradise, but was consigned for a time to the flames of purgatory because of certain sins, which he did not wish to name. Popular opinion assumed that Pico had kept a female lover or a secret concubine.
Five centuries later, it is impossible to know the truth, but the probability that Pico had a male lover, perhaps Benivieni himself, is now less unbelievable, as documents emerge showing the significance of homosexuality in the circle of Pico's friends (such as Marcilio Ficino and Poliziano).
It will never be known whether or not Pico remained celibate, or if his love for Benivieni was consummated. What is known is a delicate testimonial to this love: the tomb in which they decided to be buried together, and which can still be seen in the church of San Marco in Florence.
1665 – The last of the Stuart monarchs, Anne Stuart (d.1714) was Queen of England from 1702 to 1714. Before that, Anne's older sister, Mary, had held the throne with her husband William of Orange. Historians of sexuality consider her long intimate friendship with Sarah Churchill, Duchess of Marlborough, central to the period's acceptance of romantic, and even erotic, relationships between upper-class women.
When she was six, her mother died of cancer, at which time she and her sister moved to Richmond palace, joining the household of Edward Villiers, his wife Lady Frances, and their seven children to be raised in proper Protestant fashion. It was here that Anne met Sarah Jennings (1660-1744), who would remain her closest friend, confidante, and advisor for the next twenty-five years. Anne did not particularly enjoy the company of the Villiers girls, a situation which may have contributed to her growing fondness for Sarah.
Anne's relationship with Sarah continued into adulthood, surviving many transitions, including Sarah's marriage to John Churchill, the criticism of her sister Mary, and Anne's own marriage and rise to the throne.
On July 28, 1683, Anne married George, Prince of Denmark, and assumed her new title of Princess of Denmark. Her marriage initiated a large number of unsuccessful pregnancies. She had countless miscarriages and gave birth to about twenty children. All but one, William, Duke of Gloucester, died shortly after birth. Tragically, William died at the age of eleven, depriving the Stuart line of an heir.
To the chagrin of the royal family and Queen Mary in particular, Anne's attachment to Sarah persisted and began to attract negative attention. Her critics considered it an "immoderate passion," inappropriate for a princess. Mary repeatedly called for Anne to dismiss Sarah from her company and forgo their friendship.
Despite such pressure, Anne remained loyal to Sarah. When Anne became queen after William's death, she promoted Sarah to the position of first lady of the bedchamber, which gave her unrestricted access to the queen. Anne also bestowed many gifts on Sarah and her husband, the first Duke of Marlborough, including the extravagantly expensive Blenheim Palace.
Sarah and Anne's intimacy began to wane after the first few years of Anne's rule. As Anne slowly began to pay more attention to her Tory advisors, Sarah felt her political opinions neglected.
To make matters worse, Anne grew fond of Abigail Hill Masham, a younger relative of Sarah's whom she had placed at court. As Abigail increasingly played the role of Anne's confidante, this was too much for Sarah to bear. She later became one of Anne's most bitter critics, attacking her for "having noe [sic] inclination for any but her own sex."
Anne struggled with many illnesses. At the end of July 1714, she suffered a fit and fell into a coma. She died on died on August 1, 1714.
1899 – Ramón Novarro (d.1968) was a Mexican leading man actor in Hollywood in the early 20th century. He was the next male "Sex Symbol" after the death of Rudolph Valentino. Novarro was the victim of a violent extortion attempt which resulted in his death.
Novarro was born José Ramón Gil Samaniego on February 6, 1899 in Durango, Mexico. He moved with his family to Los Angeles, California, to escape the Mexican Revolution in 1913.
A second cousin of the Mexican actresses Dolores del Río and Andrea Palma, he entered films in 1917 in bit parts; and he supplemented his income by working as a singing waiter. His friends, the actor and director Rex Ingram and his wife, the actress Alice Terry, began to promote him as a rival to Rudolph Valentino, and Ingram suggested he change his name to "Novarro." From 1923, he began to play more prominent roles. His role in Scaramouche (1923) brought him his first major success.
In 1925, he achieved his greatest success in the original Ben-Hur, his revealing costumes causing a sensation, and he was elevated into the Hollywood elite. With Valentino's death in 1926, Novarro became the screen's leading Latin actor, though ranked behind his MGM stablemate, John Gilbert, as a model lover. He was popular as a swashbuckler in action roles and was considered one of the great romantic lead actors of his day.
When Novarro's contract with MGM Studios expired in 1935, the studio did not renew it. He continued to act sporadically. At the peak of his success in the late 1920s and early 1930s, he was earning more than US$100,000 per film. He invested some of his income in real estate, and his Hollywood Hills residence is one of the more renowned designs by architect Lloyd Wright. After his career ended, he was still able to maintain a comfortable lifestyle.
Novarro had been troubled all his life as a result of his conflicting views over his Roman Catholic religion and his homosexuality, and his life-long struggle with alcoholism is often traced to these issues. MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer reportedly tried to coerce Novarro into a "lavender marriage", which he refused. He was a friend of adventurer and author Richard Halliburton, also a celebrity in the closet, and was romantically involved with journalist Herbert Howe, who was also his publicist during the late 1920s.
Novarro was murdered on October 30, 1968, by two Mormon brothers, Paul and Tom Ferguson (aged 22 and 17, respectively), whom he had hired from an agency to come to his Laurel Canyon home for sex. According to the prosecution in the murder case, the two young men believed that a large sum of money was hidden in Novarro's house. The prosecution accused them of torturing Novarro for several hours to force him to reveal where the nonexistent money was hidden. They left with a mere 20 dollars they took from his bathrobe pocket before fleeing the scene. Novarro allegedly died as a result of asphyxiation, choking to death on his own blood after being brutally beaten, reputedly with a lead dildo once given him by Rudolph Valentino.
The two brothers were later caught and sentenced to long prison terms but were quickly released on probation. Both were later re-arrested for unrelated crimes, for which they served longer terms than for their murder conviction.
1915 – Donald Friend (d.1989) was an Australian artist, writer and diarist. Born in Warialda, northwest New South Wales, into an aristocratic grazier family, Friend defied his family's wishes that he follow in his father's footsteps. Openly homosexual, he left school at the age of 16 to become an itinerant artist.
Friend began his nomadic life by jumping freight trains to Cairns in North Queensland, traveling further north to Thursday Island, and then living with the island people of the beautiful Torres Strait.
Friend began his art training in Sydney, and assisted by a one hundred pound gift from his grandmother, he traveled to England in 1936 to further his art studies at the Westminster School of Art in London.
In London, Friend met a Nigerian, Ladipo, who became his model and lover. Inspired by Lapido, he traveled to West Africa in 1937 where he found work as a financial adviser. Here, Friend refined his love for the exotic and developed a special interest in ancient African bronze-casting.
With the outbreak of World War II, Friend returned to Sydney and enlisted in the Australian army. For four years he served mainly as an artillery gunner, but in early 1945 he was appointed an Official War Artist. During the last phase of the war in the Pacific, Friend worked in New Guinea and Borneo, two of the bloodiest theaters of Australia's Pacific campaign.
Many of Friend's official wartime works provide rare glimpses of male intimacy and closeness, such as in his figure studies for The Showers Balikpapan 13 August 1945, which depict the bare and brawny physiques of young soldiers engaged in the communal showering ritual.
"The Mosquito Net
Other works record rare moments of "solitude" and "privacy" such as in The Mosquito Net (1945), in which a seemingly unsuspecting naked soldier dozes under the thin veil of a net, his legs apart and groin exposed, oblivious to Friend's voyeuristic gaze.
After the war, Friend joined the bohemian "Merioola" group of artists in Sydney for a brief period, before moving to the old New South Wales mining town of Hill End. His departure was prompted partly by unrequited love for handsome sculpture student Colin Brown.
Colin (1946), The Young Sculptor (1946), and Study of Colin (1946) form part of a series of richly textured paintings and sensitively etched drawings that reveal Friend's awe for the beautiful young Colin. Friend confessed in his diary, "My whole life is Colin. Not particularly Colin himself, but my love and appreciation and desire for the Colins of this world and my life."
Beginning in March 1949, Friend made several trips to Italy, where he fell in love with another model turned lover, a good-looking Italian peasant named Attilio Guarracino, whom he brought back to Australia. However, the pattern of short but intense romance repeated itself and the relationship did not last.
Flyleaf to "Bumbooziana"
In 1979, Richard Griffin published Friend's salacious book Bumbooziana, an "investigation into the private habits of elephants, camels, zebras, leopards, etc. and the equally strange customs of men. . . ." Perhaps the most famous of Friend's publications, Bumbooziana generated much sensation when introduced to a prudish Australian public because of its erotic imagery and sexually-explicit nature, its cover page illustrating the sexualized bodies of half-human, half-zebra creations of Friend's wild imagination.
Friend made "no attempt to disguise the homoeroticism which underlay much of his work." Nor did he mince words about his sexual preferences, depicting himself as "a middle-aged pederast who's going to seed" in his journal. His relationships consisted in large part of a series of affairs with adolescent boys, some of whom became his life-long friends, particularly Attilio Guarracino. His exhibitions were raided by the Vice Squad several times.
Donald Friend died in a squalid apartment in Bondi Junction in Sydney on 16 August 1989, aged 74. Numerous young creative Australians owe a great debt to Friend whose antics and style liberated them from the constraints of Australia during that time.
1975 – Orkut Büyükkökten is a Turkish software engineer who developed the social networking services Club Nexus, inCircle and Orkut. Orkut Büyükkökten is a former product manager at Google.
Originally from Konya, Turkey, Büyükkökten obtained a B.Sc. degree in Computer Engineering and Information Science from Bilkent University in Ankara. He received both a M.S. and a Ph.D. in Computer Science from Stanford University. His research at Stanford focused on Web search and efficient PDA usage.
He has been building and working on online communities since 2000. He introduced his first social network, named Club Nexus, at Stanford in the fall of 2001. Club Nexus was the first college-specific social network. It was a system built to serve the networking and communication needs of the Stanford online community. Students could use Club Nexus to send e-mail and invitations, chat, post events, buy and sell used goods, search for people with similar interests, place personals, display their artwork or post editorial columns. Within a few months of its introduction in 2001, Club Nexus had attracted over 2,000 Stanford undergraduates.
Later, Büyükkökten introduced an alumni social network, named inCircle, for the Stanford Alumni Association intended for use by university alumni groups. In 2002, Büyükkökten launched a company, Affinity Engines, to commercialize inCircle and Club Nexus.
After leaving Affinity Engines and joining Google, he decided to use his 20% time to develop a social networking service. He said: "My dream was to connect all the Internet users so they can relate to each other, it can make such a difference in people's lives." The product manager and Marissa Mayer thought of naming the service after its creator. "Orkut.com" belonged to Orkut Büyükkökten himself. Google convinced him, and its social networking service was called Orkut.
In 2016, he launched a new social networking service, Hello. The social networking site can be customized in three languages — English, French and Portuguese. By August 2016, Hello was available in the US, Canada, France, UK, Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, and Brazil — both on iOS and Android. Hello announced its entry into the Indian market in April 2018.
Büyükkökten was born into a Muslim family. He is openly homosexual, having married his partner in 2008.
1986 – Josh Seefried is an active duty first lieutenant in the United States Air Force, an LGBT rights activist, and a former co-chairman on the Board of Directors of OutServe-SLDN, an association of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender members of the U.S. Military. A graduate from the U.S. Air Force Academy in 2009, Josh was formerly known by his pseudonym JD Smith during his campaign to end the discrimination against lesbians, gays and bisexuals serving openly in the United States military.
Using social networking tools such as Facebook, Seefried organized LGBT active-duty military personnel into an underground association OutServe. To preclude outing himself as gay while serving on active duty in the Air Force, a violation of the then- Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy for which he could have been prosecuted and discharged, he assumed the leadership role and interacted with the media and officials in the Pentagon and the White House using only his pseudonym. He has appeared on CNN, HLN, and MSNBC in shadow; additionally, his comments continue to be regularly sought after by the media as a representative of lesbian, gay, and bisexual actively-serving military members. He was also an invited guest to the presidential signing of the legislation to repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell."
On October 27, 2012, the two organizations OutServe and SLDN merged. Seefried was voted co-chair of the board of directors, making him the youngest at 26 to co-chair any major LGBT organization.
Shortly following the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell", Josh worked with several LGBT military men and women to compile a book, Our Time: Breaking the Silence of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell".
1996 – Rickey Thompson is an American actor, comedian, and Internet personality. He rose to prominence for comedic videos he posts to Instagram, and previously Vine. Thompson starred in the YouTube Red series Foursome (2016-2018).
Thompson grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina. He attended Millbrook High School, where he regularly performed in theater productions and was also bullied for being gay. During this time, Thompson posted YouTube videos about his experience with bullying as well as about fashion. He also used Vine to post comedic videos of himself, usually speaking directly to the camera.
When he was 17, Kylie Jenner shared one of his videos, which led to an increase in his profile on the platform. He amassed 2.5 million followers by the time Vine shut down in 2016. Thompson then began posting short videos to Instagram and continued to grow his social media following. He has monetized his videos with promotional posts and guest appearances at events and in other videos.
Thompson moved to Los Angeles after high school to pursue a career in the entertainment industry and decided to forego college. He also has great interest in fashion.
Thompson is openly gay. He came out on Twitter in 2016.
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How would each of the animorphs react to the queens death?
Marco: Would do the same as my one student yesterday, and immediately raise a hand in class to go "hey, the queen died, can we go home? My British friend messaged to say she got to go home."
Jake: Would probably respond about how I did, by rolling his eyes and going "wouldn't it be un-American to cancel school for the British ruler? I think I remember there being a war over this exact issue."
Cassie and Ax: Would end up in a very long debate about whether the U.K.'s national anthem is still "God Save the Queen" or if it insta-flipped to "God Save the King", with the conclusion that the words "our gracious" should be dropped in favor of it forevermore being sung as "God Save Gender-nonspecific-monarch". [Also a conversation during class yesterday. Suffice to say, we got off topic.]
Tobias: Would, like me, pause this debate long enough to play the Sex Pistols' cover of "God Save the Queen," along with a brief explanation of the sociopolitical context behind the song. Would, like me, wimp out upon being asked what "bollocks" means, and claim it's "a British word for 'nonsense.'"
Rachel: Would assassinate whoever's king now. And then whoever becomes king after him. And then whoever becomes ruler after that. Would keep this up until eventually Meghan Markle was the only heir left standing.
#animorphs#politics#crack#current events#i swear we did get back to talking about psychology eventually#there was a crappy segue on my part to the effect of 'speaking of succession... regression! Multiple linear regression!'#but honestly this is why teaching adults is THE BEST#they're able to be silly for a time and then go back to learning the material because they do know that this is info they actually need
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How many oaths and who are your top 10 if you have that many?
i conveniently have all my favorite shipgirls tagged as favorite so here they are:
and all my oaths include: georgia, mainz, chkalov, musashi, brünhilde, kearsarge, monarch, littorio, rossiya, ulrich von hutten, friedrich der grosse, prinz eugen, hood, sirius, marco polo, bremerton, trieste, repulse and illustrious.
so 19 shipgirls.
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Queen Francesca: Good morning!
Marco: Good morning Your Majesty
Queen Francesca: Lovely to see you again Marco
Eden: Your Majesty
Queen Francesca: It’s lovely to meet you Eden. I’m looking forward to this interview. Marco has spoken so highly of you
Eden: I’m honoured ma’am
Marco: Will we be interviewing you today as well your royal highness?
Isabella: No, you don’t have me Marco. I’m just here to watch and learn today.
Marco: A man can hope, can’t he?
Isabella: I’ll have a word with my assistant and get back to you.
Marco: As efficient as ever your highness
Isabella: Well you’ve twisted my arm Marco
Marco: Alright then. Let’s get started. Her Majesty is on holiday after all.
Cameraman: We’re rolling in three... two...
Eden: Your Majesty thank you for taking the time to speak with us today.
Queen Francesca: Yes well, there’s not much else to do when one is on holiday is there?
Laughter
Eden: We are very much aware that this is the first interview that you are sitting down for.
Queen Francesca: Yes, it is
Eden: There is a lot the people would love ot learn about you, and hear you speak from your own experience ma’am
Queen Francesca: Such as?
Eden: Such as your coronation ma’am
Queen Francesca: Ah, that was ages ago, I can hardly remember it
Eden: Well we’ll be grateful for what you can remember ma’am. How did it feel, the moment it was announced to the nation that a new Queen was going to be crowned, after centuries had passed since there was a monarch in Saliceau?
Queen Francesca: I felt a sense of triumph honestly
Eden: Triumph, ma’am?
Queen Francesca: Yes, I’ve always believed that Saliceau thrived best when it was a monarchy. The intention behind the dissolution at the time was... honorable of course, the wellbeing of the people should always come first
Queen Francesca: However, no matter how honorable the cause was, Saliceau ended up being left in the hands of idiots who didn’t know the first thing about running a country-
Isabella: Stop! Stop!
Queen Francesca: What is it?
Isabella: You can’t say that mother!
Queen Francesca: Why not? It’s true isn’t it?
Isabella: (sighs) Please give us a moment Marco, Eden
Marco: Of course your highness
Isabella: Let me fix your hair
Queen Francesca: Why did you stop me? I can say whatever I want, I’m the Queen aren’t I?
Isabella: Yes, well it’s because you’re the Queen that you shouldn’t just say whatever you want
Marco: (whispers) Focus in on them
Queen Francesca: You’re so sensitive Isabella
Isabella: Right, now imagine how much more sensitive the rest of the nation will be
Isabella: Now let’s try again. And this time, try to smile more
Queen Francesca: I thought the point of the interview was for the people to get to know me
Isabella: Mother
Queen Francesca: (sighs) Fine
Marco: Ready when you are, Your Majesty
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#sims#sims 4#sims 4 story#sosaroyals#Sim: Isabella#Sim: Queen Francesca#Saliceau#Matinaux#sims 4 royals#sims 4 royal family#simblr#royal simblr#sims 4 royal simblr#sims 4 storytelling
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Evergreen: Hogwarts AU
Evergreen Boa is a Pureblood witch that was born on the 1st of March 1977 and started attending Hogwarts on the 1st of September 1988, being sorted into Slytherin house.
She is a descendent of Salazar Slytherin and was put under the Imperius Curse in her fifth year, which caused her to open the Chamber of Secrets and send the basilisk inside at six muggleborns (Juvia Lockser, Shoyo Hinata, Tsutomu Goshiki, Nino Lahiffe, Marco Bott, and Luz Noceda) while tricking her best friends Freed Justine and Bickslow to help her which almost got all three of them expelled.
She grew up at the Fairy Tail Orphanage after losing her parents during the First Wizarding War but was eventually taken in by her cousins Hancock, Sandersonia and Marigold after they found out about her.
She was a member of the Order of the Phoenix and participated in the Battle of Hogwarts which she survived but it took seven years for that to be revealed due to a mishap with a Time Turner.
She eventually started working as a seamstress at Best Jeanist's Robes for all Occasions and married Elfman Strauss, who she ended up having a daughter together with.
She has a Vine wand with a Dragon Heartstring Core.
Her Patronus is a Monarch Butterfly.
Her favorite subjects are Charms and Transfiguration.
Her least favorite subjects are Potions and Herbology.
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I’ve had this idea for a while, ever since I played through Birth of Tragedy, about what it actually means to be King of Sarkaz and how Sarkaz prophecy functions. I’ve seen others come to similar conclusions, and we keep getting things that fit, so I think it’s time for me to share it.
Spoilers if you haven’t gotten through Roaring Flare.
In 7-18 After Kal’tsit has a few very interesting lines:
The Sarkaz prophecy is born out of their collective racial memory.
The last of the ancient Wendigo bloodline is directly connected to the entire Sarkaz race?!
Patriot! Don’t believe the prophecy! It’s just a physiological side effect of the Originium Arts!
Okay, so Sarkaz have a collective racial memory, an interconnected web of subtle arts forming a network of latent telepathy throughout the entire race. This is important.
So now let’s talk about Amiya’s arts.
Amiya can cause others to have visions and access the emotions and memories of others. We see her access the Sarkaz racial memory in JT8-2 After. In fact, it is this act which convinces Kashchey that she is the real thing.
Talulah?: It’s genuine. Congratulations, Cautus.
Talulah?: You’re not a fragment, not an experiment, not an impostor.
Talulah?: You are indeed the Lord of Sarkaz... the enemy of humanity.
Amiya: No, I’m nothing but an Infected.
Amiya: A... person.
I think the main function of Amiya’s arts is to actively access the Sarkaz racial telepathy network. If that is the case, then King of Sarkaz is not just a political title, it’s what you call an individual who can command the Sarkaz like the head of a hive-mind. I think you can see this best in the Vigilo story Cogitatio with how the Sarkaz Traitor (Marco) acts.
Doctor: You're still lost. You don't know your own destiny. But 'He' wants it.
Doctor: It doesn't matter who 'you' are. He knows that there will always be people like you, and there will always be such a bridge.
Sarkaz Traitor: Who are you talking about?
Doctor: They awakened you, worked you up, and it's not so I could listen to your talk.
Doctor: He wants to know what Theresa says, and how I react.
Used like a puppet, unaware he was even acting on the will of others, and as soon as Theresa appears his loyalty immediately returns. It’s a subtle, subconscious, and incomplete control, but control all the same.
I think Sarkaz prophecy may function on this network as well. Patterns emerge, processing in the backgrounds of an entire race’s minds, a calculation born from millions of minds and millions of memories predicting what is to come. A powerful Sarkaz may have this pattern revealed to them under the right conditions, and you get a prophecy.
There’s another side to this though, the possibility that these prophecies are self-fulfilling. We know Amiya can affect the minds of others, what if the network affects the minds of the Sarkaz, subconsciously turning them into agents of this manufactured fate.
What I find the most worrying about all of this though is that Amiya’s powers function on non-Sarkaz. What if the Sarkaz network can effect them as well? Could anyone become subtly swayed to fulfill the prophecies of the Sarkaz?
What are the limits of the Sarkaz King’s control?
Vigilo - Pignus:
Closure: That was Theresa—same as she looked on the news, too. No Sarkaz would ever mistake her for anyone else.
PRTS: It's possible that there are others who share the same general appearance. If someone who looked like Theresa had appeared...
Closure: Nope, not possible. Even if there were someone like that, we'd never get it wrong.
Closure: The monarch herself showed up and waltzed into my little room. Then she told me she was looking for someone to break the shackles of tradition, and for that she needed an engineer, the key to her plans.
Closure: She didn't even try to explain anything to me at first, nope. Not a word to try to convince me to go with her.
Closure: If it had been anybody but Theresa, I'd've thought they were nuts and would've thrown them right out the window.
PRTS: So you turned her down?
Closure: Nope, I accepted her offer.
Closure: I said yes... because of the curiosity that'd been driving me the whole time.
7-18 After:
Patriot: I heard, in the past, Lords of Sarkaz, gave visions of comfort, as favors.
Patriot: Their champions, could see great walls, or loves long passed—
Patriot: Countless soldiers, for these visions, fought ceaselessly.
JT8-2 Before:
Talulah?: Cautus, if I were to ask you to build me an illusion that would entrance me forever... would you refuse?
Amiya: Nnh...!
Talulah?: Would you hold back and avoid using this kind of power?
Amiya: I won't answer you.
Talulah?: Your expression and hesitation betray your thoughts, self-proclaimed kind Cautus.
Amiya: I've never said that!
Talulah?: Your actions speak louder than words, false Infected warrior.
Talulah?: Black Arts that absorb memories but do not differentiate between consciousness. Not a unilateral extraction, but rather proliferation and acquisition that goes both ways...
7-18 After:
I see cities, devastated.
I see Originium, blanketing the land.
I see you, black crown on your head, melting millions of lives, into nothing but memories.
I see the, King of Sarkaz, enslaving all peoples, everywhere.
You will be the most horrific disaster to afflict our world.
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Decade in which each country's current head of *state* came into power.
by u/benjaneson
This is the most recent time the current head of state came into power. So for Russia, it's the 2010s, because Vladimir Putin was re-appointed as President in 2012, after serving as Prime Minister (under President Dmitry Medvedev) from 2008 to 2012.
For countries which became independent and retained Queen Elizabeth II as monarch, the decade listed is when those countries became independent.
In Andorra, the two Co-Princes have equal constitutional power, and therefore are both listed.
It also includes two Presidents-elect, Bongbong Marcos of the Philippines (will assume office on the 30th of June) and Bajram Begaj of Albania (will assume office on the 24th of July).
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what are your fav one piece characters?
oh god,,, i dont know where to start but as a tl:dr the two that are currently rotting my brain as hard as they can are kid and sanji
now for the longer answer; i love a lot of characters - as a stretch i could say i love all of the characters - even the irredeemably evil characters are written well enough to actually allow me to like them [or they look hot, sorry im this shallow]. id say for the top 20 favourites its mostly the main cast and the basic characters everyone loves [law, vivi, yamato, etc.], and theres also background-ish characters that im also very keen to brainrot over like paulie, perona, katakuri and so on.. i also love the tragic middle aged men [no surprise] especially the mess that the cross guild presents but also more niche guys like marco and the 9 scabbards are all cool as well. i love the revolutionaries too, the fucking marines have great little creatures too, any woman to ever exist is also an immediate favourite [except rebecca and the dressrosa royals sorry i hate monarchs and vivi is the only exception].
as for the previously mentioned two favourites, i dont know why i like them so much. one of them is a pathetic wet dog who simps over women [the times he goes over the top have been erased in my brain, no thank you] and the other one is just a guy who goes around and kills people with magnets, and honestly theres no depth to it - i think they're silly, i like their designs, i like their stories [or lack of in kid's case [im begging please tell me more about this freak]] and they are fun to draw.
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Ecco la lista completa di tutte le 52 destinazioni
Nord America
Parigi, Francia
Yamaguchi, Giappone
Nuova Zelanda
Maui, Hawaii
Baaj Nwaavjo I’tah Kukveni, Arizona
Singapore
O’Higgins, Cile
Ladakh, India
Ginevra, Svizzera
Dominica, Caraibi
Manchester, Gran Bretagna
Idaho
Baltimora, Maryland
Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia
Negombo, Sri Lanka
Massa e Carrara, Italia
Bannau Brycheiniog, Galles
Marocco
Valencia, Spagna
Kansas City, Missouri
Antananarivo, Madagascar
Yucatan, Messico
Lago di Toba, Indonesia
Almaty, Kazakhstan
Quito, Ecuador
Alpi Albanesi. Valbona National Park
Arcipelago di Mingan, Quebec
Montgomery, Alabama
Tasmania, Australia
Waterford, Irlanda
Tsavo National Park, Kenya
Brasilia, Brasile
El Salvador
Koh Ker, Cambogia
Vestmannayjar, Islanda
Montevideo, Uruguay
Mustang, Nepal
Vienna, Austria
Brisbane, Australia
Pasadena, California
Hurghada, Egitto
Boundary Waters, Minnesota
Thessaloniki (Salonicco), Grecia
Normandia, Francia
Grenada, Caraibi
El Camino de Costa Rica
Alpi albanesi
Whitehorse, Yukon
Choquequirao, Perù
Dresda, Germania
Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve, Messico
Flamingo, Florida
Ben Youssef Madrasa, Marrakech
Dall'articolo "Dal «Sentiero dell'eclissi» a Massa Carrara: le mete imperdibili nel 2024 per il New York Times" di Marco Trabucchi
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TDWC 08: Secrets of the Forgotten
Pairing: House Leaders x gn! Reader
Warnings: canon divergence, slow burn
Summary: “Please, don’t mind me at all,” Claude beams, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.
Dimitri’s scowl deepens more. His eyes turn into the blue of an icy-cold glacier dominating the coastline of Faerghus in the North. “I do, actually. I wish to speak with the Herald in private.”
“Then get in line for an appointment. Our Herald is very popular with folks, as you know.” And with that, he closes the door in Dimitri’s face.
Notes: [01] | 07 | 09
Words: 9.7k
A/N: huge thanks to @raindrops-on-the-roof for joining me on this ride and being my beta-reader!!
i lived, bitch. it's been so long but after a year, i'm back with the next chapter and it was ton of fun working on it becase we're finally introduced to a new figure and get some original content. also claude's a menace and that's what we all want. enjoy!
08: Secrets of the Forgotten
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
— Edgar Allan Poe, “The Haunted Palace”
The underground canals running through Abyss, like veins moving blood through the body, are dirty and smell of human waste and decay, but Balthus plays a hand much dirtier and everyone huddling around the small, crooked table in Wilting Rose Inn groans in unison. Except for Byleth. She shows her own cards, a Royal Flush, and earns a round of earnest applause. You try catching her eye to find out whether she has turned time back in her favour but her ever-steady gaze doesn’t betray anything.
“Okay, lesson learnt.” Balthus gets up and stretches, putting his taut muscles on full display. “I never imagined there could be someone worse than Yuri out there. Clearly, I was wrong.”
“Is Yuri really that bad?” you ask, throwing your Flush on the table.
Balthus gives you a seldom serious look. “You have no idea.”
It’s certainly not that hard to imagine. He sometimes has this intense, piercing gaze in his eyes when he talks about knights patrolling too close to Abyss’ entrances for his liking, even though his whole body is a picture of relaxed serenity. He’s an amazing actor, you can give him that.
“Another round?” Byleth asks, already shuffling the cards expertly with her slender fingers. Apparently, part of being a mercenary also entails having an amazing poker face and constantly winning at card games.
“Oh, no, no, I think I’m on guard duty,” Marco, the Rogue, says and flees.
“I forgot I promised to check if there’s enough candle wax to … remake candles,” Ethan, the Marksman, says and bolts.
“These are the men supposed to protect us,” Barbara, the Smith, sighs. “Yet they fear their pride won’t stand after losing a game to a woman.” She gives Byleth a scrutinising look that is also approving at the same time and follows her comrades. The rest of the crowd scatters like butterflies fluttering away after being disturbed from their peaceful slumber.
“That Barbara.” Balthus shakes his head. “Can’t say I know anyone more capable of making grown men feel like little boys.”
“I like her,” you admit. “She doesn’t call me the Archbishop’s Lapdog.” Like most Abyssians.
“Just give everyone some time.” Balthus’ grin is part amusement, part pity as he gives your shoulder two hard claps to bid you good night. “They’ll see in no time you’re no church stuck-up.”
You aren’t so sure about that. You have been down here for a couple of days only, engaging in fights, defending the place against the mercenaries and bandits that wander into Abyss—on accident or on order still remains a question. It was obvious that fighting a few battles for them would not change their mind so quickly—a few good deeds did not undo the year-long abuse and persecution most of the Abyss dwellers had to suffer. You doubt you alone can heal those wounds, yet still there is a fierce fire burning inside you, a light blazing to banish all the shadows clinging to their pained hearts.
Not for the church’s sake, you’ve realised quickly, but for the Herald’s, for the first one loved Fódlan’s people; loves Fódlan’s people still. Every night you lie in your dark quarters, a single, tiny room with nothing but slatted frames and a thin blanket for a bed, nothing feels surer and more honest than this feeling Seiros’ Champion allows you to glimpse as if what it means to be the Herald is that simple.
And simple it is, for if you cannot remember your identity, your wishes and dreams and ambitions, you can take his on until you have figured it out for yourself; surround yourself with them just like you donned his ceremonial robes at the very beginning.
If Byleth questions your new-found vigour for battle, for tactics and schemes on the battlefield, she hasn’t voiced it yet. Or, maybe she is simply too occupied trying to understand the cards Fate has dealt her.
The Wilting Rose Inn clears out as the candles burn down until only a few loyal patrons remain in their respective, quiet corners. It becomes easier to talk to Byleth, since you cannot be sure who might be listening in, ready to forward information to Yuri and give him whatever reason to put your head on a stake. Not that he would actually do something like that. At least, you hope he would not do something like that.
You also realise how much you missed just being in her presence, and they become the only short moments during the day when you allow yourself to relax and droop your shoulders whenever exhaustion weighs you down.
Today, Byleth has made it her personal mission to teach you wood-carving. It goes as expected: you’ve cut yourself three times and have nothing to show for but a misshapen try at a cat that bears more resemblance to a stone you might find in one of Abyss’ gutters.
“I am,” you say as the sharp edge nicks your thumb once more, “a danger to myself and everyone around me.”
“Good thing I’m the only one here then.” Byleth gently takes the knife from you as if you are a toddler and only to be trusted with tools that are highly unlikely to chop your limbs off. Like a spoon. You’ll remind her of that next time she pushes a sword into your hands and demands you to participate in another sparring session. “I’m not as practised in magic and Tome wielding as Linhardt or Lysithea, but I am sure you still need all your fingers to conjure spells.”
“I could try it with my toes.” You wiggle your bloodied fingers at her like the boogie man. “Become the first Warlock that casts Dark magic with their feet.”
The smile that tugs at the corners of Byleth’s mouth is a greater victory than having chased off the bandits yesterday. It is followed by a frown though, one so light, the softest shift in her brows that you wouldn’t have noticed it were it not for the long hours during tea-time you spent studying the planes and features of her face like an artist might while studying their muse.
She leans back in her creaking chair and pockets her knife inside the hidden sheath strapped around her upper thigh. “We are making slow progress uncovering who is after Yuri and his friends,” Byleth says. “I know we’ve been through this already, but any guesses?”
“You’d think with how often we got rid of them by now, they would realise trying to drive the underground residents away is a waste of time. Whoever pays them must hold a serious grudge, why else would they spend so much money on sending mercs in here?”
A shadow passes Byleth’s eyes. “Unless these kids know more and are hiding the true reason someone would be after them.”
You understand her concern. You two have agreed to help, but your official duties and first responsibilities lie in taking care of the academy’s students and seeing that no harm comes to them. Which is no easy task as they so readily throw themselves into defending the Abyssians.
“I … I don’t think that is the case.”
Byleth simply lifts an eyebrow, urging you to go on.
“I can’t explain it very well. I just don’t think they have anything bad in mind. I don’t think there is a reason to doubt them.”
It doesn’t make sense, and yet you know Byleth is the last one to argue against a point like that. This quiet, strange connection that exists between you two is undeniable—just like the sun’s travel over the skies and that it lies to rest in the West and rises again in the East, day by day. Everything is connected, you just have to find out who is spinning the thread of your Fates together.
“I really thought they were trouble at first,” Byleth says and gestures to the barman to bring another round. “Especially Yuri. He is cunning and sharp, a dangerous combination for a leader.”
“I’d like to think he is hiding a warm, pleasant core beneath all that scheming and calculating,” you say, taking the drink the moment the bartender leaves it at your table. “Hiding it somewhere very, very deep.”
A corner of Byleth’s mouth twitches. She’s holding her own glass, lazily swirling the amber liquid in circles. “He is young, but I would not put it past him to hold ulterior motives. Promise me to be careful around him.”
“He and his lot helped me before they knew I was the Herald,” you concede, thinking back to Constance’s reaction after you woke up. “They simply saw someone in need of help, that’s all.” Since then, it has not occurred to you even once that they might be criminals hiding away under the church’s nose. You still think of Alfons and Briana’s small faces, their round button-noses and large eyes as they look up at Yuri in adoration. They deserve so much more than hiding away in some dark, rotting cellars.
You swallow your shot in one go, and instantly begin to cough and pound your chest as it goes down burning. Byleth knocks her glass back without any problem and swallows the burning liquid as if it were water. You still blink against the tears stinging in your eyes.
“You sound like you trust them already,” Byleth says and waves for another round. You try to share a mildly concerned look with the bartender, but he ignores you and slides two more shot glasses in front of your noses.
“Trust is maybe a little much,” you mumble, thinking of Yuri’s sharp smile, the way Hapi struggles and fails not to roll her eyes whenever you offer some insight with your Crest. “But I don’t think they’re bad. Or evil.”
Byleth nods, either because she has come to the same conclusion or because she puts trust in your decision not to doubt them. She downs another shot, looks at you expectantly. You scramble for another topic, anything that will save your throat from burning up a second time with this goddess-forsaken liquor.
Inevitably, your eyes fall on the sword strapped to her waist, only to call it a sword puts any blacksmith who has mastered the art of steel and iron to shame, and you have no desire to meet the one responsible for this craft, the one that bends bone and magic to their will. Byleth follows your gaze. Her hand rests on the hilt, hesitantly at first. You don’t think you have ever seen her hesitate before.
“The Sword of the Creator,” you mumble. “What does that even mean?” Has the Progenitor God truly wielded such a thing? What kind of goddess was she to come up with such a hideous weapon, to forge the Heroes’ Relics in such a portrayal and present them as gifts to humanity? It is like receiving an apple and only finding the core rotten and inhabited with worms after you have taken a bite. You wonder if this repulsive fascination is you or Seiros’ Champion, yet he remains silent.
Byleth stares into her glass as if the answers for all her questions lie hidden at the bottom and by drinking fast enough, she can unravel them. You are pretty sure that is how people become drunkards.
“Holding the sword … wielding it.” Byleth searches your gaze. “It felt raw. Unlike anything I have ever felt, and yet...” Her nimble fingers dance across the hilt once more, halt at the round socket where it seems that something spherical is missing. When she locks eyes with you, something tells you this is something she has not even told her students. Maybe she can’t tell them. Maybe, just like you feel with her, she feels that honesty comes easier when only you are around. You take a sip from your glass, welcoming for once the biting heat that forces you to shut your eyes and turn your head away.
Why can’t you tell her about the first Herald? Why do you want to keep his existence within you a secret? You listen for his voice, his opinion on the matter, but Seiros’ Champion is still silent, and you hope it doesn’t stay that way in matters of life or death. What is the use of an ancient dwelling inside your heart when he does not share in his unending knowledge and experience?
“And yet, it felt right,” Byleth finishes, cutting off your thoughts, and somehow you can easily imagine what she had felt—for the very same could be said about meeting the Herald. Right, natural. Like returning home. “I wonder … if there is any truth to the people’s claims that only a descendant of the King of Liberation would be able to use its power the way I did.”
You’ve read the historic texts on Nemesis, the King of Liberation. How the goddess gifted him the sword to use its power to save Fódlan from wicked gods over a thousand years ago. He liberated the people from their thralldom and thus was named King and Beloved of the people until the sword’s heavenly power, too terrifying and mighty for any mortal to bear, corrupted him and he turned to the darkness, waging war across the land and thus forcing Seiros to destroy him. It strengthens your belief that whatever benevolence the Goddess gifts her patrons, the price to pay in the end seems too high.
“I hope,” Byleth continues, “Professor Hanneman will have answers to that when we return. I still do not quite understand why Rhea has allowed me to keep it.”
“Is there any explanation as to why it was her sword inside the tomb and not the remains of Saint Seiros?” you ask. It would also beg the question where they are instead. But Byleth shakes her head.
“There wasn’t much time to go into details,” she says. Her fingers linger just a moment longer on the sword, before she withdraws them—a little reluctantly. “When you disappeared, we moved heaven and hell to find you. It was by mere luck Claude spotted one of the Abyssians disappear inside a passageway under the Abbey.”
“I hate how no one told us,” you say. “You would think a whole bunch of people living under the monastery is worth mentioning at some point after appointing us to our positions.”
“I’d like to think there was a reason for keeping silent about it,” Byleth says though even she doesn’t sound sure, and it strikes you as odd. Not Byleth doubting Rhea, but her not being sure about something. “A reason I can’t wait to hear once we’re back on the surface.” She reaches across the table, presenting her open palm to your hand holding your glass. You surrender and give it to her, watching a little too intently when her throat bobs as she swallows another round.
“Yuri expects another attack on the Abyss soon,” Byleth continues and rises to her feet. She stretches like a cat in the sun. “We should head to bed and rest up. I wouldn’t want a repeat of the last battle.”
“Oh, come on, it was not that bad.”
“You almost fell asleep from exhaustion when those two Grapplers advanced,” Byleth says, using her Professor voice on you.
You can’t help but grin. “And just like I predicted, you came and saved me.” Byleth’s mouth twitches into a flat line, but you can see that she is pleased. “Pulling an all-nighter to study the maps and outline of Abyss and the secrets it has to offer was a good idea. There are some interesting chambers holding traps and pitfalls. Whoever built this place really wanted to keep people away.”
“Makes you think what could be hiding deeper down in Abyss,” Byleth thinks aloud. “And maybe one of the next bandits will be kind enough to tell us.”
You nod. It was Claude’s idea to take someone captive and get answers from them, and hopefully shed some light on what it is exactly that their employer wants from Abyss.
Byleth escorts you to your chamber, your quiet voices bouncing off the damp walls in the dark corridor that stretch away into unprepossessing shadows. Unlike up in the monastery, the walls here are bare of tapestries and sometimes even of torches which makes traversing the tunnels difficult. You’ve let Linhardt show you simple fire spells to have a source of light on you.
“But it would be far easier if you learnt Light Magic,” he had commented as you two bent over scrolls and books, fighting a yawn. “Also much safer and highly unlikely to set yourself on fire.”
You had closed the tome he’d slid across the table to you, smiling stiffly. “Duly noted.”
The flame dancing across your palm now flickers but doesn’t waver, illuminating the corridor and painting Byleth’s face with a sheen of soft, amber light, giving her pale complexion a little colour. She is watching you conjuring the spell; how your fingers close around the flame as if it were a small beating heart, easily snuffed out whenever a breeze swipes through the corridors.
“I see your Magic Prowess is growing,” Byleth notes. “As is your ability to hold your own ground on the battlefield. You’ve grown used to fighting.”
That isn’t a compliment you had ever thought someone would tell you, but coming from Byleth, you know it is true. You have noticed it yourself—how with every battle it gets easier to see the enemy’s movements and abilities, their weapons and gear. Calling upon the power of the Herald’s Crest, usually a taxing and draining endeavour that left you resting up in your chambers, has become much easier since you have met Seiros’ Champion. Whenever he makes his presence known with quiet whispers of where to lead your students next, soft pushes as if he is placing his small child’s hand upon your shoulder to guide you to victory, his support is like wind in your sails, propelling you forward and lifting your courage.
“You are not as scared as you were in the beginning,” she continues. “You have never much wavered in your tactics, but you seem even more sure now.”
All that praise from her makes your ears scald with heat. Though praise it seems, you know that Byleth only speaks truth. “I have finally started to trust in my abilities. If people see me doubt, how can they follow where I lead them in battle?” you say, even though that is not entirely the truth, of course. Which is why you hastily add, “And I trust you. As long as you are by my side, we are invincible.”
“So it is,” Byleth says, turning her head so that her moss-green eyes dig into you like hooks. “And yet I wonder. This courage, is it just because you wish to defend Abyss? To prove yourself before Yuri and his companions. Or is there something else? Something that you want to share with me?”
You both pause in front of the door leading to your quarters, the silence smothering you like a heavy blanket of freshly fallen snow that puts everything into a deep slumber. No matter how much you dig through that snow though, you can’t find the resolve to tell her about Seiros’ Champion. Where would you even begin to explain?
It might seem that I have turned mad but believe me when I tell you the soul of the first Herald resides within me and sometimes, he whispers to me what I should do, and he likes to gossip from time to time as well. He seems fond of Edelgard in particular, and notices whenever she looks at you, but you choose not to see it.
You stare at her, not entirely sure what you are waiting for. Maybe that Byleth learns how to read your thoughts so you wouldn’t have to speak these outlandish things aloud. Instead, you say, “No. There is nothing.”
Byleth considers you for a moment. You make it a point not to shy away from her scrutinising gaze, as one would do with nothing to hide, you assume. In the end, she relents first, but not because she grants you an easy victory. You’re certain she knows when it is wise to return to a battle at a later time. “I see,” she says mildly. “Rest up, then. I will see you tomorrow.”
You watch her disappear down the hallway, the blade at her side peeking out from under her black robes like a sly wink; like a promise waiting for the right time to jump out of the shadows and strike you in the back. It occurs to you then, for the first time, that maybe the timely meeting with Seiros’ Champion and Byleth activating the power of the Sword of the Creator might be connected.
The Chalice of Beginnings. The way it all ties back to the Rite of Rising, the very same festivities used as a distraction to try and steal Seiros’ remains—unless the Western Church somehow knew what they would find inside the tomb would be something entirely different—and ultimately the reason you are all down here … calling it simply coincidence is like cooing at a fox shortly before it snaps with sharp fangs at you. It is hard to tell what play you are conducting on the stage unknown forces have set you upon. All you can hope for is that it doesn’t end up being a tragedy.
With the scrolls, papers and books Aelfric was kind enough to lend you spread over the make-shift workplace you’ve put together using crates, you’re spending the evening reading up on the Rite of Passing and the Four Apostles. Even though some of the texts are so badly damaged you can barely make out their content, it all matches with what Aelfric has already told you: the ritual is believed to have the power to resurrect a life that was lost using the chalice which only the Four Apostles had access to. After the ritual failed, they bound the chalice so that it would never fall into mortal hands. Capable of something that grand, it is no wonder whoever is after it throws ambush after ambush at the Abyssians in hopes to find crumbs leading to where this treasure of immeasurable worth might be.
But if that chalice really exists, where is it? To search for the Chasm of Bound below Abyss feels like trying to find a needle in a haystack. There is no telling how much time you have left before either Rhea demands everyone’s presence back or you are unable to protect the Abyssians any longer from the mob of greedy thugs.
“Knock knock,” a voice says from the entrance to your room.
You startle, too lost in thought to notice anyone approaching. Claude is leaning against the doorframe, having come up behind you as silent as a cat. He has changed out of his gear, wearing loose dark trousers tied at the waist, and a simple white shirt that stands in contrast against his tanned skin. The first buttons of his collar are open, showing the elegant curves of his collarbones. His dark hair is damp, curling against his temples and the nape of his neck.
“Did something happen?” you ask, moving in alarm to rise from your seat, though surely, he wouldn’t lean so leisurely and relaxed against the door if there was another attack. He confirms as much with a lazy wave of his hand, unhitching himself from the frame. “Nope, nothing to worry about. I just thought I’d drop by and say hi. Do you know how difficult it is to pin you down? You’ve gotten really busy since we’ve come down here.”
“You know, no rest for the wicked.” You try to restore order on your desk by organising the books and scrolls in one corner. You’ve completely lost track of time, and as it turns out, magical fire is incapable of burning candles to their wick, so there is really no telling how long you’ve been holed up in your room, studying the ancient texts. “Do you need something?”
“Just thought we’d have a nice, pleasant chat.” The smile flirting with Claude’s lips is dangerous for it tries to appear innocent, yet the way his green eyes glint with mischief, like the edge of a knife flashing as it is drawn from a hidden sheath, promises nothing good. “Been a while since we’ve had one of those.”
You can’t remember if you have ever had one with Claude. Maybe all those moons ago after you had awoken with your new power, which now feels like a lifetime ago. You lean back in your chair, allowing your eyes a break after all those hours of reading. Maybe this distraction might help.
“Okay, I’m all yours.” You stand up, waving at the chair to offer Claude a place to sit, and absolutely missing the way he shoots you an amused glance at your choice of words. Instead of taking up your offer though, he steps backward. Suspicion crawls up your back, feathery light like a spider making its way to new prey caught in its web.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Claude says and with a swift kick, shuts the door behind him. You stare at him, tongue-tied. Can students just do that with faculty members? Yuri’s voice creeps up from a dark corner in your memory: “You’d do well to keep in mind that the monastery rules don’t apply down here, Herald.”
“I just have a few questions, is all,” he continues, still smiling but anything pleasant in his voice has made room for an urgency that you can’t remember ever having heard coming from him. Claude crosses the room in quick strides, and leans his hips sideways against the table. His eyes flick over the remaining texts on your table, his head slightly cocking to one side to get a better angle to read them. When you clear your throat, he startles, and looks back up at you.
“Right, sorry.” He knows that you know that he, in fact, is not sorry. “The library here has some pretty interesting things, I gotta say. Books and scrolls you’d never find in the monastery’s library. There are some things that are hard to believe, though. There’s this funny book hidden inside a false cover that talks about a Distance Viewer and Flammable Black Water and a Metal-Hold Printing Machine. Imagine the technological advancement one of the nations would achieve if they could actually build and utilise devices like that.”
“Is that why you’re here?” you ask. “To talk about the Abyss’ book collection?”
“What? No. No, I—,” he begins, tapping his slender fingers impatiently against the wood. You don’t think you have ever seen this restlessness about him. Claude has always appeared as steady as his bow-hand, sure that wherever he aims the shot will land true. “I was just wondering if something happened after your fall down here. Something you can’t tell us.”
You feel as if ice water has been dumped down the back of your neck, shocking you to full alertness. Claude must see that he has caught you off guard; a look of hesitancy flashes across your face before you can speak. “And what would that something be, exactly?”
He lowers his voice. “I thought you might tell me.”
You stare at him, throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of anxiety spreading slowly through your limbs. “Nothing happened. Whatever gave you the idea that I’m hiding something from you guys?”
There is a moment of silence as you two trade a look that feels like a dare. There is something forbidding about the intensity of Claude’s gaze, the tension of his stillness. His fingers stop their rhythmic tap tap against the table, and now clutch onto its edge, his knuckles turning white. “I’ve always figured your reservation towards using your Crest came from the novelty of it. The foreignness of a power that isn’t yours. But in our recent battles, there’s nothing of that anymore.
“I thought maybe it’s because you met the Ashen Wolves and the people from Abyss, and you feel sympathy towards them and that’s giving you a little more oomph to try making use of the Crest. But that’s not it, is it? You’ve changed from despising the powers to fully embracing them. Wielding them as if you’ve never done anything else in your life.”
You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, and you don’t miss Claude’s eyes quickly jumping down to your mouth for a second. Or maybe it was just your imagination, the flickering shadow of the small candle’s light across his face. “Maybe I’ve just grown used to it,” you reply quietly.
“Herald, you grow used to balding or riding a new steed.” He looks at you sharply, his head tilted to the side. Something in his voice changes in that moment. “You don’t get used to something that changes your life from being a nobody to suddenly standing in the centre of the world. Not really.” His voice has a veneer of calm, but beneath you could hear the vibration of some very different emotion.
What changed for you, then? you want to ask. It doesn’t feel like the answer would be so simple as the appointment to the heir of the Leicester Alliance.
You shift, folding your arms in front of you for lack of a response. As much as you like to discount Claude’s tendency for plots and schemes, there is something disconcertingly earnest about him right now. The similarity is striking you all of a sudden, the shadow passing his eyes one you have already seen in Sylvain’s when he had tried talking about his Crest and its troubles.
“All I’m saying is,” Claude continues, and he takes a step towards you. Instinctively, you take one back. He takes another one. This goes on until it ends with your back against the wall. “All I’m saying is that maybe Teach finding her new shiny weapon triggered something in you,” he says now, propping himself up against the wall, his hand splayed beside your head. “Maybe a memory? Something like that?”
You hold his gaze, not shying away from his scrutinising eyes or the close proximity. So, you are not the only one thinking that the Sword of the Creator and the Crest of the Herald are connected in a way the other Crests are not. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Claude, of all people, is the first to have noticed it. You had simply failed—or underestimated him, rather—to anticipate that he would also act on that theory and corner you like a mouse to get answers. Literally.
“Nothing like that happened, Claude,” you say now, feeling like you’re walking on a lightrope, and a single misplaced word could send you plunging. And then, he is there, his presence like the light brush of soft flower petals against the back of your mind. Do not tell him yet. Do not tell anyone yet, I ask of you. I do not wish the world to know I still exist. Silly Champion of Seiros. You’ve already understood his feelings perfectly without him having to tell you.
“Somehow, I was given this power. I tried fighting it for so long, but there’s no way I can run from this. I realised that, so now I’m just trying to make the best out of it.” It is only half the truth, but that is something Claude doesn’t need to know. It is also something he didn’t want to hearyou realise as you watch his expression turn into something close to disappointment.
“I’m sure Lady Rhea would enjoy hearing this,” Claude says, his voice deep and thin like a knife’s edge—and just as sharp.
“You’re not very subtle, Claude.” You try to move past him, but he doesn’t budge. “What’s your problem?”
“Problem? There is no problem.” The mask of bored indifference slips back on his face, turning his eyes distant, and cold even. An easy smile stretches over his features, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I just enjoy teasing you.”
“And maybe I’ll enjoy sticking a dagger in your side.”
Claude laughs. “That’s not very Heraldy of you.”
You try to see if that laugh means you’re good, but his eyes are closed doors. Your face must be a question mark, because he says, “Herald,” and touches your cheek gently, grazing your skin with the rough pads of his fingers. You inhale sharply, gaze snapping up to his. Claude’s eyes widen, realising what he’s doing only then, and his warm, calloused fingers freeze against your cheek.
Just as he opens his mouth, knocks come from your front door. He lifts an eyebrow at you, asking if you are expecting visitors at this time. You just shrug. You certainly didn’t expect him, and yet here he is.
Claude pushes himself off the wall, allowing you to cross the room and open the door a crack wide. Through the narrow opening you see Dimitri standing in the hallway. When he spies you glancing at him, he gives you a shy smile that quickly turns into a scowl when Claude comes up behind you. He presses his chest against your back and leans an arm against the door frame above your head. “Oh, Dimitri?” Claude drawls.
Dimitri pales as he sees, and certainly misunderstands the sudden intimate proximity Claude is displaying. He presses his mouth into a thin line. “Pardon the intrusion, Herald. I thought maybe this would be a good moment to review the last battle reports. But I see…,” and here his eyes dart over to Claude and sweep over him as if he were a particularly unpleasant surprise he found under his bed, “… you are preoccupied.”
“Please, don’t mind me at all,” Claude beams, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat’s.
Dimitri’s scowl deepens more. His eyes turn into the blue of an icy-cold glacier dominating the coastline of Faerghus in the North. “I do, actually. I wish to speak with the Herald in private.”
“Then get in line for an appointment. Our Herald is very popular with folks, as you know.” And with that, he closes the door in Dimitri’s face.
You’re pretty sure Dimitri on the other side is wearing the same expression of dumbfounded surprise that is on your face. “What is going on with you, Claude?” you ask and turn to him, forgetting how close he is. When you almost bump into his chest, you take a hurried step to the side. “The way you are acting is unbecoming of someone with your station.”
Claude shrugs. “Don’t worry, Dimitri won’t take it to heart. It’s just that things have started to happen that don’t make sense, and I am all about making sense of the senseless.” He looks over at you, smiling. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
You’re spared the eye roll for an answer when distant bell ringing heralds another ambush on Abyss. Claude heaves a long, weary sigh. “No rest for the wicked, huh…” He turns to open the door, but except a little rattle, nothing happens, no matter how hard he shakes at the handle.
“Come on,” you say, unable to contain the urgency in your voice. “Open the door.”
“Well.” He turns around. “It appears that it is stuck.”
Your eyes go wide. “Then unstuck it.”
Claude throws himself against the door. It doesn’t budge. He curses. “My shoulder will never be the same. I expect you to nurse me back to health when this is over.”
“This is your fault,” you press out between gritted teeth. “Just break the door down, we can’t waste more time.”
“That’s what I’m—,” Claude throws himself once more against the hard wood, “—trying.”
There’s a loud crack and the door opens to the other side; not by swinging but by being lifted out of its hinges. Behind it, Dimitri is peeking around the frame, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “I thought you two might be in need of some assistance.”
“Yeah, I was … I was about to do the same,” Claude says.
You push him aside, hurrying down the corridor and waving them after you. “Lucky for us, Dimitri was faster.”
“No, really!” Claude calls after you. “I was just about to do the same!”
The fight lasted throughout the whole night. When you return to your chamber, drenched in grime and blood, you can’t even be bothered with your missing door and fall face first into your bed, remembering too late that it’s as hard as the ground.
After an hour or two of resting, you quickly clean yourself up and meet the others for a short breakfast of dry rye bread and mushy oats, letting them believe the red bump on your forehead is from the battle. There is a little spare time before the meeting to discuss your next course of action, so you head back to your room for some more shut-eye.
“Herald.”
A raspy whisper stops you, drawing your attention to a chamber you walked past on your way to the classroom many times. Not once has it been occupied since your arrival in Abyss. But now it is decorated with heavy velvet curtains and tapestries. Violet lights hang from lanterns on the ceiling, illuminating the heavy furniture and curtains in soft, misty light. You remember Constance mentioning something about a Wayseer’s room, usually empty, but now inhabited by an elderly woman sitting in an armchair too big for her behind a round, mahogany table. You can only see a pair of narrow, dark eyes staring up at you. Her nose and mouth are hidden behind a white veil.
“Please, do come in, Herald,” the woman croons and gestures to an empty, cushioned chair standing before the table. Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “There is so much we have to discuss.”
Something in your chest gives a sudden, sharp tug. Seiros’ Champion? No, this feels different. Somehow … It feels wrong. You shouldn’t be here. You hover within the doorframe, looking down the corridor left and right. It is like everyone except you two has left Abyss.
Curiosity taking you in its reins, you step into the room, your eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. “Who are you?” you ask, cautiously making your way across the room towards the chair.
The woman chuckles.
“They call me Wayseer, Herald. For I see the paths people have walked and how far they still have to march until they arrive at their destination.”
You pause, hand resting on the chair’s backrest. The wood feels impossibly cold against your skin. “You can see … the future?”
The woman chuckles again. It is the sound of dry leaves scattered by the cold autumn wind. “You mean do I have the same ability as you? Making Time bow to me? Oh no. Nothing of the like. I simply glimpse where I am allowed. No one else has what you wield.”
“Of course.” You sit, quickly swallowing your disappointment.
“Oh, but why frown like that, Herald.” The Wayseer places her hands to both sides of a translucent orb placed before her on a dark socket. You could have sworn it was not there a second ago. They were small hands with lithe fingers like spider legs. On each finger she wore heavy rings. “So many would kill for what you seem not to appreciate. Power. Glory. The chance to sit upon the throne of the world.”
“I would appreciate people not telling me how to feel about it,” you snap, irritation lashing out like a cornered beast. Taken aback, you lean away from her, your back pressed right against the cold chair. It feels as if you are pressing yourself against a solid block of ice. Where did this come from? This fury?
The Wayseer’s lip curls. If she’s taken offence at your irritation, she doesn’t show. She shifts in her seat like a child impatient to finally be allowed to play with a new toy.
“What can you tell me about my paths then?” you ask. There is little you hope for, really. If she tells you she sees you living in a nice house by the sea in twenty years or so, that is all you can ask for. A peaceful life. You would simply be happy hearing you will survive the next few years. And, if she can see where exactly you have come from, then maybe luck really is on your side this time and you can finally find some answers.
“Very well.” The Wayseer’s chuckle is drier than crisp autumn leaves. She holds out her wiry hand and says, “Close your eyes, Herald, and give me your hand.”
You aren’t too keen on skinship with a stranger, but just to humour both of you, you comply, and placing your hand into hers, palm up, you close your eyes. You feel her gnarly fingers dance over your wrist, brushing over your open palm as light as a spider’s touch. You fight a shudder.
The pain is so sudden and jarring like a lightning bolt. Before you can pull your hand back, the Wayseer grabs your wrist hard like a vice—surprisingly strong for someone this old. Her head darts forward and she sucks your bleeding finger into her greedy mouth as if it were water and she is dying of thirst.
“What are you doing?” you demand, fighting to free your hand. Finally, the Wayseer releases your finger with a wet pop from her lips, and for a second you believe to see razor sharp teeth before the veil obscures her mouth again.
The Wayseer smacks her lips and scratches her nails against the smooth surface of her orb. Maybe this is all a joke. If Claude and Hilda jump out from under the table any second and laugh about the silly face you’re making, you wouldn’t even be angry. But no one emerges, and you stay alone with this mad woman. She’s moving her hands in strange motions over the orb, and in response colourful clouds swirl inside the ball. First red, then blue, and golden until, like a storm rolling in, all of a sudden it becomes black.
The Wayseer recoils.
She tries to suck in air as if she is drowning, her eyes bulging like a dead fish’s. She spits on the ground and a shudder wrecks through her, one that has her falling from her armchair onto the ground, her body convulsing. She begins to cough, a horrible, rattling sound, as if there is something stuck deep inside her that she can’t get out. Clawing at her throat, digging her nails deep enough into the skin to tear, she kicks and wails as if set in invisible flames. As if something is burning her up from the inside. Like poison.
You jump to your feet, rounding the table to help her but she screeches and scrambles away from you, eyes ripped wide open. “Who … no, what are you?” she croaks.
“I … I don’t know.” Your voice is so quiet you don’t know if she can even hear you. “I hoped you could tell me.”
The Wayseer turns to the side and spits some more. It is so dark that it almost looks black, whatever that is—blood or maybe something far gruesome?
Did I do that? you think, horrified as you watch her climb to her feet, still shaking and shuddering. You are about to apologise, reaching forward to steady her by her elbow, but the Wayseer shakes your effort away impatiently as if you are nothing but an annoying fly.
“Oh, my dear, you seem forsaken to me,” she says, and you can’t hold back your surprise how easily she bears no mind or grudge to whatever has happened. Whatever you might have caused. “Just like—” She stops. Her eyes are fixed on her orb that is now swirling in undistinguishable shapes. She leans over it, her gaze pining you like a dead animal on a corkboard. “It seems to me that the answers you seek lie in the Shadow Library, Herald,” the Wayseer says now, her voice suddenly smooth like clear water. Or the satin concealing a sharp knife. But what makes your stomach churn is the way she purred “Herald.” Almost mockingly, and you realise the spiking fear in your stomach doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the first Herald.
“Why can’t you tell me?” you ask.
“Because it is not my place to tell you.” The Wayseer casts down her eyes now. Her whole behaviour doesn’t make sense. Making light of the Herald’s name first, now acting obedient. You listen inside for the voice of Seiros’ Champion and find one emotion burning like a beacon in the dark. Get out. She is the enemy.
You jump to your feet, almost knocking the table over. “I have to go.”
“Of course.” The Wayseer bows her head slightly, and from the way her eyes become slits, you can see she is smiling underneath the veil. “But don’t forget, the Shadow Library holds answers. Do not let anyone stop you from chasing the truth.”
You give an awkward nod, not trusting your voice.
When you quickly leave the room and throw a last glance back, you think you see the unfamiliar face of a man staring back at you from inside the Wayseer’s orbs, his eyes eerily white.
The Shadow Library is a dark, damp room tucked away at the end of a narrow hall that is seldom frequented by the Abyssians. When you take a look inside, relief fills you that only Linhardt is currently occupying a seat close to a wall, an uneven stack of books his only companion.
The Wayseer didn’t say specifically where to look, but you would start with records on the first Herald and see what you could turn up about him.
But first, you have to deal with Linhardt who’s napping away in his seat, cheek squished against the edge of an open book.
“Linhardt.” You shake him. “Linhardt!”
He jerks up. “I’m awake,” he lies, blinking sleepily against the dim candle’s light. He looks up at you, squints and seems to recognise who caught him. “Oh, it’s just you, Herald. Come to a late study session as well? Or early morning? It’s certainly hard to tell down here with no sun.”
“How long have you been awake?”
Linhardt thinks about that for a moment, his eyes losing focus, then refocusing again. “Forty-two hours, maybe?”
“Bed. Now.”
He leans back, considering the idea. “We can’t say for how long we’ll have access to this hidden knowledge. Did you know it was only with the founding of the Adrestian Empire that we have the calendar as we know it today. They used to call our moons ‘months,’ if you can believe something this extraordinary! You can’t find data like that up in the monastery’s library.”
“Linhardt,” you repeat. “Go to bed. Or do you want me to get Byleth?”
Linhardt doesn’t need to consider this. He raises to his feet, sways a little from exhaustion, and tugs his uniform in order. “Good night, Herald.”
He turns and moves to the exit, but you call him back. “Linhardt!”
He stops. You point at the table. His mouth twitches into an unpleasant line, the only sight of his disapproval, but he returns, drops the books and scrolls he’s hidden in the folds of his robes, and leaves for good.
Quiet settles, and you give it a minute or two to calm your beating heart. “I know you don’t like this,” you say out loud, hoping Seiros’ Champion might finally stop being so anxious inside you. “I don’t trust that Wayseer either, but if I find answers here, I’ll take anything I can get.” He doesn’t know what it is like not knowing anything. Are you even a real person if you don’t have a past; if you don’t have anything or anyone remembering you? “I have a right to know who I am.”
Unfathomable sadness spills at those words—his mixing with yours and you can’t say who started it. But he quickly recedes, leaving you alone. Somehow you feel even worse now. Lonely. You wonder where he left to where you can’t follow him.
You make your way along the walls of books, allowing your fingers to gently journey over the spines. There are so many stories in here that so few people get to read. This library’s collection appears larger than the monastery’s as well, solely for the fact that they don’t have enough space for all the knowledge cramped into every nook and cranny. Wherever there is even some small additional space, someone has made it their calling to fill that blank spot with a book—even when it doesn’t fit.
Without any idea to start, you continue down the aisle and pick whatever sounds interesting. Letters from heirs to noble houses, an antiquated note on what meat to use for a special dish prepared for the new emperor at ceremonies, a novel set in the Adrestian Empire with a date of removal and Seteth’s signature. So this is where the books end up that Seteth doesn’t allow up in the monastery.
You’d hoped to find more about the Herald down here maybe, but there are no records, no memoirs, not even discourse. Why did no one care to keep your records alive? you wonder, but wherever the boy has retreated to, he can’t hear you, or perhaps, chooses not to hear you.
Nothing sticks out as something truly worthy of Seteth’s scorn at first glance. That is until you find the burnt remnants of a report stating some details on a handful of noble houses, another scroll that talks about a False God and the children of men fleeing to the depths of the earth. One paper strikes you as particularly important, but the page is so old and worn that most of the text is illegible. The Truth of Heroes’ Relics. You wonder what it might be, what truth lies within the relics and their Crests that the writer of this paper finished with the words “I daresay the Goddess would not wish for me to learn more than I already have.”
You finally hit a breakthrough when a stack of papers falls to your feet, bundled together with a crumbling piece of wool. When you begin to read, you realise these are the fragments of a forgotten memoir of someone who had fought in the War of Heroes. With clammy hands, you begin to read.
__/15 - Ailell Forest
It has been several moons since King Nemesis was defeated, and the tides of war have turned from bad to worse. I have received news that my friend Daphnel has fallen as well. Those zealots are after our heads, and those of our leaders. All that is left for us is to disappear into the muddy waters Seiros has created. My long life may soon come to an end …
__/2 - Itha Plains
I somehow escaped with my life, but I fear the end is near. They tell stories of the Shadowlord’s execution and with him gone, what point is there for us, those who have survived? Those who remain and carry a broken legacy. People are worried, for their Herald has locked himself in his rooms, unwilling to speak to his followers or Saint Seiros. They do not understand how he could be so distraught over the Shadowlord’s death. They do not know the truth. Once more, Seiros has chosen to keep secrets, to play with her charges’ obedience and fear.
But I know.
The world will know the truth at some point and then Seiros will reap the rotten harvest of what she has sown.
I misspoke and was driven away to the Fhirid River. They hunt us like animals. I considered leaving Crusher behind, hiding my trails. Maybe it is too late for that. I wish I could see my wife and son again … just one last time.
You read the content of the worn pages once more, trying to make a sense of it. Daphnel was one of the Ten Heroes, as was the author of this letter—if you remember correctly, the Heroes’ Relic Crusher was wielded by Dominic. It must be from after the corruption if King Nemesis was defeated, but from the way those words are framed, the author doesn’t strike you as someone mad for more power or revenge. It is strange but you feel pity for this person.
There is another name that stands out, of course, one that you have not heard in all your moons since joining the church.
The Shadowlord.
The name is like a brush of icy cold fingers against your mind, as gently as a snake grazing your ankle before it springs forward and sinks its venomous fangs deep into your flesh. A shiver passes your body, only it is settled so deep within your bones that you know this is not your fear rekindled.
But as you focus on chasing after Seiros’ Champion before he can disappear back into the murky depths of your mind, a cough comes from the library’s entrance. Your gaze snaps up to see Yuri standing in the doorway. The look of annoyance on his face is something that deserves its own painting to commemorate it.
“I hope you plan on putting that back exactly where you found it,” he says, strolling over as if he doesn’t have any care in the world but the tense set of his shoulders betrays him. “Wouldn’t want any of that to find its way into the hands of someone from the surface.”
“Don’t you get bored?” you ask, folding the papers back together and pushing them back between two books.
Yuri stops, quickly eyeing what you’ve put away to undoubtedly have a look himself once you leave. “Bored of what?”
“Pretending I’m still the villain and here to sell out your people?”
To your surprise, a look of unabashed amusement lights up his face for a moment. It settles back to a somewhat neutral expression, but the glee still remains in the soft dip of the dimple on his left cheek.
“Better safe than sorry,” Yuri replies, shrugging casually. His nimble fingers dance across book spines. “Though yes, even I must admit that your deeds for the people of Abyss are not what I have expected.” His fingers pause. Yuri leans forward, lilac eyes gleaming. His face is predatory, but his voice is gentle. “You are not what I have expected.”
His words feel like the warm flick of a candle’s light. You didn’t realise until now how much you cared for Yuri’s approval. To think he’s warming up to you slowly might still be an exaggeration, but maybe he’ll grant you the generosity of a looser tongue now that he doesn’t see you as the enemy.
Your eyes skim back to where you’ve returned the letters, fingers itching to take them with you until you know every word by heart. “I’ve … I’ve read about this person. Shadowlord. Any idea who that was?”
Yuri raises a slim eyebrow. “The Shadowlord?” He looks a little puzzled, his eyes roaming over the books. “It’s just a story. A boogie man living in the shadows that steals you away if you don’t finish eating all your vegetables. Grandparents used to tell their grandchildren that story so they wouldn’t be naughty.”
“So just the bad guy in a fairy tale?”
“Is what I’ve heard.” He gives a single shrug. “Who knows. All fairy tales have a spark of truth to them though. Maybe he truly existed.”
You’re sure that is what people thought about the Herald as well until the story became reality. You just hope this particular story remains one.
“Also, I would appreciate it if you don’t go around the monastery telling everyone what you’re reading down here,” Yuri says, waving towards the library’s entrance to signal your late-night reading has come to an end.
You hesitate only a moment before you follow him down the corridor, leaving the books and tomes behind. “Okay, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Great.” He winks at you. “Saves me the trouble of sneaking into your room and slitting your throat.”
“Charming as always.”
Maybe one day you’ll be capable of holding a pleasant conversation with him without any death threats. Though it already feels as if a little of Yuri’s animosity has disappeared in favour of giving you a chance to prove yourself.
He drops you off at the door to your quarters, already flaunting down the corridor to whatever nightly escapade fancies his tastes without so much as a wave at you over his shoulder.
“That Wayseer,” you say before he can disappear into the shadows. “What’s her deal?”
Yuri stops. He turns slowly, his eyes flitting from the dark corners of the flickering lights on the walls to you. There’s a question in his eyes you don’t know the answer to. “What Wayseer?” he asks, and you can feel your blood run cold. “I know everyone going in and out of Abyss, and I haven’t heard about someone like that hanging around.”
“But that room next to the scrap chamber…”
“Hasn’t been occupied in years.” When Yuri answers this time, he turns around and looks at you a little sceptical but also impatient as if he doesn’t have time for whatever pipe dreams you’ve come up with. “I guess someone played a joke on you. Don’t let it get to you.”
You nod, but your mind still lingers in that room, with that person. It would be easy to brush it off as a joke. But this sense of wrongness spikes again, a kernel of goddess-awful flavour that the more you think about it has you gagging. You had felt an awareness. No. More than awareness, more sentient than that. It was recognition.
A/N: someone over at ao3 made fanart of the first herald and i'm absolutely in love!! check it out here!
if you're interested to join the taglist, please let me know! i want to resume uploads every month, so the next chapter should be up on September 15th. thanks for reading and take care!
#phill.tdwc#fe3h x reader#fe3h dimitri x reader#fe3h claude x reader#fe3h edelgard x reader#dimitri x reader#claude x reader#edelgard x reader#fe3h house leaders x reader#fe3h x oc#fe3h x gn!reader
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THE MONARCH Release 'When Death Finds You' Video
THE MONARCH have released “When Death Finds You” Video, via Decibel, watch it HERE. A Moment to Lose Your Breath Album Drops November 17. Featuring Former Soulfly, Current Ill Niño/Static-X/ Fear Factory Members.
Performances shot and edited by Alex Zarek & Brian Olivo
Narrative directed and shot by Marco Martell
Lighting design and programing by Brian Olivo
Production assistance by Austin…
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Can you talk a little more about the changelings in Marco’s story? They sound different from usual interpretations
So the changelings that inhabit our MOTW campaign are a lil different in that they are more so weapons to be utilized by their respective courts.
They are specifically meant to be knights for the reigning monarch of each court and traditionally there is only one per court at a time. This means they are. A heavily controlled population. Their creation is only ever commissioned by a powerful archfey to eventually be their personal knight, as changelings can bypass some of the rules that most fairies are held up to and that makes them useful for ya know, things like political assassinations and other ‘underhanded’ tactics.
They honestly represent a *very* fascinating aspect of the fae politics in our universe, because everyone in the courts KNOW that the changeling knights are beholden to their queens, but no one is going to stop them and the royals can always use them as scapegoats for feigning innocence/ignorance due to this stereotype that changelings are unpredictable. They’re like an open secret and its like a big game.
As far as I can tell, Marco was a changeling that was commissioned but never claimed after his human host family raised him, which makes him a wildfey and particularly dangerous in the eyes of the courts if left unchecked. My own personal theory is that he was commissioned for the winter court queen.
#this is all info that I’ve gleamed from our dm and stuff that had been stated in campaign#credit to our dm @l3mon8 for the world building!
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