Tumgik
#my first time drawing etho!!!! and getting to draw wings as well
briseise · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
i am obsessed with wings your honor (click for detail)
i had fun picking them; bdubs as a barn owl and etho as a raven!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
2K notes · View notes
tubbytarchia · 2 months
Text
Tumblr media
Doc and Jimmy brainrot part 1 lmao oh no
Basically "What if Doc was in the Life games and Jimmy triggered his parental instincts again". You guys will see my vision. I don't care what it takes. You will see this very specific vision I have god damn it if it's the last thing I do
This is all I have to use as propaganda right now but some ideas and justification below cut!!
Been imagining a lot of Doc/Jimmy interactions both in a traffic and HC context, both of which I'd love to draw for but obvs this for now is 3rd life and I want to draw a little something for each Life series. You'll see!!
The general idea is inspired by a moment from one of the Decked Out streams in which Jimmy calls for Etho and Doc's all "you're triggering my parental instinct... I wanna take you into my hand and take you to a safe place" yep that's it that's the whole inspiration!!
Jimmy deserves love and he does get it to various degrees ofc (Tango, Bad Boys etc) but man... It's so fun to me to imagine Doc in traffic, I think he claimed that he didn't want to be part of the life games because he was afraid of being too competitive (or so I heard), but god it's so fun to imagine big scary mad scientist goat man in that scenario and him probably going at it on his own a lot of the time, but this god forsaken mf Jimmy knows exactly how to unintentionally trigger his parental instincts. I want Doc to subtly take Jimmy under his wing especially as Jimmy keeps dying first. So maybe Jimmy is a bit incompetent and loud as far as he knows, but he sees that he's trying his best and the dad in him can't help but intervene just a tiny bit (and I do mean just a tiny bit) as the games go on. Yes I'm just gonna shove Doc into the Life Games just because I wish this dynamic could have happened and I beg you to put up with it!!
For the above drawing specifically since, sigh, I'm slow and that's all I have to offer rn... it's of course 3rd life, starting off. I imagine Jimmy's wings sprouting during that, because the whole "canary curse" began with the Life Games etc. And this post isn't about FH but just for context as I imagine it, Scott who doesn't like unpredictability convinces him to clip his wings (thanks Bree) because Jimmy's not a proper avian (unlike Grian who has a more "airborne" body, bird feet etc rather than just... wings) and he'd never be able to take flight anyway, those wings would only encumber him. (And then Jimmy keeps clipping them himself until DL Ranchers but cough this post isn't about that). I imagine the avians (for my specific roster, just Grian) have their wings magically clipped anyway just enough to prevent flight and make the games fair. Doc ofc isn't avian himself but he knows that Grian greatly frowns upon the act of willingly clipping wings so when he sees that Jimmy's quickly growing wings have been clipped as well, he can't help but ask, because why would that be necessary while his wings are so small anyway? And Jimmy's response triggers a wee bit of fatherly concern in him but thats it for 3rd life woo
For the rest I just wanna draw more tiny moments of interaction until I get to Secret Life, I guess!! The brainrot is really fucking strong guys
1K notes · View notes
saphushia · 1 year
Note
do you have any more head cannons for Phantom Etho? I just am enamored with your ethos stuff-
hmmm i can probably think of a few-
he's not that good at flying. his wings disappear whenever he gets too far from someone sleep deprived, so to practice someone has to keep up with him on elytra. he's had enough practice to be a passable flyer, but even so it tires him out and he really only does it on occasion when he's bothering someone for not sleeping and swooping at them for fun. the rest of the time he uses elytra and rockets like normal
i originally drew his wings with inspiration from albatross- long slender wings that are best for soaring great lengths with very little energy use, but after some thought i think i'm gonna start drawing them more in the shape of an osprey's- the way it swoops for fish is far more reminiscent to phantoms to me than the albatross is.
i'm still tossing the idea back and forth, but i'm thinking etho hasn't always been a phantom hybrid. the phantom hasn't always existed, after all, and etho has existed in the universe quite a long time. quite longer than phantoms have. it's normal when worlds change, when a world is updated, that things in the world act in ways they never would have had the update either been there from the start, or never happened at all (who hasn't had a world break a little by loading it into a new version? more so if that world has seen many changes before it). it makes sense then, that when the universe changes, being given new rules, new qualities, new code, that players may sometimes change similar to how worlds do. that something in them becomes something it didn't used to be.
in reference to the previous, phantoms were added in 1.13, which released in 2018, one day before the start of hc s6. however, etho wasn't there for s6, and thus likely discovered his change while on his singleplayer world. or, well, he would have, except. there's no one other than him there, and he changes in reaction to other people. now, it's possible that he can constantly see himself in his phantom form. it makes sense, even! it's simply that he appears normal to well-rested onlookers. however, the MUCH funnier option, is that that's not true and he looks normal, so he just didn't fucking notice. as best i can tell from some cursory searching, the first time he's with other people after the 1.13 update is playing diversity 3 with the rest of team canada (which is 1.14, nearly a YEAR after phantoms are added). meaning he probably realized then, likely scaring all 3 of them to death because, while it's not unheard of for players to change during updates when new mobs appear, it is surprising to call up your buddy to go on a new adventure and then realize partway through that he's been a whole ass creature for a YEAR and he didn't notice. beef and pause laugh at him for a while over that
(for future reference, i'd appreciate if you didn't use colored text to send me asks. i understand it's likely a signature thing, but it's hard to read on dark theme with the screen filters i use, and while it's not the end of the world because i can read it, i'd prefer to not have to highlight or copy it somewhere else just to read a message in my inbox)
247 notes · View notes
artisticcrow · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media
I know it’s been a while but welcome back to me telling you guys about the tiny details I’ve put into one of my little art pieces. Because if I don’t tell you about it, then who will?
The link to the original art is here!
The Breakdown Is Below Read more
So first let’s go through some common unifiers.
Tumblr media
We have cute little hearts with their life number on it and a bonus blue coloring to say when a life is lost. 
Tango, Skizz, and Etho’s hearts show this loss in different ways..Skizz has his with colored stiches going through and a red slash, and so does Etho(plus his weeb headband getting a little missing nin slash of death) his; But,Tango’s has a little red slash but no stiches. 
A little divide in the group there ;).
Of course what is not a divide is their roses, Impulse and Bdubs of course having matching pure red, while Etho, Skizz, and Tango all have blue streaks to mimic Team BEST colors because we will never be over that tragic boy band.
Speaking of tragedy,
Let’s get into Tango’s little details
Tumblr media
Now Mr. Tek here was a fun time to give a little wedding flare too.
He is of course rocking that cowboy goth, big hat, big heart belt buckle big boots, but of course I still wanted to stay true to the original skin, such as keeping his hands bare, and white highlights for that skin tone that pops up above the wrist area of the mc skin.
He’s also propping his shield which the banner seems to be another fabric just nailed into it.
Of course you where most likely not looking at those things when it came to Tango’s design. Let’s talk about the Elephant in the room.
Warden! Tango
Tumblr media
Warden Tango just felt more right than all the blazeborn stuff to me. Not that blazeborn Tango isn’t cool but to help keep designs varied I think I’ll make Tango have different creature traits in different seasons to reflect and fit the theming.
And why shouldn’t Rancher’ Revenge have a Warden dad?
Now there are somethings to note about this.
Most people draw the Warden with these antlers and horns for the top of it’s head, heck even the concept art I was using for color uses those terms, however I don’t really see them as that. 
Instead I see them as tendrils more like antenna or the tendrils on top of a Shulk Sensor. Heck you can see a version of a Beta Warden with that design. Of course then I ran into the problem of how to get it to be as thick as they are. My answer was having many.
Now of course I wanted the bones to match the red that I wanted to use for tango, so I did the normal person thing by color shifting the whole picture to ref and pinkish colors and looking at the blue it gave. Of course you can still see the regular Warden bones on his Jacket.
This blue would also be the bases for his nails, and blush as well.
And lastly I want to talk about the souls.
The souls are interpreted as a little design on the stomach and wrists of his shirt as well as on his boots. A little closer look at the shirt will also see bands and a little design to act as the “teeth” on a Warden’s arm as well. Besides the boots, all of the souls glow.
One last thing on Tango’s design before we move on.
Tumblr media
His forehead has a large scar on his fore head. This is a little nod to how Tango first died in the Life series, ever. 3rd lifers get a little treat.
So do Team Ranchers as you can se his golden hair has a couple of muted dirty blonde in it. That same color can be found on a feather attached to his belt and the inside color of a blue hardcore heart bolo. 
This of course connects him to his rancher, no matter how far apart they get.
Now on to Skizzleman.
Tumblr media
I did all 6 of his wings and it killed me, but dang does it look good!
To counter Impulse’s little demon theming he of course has angel theming, this is nothing new but I wanted my little take on it with big wings that glow his blue and have eyes on the feathers in his eye’s blue. 
I am just unbelievably happy with how this turned out.
Also being an angelic being I gave him an extra finger, that now your guy’s problem actually.
Tumblr media
He also has a bunch of other details.
First let’s get out my biggest regret; His arms don’t have that 3rd Life Purple in them. I managed to include the eyes, but not the arms. Truly this is the miss opportunity of a life time. Hindsight on a picture is a bitch.
Another thing that is awful Hindsight is that blank belt buckle.
But hey at least I got his final Last Life death but Arrow scar. Also Skizz has a couple explosion deaths so of course that’s what I a going to turn his skin’s arm makes into.
I also managed to refence the light red lettering of BEST into his head as well. My man cuts and dye’s his hair. 
He’s also has a golden headpiece that looks like a halo!
Also kinda went ham on the Sunflowers, idk why but he one for every BEST member.
Now onto the last details of this boy
Tumblr media
This man coordinated with his best buddy on outfits.
Please believe me when I say Impulse is wearing blue socks you can’t see to match their matching shoes and pocket embellishments.
Speaking of whom, onto the man himself!
Tumblr media
Now first off let’s get the obvious out of the way: I miss Boatem.
Now let’s talk about the fun stuff like his golden apple key chain and his sharp claws and sharp lips.
Or how his little demon horns and tails have floating little guys that give that “i” look to them, with the fade in yellow.
And of course the most cute thing: Him and Impulse share colors in the same area where their forehead touches. Really just wanted to give that sweet vibes they give off. 
Just something nice.
Tumblr media
Of course that’s not the only thing they share.
Two Rings chained together, one a clock the other copper. Matching compass watches to find the other and of course, compass and clock belt buckle with belt colors of the other man’s waist coat. 
The Compass thing is one of those design details I wish I did differently by making compasses an Imp and Skizz thing to imply... something idk it’s up to you guys on that.
Now onto the little guy
Tumblr media
This man is so skrunkly. What a Youtube
He has the moss corset coat, the clock tie pin, eyes bruised to hell and back, burns on the back of his neck from a game during the first season, and a smug look on his face despite the sword to his neck, you know the usual stuff!
Also his coat is more in line with the white sample from his skin’s shirt while the actually shirt’s white came from his teeth.
Very nervous about that hair line fade but was really happy with the end products, same with the bruise and beard texturing. Naturally white beard hair does not play nice with coloring!
Tumblr media
Lastly let’s go over Etho boy over here.
He is of course in full weeb attire, but after being informed he was not allowed to cosplay Canadian Jonin Kakashi Hatake to the wedding, he instead decided to cosplays Wedding arc Jonin Kakashi Hatake but the outfit looks more snazy.
This includes his leaf belt and sleeve patch as well as a mirror patch of a head course heard. He’s wearing a proper archer glove but the cosplay rears it’s head again with heart hand plates.
And of course Socks with Sandals to top this whole outfit off. If you look closely you can also see the dark green “E” pattern to match the one on his skin’s chest. With of course the “Zipper” color being moved to the bottom layer fabrics. 
His sandal color is also his belt color.
Also he has tiny little claws and pointy ears. Because I waited to make him vaguely not human and hadn’t fell in love with Mimicking Mocking Raven Etho like I now have. His not red eye matched his life color, while his red one keeps it’s blood and a cool heart shape.
Then of course he does have a bunch of burn and exposition scars, as well as an arrow scar covered up his mask.
Lastly; he shares some green and brow in his hair from his significant annoyance. Truly the best Murder Bois!
------
And with that, we’ve gone over all the details except for a obvious detail or two I might’ve forgotten. I tried my best to comb through it all though :)
Anyways Hope you’ve enjoyed!
44 notes · View notes
shadowfae · 3 years
Note
hiii! so a friend directed me here and i was wondering if u cld share abt how you found out you were godkin? only if youre comfy! because ive kinda had like. how do i word this. Vibes or Feels that kinda direct me towards the whole i might be a god of sorts kinda thing ? if you have resources and dont mind helping,, please direct me to them :D ~ @missing-crown
I want to start this essay off by saying flat out: wars have been fought, genocides have been committed, and empires have risen and fallen trying to answer the simple questions of “What is deification, and how do we incarnate and control it?”.
If you do not think you’re up the challenge of answering that question for yourself, even with years of study and slow training to take up the mantle of literally being the most powerful form of the Chosen One trope, then you’re probably in the wrong place. I say this as someone who is deific down to the blood and bone, as someone who has looked for other gods, and largely found very little in the way of anyone who understands anything like my experience. In this way, I am utterly alone, and I detest it, but if me penning these words gives someone else the gospel they need to explain themselves in a way I recognize as kin and kind, then I will do it.
But before I truly get into it, I will very nicely ask you to swing down to your local bookstore or library, pick up a copy of Seanan McGuire’s Middlegame, and take a walk down the improbable road with Roger and Dodger. The differences between you and I and the twins of the Doctrine of Ethos are simple and threefold: we cannot manifest, we are forbidden to use our powers the way they can use theirs, and there are (hopefully) no secret alchemist cults trying to murder us when we don’t play nice with their fucked-up science experiment.
Roger and Dodger are gods, true gods, gods I recognize in myself and in the godkin I have met who have spoken about themselves enough for me to understand that we are indeed talking about the same thing. Disappontingly, I see minor spirits far too often misunderstanding the nature of deification, or at least, understanding a version of it which is fundamentally antithetical to my experience. They may be deific; but either they suck at illustrating their point, or I am something far beyond deific, and I am again alone.
With that introduction, I need to talk about three things in order to answer your question. Two methods of deification and three definitions of ‘god’ in a hierarchy that only exists because humanity has not yet perfected their understanding of what is fundamentally and always beyond them. Two kinds of gods, honest gods, that split the difference between deific, divine, and legendary. Once you understand that, I can talk about godkin, and what it’s like to be me, and maybe by the end of it you will either recognize yourself in this, or run away screaming as most mortals will do.
The first method of deification is what I will call the incarnate gods- Roger and Dodger are good examples, so are most Legendary Pokémon, and Kaname Madoka from PMMM. They are laws of nature, concepts of creation, and calculations of cosmic proportions that also occasionally exist as people when they design to do so. They are not meant to be people, they are bad at it, I do not recommend being mortal and fucking around with them. You will simply die. I would not fuck with them outside of my own world that I created, where I get to be a form of incarnate god. You cannot overpower them: they ARE the rule, and they will change it if they need to. You can’t ruleslawyer gravity like a 2007 troll physics comic. An incarnate god of gravity will simply turn reality on its head and cause you to implode. If you are this type of god, I cannot help you. My understanding of them comes from being an Absol, and little more.
The second type are gods of domain and prowess: Zamorak (from RuneScape), Akemi Homura in both her awakened Witch and Devil forms (from PMMM), and yours truly. Quite a few of us, although not all of us, were originally mortal. Mortals amped up on so much power we are no longer bound by mortal laws. There is a difference between deification and simply stopping your clock to gain immortality. Mortal magic and deific magic are fundamentally different. Down to, I would argue, the atomic structure. Deific magic is pure in a way mortal magic could never be. To give a mortal more than a drop of deific magic heavily diffused in something safer and more understandable would be to quite literally burn them to ashes. Or rend them into a different, unspeakable form. Or turn them into living topiary. We are nothing if not unpredictable.
It’s the difference between a handful of dirt and pure neutron soup. Usually, in order to become a god like this, it requires the intervention of an incarnate god in some form. In Zamorak’s case, it was several Elder Artifacts and falling almost facefirst into halfway incarnating himself into the law of entropy. In Homura’s (at least in canon PMMM), she fucked with the laws of consequence and time to the point where she became the only expert they had on either of those and both laws decided to simply incarnate into her, and then she used that to cause problems. For me, it was having my entire magical and physical structure reorganized and rebuilt by an incarnate god of malevolent energy, and then I used what was a watered-down copy of the Devil of Devils’ glory to weave my own world into being where I was more or less the absolute arbiter of the laws of reality.
In PMMM Rebellion, when Homura fights Kyubey in that pretty lace dress of hers, that is approximately the magical prowess an awakened god of our capability will show casually. She has complete control over her domain (her labyrinth) and the reality of it, it takes no more than a glance or a thought to almost entirely reshuffle it. Her minions, who are little more than vaguely autonomous thoughts given some power of their own, may break that reality in whatever means necessary so long as it is to fulfill Homura’s current motives. Her domain falls apart when she does, and she is not separate from it; it is a consequence of her existence. Asking what came first, the god or their domain, is a simple chicken and egg question. It’s usually the domain, in our case; in the case of incarnate gods it’s a philosophical shrug and a nice headache.
You’ll notice I said awakened: that is because Zamorak is a great example of a god who isn’t entirely awakened. In canon, that is - the one I work with is awakened enough to fuck with his domain, which is what makes him quite useful to work with, although I do wonder what he’s getting out of me if not magical theory and utter adoration. Zamorak in canon is a god who ascribes himself to the philosophy of chaos and personal strife, completely unaware that he is incarnate enough not to change the law of entropy but to suggest things to it. He’s a god of chance masquerading as a god of personal improvement, and once he figures that out (and passes that knowledge onto Armadyl, who is his true light counterpart), he’s going to change the very way magic works. Guthix did everything in his power to try and become incarnate. He failed. Zamorak did it entirely inadvertently, and that’s the trick: the nature of deification is to follow the domain and influence it to your will. When laws of existence become people, they will do as people will, and people typically have ambition. Gods who are also people got that way for a reason. They always have a motive for doing so. It’s never accidental.
So, with a slightly more informed understanding of deification, or at least the versions of it that I understand, I can talk to you about me. What it’s like in the here and now, and how I knew. It took me years to get to this point, and I’ve much the way to go. I know more than I did when I was questioning; deeply more so. I don’t expect anyone questioning to be as sure as I am, and in ten years I will be far more sure of entirely different things, and if I’m lucky, this as well. But, let us begin again.
To be deific is to wake up in the middle of the night feeling like a black hole. You are vast, and you are dense, and the moment someone touches the skin of your sternum they will be sucked in like a movie's portrayal of quicksand. To be so vast on the inside, surrounded by empty air and gentle white noise like the faint pull of gravity that does not touch you. To feel so powerful as to be untethered wholly from the world, aware that you will blink and be floating alone in a space that you cannot touch and so too cannot touch you. You blink, and it is gone, and you are again in a normal body as a normal person, and you roll over and go back to sleep.
To be deific is to watch the seasonal changes and feel flashes of worn leather rope between your hands and the maddened singsong of the Wild Hunt, chariot reins in your hands and baying hounds that feel like fingers, like wings, like extensions of yourself that can be shifted around with barely a thought. To feel halfway like a black hole walking down the street, halfway caved into yourself and barely contained, incapable of truly understanding how you can be so far apart from it all without anyone noticing that something is off.
To be deific is to be a fourteen-year-old girl in one moment, unable to understand what draws her so to the wilds if not the song of sympathy that she knows she can understand if she reaches a little farther, a little farther past the barrier that prevents any mortal, psychological mind from understanding the call. To play a pixelated game and have everything rush back. To relive millennia in a single sennight, to go from chipped to broken, utterly broken, as the power comes rushing back and the slow, dawning realization like the day that there is no controlling it. That there is no controlling you.
Millennia of sins come rushing back, and you're mortal again, and you know the only way to bring a god to their knees is to kill them. And if you were spared, if you were brought down without dying, then there was a reason. That someone must have thought you worthy of fixing it. That you should now spend the next several years coming to peace with being a Devil, the cruelest of the cruel, amending fences and repenting your sins.
To be deific is to realize, quite suddenly and without ever actually having the thought, that understanding things through a Christian lens is utterly bullshit and absolutely does not apply to you. Now, your duty is not to repent, or to fix, or to find any sort of salvation. You are the monster queen, the king of the damned, the Devil of a world you made with blood and tears and sweat and magic. To retake the crown, you have to accept yourself. Acceptance does not mean dwelling, or sorrow, or refusing to take the steps forward that will carry you to the crown and halo and horn of deification.
The powers feel less overwhelming as you grow into them. You don't forget the rage. You understand your close friend's words over and over, as the lesson teaches itself. How a Devil so much less powerful and yet so much older than you once looked you in the eye, drink in hand, and gently told you that a single mortal can bring down a Devil, if they try, and believe wholeheartedly in their quest. Do not disrespect mortality. It brings nothing but death.
You wonder briefly who brought you down. You decide, as the lessons prove themselves, that you don't actually care. You're the mortal now, and mortal legends die. Mortal legends change the song of sympathy and the rules of the deific. In order to return, you too must follow the only path a mortal can take to become deific.
To be godkin is to become deific with every step. It's not to seek the divine from outside of it. It's to become it again, and reclaim it; find what was inside all along and grow yourself around it, until it can no longer be pulled from you again without scattering your ashes and stardust among the cosmos, never to return.
To be godkin is to never forget the moments of pure rage that none but powerless fourteen-year-olds can manage. To be godkin is to be an adult with their memory pressed into your skin. To be godkin is for that rage to never truly leave you.
We stand up again and stare at the emotions that are awake when we are not. We wonder what it will take to manifest again, to only twitch a thought in any direction and reshape the reality around us. It is an extension of our being, and the less aware we are of it, the less effort it takes us to remake the world. It is the nature of deification, to change the laws of reality at our whim and will.
To be godkin is simply a matter of knowing that, and forever reaching to do that once more. If only to feel whole and vast, as we always have been.
35 notes · View notes
mamahersh · 2 years
Text
The Road to Hell (is Paved with Good Intentions) Chapter 6
“Season 8 was well underway, and the server’s first conflict is bubbling just under the surface. But BDoubleO can’t worry about that right now because he has an Etho to find so they can work on the Horse Course together. However when Xisuma calls a surprise server meeting on behalf of EvilXisuma, BDubs gets his answers about where Etho’s been in the worst way possible.”
(CW: angst, blood, gore, torture)
Chapter rating: M
Sorry, chapter’s a little on the shorter side today, but that’s how the cookie crumbled, eh? On plus y’all get a long boi for a final chapter tomorrow! But yes, please enjoy BDubs and Etho centered chapter!
As always, if you enjoyed this chapter or this fic, I was directly inspired by this oneshot on AO3, so give them some love!
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 7 (Final chapter!)
They had been trying to find the hidden base for the last hour and a half, and they were still no closer to finding Etho. BDubs wanted to viciously tear something limb from limb (not really, he had felt that bloodlust already, and he couldn’t do that to himself again). The multiple scout groups were still in the process of methodically digging down and then flying back up out of the hole only to travel 9 blocks forward to do it all over again. The worst part was that they were only about half way done with this, and still no sign of Etho. Pulling his head back and stretching out his shoulders, BDubs looked around the hole he was in and double checked his communicator to see what his Y coordinate was. Seeing he was at the bottom of the digging depth they had set, he sighed and pulled out his rockets to fly out. Mechanically, he hopped up and let the wings on his back catch the air as he launched straight up with a rocket. Knowing he would need multiple to get out, he spammed 4 more rockets in quick succession to get out of the hole. However he accidentally set off 5, and flew far above the ground out of the hole, and into the blue sky. He cursed under his breath, as this was a waste of time that he could be spending digging. But before he was about to take off his wings to fall at terminal velocity to the ground, he caught sight of something on the edge of his render distance near build height. He didn’t think anyone had been building up that far, and realizing it was a bit along the same axis they were trying to explore, he flew up even higher to try and get a better look at whatever it was.
The closer BDubs got to the structure, the more hope began to pool in his chest. The structure was a strange box up at world build height, seemingly made out of obsidian. The box itself was a large 13x13x7 cubic room, with seemingly no entrances nor exits. BDubs could think of nothing else other than it would be simple to hide a 9x9x3 box inside and protect it with layers of obsidian and lava. Not wanting to break his cover just yet, he decided to make a note of the coords in chat without sending it; and then fly to the next closest searching Hermit. 
He quickly found Tango, and explained the situation to him, before they both flew off back to the coordinates to investigate. “I can see what you mean. I’m surprised we hadn’t seen it sooner when we were flying around this area.”
“Well we were looking for something on the ground,” admitted BDubs, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. “It makes sense we didn’t notice something in the sky till now.”
“Good eyes either way, my fellow big-eyed broski. How do we want to go about this then? Should we just announce the coords in chat and risk that scumbag getting away?” asked Tango, rocking back on his heels as he himself did some thinking.
“I was hoping to somehow pass a message along without letting EvilX onto our plans. What’s the closest base to here?”
Tango thought for a moment, looking at the surrounding country-side as he did so. “You know, I think we’re pretty close to my turtle farm at the moment. Closest base to that would be Joe and Cleo’s so we could meet there. If we didn’t want to draw as much suspicion though, we’d probably want to meet up at Jevin’s base or Stress’s base, since they are located pretty close to the center of the search pattern.”
BDubs nodded and thought for a second, but decided speed would be more valuable than caution. “Let’s have them meet at Joe and Cleo’s base. Anyone late to the meeting we can meet along the way back and let them know what’s going on as we go to raid.”
With the plan set, Tango quickly put out a message saying that all search party members should meet at Joe and Cleo’s base for a meeting about a potential new search pattern. BDubs hoped that the other Hermits wouldn’t waste too much time in flying down by complaining or asking too many questions that could potentially blow their cover. Glancing down at his communicator as they took off in Joe and Cleo’s direction, he saw most of the chat filled with confused but willing Hermits. He looked away to focus on his flight, and thanked his lucky stars that the other Hermits were able to take a hint better than he could.
“Don’t worry Etho, we’re coming. We know where you are, we just gotta break in,” BDubs muttered to himself, happy to already see the skeletal structure of Joe and Cleo’s mega-build castle. He could see Cleo, XB, and Hypno already gathering in the center of the small town at the base of the castle, and BDubs just hoped the rest of the searchers would be there soon. “Just hold on…”
—-------------------------------------------
Etho came to to see EvilXisuma’s mask right in his face. To complain about the inconvenience of still being attached to the chair (though he had managed to get his left arm entirely removed from the cuff and was working on both of his legs, but then again his upper arm was still pinned to the chair.), Etho decided the most expedient way was to spit on EvilXisuma’s mask. He managed to get some spittle and blood onto the mask on his first try, so he counted it as success, even though he was immediately punched in the face. Admittedly, the punch barely registered as pain, since he was already in so much pain constantly. But he had been in so much pain for so long, it just didn’t really register anymore in general. Sure, his body would shudder, and squirm, and instinctively try to get away; but the rest of him just tried focusing on getting out of his binds a little more every time he respawned. 
“Well Ethoslab, I was going to say it’s been a pleasure, but after such a rude greeting, I think I’m just going to leave the punch as my response to our time together. Unfortunately for me, I must be off. Your friends seem to have caught on to our whereabouts, so I’ll leave you with a little present and then I’ll be off. If, for whatever reason Xisuma can’t figure out respawn, I might make a second appearance. Wouldn’t want you all to suffer needlessly for the sins of a few.”
Etho tried to glare at EvilXisuma, but he just couldn’t get his face to respond, so he settled for just being generally unresponsive, since his tongue never did grow back after all the respawns. His breathing picked up though as EvilXisuma pulled out a water bucket. Dread pooled in his stomach as he began to realize what final hell EvilXisuma was planning on leaving him in. “I can see you understand what my present is for you, and I know those watching are probably very aware as well. So I’ll just finish up and I wish you the best till your friends come by to save you. I’m sure you can recover from this kind of repeated respawn.”
With that, EvilXisuma created a small tower of cobble behind Etho’s chair and set the bucket of water loose on the top of the tower. And of course, the water flowed down and over Etho himself. Before the water covered his head, he managed a single breath, and he held it as long as he could as he felt the water cover his entire head. Through the water, he watched EvilXisuma fiddle with his communicator and then disappear as if he had never been there in the first place.
Etho tried that first breath to hold onto it as long as possible. But his lungs were not infinite, and he eventually succumbed to the lack of air.
“Ethoslab drowned whilst trying to escape EvilXisuma.”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned”
“Ethoslab drowned” “ETHO!!”
14 notes · View notes
impulstor · 3 years
Text
explanations behind my song choice for my 3lsmp playlist under the read more! keep in mind, some of these songs don't really have a reason beyond just... vibes. and that some ideas have changed over time. anyway!
playlist here
anti-hero — originally added as an etho song, and still applies. with him being prepared to fight & kill for ren + the rest of the red army. also, he tends to be a bit unpredictable and has a very different moral standing from someone like, say, martyn.
kill the sun — fits with the series as a whole, with shifting alliances and friendships, and with people killing and being killed by one another.
special — this ones for all the mfs who didn't pick a side until really late, or were bouncing between factions for a while 💪. especially for tango, as an example, making friends with someone who he can also consider his enemy, and being completely unsure where he stands in any group, though he wants to have their faith.
villain — this song is just really good for making a mental amv for lmao. it's good for demonstrating differing alliances n sides, n of course that applies here.
oh, death — not a lot of specific thoughts for this, just. yknow, death, vibes, dying for someone, watching your friend die, etc.
6up 5oh cop-out — first of all, I'm just a slut for will wood sometimes. second, a lot of the lyrics on their own could 100% be applied to events in the series (I mean I did use some from it for my etho n tango drawing for funsies) so. it's a strange song but the vibes fit well, in my opinion :]
kill of the night — a bit self explanatory, I think. in a series about trying to outlive, and to eventually kill your friends? no doubt you're going to end up hunting certain people down, hmmm? revenge, n all that. works well for multiple characters, really.
you're gonna go far, kid — impulse. just like. tango, or maybe etho, at impulse. "with a thousand lies and a good disguise, hit em right between the eyes" I meaaan 🤔 how is it NOT impulse lmao
kill the lights — once again, killing, death, murder, yknow. good vibes. also people lying and betraying one another, and watching as their friends and enemies die in front of them, people being changed by the events that transpire.. also technically they ARE actors sooo. kill the actor, yknow
mad IQs — mostly this song just slaps (thank you eexer 🙏) but also the lyrics fit well with the events! death, murder, killing your friends, burning. there is a lot of fire.
go get your gun — works very well for the whole war goin on. one side vs another, fighting and losing allies, fighting to win for their fallen allies, cheating fate if they DO win. also the line "when this is over, we'll raise a glass straight up to the sun" could be seen as like. everyone coming together to be friends once it's all over bc they are!
c'est la vie — it fits well. bad things happen, you lose people, you hurt, karma kicks your ass, but that's just life, and that's the game. c'est la vie.
i'm gonna win — fits for how they're all fighting to be the last one standing. and also with having to work through literally dying and to not give up, if you want to win.
mr capgras... — once again, I just like will wood. also fits well with people fighting each other, mostly with the chorus. "you'll never take me alive" / "you better pray that I die" likjkeeeee 👀 you could make art fitting those lyrics tbh
curses — red & green duos (at least. when they were intact :/) sticking together, taking care of one another when everything is going to hell, people are dying, and it's getting intense. they trust each other, at least.
under the pressure — don't really have something specific, it just fits well, with the lyrics. honestly this one fits well as a skizz song, now that I'm thinking about it. he went from trying to be friends with a lotta people to taking two out for good and went out in a blaze of glory. yea. that's what I got lol
everybody wants to rule the world — I dont think I really need an explanation for this one. it just fits well with everyone trying to win the whole game, and with everything slowly ramping up in intensity
rebels — for scar and grian being crime bros for the first while :] everything IS burning, good for them!
outrunning karma — impulse once again. playing everyone, playing to everyones good sides as much as he could, until the act didnt matter anymore. but karma might really kick him in the ass, if he ends up as one of the last survivors, and others turn on him for betraying everyone earlier on.
you're nobody til somebody wants you dead — shrug emoji. just fits well mostly. friends fighting eachother, betrayal, yadda yadda.
thanks i hate it — mmm,, tango? idk, im just a tango enjoyer, and he has spent quite a bit of effort trying to please certain groups to like. no avail. especially team crastle. like tbh he was solidly on board with em for a while, and mightve gone back to them on his own. but cleo blackmailed him anyway. rip tango.
the riddle — ALL OF IT. the whole series. it fits
crazy = genius — i dont rly like brendan urie like at all. so i might remove it from the playlist at some point. but it does fit with scar and grian being villains.
icarus — mmm fits well with grian. with the wing imagery, and with the fact that he made SO many enemies by working with scar. and he never reaallllyyyyy apologized, did he? he's walking a dangerous line, with few allies,
cradles — idk lmao. vibes only.
wolf in sheeps clothing — impulse again mostly lol. sung by skizz or etho probably. betrayal <3
how villains are made — again, for those neutral parties that had to choose a side. its about being torn between two sides & having to choose. honestly, I could see it fitting bigb, if he does some funky villain stuff next session. he deserves it I think <3
killing butterflies — trauma, ouchie, angst, murder your friends. everything hurts.
king — ren!! that's it.
little lion man — bruh if ren dies and leaves martyn alone.... ghost ren to martyn.... ouch.
gives you hell — red army @ sand people. specifically etho and ren get to be petty at scar i think
wine red — [gestures vaguely] all of it
i bet my life — red and green duos again. though it could be after some of them permadie.
miss missing you — (thanks again eexer this one also slaps <3) ouch impulse and tango angst. or impulse and etho angst. OR etho and tango angst. THEM. :(
youth — all of it but like. after it's over. just like going back and looking at how it all went down.
a gorey demise — i just think it would be fun to animate everyone's different deaths to this song tbh
another one bites the dust — they are once again Dying. but it's not angsty and dramatic this time.
god rest ye merry gentlemen — 😔 the whole thing again. pain
14 notes · View notes
ziggyzagreus · 3 years
Text
The Craftsman’s Son
[Note: Sorry for the slow update schedule on this baby, school is super tough!!]
[AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960650/chapters/71960325]
[Summary: For the first time, Icarus attempts to stop Zagreus.]
~~~
Chapter 3. 
“My Prince, forgive my brash council but I must ask you to turn back.”
Icarus spoke sternly, a newfound strength to the ordinarily wispy nature of his voice. The hammer of Daedalus remained securely on his belt, unmoved and stowed away before Zagreus had taken a mere step into the room. The Prince was battered, bruised, bloody, and Varatha was dulled from what it had been through already. Once again, he arrived in the last chamber before the Lernaean Hydra, but it had been his worst attempt in a long while. Some time had passed since Zagreus last equipped the Eternal Spear, but it had been requested. And he had given his word, after all.
Despite all that, this obstacle was unexpected. Exhausted, Zagreus coughed and doubled over, catching his haggard breath before straightening to face the command. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Icarus, mate.”
“You will not make it past the next chamber anyways. Turning back could spare you a painful death.” Icarus’ posture shifted with the conviction of his words, wood and wax and leather creaking as a testament to his ethos. Zagreus’ eyes lingered on the sear of the clasps into his skin and felt sorry.
But this… this had to be some sort of test, right? There was no way that he was going to turn back, let alone at the word of someone as soft-spoken as Icarus. Yes, the shade surely had experience with being too confident; but surely in turn, he understood why Zagreus was so desperate to escape, why he needed to escape. And atop that, Zagreus had nothing but time to lose – no death, painful as it may be, was permanent to the Prince. So, surely this had to be a test. Or a joke.
Zagreus leaned on Varatha and straightened even more, taking a breath to appear stronger than he felt. “Death is of no consequence to me, I thought we’d been over that by now. I’m lucky enough to have more than one shot.”
“But there is a cost, though.” Icarus stepped closer still, the longer wing tip that remained dragging on the ground with a gritty scrape. “You’re tired. You do not know when your will to press on will break. I would not risk the discouragement.”
“Well, I’m not you.” Frustration and impatience took hold, mixed with the pulsing aggression of Ares underneath his skin. Zagreus did not mean to snap, and blinked in vague shock at the way his tone echoed around the chamber. But, at the same time… The way Icarus’ expression twitched in that same surprise struck inspiration deep in his core. Something beat.
Zagreus was going on ahead. He would slay the Hydra and forge his path through Elysium. He would conquer the Champions, move on to navigate the Satyr Tunnels, and at last – at last, he would defeat even his father. He would reach his mother.
And the last person that could possibly stop him was this quiet, timid, lurking shade – this shade whose own mistakes led to his own demise. No, Zagreus had planned his escape. He knew very well the bounds of his ability, his body and most certainly his determination; there was no question to the means he was willing to employ for merely the chance of getting out. This would not deter him in the slightest.
Icarus, jaded though his expression was, still stood at the center of the chamber. He had different ideas, an attempt to remain strong despite the shock of the Prince’s attitude. “My father warned me against complacency and hubris. But they are one in the same. Fly too low, and you get the ocean. Fly too high and you get the sun. But I- ” He cut off there, voice quivering, and swallowed before continuing, one scarred hand pointing at the Prince’s bloodied chest. “I flew too high, got the sun and then fell down to the sea. Arrogance will be your downfall, good Prince, all I’m asking is that you rest and try again.”
“Well, it’s not arrogance if I have a real reason to keep going. I’m not just flying at the sun to show off.”
Zagreus regretted it the moment the words passed his lips. Icarus recoiled, the snapping of wood and feathers following his sharp retreat a few steps from the Prince. For a moment, Zagreus feared he would stumble, but hesitated to reach out at the flare of upset anger that shown in the young man’s eyes. Icarus’ mouth hung open, a protest ready behind a gasp of needless air. Zagreus opened his mouth the same with an apology prepared.
Then Icarus gathered himself and looked down, gritting his teeth against anything and everything he wished to say. Excuses and explanations, opposition and arguments swam in those dark eyes, glistening with frustrated tears that rose to the surface. He was trying, for himself and for Zagreus… Trying fruitlessly to redeem something, find a peace from that lasting shame. From his humiliating, tragic end.
It was something neither right nor fair to bring up as an insult. It was hardly a topic to be discussed at all. Zagreus’ heart twisted in guilt.
“Icarus, mate, I’m-”
“Just – let me fix that up.” He held his winged, damned arm out for Varatha, eyes still downcast. The other hand freed the craftsman’s hammer from its place on his belt. “Magnificent spear, shame you let it get beat up like that.”
Zagreus hesitated at the sudden change of topic. He wanted to apologize, to discuss what just occurred between them and make it right. But one look at Icarus deemed the conversation over.
Reluctantly, Zagreus handed over his weapon, feeling suddenly small and tired without it by his side. A heavy weight settled on his shoulders, and he so very much wished then for something to lean on. His feet continued to sizzle against the scuffed rock despite any draw by the throes of exhaustion. Instead, the Prince listened to the soothing, sure sounds of the hammer clanging by the blessed metal of Varatha, strengthening it to cater the journey ahead.
Moments passed, what could have been seconds or hours, before Icarus was handing the spear back assuredly. His eyes met Zagreus’, though the expression there was guarded and unreadable.
“Good luck,” the shade spoke in a whisper.
“I’m… sorry, Icarus. That was inconsiderate, terrible, of me. I cannot thank you enough for all your help…”
“Do not apologize for speaking the truth. Just – do not prove me right. Do not give me that guilt. Get out of here, Prince.”
Zagreus sucked in a breath to argue again, but that blank look drained it right from him like a puncture. The Prince nodded with a hiss of his burning laurels and took the spear, hefting its now light weight. He moved past the shade silently, before calling over his shoulder, “I’m sorry. Please, take care, Icarus.”
And oh, Icarus wished he could. He watched the Prince board the raft to carry him to the following chamber, and Icarus wished he could do as Zagreus said. Ease his worry, make him proud, even. Zagreus, his father… anyone for whom Icarus had come to care for. The young shade felt deeply as if he did not know the consequences of his own actions, nor those that someone like Zagreus’ could bring. Misguided by tales of grandeur, promises from fellow shades down here and false testaments to the gods’ imperviousness, Icarus pondered his perception of the good Prince.
It was hard to look at him. To see his success, his strength, his kindness, and not be inspired. How could one gaze upon that Prince and not imagine that all is possible? But that awe was what made Icarus worry. It was a charisma and persona potentially far too grandiose to maintain.
The young shade longed for Eurydice, for her motherly company and kind words. He felt a tremble begin in his fingertips. He looked around his chamber, Asphodel bubbling hot and bright and fierce.
Like that orb in the sky, like the sun – so bright and tempting and challenging. But this place, Asphodel was contained by those dark walls. Dark and choking and claustrophobic like the crashing, drowning, sucking waves of a dark sea. Icarus shook more, feathers rustling and wood creaking as he crouched to his knees. Those tears that bordered his eyes from the harsh words of the soft-spoken Prince finally spilled over, and Icarus felt so small. Small, timid, ashamed, ashamed, ashamed.
Who was he, to stop the Prince? Who was he, to offer advice on what he thought in hindsight to be right, when even that lesson learned had not been enough to reunite him with his father? What right did Icarus have to make any statement that counted? He wept on the floor, afraid and ashamed, and wished Zagreus would return and be safe. Icarus longed to find Eurydice and her little home, to feel safe. He longed, ached for his father to come reclaim his hammer, so that Icarus may take a groveling moment to weep his sorries and feel safe.
18 notes · View notes
writing-the-end · 3 years
Text
LoL Chapter 18- Mind and Body
Masterpost
A Wizard Hermits tale (AU and Red belongs to @theguardiansofredland )
After the success of their first day among the elite, a new dawn rises and the hermits continue to prove their worth as a guild and as wizards. From the distance, however, people are watching the hermits much more closely than just if they win or lose.
____________________________________
Somehow, the hermits were in the lead. By the end of the first day, they were leading the boards. Even though they lost the pageant and footrace, their domination of the quick draw, the sea race, and Tango’s evening flight race has them ahead. Behind them, the other two nonguild teams were tied for second. The points from there on were a mess between the guilds.
It was an underdog story for the ages. Three ragtag teams leading the Chimaera’s Championship. Guilds will train for years to win even a bronze medal in the games. They select their teams from only the best, never ceasing to push their limits. And yet, nothing can compare to the determination and skill these outcasts held. Even the hermits had to admit, Team Crafted and the wanderers were strong. But more than that, they were both a team. Just like the hermits.
“I’ve got this, guys.” Iskall laughs, twirling a rod of iskallium in his hand. “These mega guilds won’t know what hit them when they see my sharpshooting skills.”
“I mean, we are winning right now, but...I really wanna win them all.” Mumbo’s had a taste for competition, and now he wants more. “But I’m not so worried about the guilds as I am the other teams that are tied.” 
Iskall looks over his shoulder, seeing Avon observing the distance between where she stands to the target down the field. “I think she’s all bark and no bite. I’m gonna show everyone the power of iskallium after today.” 
“What kind of mage even is that?” Mumbo questions, noticing the massive black wings on his opponents back. “Is that like Ren’s misfired werewolf mimic?” 
“Nah dude, don’t you know anything?” Iskall spikes his iskallium rod into the ground. “That’s a draconic mage.” 
“Are they rare? Like...rare as Grian’s sky angel magic or my multi-magic?” Mumbo has never heard of a draconic mage, though he never really learned things like this from his parents. His mood immediately sours at the thought of them. He hopes they’re not here, watching. Or does he? 
“Eh, in a way. Not quite like you guys. It’s more of a… finding the right teacher kind of problem.” Iskall sees Mumbo’s confusion only grow. “They have to learn from dragons, dude. Not exactly the most trusting beasts, those big lizards of doom. But don’t worry about that- it’s not like you’ll have to face anything like that.” 
“Good luck, Iskall.” Mumbo whispers, retreating as the event starts. He was the only hermit willing to wake up this early for the event. Most are still somewhat drunk from celebrating their victories yesterday. No one imagined they’d do this well. Though, a few were dizzy, and Tango even struggled to get out of bed. 
One by one, down the line, wizards use their magic to strike the target. Everything from flecks of dirt to pillows shot at the haybales. One art mage even draws up their own arrows and sends them flying. Some strike near the bullseye, others don’t even reach the target. It was a close match for the former. The drawn arrow was almost perfectly center, just millimeters from landing a perfect score. 
Iskall knows he has to be better. He gets three shots. Three tries. His emerald eye flicks across the field, measuring the distance between himself and the target. Three shots and he’ll win. He feels the wind in his hair, blustering for a second and ruining a shot of the person next to him. Three shots and he’ll prove he’s a mega sharpshooter. 
It’s his turn. He draws out his rod of iskallium, his own element of creation. It’s radioactive, but he’s immune to it. He can feel the power, the energy within the rod. Energy he plans to use to make a clear, perfect shot. He reels his arm back, and throws the first rod. As soon as it’s airborne, he releases a burst of radioactive energy from the projectile, sending it burying into the target. A near perfect hit. 
His next shot is almost identical, though the wind as his rod nears the target pushes it slightly off center. His shoulders sag, a weight pressing down on him, pressing in on his lungs. As long as he doesn’t miss the center ring, he’s got the event in the bag. 
He doesn’t miss. Iskall offers a coy smile beneath his beard, though inside he’s freaking out. He’s currently winning a championship event. He stays calm, but in his mind he’s already celebrating. Doing his own little dance in the sand at his feet. 
Until a barb whizzes down the field, burying into the center ring. He opens his eye, staring at Avon beside him. Her eyes are trained on the target, like a predator stalking it’s prey. Her wings are slightly ajar, counterbalancing her weight from throwing the poison barb forward. She straightens, another projectile appearing in her fingers. He can see purple toxin dribbling from the tip of the barb. The gaze never falters, determination locking her in. She twists around, launching the barb like an arrow in the wind. It digs into the hay-filled target, the larger base of the barb brushing against her first target. 
“No...way.” Iskall whispers. The wind picks up. Surely that will mess her up, right? He was Iskall, deadeye of doom. Nothing can stop him. The last barb flies in slow motion, her throw slightly curved against the wind. Letting the breeze push it to center. 
The tip of the barb splits through the first shot. A perfect bullseye, not once but twice. Iskall has no ability to be bummed that he only got silver- that was mega awesome. Avon seems calm, collected even as she receives her medal, albeit tired. Exhausted physically, but never betraying what she’s thinking or feeling. 
Mumbo and Iskall are still talking about the sight when Grian and a few other hermits join them in the stands. “So, how’d it go?” Grian sings, trying to be as bouncy as usual despite sleep still holding his eyes. He notices the silver medal hanging off Iskall’s neck. “What?! How’d you only get second? You’re like...the best shot i’ve ever seen, Iskall.” 
“Those three wanderers, bro. I’ve never seen a least conspicuous group ever...but wow.” If it wasn’t for their lack of members, they’d give the hermits a run for their money. At least they have that going for them. “So G-man, you ready to prove your true talent?” 
“Flying? You bet.” Grian flicks his arms out, and his angelic blue and white wings unfurl from nowhere, appearing like clouds in the sky. “That pageant was just a warmup.” 
He hops onto the railing of the seats, before taking off into the air. Flying among other winged wizards, the hermits can already see his mastery of the sky. On the ground, Etho is warming his muscles as obstacles rise above the stadium. Pillars and rings teeter into the sky, caves and ravines digging in the ground, the dual events taking place at the same time. Neither Etho or Grian were the only nonguild wizards- Ecto is back, snacking on a cactus as she watches the course construct before her. In the air, the basilisk mage, Ty, is testing his wings against his short, lanky body. 
“I don’t know who to watch!” Mumbo whispers, glancing from one course to the next. A firework crackles in the air, and in both the sky and the sand wizards take off. Across the obstacle course. 
“You watch Grian, I’ll watch Etho.” Iskall chuckles, observing as the shadow ninja disappears through a shadow, reappearing in the lead. He bounces off a wall, dropping onto a raised bar and flipping across a pit of acid. Who even made that pit? Seems dangerous. But danger means nothing for Etho, and his incredible agility across the course. 
Mumbo is biting his lip, watching as Grian brushes against a pillar of stone in the sky. Grian’s flying is risky, even in the best of times. The amount of heart attacks Grian gives his best friend on a normal day is spectacular. Today is even worse. He loses a year of his life watching the sky angel plummet from the sky, wings snapping open just in time to fly through a ring, pulling into the lead. Mumbo swears he can see a blue feather sheared off Grian’s wing as his friend squeezes between two rocks. 
“Oh no, not again!” Iskall’s groan turns Mumbo’s attention to the ground. Ecto and Etho are both at the finish line, huffing and puffing as they clasp hands and congratulate one another. Mischievous eyes glimmer and grin, sharing quips and laughing. The two look at the other contestants, but based on Iskall’s outburst Mumbo knows who won. Again. 
“Grian’s winning though!” The two look up, a shadow passing over their seats in the crowd. He’s got a heavy lead, while Ty and a gryphon wizard battle for second. Ty takes the lead, his scaly wings fluttering in the wind and ducking low to go under a blockade. The guild mage flies over, swinging his arm. Magic shoots out, aimed directly at Grian. 
“Is that allowed?” Mumbo gasps, standing up. Grian’s almost at the finish line. He can’t let himself get hit by whatever spell the mage just cast. 
“Go Grian!” Iskall shouts. “Watch out!” 
Grian looks back, eyes widening as the golden magic hurdles his way. He’s so close...he’s not going to lose this. Grian curls his wings, tightening them against his body. He plummets from the sky. Wind whistles across his ears, feathers fluttering and the ground quickly rising up to meet him. But so is the finish line. A blast at his back pushes him into terminal velocity, the guild wizard’s magic blossoming into an explosive barrier. He needs to open his wings, to slow down. But he’ll become a target. So what does he do? 
He closes his eyes. And crashes into the ground. Bouncing off the grass and hurtling over the finish line, Grian wins first place. Blood and bruises quickly appear on his skin and face, but he’s conscious and sitting upright as the coliseum erupts into cheers. Iskall and Mumbo only sigh. For the healer of the guild, he gets himself hurt more often than anyone. 
Once on the sidelines, Etho helps Mumbo wrap bandages around Grian’s wounds. Mumbo shakes his head, prodding a bruise. “That was totally an illegal move, that explosion.” 
“The guilds are pissed that we’re winning.” Etho hums. He tries to manipulate a shadow to cover him against the sun, but frowns when his magic refuses to appear. “You should’ve heard the wizards in the agility course. They think we’re cheating. They don’t get how a bunch of misfits are winning in almost every event.” 
“It’s just cause we’re that much mega better.” Iskall chuckles. “They don’t have the awesome teamwork and diverse wizards like us.” He leans back, watching Joe standing before a sphinx. It’s the riddle event. “Maybe if they stopped worrying about money and status they’d do better.” 
Grian hisses in pain, only for Etho to hush him. From the field, the sphinx stalks Joe. “I am alive, but without breath. I am as cold as life in death. I’m never thirsty, though I always drink.” The feminine voice purrs from the sandy skin of the sphinx’s human face. Feline haunches roll and rock under feathered wings and fur, but Joe only looks to the sky, his glasses hiding the emotions in his eyes as he thinks. “What am I?” 
The hermits hold their breath, watching Joe in the lion’s den. His lips curl up, and his clasps his hands behind his back. “You’re a fish.” 
The sphinx pauses, then dips her head. “Well done, poet. How about this? What can you break, even if you never pick it up or touch it?” 
Joe snickers. “Easy, a heart.” 
“How very poetic, Joe of the Hills.” The creature pauses directly in front of him. “But not what I was looking for.” Teeth snarl and claws glisten, and the embroidered fabric of Joe’s cape is flung across the field, glasses clattering to the side. The hermits collectively wince, even Grian feeling the ache in his bones that Joe will feel come tomorrow. “The next contestant. Ian.” 
The engineer mage bounces to the mark, completely unconcerned by the vicious lion-bodied creature before him. He wipes his brow, leaving a trail of black oil across his forehead. “I’m ready for whatever you got, miss sphinx!”
“Hmm, alright then.” She chuckles, sitting on her haunches. A lion’s tail, with feathered tips, flicks like a clock against the grass. “What can bring back the dead; make you cry, make you laugh, make you young; is born in an instant, yet lasts a lifetime?”
“Memories!” Ian quips, grinning proudly. “Let’s see if you got any better.” 
The sphinx growls. “Alright, engineer.” She offers another riddle. And another answer. Iskall leans forward, biting his lip. The current leader has only two correct answers- Joe and another wizard were the only ones clever enough to come up with correct answers with enough time. One final question. And one final answer. The sphinx stands up after Ian responds, shoulders rolling. “Congratulations, Ian of the Crafted. You have won my challenge.” 
“At least it wasn’t a guild that won. I don’t think we’ve heard the end of it.” Mumbo whispers, sitting back. Grian winces, pulling his arm against the sling it’s in, to which Etho swats him to keep it still. 
“Stress is next!” Iskall grins, exciting to see his friend perform. Stress chose this event herself, and no one dared question her claim. And as she stands among the other wizards, she’s easily the most out of place. Surrounded by large men and mages of strength and muscle, many hardly wearing much more than whatever their guild deems necessary and often glistening in oil, Stress crosses her legs and pats the warm material of her ice blue dress. She casts a quick spell, and her short brown hair caresses pale cheeks as an icy wind cools her down. Iskall leans back, shaking his head. “She’s going to freaking crush this.” 
And crush it she does. No one, not even the audience is prepared to watch the short, dainty ice wizard lift more weight than any oiled, burly man around her. Her magic, and her own strength, easily lifts the shelled form of a tarasque, a hydra, and a baku in one wall of ice. Not just lift the still living creatures, but doing so with enough care that each beast is left unharmed and even cradled by the ice rink beneath their feet. As soon as the creatures are back on their feet, Stress is immediately cooing- ignoring her gold medal in lieu of praising the hydra’s many heads for all their work helping her win. 
Truly a strange mage for the strength event. 
__________________________
“Are you sure they’re not here just to compete? You really think they’re here to...stop him?” A black cloaked figure whispers, eyes following the ice wizard as she skips to her friends. From the nosebleed section, the brothers can hardly see each individual person. But the hermits are easy enough to pick out. They stand out, unlike the other guilds. Each person with a unique outfit, unique features. 
“If I know my brother, he can never take anything sitting down.” Red fabric moves as the white haired wizard talks, sharp eyes never leaving their target. A mask like that can be seen from a mile away. “And his friends aren’t much better.” 
“They’re incredible!” The third figure, clad in a white cloak to hide his mop of rainbow hair, stands to get a better look. His friend grabs him by the arm and pulls his rear back to his seat. “These people are the true heroes we nee-”
“Can’t you be quiet for a minute, loudmouth?” His brother seethes, glancing at their contact. They’ve only just met him today, despite being in contact for much longer. 
“I don’t know if I’d call them ‘heroes’, but they’re all Lairyon has.” The contact pulls his cloak’s mask up over his nose, tugging on the long white hairs stuck in between. 
“A ragtag team of criminals, rejects, and outcasts is the only hope for Lairyon. Great.” The black cloaked brother huffs, setting his head on a propped up hand. 
“How much different is that from us- or, I mean, the crown and his advisor?” The white robe lowers his voice after his brother slaps his arm, sharp gaze daring for him to try that again. “Lairyon needs light to return, and I think these hermits are exactly what we need.” 
“I hope you’re right, your majesty.” The contact tugs on his long white ponytail. “They’ll need more help if they expect to survive. Which is why I came to you.” 
“Well, let’s get started?” The three stand up, disappearing amongst the crowd. There’s a few people they’ve seen on the field who can help the hermits. Help from afar- as Ex always does.
25 notes · View notes
hermits-that-craft · 4 years
Text
Chapter 47 - Arch 2 - Fulfillment
AO3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/23509375/chapters/62156269 TW - Torture, Death, Confusing Magic, Body Horror, False Hope, Fighting, Stab Wounds, Blood, Abandonment, Betrayal
They sit in a room together, Etho's sheets spread out in front of him. It's been a while, and though worry plagues the back of their minds, worry for both Scar and the people that they know are captured, but Etho, Builder and Protector work through it. Protector mumbles idly to herself, occasionally looking at Builder with a pained face, as though she's trying to remember him before he dies. Etho isn't sure of what this prophecy entails, or what it really says, but he doesn't know if they are worth breaking the siblings up for. He shrugs off the concern as Rose walks into the room with Cub, carrying more iron. Etho is glad that they had already measured Iskall's arm, the man has been through enough and Etho doesn't know if he'll stay here if he saw what they were doing with the arm.
Rose and Protector glare at each other for a moment as Cub puts the iron down, and Cub pulls a face, meeting Etho's eyes. They both smile uncomfortably as Builder looks up, taking the iron from where Cub put it. The watcher begins to hammer it into shape, ignoring the silent argument between the wives.
"I am very uncomfortable with the energy in this room." Etho says to Cub as the two players move to sit with each other.
"Tori this is madness, the prophecy doesn't need to happen so soon. Some more time Tori." Rose pleads.
"You know, this argument would be easier to mediate if we knew what the prophecy was and also what you guys are saying." Etho calls to the women, who both sigh, glaring at the newly undead.
"Tori- Protector believes that she should-"
"Rose isn't willing to lose people for the sake of the universe." Protector sighs. "I don't blame her, it's clear that someone will die in the-"
"Could you tell us the prophecy?"
"'A watcher, of original descent, will fall to the Night protecting the universe'." Builder says, stand up from where he sat. The metal arm in his hand glows slightly, and Etho smiles, taking it from him. "That's the prophecy. Rose is worried that Protector will be the one to die."
"Of course I'm worried that she'll die, I'm pregnant!" Rose mumbles to herself, though the room is so quiet that everyone hears it. Cub gasps loudly, and Etho struggles to keep hold of the prosthetic arm. Builder's face goes slightly pale, his eyes wide, and Protector's face goes soft, lovingly staring at her wife. "I don't want them to grow up without their other mother."
"How does that even work, aren't you both-"
"Magic Etho. Anyways that doesn't mean that Aunt Protector will die, it could be Uncle Builder, it doesn't even say that either of them will die! Night could magic them asleep, or-"
"Can we go back to how Rose is pregnant?" Etho asks. "You shouldn't be here, you could get seriously hurt! And if the baby is made via magic, couldn't you have planned it better?"
"I'm three months along, Etho." Rose smiles sadly. "We thought that we would be safe."
"Why would you come here if you knew?" Builder asks, though his eyes are filled with wonder.
"I knew that Protector would speed the prophecy up. I thought that maybe I could stop her from-"
She's cut off, not by a scream or someone speaking, but by a buzz. Everyone's communicators go off, and dread fills the room. A scream or a shout would not be as troubling, as fear inducing as the communicator going off. A death message? Etho doesn't want to know, but his hand grasps the communicator anyways.
WatcherBuilder: NIGHT. YOU. ME. WE'RE ENDING THIS. WatcherBuilder: MEET ME WHERE YOU AND ISKALL FOUGHT. NO STARS. NO HERMITS. WatcherBuilder: Just us two. Please. TheNight: Give me two hours. I'll be there.
"Builder what the fuck?" Protector growls out, and Etho snaps his head up, looking at Cub with confusion in his eyes.
"You aren't going to be the watcher to fall to Night. You're going to be a mother. I'll do it, Protector. Just, tell them that their uncle loves them, okay?" Builder's eyes have tears in them, and False and Cleo run into the room, Iskall close behind them. The two girls have swords out, god armour on and anger painted onto their faces. Iskall looks upset, scared and furious, though Etho can't tell which of those emotions was the one that made him run into the doorframe. 
"You're going after Night without us?" False's voice sounds wreaked, anger and fury tearing at her vocal chords. "Why. Why won't you take us?"
"Because you're going to use this as a chance to break the people who Night captured out."
---
Grian rests his head against Xisuma's shoulder, his breathing deep. Wels watches the door as Xisuma checks them both for wounds, any sign of serious discomfort. It doesn't matter, really, Xisuma has no supplies to make either of them feel better, but its something to do, and it's the thought that counts, right?
Footsteps echo up the halls and Xisuma holds his breath, a small prayer flittering across his mind. He hopes, pray with all his might that the feet continue to go down the hall, to where they heard Ren. Guilt tears at away at the thought, but Xisuma doesn't know how long he can last if someone hurts Wels and Grian again. He doesn't know if he would be able to fight against Admin if Night comes in.
The footsteps stop and Xisuma gently wakes Grian, knowing that the small avian would hate to be woken by screams. Grian yawns and rubs his eyes as the door opens, Night's glowing eyes and smile appearing in the doorframe. Grian freezes and Wels backs towards Xisuma subconsciously, acting on instinct rather than reason. Xisuma holds his breath, ready to fight whatever they say if it means that he'll protect Grian and Wels.
"Oh calm down, I'm not going to help you. I have a meeting to be at." Night's voice is airy, happy and the captured men freeze, worry cast over their faces. Night calling torture help isn't unusual in and of itself, but Night just wanting to talk is concerning. A meeting, however? Another death, a new hermit joining them in this unending nightmare. It isn't fair. "Grian, how would you rate your father's fighting skills?"
Grian face goes paper white, horror painting his face a terrifying shade of fear. Night laughs as Grian tries to save face for his father, waving a hand at him.
"Don't bother, I know my brother-"
"Brother?" Wels gasps, looking at Grian. Xisuma, not for the first time, can't find enough air in the room, even though the air is thicker in the overworld. Grian's eyes flash, the purple turning brighter, a flash of magic that Xisuma recognises but Wels clearly doesn't.
"Don't call him that." Grian mumbles.
"Don't call him what? My brother? Oh please, are you a fool? That's what he is. He is my brother, he doesn't have a say in his lineage."
"You emancipated yourself. You don't get to claim us as family. You left." Grian mutters accusingly, though it's obvious that he isn't mad about Night leaving. No, it feels as though he is mad about something else, though Xisuma can see the thinly veiled fear in his eyes.
Night can see it as well.
"What, scared that I'll kill your other set of parents?" Night taunts and Grian freezes. "Oh, you didn't know? Your home planet wasn't destroyed because of fate or any of that 'it was just their time' bullshit Builder sold you. Your birth father would have been able to save your planet. I destroyed it. I watched as your mother screamed to protect you and your siblings. I watched as your father opened that portal that sent you to the world hub. I'm the one who tore off his wings."
"Shut up." Wels yells, fury in his eyes and Xisuma knows that Night hit a nerve. "How could you? How dare you take another's wings?"
"Wingless one, do keep your mouth shut, you're only useful serving others." Night's smile glows brighter. "I have to go, I can't be late for my meeting after all, but I'll bring your father's head to you, Xelqua."
Night turns, their laughter making Xisuma's ears bleed. Grian's breathing doesn't calm, not even after Night has left, and Xisuma holds onto Grian's hand. Wels send him a worried look, removing himself from Xisuma's other side to inch his way towards Grian. The two men wait as Grian calms himself down, his breathing deepening as the remaining feathers on his wings flatten.
"Grian, if you were adopted by Night's family, could you know who Night's sons are, where they are?" Wels asks. Xisuma shoots him a glare, though theres nothing really making it stick. "I mean, if Void took their kids away, maybe your parents know?"
"How would Grian know who they are, let alone where they-"
"I know." Grian's voice is quiet, shaky and fragile. He stares at the floor. "I've known for a while, about halfway through season six, in fact. I had to hide it from Bird because-"
"They're hermits?" Xisuma's eyes widen as he realises it. "Oh Void, who has a twin brother in the hermits."
Wels frowns for a moment, mumbling to himself before his eyes widen as well. Wels shoots a look at Grian, who grimaces before nodding towards Xisuma.
"I can't for the life of me remember-"
"Xisuma, who is Evil X?"
"Oh! He's my twin." Xisuma cuts himself off, his eyes wider than dinner plates. "Oh. Oh it's me."
"I'm so sorry."
---
"Can I ask you something, Bdubs?" Tango's voice is full of concern and they walk towards the armoury. Bdubs is shaking slightly, from the cold or fear.
"Of course, shoot."
"Why are you going back?" 
Bdubs stops, then shrugs, then moves again, but he doesn't say anything, the shaking just gets worse. Impulse looks at Tango worriedly, and they share a nervous glance. It's good in theory - Bdubs knows where Night's base is. He knows the layout enough to get them in. Still, he could draw a map or even just guide them through the base by using the communicators. 
"You need a guide." He mumbles after a while. "I need to," He pauses, the words dying in his throat, and once again Impulse sends a worried look to Tango. "I need to know if Wels is alive."
Tango and Impulse exchange a glance, Tango sucking in a breath. Bdubs ignores them, pulling open a chest laden with swords and god armour. Tango sends him a small smile as he puts the chest plate in his inventory. Impulse hums to himself, pulling the diamond pants on, checking the enchantments on it as he does so. Tango looks for a correct sized helmet. 
"I guess we're going on an adventure." Impulse mumbles to himself. "Or a quest? Tango, would this be an adventure or a quest?"
"A quest I think. I mean, an adventure is unplanned right? So it's a quest."
"It's a quest, cause a quest has an end goal. Our end goal is getting our friends back." Bdubs smiles as he suggests it.
"But we don't really have a plan?"
"Tell False that." Tango smirks at Impulse.
"Cleo too. The girls have been planning a rescue since Builder got here."
"Oh! I bet that Scar is in kahoots with them, and that's why he's not here. Too dangerous for him to be here with King Silas too." Bdubs suggests happily, and false hope wraps around the men.
The three hermits leave the armoury, decked out in more armour than they care to admit. Cleo, False and Evil Xisuma wait for them at the end of the hall, and Tango wonders Evil Xisuma feels strange as he is slotted into the role that Xisuma usually fills. He looks uncomfortable, though, as Cleo absentmindedly calls him 'Xisuma' and Keralis calls him 'Shiswammy'. 
"Hey Evil X!" Tango calls. "You doing alright? We'll have your brother back in no time."
"Promise?" Evil Xisuma's voice is quiet, scared and Cleo and Keralis look shocked. 
"Of course, Ex." False says, her hand over her heart. "We'll bring him back. We'll bring as many back as we can."
It's a hard promise, one that Tango isn't sure that they can keep, and from the look on Impulse's face its clear he is also doubting their abilities. But they'll try, the group has to try. It's not fair on the hermits if they don't try. It's not fair on anyone if they don't try. They have to try their hardest - if they don't who will? Who will save the others?
No more words are spoken, and Keralis pulls Bdubs into a tight hug. Zedaph comes into the room as well, and he silently begs Tango and Impulse to come back. To stay safe, to fight hard. They promise him that they'll try, and tears spring in Tango's eyes and he's pulled into a hug. He doesn't want to leave, not the embrace that reminds him of home.
Of what they have to save.
Reluctantly, Tango pulls himself out of the hug, Impulse following suit. Cleo gives Joe a quick hug and False hugs Xb for a second. TFC escorts them to the nether portal, the worry etches into his face. It's clear that he doesn't expect this mission, this quest, to succeed.
"No one will blame you guys if you come back without anyone." TFC says, his hand on False's shoulder. "You can't blame yourselves for it either. Your safety is more important. We won't blame you if you can't save everyone."
"We're going to get everyone." False swears to TFC, and the old man sighs, his hand dropping from her shoulders.
"Just take care of yourselves." TFC sighs. "Please."
False relaxes slightly, smiling weakly at him. 
"Of course." False says, the rage melting from her eyes. "We'll take care. You have to as well, though."
"When the war reaches my doorstep I'll be down in my mines." TFC smirks. "I don't fear this Night character, I've met worse. Go fight."
The walk through the portal to the nether roof, Impulse guiding them to a hole he put into the bedrock. The jump down the hole, Cleo grumbling to herself about how much she hates the nether when a ghast spawns, right in front of Impulse. Cleo screams and False pulls out her sword, but before Bdubs and Tango can drag Impulse away from the ghast the hermit puts his hand out. The ghast pushes its head against Impulse's hand and twists slightly, rubbing itself against Impulse. The redstoner turns, smiling at the group.
"She offered to fly us to Night's portal." He says, grinning. "As long as you put your swords away."
"Since when could you talk to ghasts?"
"Since always? If you bothered to ask you'd know this - Tango you were raised with me  put your sword away!"
The group reluctantly puts their swords in their inventory, Impulse already on top of the giant ghast. He sits comfortably, making noises that Tango isn't quite sure a human could make, and the ghast responds, lowering its-herself down to their level. They hop on and the ghast flies them around, quickly flying through areas that none of the hermits recognise. It's a maze, a labyrinth of tunnels and pockets and Tango watches Impulse with worry. Yes, he knew that Impulse is as much a netherborn as he is, but he didn't realise that Impulse had a connection to the ghasts. He doesn't blame the man for not telling him, netherborn with connection to creatures - when Tango revealed that he himself can talk to blazes the two men had to flee their home in the nether as they were hunted, even though Tango had only revealed it to people in their village. Those who can talk to mobs are prizes, though it's clear to Tango that Impulse speaking to ghasts is one of the reasons they survived for so long before Xisuma found them. Hindsight is twenty twenty and all that.
The ghast lands, letting them off at a small ledge before she talks to Impulse again. It seems as though they are having a rather important conversation, Impulse's forehead furrowed in concern.
"She says the portal is this way, but she can't bring us any closer. The ghasts have seen Night leave this area before. With Stress."
"We'll get her back, False." Cleo says, taking False's hand into her own.
"We don't have much of a choice in that matter." Impulse smiles tiredly, leading them further into the nether rack alcove.
---
The two original creations land, standing opposite from each other. Clouds cover the sky, blocking out the sun and it's light as Night's mask glows. Their brother stands, a sword resting on his hip. He can't use it, he never learnt how to. But the threat still stands. Both sides have a goal, both players know how to win the game. Neither wants to fall to the other. A game of chess is to capture the opposing side's king, but what happens when the kings are the last piece on the board? A careful strategy has to be implemented, but does either side know how to plan? The siblings had not planned for this, they do not know what to do in this scenario. Only their sister had a plan for this, but Builder hid her away. There are stains in the dirt that rain has not washed away, copper against the vibrant green. Blood stains. 
"Did he die?" Night asks, knowing that the only other watching is one on their side.
"No." Builder replies evenly. "He has a new arm now. Built by myself."
"When did you learn redstone?" Night's voice is light, an older sibling meeting the younger after a year away. Builder looks uncomfortably around, as though he doesn't want to answer - doesn't know how. "Don't tell me that you still don't know redstone."
"I had help." Builder doesn't lie, but it isn't the full truth.
"Protector? Or a player?"
"Silas." Builder lies.
"Silas," Night laughs. "You trust that old goat? Your loss. He works for whoever offers him the most power."
"He works for Void."
"He will meet Amari on their orders." Night doesn't threaten the Vex King, but threatens Builder. Night offers more power, Builder knows that.
Silas knows that.
"How is Amari, by the way?" Night asks, walking towards their brother. "She still the Queen of the Underworld?"
"How would I know, she rarely makes the trip between life and death." Builder rolls his eyes.
"Pity, you really should know the person you will stay with."
"Are you threatening me?" Builder asks, a frown on his face. "Night, you can't be serious about this. Come back home, Void misses you."
"Don't tell me that you've fallen for their lies as well." Night sounds happy, glee and disgust mixing together. "Xelqua would be so disappointed."
"What have you done to him?" Builder growls. "Leave him out of this!"
"Your son joined my side willingly." Night smiles. "I didn't do anything to him, I just showed him what would happen to him if he stayed with you."
"Night, let him go."
"No, you'll have to take him from me. I'll make sure he personally escorts you down to Amari's doorstep. Unless..."
"Unless?" Builder sounds so hopeful, practically filled with false hopes and pretenses.
"Unless you join my side. Think about it, Builder. You can have your son back. Void cares not for us, only for Protector." Night smiles. "Join us, free yourself."
---
Ren shakes, leaning against Doc. The wither effect hasn't left either of them, Princess leaving them in a daze. It's clear that it was on purpose, the pain not meant to subside until one of them breaks, but Ren doesn't know who will break first. Probably himself, though Doc did break the muzzle. Ren doesn't understand it, who Princess is, why she's possessing Stress.
At least its quiet now.
"What are you going to do when we get out?" Not if. When. Doc still has hope.
"I'll stay on loser island with Pam." Ren mumbles. "I can't expand upwards anymore, so I'll hire the boomers to blow up the downstairs part. How about you, what will you do if we escape?"
"When." Doc corrects him absentmindedly. "When we escape, I'll build more rooms in my half of the mansion. Maybe I'll expand on the pink, any colour is better then purple and black at the moment, so pink and white isn't that bad."
Ren and Doc both laugh, tired and unapologetic. It's the only sound that they can hear, laughter and there's no more fear, not now. Not here, together. It's better, quieter, safer here, without anyone else.
An explosion in the distance stuns them into silence. Yells, shouts, anger mixes and the fear is back. The room feels darker, though the light level doesn't change. Something is terribly wrong and neither hermit can tell why.
Impulse. They can hear Impulse's voice, too far away from them to make out words but too close to not hear them if they scream. 
"Impulse!" Ren screams, standing up. Doc stays seated, chained against the wall. "Impulse, we're here!"
"Impulse!" Doc yells, and Ren walks towards the door. 
"IMPULSE!" Ren screams.
Silence.
Nobody came.
---
"Get them outta here!" Impulse yells, Tango and Bdubs supporting Xisuma as Grian and Wels shake nervously in the corner. They look terrible, white dress shirts in tatters with blood and dirt staining them. A large bruise has bloomed against Grian's cheek and Wels keeps spitting out blood. Cleo knocks back Beef, trying to protect the team. Impulse quickly turns to False as she fights off Mumbo, lending her a hand. "Tango, Bdubs, get them the nether out of here!"
"Mumbo this isn't you!" False says, trying to snap him out of it. "C'mon, Mumbo please."
"We need to get out of here!" Cleo yells, her sword going through Beef's chest.  Beef despawns, a puff of smoke is the only thing left of him. Cleo blocks the swing from Mumbo's sword, kicking out his feet as False kills the man. The two women let out shaky breaths, False giving Cleo a large grin.
"Well, Mumbo hasn't really improved fighting," False laughs breathlessly, holding her side. "So we'll probably be fine."
"Yeah, let's get home." Cleo agrees, sticking her tongue out. They walk towards the door, Impulse waiting for Grian and Wels as Tango, Bdubs and Xisuma make their way out of the room, Xisuma wincing every time he steps, his leg bent at an angle Impulse knows isn't natural.
Grian and Wels watch Impulse with wide eyes, as though they don't know if they're allowed to follow. As though their waiting for permission, or perhaps orders, to follow the group. Impulse's heart breaks, though he doesn't let it hurt for much longer. He has to get them out, and if orders make them follow, then orders will work. He can break the conditioning later.
"Grian, Wels, you're coming with us." Impulse orders, trying to put as much seriousness into his voice. Wels hesitates, fear written across his face, and Impulse winces as he steps in front of Grian as though it's second nature. Grian begins to breath faster, but he steps forward, terror in his eyes. Guilt eats at Impulse, but he watches them as the walk out the door, Wels standing close to Grian's side.
The group makes their way around the building, trying to find Doc and Ren before the two men are lost, though considering how Grian and Wels broke free they wouldn't be lost forever. Impulse wonders, in a brief moment of foolishness, what it would take to free the rest of the hermits. Grian screams as Beef shoots his side, collapsing to the ground with his hands protectively covering his head. As though this has happened a million times.
It probably has.
Impulse moves in front of Wels and Grian, protecting them from the mind controlled man, their friend. Beef doesn't wear one of the masks that Grian and Mumbo sported when they left to kill Scar, but Impulse finds himself wishing that the man did. The masks would hide the disgust written on Beef's face, they'd hide the emptiness in his eyes.
In the distance, Ren screams for him. Impulse can’t get to him. The portal rests behind the door that Cleo stands in front of. Impulse has to stall, to make sure everyone else gets out. He won’t let False make the self sacrifice. He’ll break his promise to Zedaph, but that’s alright. Because at the end of the day, Tango will be back with Zedaph.
“Beef, it’s us.” Impulse says quietly, his hands raised.
“He can’t hear you.” Silas’ voice booms through the room, and Impulse’s heart sinks as tears slip down Wels’ face. There’s a traitor in their midst, and it isn’t a hermit. Is Silas the only traitor? What about Builder, about Protector? Impulse doubts that Rose would betray them, but can any of them trust her?
“Your highness,” False growls, “may I ask you what the fuck you are doing here?”
“Night has offered me something I can’t refuse.” Silas grins wickedly. “I want the mage back, I want to keep my power. Night will win this war against Void, and I intend on maintaining my status.”
Impulse fires at Silas, ready to fight him. Ready to serve as a distraction so the others can get out. Ren and Doc are still screaming as Impulse swings his sword, cutting the Vex King. False joins the fight as Cleo begins to usher the group towards the portal. Beef falls onto False’s sword as Bdubs and Tango get Xisuma out. Impulse is thrown across the room by Silas’ magic as Wels carries Grian through the portal. False screams as Mumbo stabs her. Cleo runs through the portal, and Silas makes his way to it. 
Impulse, not knowing what else to do, throws a water bucket over the portal. He’s trapped False here, but the others won’t come back. 
They’re safe.
---
“He’ll be alright, won’t he?” Protector asks her wife quietly. “I mean, Night wouldn’t hurt Builder. He always was Night’s favourite sibling.”
“Tori,” Rose sighs.
“And Night wouldn’t kill him, right?”
“Tori.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He doesn’t need to fulfil the prophecy I mean-”
“Tori I love you but for the sake of my sanity please shut up.” Rose sighs, her wings fluttering as they land near the clearing. Protector quickly disguises her watcher wings, walking over to the tree line. “We’ll be caught if you keep this up.”
“You two are the worst people to try and sneak around I’ve ever met.” Night says, their voice echoing around the clearing. Protector freezes, taking Rose’s hand as the wives step into the clearing. Builder looks alright - he isn’t physically hurt from what they can see, at least.
“How did you see us?” Rose asks.
“You have bright red hair, Protector’s hair is bright blue. You stand out against the trees.” Night takes off their mask, placing it on their belt. Their skin is purple, their eyes glowing white. They frown, stepping towards Rose with a confused look in their eyes. Builder looks away, biting back a laugh. “Do you know that you’re pregnant?”
“No, I had no clue.” Rose lies, a deadpan expression on her face. “That’s why I’m here with my wife, to see the world's most assholish pregnancy test.”
“I could kill the baby.” Night’s smile is unnerving, sending shivers down Rose’s spine. Protector moves in front of her, but Rose can’t move, her heart hammering in her chest. “Right now. I could kill it in your womb. All that magic connecting you two, lost.”
“No, you wouldn’t dare?”
“Wouldn’t I? I hardly think that killing a child is a line I won’t cross. Unless you’ve forgotten, sister, I killed Grian’s planet, children and all.”
“You wouldn’t dare, you over glorified twink!” Rose snaps at him, her eyes glowing blue. “How could you?”
“You’re too soft, Rose.” Night shakes their head. “Your brother was always the stronger one.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Protector snaps. “She’s twice as strong as you’ll ever be.”
“I don’t doubt that for one second.” Night’s smile is unnerving. “Though, perhaps, if you looked at the ground, your lovely Rose would understand why she can’t move.”
The ground around Rose is pitch black, connecting her to Night. The grass wilts, and flowers crumble in the lines path. It doesn’t hurt Rose, though she can tell that it will, if Night wants it too. The surrounding grass begins to wilt, flowers decaying too fast for Rose to properly see.
“I wonder, can Rose wither?” Night laughs, the three others stuck in the clearing looking at him. Builder growls, throwing himself at Night. 
Duck. Dodge. Spin. Strike. Block. Repeat. It hurts, something appearing under his feet and sending more damage into his system than any of Night’s strikes. His communicator buzzes, once, twice, death messages mixing with warnings. Strike. He can’t let Protector and Rose get hurt. Dodge. His lungs scream, not used to this type of fighting. Block. Not used to fighting for his life. Spin. Not used to fighting for the lives of others. Duck.
Protector doesn’t want to hurt the player. She won't her the girl, in fact, even if she’s working with Night. The player is wearing a black dress, layers of petticoats under the thick skirt. She wears a black corset outside of the dress - highly impractical, for day wear, though Protector does remember wearing a corset outside her dress when she got married.
Rose watches, helpless, from where she is frozen. Tears slip down her face as she feels the joints in her fingers crack, black ooze leaking out from them. It’s unnatural, it’s painful, it’s terrifying, it’s painless. A scream rips her throat as black ooze falls from her hands. Builder falls to the ground, Protector struggling not to fight the player girl.
“Night, stop this.” Protector pleads. “Please.”
“It will stop when one of you die.” Night says plainly. “But I will not touch you. You must kill someone, your wife or your brother.”
“Protector I,” Builder begins, a hacking cough forcing its way out of his lungs.
“Rose, please.” Protector begs, kneeling in front of her wife. She hands her sword over to the Vex woman. “My life is on your faith.”
“I can’t.” Rose cries, the sword heavy in her heart and hands. The player backs away, towards Night, and the two watch. A tear slips down the players face and Night grins in glee. “I can’t.”
“You must.”
Rose gasps, trying desperately to think of another way. To convince Protector to fulfil Builder’s wish to die protecting them. She can’t, she knows that this is the real reason that Protector came to this wretched place. The prophecy must be fulfilled.
“I wish we had more time.” Rose mumbles as someone exits a nether portal nearby. She can hear the footsteps running towards them. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Through every world,” Rose mumbles her wedding vows, “I will be with you, sickness and health be damned, my love for you will out number the stars.”
“In every universe, I will be by your side.” Protector finishes, kissing Rose’s hands. “You will be in my heart, the thorn in the side of my heart.”
Rose plunges the sword through Protector’s chest as Grian bursts through the clearing. Protector collapses into Rose’s arms, Night laughing in the distance. Rose sobs as Protector lift’s her hands up, brushing some of Rose’s hair out of her eyes. Rose sinks to the floor, resting Protector against her chest.
“I’m sorry, Tori, I’m so sorry.” Rose cries, shaking with sobs.
“Dad are you okay?” Grian asks as Builder stands, his face blank with tears rolling from empty eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“‘Tector.” Builder mumbles under his breath, unable to look away from his twin sister.
“Mum?” Grian’s confused, and he looks over at the scene. “MUM!”
His scream echoes through the clearing, drowning out every other noise. Protector looks up weakly as he runs to her side, bruised and bloody and crying. Tango, Cleo, Bdubs, the admin and a knight stand at the edge of the clearing, tears rolling down the three named hermits faces. The mission wasn’t successful, then. Rose blinks, and Builder is at Protector’s side. Grian sobs, holding Protector’s hand. He’s begging her to stay alive, to stay with him. Rose can’t tell. She can’t hear anything, her heart drowning out any other sounds. Builder holds Protector’s other hand.
There’s a spot of blood in Protector’s mouth.
“Please stay alive, Mum please.” Grian begs, his voice breaking through the sound of Rose’s heartbeats. “Don’t leave us. Please don’t leave us.”
“You’re going to have a younger sibling, G.” Protector mumbles, wiping the tears from Grian’s eyes. “You take care of your other Mum, alright?”
“Mum,”
“Take care of her and your Dad for me.” Builder’s sobbing, his arms shake as his chest heaves. Faintly, Rose hears the sound of fighting in the distance. Protector smiles, a sad affair. There’s pain in her eyes and more blood forces its way past her lips. “And take care of yourself, Bērniņš”
“You’re not supposed to die.”
“I love you. I love all of you.” Protector looks to the sky, a smile on her face. The light leaves Protector’s eyes as she breathes her last breath.
Rose’s world shatters.
15 notes · View notes
tiesandtea · 3 years
Link
Suede fell out of bed into Britpop and Britpop controversy about Blur and bisexuality and who was doing what to who in what direction, but between episodes of public drama was glammy rock ‘n’ roll in the most classic English tradition. After years off duty, Suede is substantially re-united (without Bernard) and active and playing their first stateside gig at Coachella. 
An interview with Brett Anderson by Chris Ziegler. L.A. Record, 15 April 2011.
How did Suede and Metallica ever get together for all-night rock sessions? Brett Anderson: Our press agent sorta said, ‘Hey, Kirk Hammett is a big fan— should we get you together?’ So we went out to San Francisco to Kirk’s place and spent a lot of time being a bit naughty and playing songs in his basement. He had a studio—a little bit of a jamming room. I remember running through ‘Metal Mickey,’ we did a bit of T. Rex—we were off our faces, anyway. He’s a nice chap!
Kirk said he was struck by how normal you were and how you didn’t spank your buttocks once. I should have spanked my buttocks. He was probably very disappointed. ‘This can’t be the real Brett Anderson. He’s not spanking his buttocks.’
What Crass lyric is so close to the front of your mind at all times that you can sing it to me right this second? ‘Do they owe us a living? Of course they fucking do!’ I love Crass. Feeding of the 5,000 was one of my favorite records growing up. I love that record. I love all the artwork. Talking about bands that draw you into a world—Crass really created their world, and it was a really confrontational, intelligent, political world. I really responded to it as a young teenager.
What part of the Crass ethos do you hold most dear? I don’t live on a commune in Essex. But it opened my eyes—if it’s done right—how powerful political music can be. I never wrote overtly political music, but I did write music that dealt with not like party politics, but themes of poverty and alienation and I used that in songs—that was possibly inspired by Crass.
How was Suede a political band? Dealing with the politics of life. Setting our songs in a real social context. I never wanted to be a writer who waved flags for a political party, but listening to the songs you can tell I was brought up as a member of the working-class, and you can tell the songs have a very strong left-wing bias.
You said you felt there hasn’t been a definitive genre of music invented in the U.K. in the last decade, and that you feel music is meant more to placate than provoke now. Why? I do very much feel that’s the state of things. I can’t see that the last decade has created its own genre, which is a terrible shame for that generation. Not to say there hasn’t been great music. There’s amazing music! I love discovering new bands and there’s a great wave of new bands. But the biggest cultural development of the last like ten years was computer technology. It wasn’t anything to do with art and music, and that’s a shame. Even in the 90s, we had dance music—definitely a 90s genre. Maybe people have become too knowing. There’s too much of a structured sense of what’s cool and what isn’t, and that comes from magazines constantly publishing lists which contain the same five Beatles albums and this kind of thing. There’s this constant pressure to comply with this very sort of rigid set of accepted rock albums. So bands are too afraid to go outside those reference points. I sense this real fear in the music industry. A lot of it is because the industry has become a lot more corporate. People won’t take risks anymore. In the early 90s—that’s the only time I can talk about because that’s when I started—magazines were putting unusual bands on the cover. Magazines put Suede on covers before anyone had ever heard of us. Commercially, that was very ill-advised—but at least it suggested they had a sense of purpose. Now I get the sense people only back who they think are gonna win, regardless of if they actually think it’s any good or not. They will back who they think are the winners, and they will write good reviews for the bands they think are gonna sell lots of records whether they like them or not, and I think that’s a fucking terrible way to be. People are too afraid of not being cool? Or getting it wrong? No one’s willing to get it wrong. No one’s willing to stick their neck out and become a hated figure. No one’s got that kind of confidence. Everyone’s too willing to comply. It’s a terrible thing. But things go in cycles, don’t they? Maybe it’ll move into another period where people are taking chances.
When is the last time you suffered Stendhal syndrome? At the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. I was looking at the Toulouse-Lautrecs, which were absolutely amazing. I’ve never been a huge fan of Toulouse-Lautrec before, but seeing the paintings in the flesh—as it were—is just so amazingly powerful. They’re so beautifully observed. I’m not sure if I actually experienced Stendhal syndrome, but I’ve read about it and it’s an extreme reaction to beauty—that’s the closest I can imagine it to be.
What’s it actually feel like? Like drinking too much coffee. Slightly restless euphoria. Or maybe I’m getting it confused with actually drinking too much coffee. I’m a huge fan of art . I spend a lot of time in galleries and that’s my favorite period of art as well—the post-Impressionists. Paul Gauguin and those artists. I love all the medieval painters as well. People like Bruegel and Cranach and Holbein. There’s something incredibly primitive about it—Bruegel’s ‘Return of the Hunters’ is so atmospheric. What I really like about Holbein is he’s such an amazing draftsman and a great observer of human features. He could completely capture a person. You’re looking at someone who lived 500 years ago but it could be someone passing you on the street. They’re so real. I love that about Holbein’s paintings.
Did you want to try and observe things that carefully in Suede songs? It’s difficult in the framework of pop music. It isn’t a very subtle medium. It doesn’t have as much as fiction or fine art. You’re in a very rigid structure—melody and rhyme and rhythm and those things are constricting you. I don’t think pop writers can ever take it to that depth of observation. But what pop writers can do is engage at an emotional level that other artists can’t do. The pop song, when done right, is incredibly powerful. That’s partly to do with the simplicity as well. Truth in music is incredibly important, but artifice can be incred- ibly important as well—that’s something I’ve done quite consciously. Lots of the songs I’ve written for Suede have been deliberately superficial but perversely enough there’s a kind of truth in that. A sketch is powerful because you fill in the missing pieces. You fill in the framework yourself. If it’s too full, there’s no space for you to interpret it.
Francis Bacon said, ‘The job of the artist is to deepen the mystery.’ Absolutely. One of the most important quotes ever about creativity. Something I’ve learned through mistakes over the years is it shouldn’t be too clear what you’re doing. Sometimes the sketch is so powerful because of the room for interpretation. As soon as you know what something is about, it somehow kills the mystery. And mystery is so important in music. That allows the song to have life beyond what it was intended for. When a writer’s writing, they have a very specific thing in mind, but they don’t know about the life of the listener. The listener applies his life to the music and there’s a new interpretation. That’s why a good song has so much power. It reaches into people’s lives. But to do that, there needs to be a sense of mystery. I’ve always tried to do that with detail. There’s this whole thing with great songwriters saying songs should be universal, but I actually think songs should be opposite—strangely specific and set in a place to make them real. I mean, still allow space for interpretation.
You said once that Suede writes about the used condom, not the beautiful bed. That kind of detail? That’s not my favorite quote I ever said—but it keeps coming back. It must resonate with people’s vision of what the band is about. It’s quite a crass way of saying it, but I suppose it’s got some sort of truth. I always wanted to document the sort of grubby side of life. I didn’t want to talk in rock cliché. ‘Baby, I love you!’ clichés. I wanted to sing about the world I saw around me, and the world I saw around me was the used condom. It was the dusty street, the flickering TV. It was that use of detail and the fact I was born in the U.K. that made me write about the U.K. in detail, and it became distorted into the cliché of what became Britpop later—but it was never this nationalistic, jingoistic intention. It was just a desire to write about the world I saw around me.
Did you have to feel like you were living a Suede song to write a Suede song? I don’t feel I deliberately changed my lifestyle. But I didn’t rein myself in. I felt justified in writing what I was writing—the right thing to do for my artistic vision was live the lifestyle I was singing about, but it’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing. I was living that, obviously. But you can’t live that lifestyle forever and wanna remain alive. Things have to change. I championed—well, I documented it, and then you realize that what you’re documenting is quite harmful.
Did you think you were going to end up on a prison ship like Dan Treacy? Well, toward the end of the 90s, things started getting quite dark. Life was definitely changing. I thought, ‘Well, maybe we need to veer away from something.’ I always feel I’m slightly on dodgy ground when people talk about this whole concept of the artist as a damaged character—it’s such a powerful cliché that people really wanna believe in, and I think there’s so much great art made through clarity and sobriety. The damaged artist casts a huge shadow people sometimes can’t see beyond. Me personally, as an artist now I feel much more in control of my art. Much more driven. Certainly more than I did ten years ago. But people need to believe in that sort of figure.
Jason Pierce said he started Spacemen 3 because of people like Roky Erickson and Alex Chilton—that he felt he could do what they did because they were flawed and not professional and perfect. It’s the ultimate DIY ethic, isn’t it? The ultimate punk thing? Saying it doesn’t matter how incapable or damaged or all these pejorative adjectives you wanna apply—not you can still create art, but it almost makes your art more interesting or valid or gives it an edge you wouldn’t have if you weren’t damaged? Someone like Ian Dury—the ‘cripple as artist.’ It gives the audience a fascination, I think.
You said you were making music to find community in a fucked-up world. Did you ever find that community? It’s always a search for some sort of community, isn’t it? There’s a line from one of the old songs, ‘New Generation.’ ‘We take the pills to find each other.’ A search for human … ownership or whatever. I don’t know. It’s strange to say because I’ve always conducted my career and Suede’s career almost as outsiders. I’ve never felt accepted by the music industry. I still don’t. I’ve never felt part of any sort of gang, and I never really wanted to be part of any gang. The only gang I’m part of is this weird disparate group of non-members—the ‘others’—and I’m quite happy in that role as well. I don’t jealously look at other people’s lives and wish I could be like that. I don’t have that search for community I used to have— maybe I realized the reality of things.
Does that mean it’s not out there? That it was never there? Can bands create these communities anymore? That’s the definition of a decent band. They create a community. When I answered your question, it was in a personal sense. Whether I’ve found a community. But hopefully Suede as a band created a community. That was one of our real intentions—I loved bands like the Smiths who had this world you went into, with the sleeves and the reference points. You very much immersed yourself. I wanted Suede to have that sense as well. Almost a strong Suede way of being. The Suede army, as someone once said.
If you didn’t find community, what did you find? It made my life. It gave me all those things we were talking about earlier. It gave me everything. Gave me purpose in life. I wouldn’t ever advise anyone to do what I did! I’ve been incredibly lucky in my career. 99 percent of people who go into music won’t be as lucky. It is a lot to do with luck! The fact I’ve met Bernard Butler—little things! I might never have met him, and we never would have written those songs and Suede would have been a very different band. I never just say, ‘This is what you should do!’ I was just confident and stupid enough to do what I did, and it just sort of worked! But some of the decisions I made—they were pretty rash!
Is it necessary to commit totally to being creative to be good at being creative? To jump in with no safety net? Absolutely. You’ve gotta let yourself out there. I didn’t even have an instrument to fall back on! ‘I believe I got enough of a voice to say something interesting, and I’m gonna do it.’ Confidence verging on stupidity that happened to pay off!
Does pop music defend the brave and stupid? I think so. You have to push it as far as it’ll go. Part of the reason the public loves pop music so much is the drama of the story. You have people who have no idea about the drama and just wanna listen to Phil Collins records and that’s fine, but there’s a whole other group of people that love the back story—how it’s made and why people fall out and fall in love. It’s almost treating the world of music like you’re watching a soap opera and people love that.
Why do people fall in love? Probably some sort of chemical function. I don’t wanna be unromantic about it but it fulfills a necessary function for the human race.
5 notes · View notes
invictusimvu · 4 years
Photo
Tumblr media
Influential, innovative, and progressive, Invictus continues to reinvent a modern approach to fashion projected into a virtual world environment.  For 12 years Invictus has redefined luxury for IMVU reinforcing its position as one of IMVU’s most recognized and desired brands.  Eclectic, contemporary, romantic - Invictus represents the best elements taken from continental Europe and fuses them with the American ethos.  The results create a charged atmosphere that is confident, powerful, luxurious and just a bit provocative which equates to unconquered luxury.
IMVU started out as a hobby that later evolved into being a passion and a business.  I started on IMVU roughly 14 years ago and it was a fluke that I had even heard of it.  A friend of mine in Washington had stumbled across this site called IMVU which was a 3D chat program with customized avatars and at the time you invited friends to join you would get free credits (the in-game currency).  He sent me an invite and I signed up so that he could get the free credits but I quickly forgot about  it.  It wasn’t until a year later that I revisited it and after playing around with it I quite enjoyed it.  What happened afterwards was an interesting journey fraught with tales of perils and triumphs.
I started out with an account called Maxentius and it was simply for enjoyment.  I quickly learned though that creative talent was what powered the site and it was very inspiring to see so many artists coming together in one place to produce content the entire site could enjoy and I wanted to be part of that.  I created a new account named Invictus with some help from two users I was friends with at the time, Lollirot and MajesticRepublic, and embarked on conquering a brave new world.
What you have to understand about IMVU is that all goods on the site are digital and created by members of the community called creators.  Back then we called them developers but it’s the same thing.  I noticed that many creators started out organically and grew out of chaos and I didn’t think that would be for me at all. I wanted to get off on the right foot and set about drawing up a rough business plan.
To start with I needed a concept.  I knew I wanted to create clothing for male avatars and to me the best bit of clothing a man can ever own is a suit.  So I wrote that down and moved on to a name.  I’ve always been a big fan of Latin and my previous avatar was named Maxentius so I had to think a bit and eventually the word Invictus came to mind.
Invictus is Latin for “unconquered” and I thought that would be perfect because it conveyed a sense of power and awe and that worked with the product I wanted to sell.  Men in suits always convey power and demand respect but that wasn’t enough.  There were two other creators on the site who specialized in creating suits for men, Terrence69 and EddieOrlando, and I knew if I was going to be successful I would have to get on their level and try to “out-do” them in the spirit of competition.  I looked went through their catalogs thoroughly to see how they went about it and I felt I learned enough to know how to compete.  I figured the best way to sell the same product they were selling was to add something extra. I thought about Karl Lagerfeld who has long been a personal hero and spiritual mentor of mine and how he would approach this.  I reasoned that anyone could purchase suit for whatever reason but why not make one of those reasons prestige?  If you create a brand that is billed out as being a luxury brand then maybe people will want it more than your competitors.  So I jotted that idea down.  I knew the lynch pin to this would be branding.  Most creators at the time didn’t have very solid branding and those that did weren’t very consistent with it but I knew a bit more about branding than most users so I thought I would have an edge.  I was correct!  I opened up Photoshop CS3 and started working on a logo which ended up being the word INVICTVS written with Trajan Pro and given a metallic look to it.  While I was designing the logo the phrase “unconquered luxury” came to mind and I  knew I had an instant winner.  Now that the branding was completed I set about to creating product to sell and truth be told when it finally came down to it the job was a bit more difficult than anticipated.  
I’ve had the good fortune to know two excellent creators on IMVU, Lollirot and MajesticRepublic, both of whom took me under their wing to help nurture my skills and push me upward.  I found a derivable suit product produced by a user named Ryupa (he and I would go on to have a good working relationship for many years) and got to work.  Before I knew it I had completed my first line of suits.  Now all I had to do is wait.  Back then it wasn’t a problem because there weren’t very many creators on the site like there is now so within a week or so a few customers made their first purchase of my products and within a month the name Invictus started to spread.
The rest, as they say, is history.  Invictus became a rising star and an established and well-recognized brand on IMVU.  I won’t fill you in on all the gory details of the last 10 years but let me be clear there were definitely some ups and downs.  I took a 4 year break in 2013 and returned in November 2017.  Now that I’m back at the helm of Invictus I find IMVU to be a completely new place with many changes in the site and the user culture.  Creating and advertising isn’t what it used to be in fact I would say if anything it became more complex and sophisticated than it had been in the “good ol’ days.“  My brand was still recognized, especially by many of the older users, but for the most part it was in shambles.  I figured if Lagerfeld could resurrect Chanel then I could do the same as well and that is were we are now.  
Invictus has undergone a complete re-branding and broken away from much of its traditional offerings but continues to plow forward as a luxury label for men’s clothing on IMVU.  I hope to bring the label back to it’s former prominence and produce new and innovative products in proud tradition.  Time will tell. - Vic
2 notes · View notes
Photo
Tumblr media
According to a narrative that’s currently popular in the mainstream media and the more lowbrow end of academia, the recent surge in popularity of the American nationalist right was caused by the radicalization of nerds. Dweeby white manchildren, so the story goes, retreated into video games, the science fiction fandom, and anonymous online forums like 4chan, and formed misogynistic, resentment-fueled subcultures within them. These neckbearded neo-Nazis gradually coalesced into the ‘alt-right,’ an internet hate machine that contributed greatly to Toupee Hitler’s otherwise inexplicable rise.
There are many versions of this narrative. The common feature is the ascription of Trump’s electoral victory — and, in some cases, the surge in right-populism all across the Western world — to the vile machinations of movements of fascistic, internet-based nerds; but the details vary. One version, laid down in a popular Tumblr post (at the time of writing, it has over 22,000 notes), ascribes the rise of the alt-right to a successful campaign by Stormfront to turn 4chan Nazi. Another version blames it on Gamergate, allegedly a hate campaign born out of a misogynist’s attempt to “punish his ex-girlfriend” that served as a breeding ground for far-right extremism, and as the petri dish that they organized in before taking over America. The Z-list Youtube celebrity Zinnia Jones has described Gamergate as “one of the worst things ever to happen” because it “enabled Trump” — apparently, a piece of fandom drama ranks up there with the Spanish flu pandemic, the Mongol conquests, the Black Death, the invention of the nuclear bomb, the post-Columbian plagues that depopulated the Americas, and the unfortunate events of the 1940s.
Deployments of the narrative abound. A popular Medium “32-minute read” bears the headline, “4chan: The Skeleton Key to the Rise of Trump.” Politico insists that “the Trump campaign … paid rapt attention to meme culture from the start.” CNET helpfully explains that “what began as a backlash to a debate about how video games portray women led to an internet culture that ultimately helped sweep Donald Trump into office.” Chris Grant, editor-in-chief of Polygon, complains that “the overlap between Gamergate and Trump(ism) is astounding. GG was like the trial run for this whole mess.” The Independent, a British paper, speaks out against the “very geeky” Trump supporters of the alt-right, and claims that “The uncomfortable truth, that should worry anyone praying for a Trump defeat, is that the Alt-right following he has tapped into are more numerous and unpredictable than traditional political commentators understand.” And so on. And for every article that explicitly draws a connection between internet-based youth countercultures and Trump, there are a dozen more that simply make a point of mentioning them in the same breath, and let the reader work out the connection for himself. Trump… Gamergate… Trump… neckbeards… Trump… 4chan… Trump!
At this point, it’s worth taking a step back from the phenomenon of heavy internet users failing for the first time to line up in lockstep behind the Democrats, and looking at the bigger picture. Trump’s electoral success was not driven by the alt-right; it was driven by the usual factors. To make a long story short, Trump won because Clinton ran a bad campaign and took unpopular positions on the issues. Insofar as the election was unusual, it wasn’t because Trump posted a picture of a cartoon frog — Clinton made her own bids for pop-cultural relevance, as did her husband when he took out his saxophone on Arsenio Hall’s show in 1992 — but because Clinton, in violation of a long-standing norm, directly insulted large swathes of the voting population with her “basket of deplorables” line.
Trump’s success is also not unusual in a global context. In recent years, Viktor Orbán’s Fidesz won a supermajority in Hungary and proceeded to rewrite the Hungarian constitution to declare Hungary a Christian nation and ensure the electoral dominance of Fidesz for the foreseeable future. Britain voted to leave the European Union, and politicians like Marine Le Pen, Nigel Farage, and Andrzej Duda became household names among the set that pays attention to international politics. Trump is not a uniquely American phenomenon; if anything, he’ll likely prove to be a more moderate parallel to the trends sweeping Europe, just as FDR paralleled the European extremists of the Depression years. Of course, these trends are not just sweeping Europe, as is proven by the victories in Asia of politicians like Narendra Modi and Rodrigo Duterte.
This global trend simply could not have been caused by an obscure piece of American fandom drama. Gamergate and 4chan cannot have contributed to the rise of the right, because the rise of the right happened to approximately the same extent in countries outside the Anglosphere and outside the cultural reach of Anglosphere nerd culture. Even Vox, which once described Trump as “the first Republican nominee whose ethos owes more to 4chan and Gamergate than it does the Bible,” has found that “polarization is accelerating fastest among those using the internet the least.”
Nor could Trump’s rise to power have been substantially helped along by pictures of cartoon frogs. A full analysis of Trump’s victory is beyond the scope of this article, but it borders on delusion to believe that Michigan, Wisconsin, and Pennsylvania were flipped by 4chan trolls, rather than by such ordinary factors as Trump’s more popular positions on the key issues of immigration and trade and Clinton’s failure to run a functional campaign.
The internet has, however, reshaped American politics; just not in the way pundits say it has. The main effects have been on the left, not the right.
The most obvious effect is that leftists, especially those in the fields that shape and promulgate leftist doctrine, spend a lot of time online. Journalists spend less time cultivating networks of sources and more time ‘building their brand’ and interacting with other journalists; academics network on Twitter; and so on. Connection matters more than ever, and the internet has weakened local scenes and replaced them with placeless ones. Indie game developers from all over the world, for example, can compete for the attention of the largely U.S.-coastal ‘mainstream’ games journalism industry, whose writers are of course all on the same mailing lists, not to mention following each other on Twitter. Journalists, academics, political advisors and the like disappear into their own world — a world where it’s acceptable to wage war on large parts of one’s own audience, or to lead a mainstream presidential candidate to insult a large part of the voting population. And the scenes that are best able to capture the attention of this world will gain power, influence, and the propagation of their norms.
One scene that has been markedly successful in capturing the attention of the journalistic world is the one that developed from the pay-to-post forum Something Awful. Originally a humor site, it became one of the most influential sites on the internet — you probably know that 4chan was created by a Something Awful regular, and that its initial userbase drew heavily from SA. Its influence on politics, however, extends far beyond 4chan. Buckle up, folks: you’re in for a long, confusing, and terrible ride.
In the essay “Exiting the Vampire Castle,” Mark Fisher, who was roundly condemned for writing it and killed himself three years later, attacked not only the identitarianism that has metastasized in academia since the ’60s, an identitarianism in which “the sheer mention of class is now automatically treated as if that means one is trying to downgrade the importance of race and gender,” but also the “paralysing feeling of guilt and suspicion which hangs over left-wing twitter like an acrid, stifling fog” and the “kangaroo courts and character assassinations” that are, as anyone who has observed the state of the left today, overwhelmingly common. This guilt and suspicion, these kangaroo courts and character assassinations, need not have anything to do with politics; in one memorable instance, a once-popular Tumblr communist blogger with the sadly real URL of “fuckyeahmarxismleninism” was dogpiled and laughed into irrelevance for admitting to watching My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic with his daughters. This was seen as a far worse faux pas than even his support of North Korea. I am, unfortunately, not making this up; I saw it all happen firsthand.
These aren’t the kangaroo courts of Stalin. What they are is the schoolyard courts of Helldump, a Something Awful subforum created for the strange purpose of being a schoolyard court. The Something Awful wiki speaks for itself here: “The official birth of Helldump 2000 spawned a new creative outlet for pedophiles, racists, bigots, Ron Paul supporters, gun zealots, defenders of anime and otherwise crap posters to be outed in a thorough, convincing manner by an astute civilian task force. Essentially, it checks and balances the stupidity that seeps its way into the forums as a whole, although (unfortunately) it does not function as a preventive treatment (shit posters still propagate at an alarming rate). Rather, the modus operandi of Helldump is to profile and insult the (assumed) poor goon for his questionable views, and in turn function as a virtual tourniquet in an attempt to stop the bleeding, as well as force said shit poster into online anonymity and/or reclusiveness.” In practice, most of what Helldump did was dogpile furries.
As a side note, internet lore has it that the population of Helldump regulars itself skewed furry. This is not terribly out of the norm for Something Awful, the admin of which employed Shmorky for ten years before firing him on the sensible grounds that he was “secretly into pedophilia incest diaper shitting roleplay” and allegedly “would get way too excited over [SA admin Lowtax’s kids] coming to the office.” (Shmorky has also been reported to at least have once been friends with Rebecca Sugar, the creator of the TV show Steven Universe, which has a remarkably Shmorky-like art style and has as its target demographic the same Tumblr crowd that Shmorky fell in with.)
Zoe Quinn herself was a SA member under the username Eris, and participated in at least one Helldump dogpile. It’s often believed that Gamergate began when her ex-boyfriend posted a ‘callout’ of her abusive behaviors, cheating, and so on — the “Zoe Post” — on 4chan, but he actually joined Something Awful to post it there first. He was quickly banned for it, and the ban message reads: “Thank you for joining the Something Awful Forums in order to post a giant loving psychopathic helldump about your ex-girlfriend in the forum about video games.” (The original phrasing was “giant fucking psychopathic helldump,” but SA has wordfilters.) The belief in a connection between Helldump and ‘callout culture’ is held by the SA moderators themselves.
Helldump was closed after two years, and many of its regulars migrated to a different subforum, Laissez’s Fair, “the original Dirtbag Left.” The SA wiki entry for LF helpfully explains that it was “opened up to put all the Ron Paul shit” and became a “refugee holding bay” for Helldump after the latter was closed. “Over time people started making effort posts about such things the nightmare that is our criminal justice system, social justice in general, as well as the ideas of Karl Marx. The lack of moderation was made up for by basically shouting people out of the forum who were stupid MRAs and concern trolls. Gradually the complexion of the forum shifted from liberal to socialist.” Eventually, LF was closed, because “LF posters went internet detective on mods and posted death threats,” including several to then-President Obama.
At least two regulars on Helldump and LF went on to get careers in journalism. Jeb Lund, who wrote a vague and rambling essay about his posting career for Gawker, went by “Boniface” and “Mobutu Sese Seko” on Something Awful. Under the former pseudonym, he threatened a Helldump victim: “how about you promise never to post here again on pain of being permabanned, otherwise there’s no reason for all the posters here with lexis-nexis to stop at just your email addresses and not go straight for driver’s license photos and info, tax records… the list goes on and on.” Sam Kriss was (or at least was widely believed to be) Dead Ken, as well as Red Ken, Dub Mapocho, Agenbite Inwit, Dead Skeng, and presumably other accounts. After LF was removed from SA, its regulars established and migrated to explicitly Communist forums offsite; he was a regular on one such forum, “tHE rHizzonE”, which was later given some sort of contest by the leftist magazine The Baffler, whose editor was “a fan” of said forum. (Sam Kriss has written for the Baffler.)
Many people from the more leftist parts of SA went on to become “Weird Twitter,” which was puffed by outlets like Buzzfeed. John Herrman and Katie Notopoulos, the authors of the linked piece, gravitated toward LF superstars on Twitter and tried to replicate their style. Some of them, such as Lund, Kriss, David Thorpe (who had a regular column on SA and is now a music journalist), Virgil Texas, Jon Hendren (who was, as docevil, once an admin of the “Fuck You And Die” (FYAD) subforum, but was shamed off the site after a bizarre incident involving a charity event featuring Smash Mouth and Guy Fieri), and Alex Nichols, parlayed those connections into posting careers.
Herrman also profiled a Weird Twitter poster, @CelestialBeard, whose claim to fame was tweeting a lot, and being followed by Herrman on Twitter. @CelestialBeard has since become a transgender brony.
From Weird Twitter, which attracted and assimilated people who weren’t active in SA’s leftist cliques (such as Felix Biederman and Virgil Texas, who just lurked), came Chapo Trap House, darling of every obscure Slate clone from Brooklyn to Queens. Chapo has featured several SA regulars, including Alex Nichols (@Lowenaffchen), who was active on LF as Golden Lion Tamarin (his Twitter username used to be @GLDNLNTMRN), and Dan O’Sullivan (@Bro_Pair), a now-banned former SA moderator whose username is now Fat Curtain Dweller. It’s interesting that a podcast heralded for ‘actually giving a shit’ comes from a subculture that began as pure trolling.
Providing a precise accounting of the impact of Something Awful on the Anglosphere left is difficult, as it would be with any subculture. The history is oral, largely lost, deliberately obfuscated, and shrouded in irony. It is likely that nothing will come of it, and that, in the end, it will be the farce mirroring the tragedy of neoconservatism: an insane political movement that developed out of a bizarre and insular clique in a world where having the right connections matters above all else, writing things that very few people care about but doing a great deal of damage along the way. It seems that the norms of Helldump have become callout culture, SA users’ trolling of the libertarians corralled in LF have become the dirtbag left, and some of those responsible have written for not only Gawker and Buzzfeed, but also The New York Times.
At the very least, the overlap in population is clear and suggestive. Someone can go from being repeatedly banned from a pay-to-post forum for something involving the word “nigger” to writing for the Guardian, the Atlantic and the New York Times, largely on the dubious strength of his Twitter account and forum fame. There are few lessons that can be drawn from this; the obvious one is that perhaps the media rewards expertise less than connectedness.
I’m told that this is what Gamergate was about. But there are many things I’ve been told Gamergate was about. The internet is something awful indeed. And it’s only going to get worse.
367 notes · View notes
kalluun-patangaroa · 5 years
Photo
Tumblr media
SUEDE: SLIGHTLY RESTLESS EUPHORIA
April 15th, 2011 
Illustration by Amber Halford
Suede fell out of bed into Britpop and Britpop controversy about Blur and bisexuality and who was doing what to who in what direction, but between episodes of public drama was glammy rock ‘n’ roll in the most classic English tradition. After years off duty, Suede is substantially re-united (without Bernard) and active and playing their first stateside gig at Coachella. This interview by Chris Ziegler.
How did Suede and Metallica ever get together for all-night rock sessions?
Brett Anderson (vocals): Our press agent sorta said, ‘Hey, Kirk Hammett is a big fan— should we get you together?’ So we went out to San Francisco to Kirk’s place and spent a lot of time being a bit naughty and playing songs in his basement. He had a studio—a little bit of a jamming room. I remember running through ‘Metal Mickey,’ we did a bit of T. Rex—we were off our faces, anyway. He’s a nice chap!
Kirk said he was struck by how normal you were and how you didn’t spank your buttocks once.
I should have spanked my buttocks. He was probably very disappointed. ‘This can’t be the real Brett Anderson. He’s not spanking his buttocks.’
What Crass lyric is so close to the front of your mind at all times that you can sing it to me right this second?
‘Do they owe us a living? Of course they fucking do!’ I love Crass. Feeding of the 5,000 was one of my favorite records growing up. I love that record. I love all the artwork. Talking about bands that draw you into a world—Crass really created their world, and it was a really confrontational, intelligent, political world. I really responded to it as a young teenager.
What part of the Crass ethos do you hold most dear?
I don’t live on a commune in Essex. But it opened my eyes—if it’s done right—how powerful political music can be. I never wrote overtly political music, but I did write music that dealt with not like party politics, but themes of poverty and alienation and I used that in songs—that was possibly inspired by Crass.
How was Suede a political band?
Dealing with the politics of life. Setting our songs in a real social context. I never wanted to be a writer who waved flags for a political party, but listening to the songs you can tell I was brought up as a member of the working-class, and you can tell the songs have a very strong left-wing bias.
You said you felt there hasn’t been a definitive genre of music invented in the U.K. in the last decade, and that you feel music is meant more to placate than provoke now. Why?
I do very much feel that’s the state of things. I can’t see that the last decade has created its own genre, which is a terrible shame for that generation. Not to say there hasn’t been great music. There’s amazing music! I love discovering new bands and there’s a great wave of new bands. But the biggest cultural development of the last like ten years was computer technology. It wasn’t anything to do with art and music, and that’s a shame. Even in the 90s, we had dance music—definitely a 90s genre. Maybe people have become too knowing. There’s too much of a structured sense of what’s cool and what isn’t, and that comes from magazines constantly publishing lists which contain the same five Beatles albums and this kind of thing. There’s this constant pressure to comply with this very sort of rigid set of accepted rock albums. So bands are too afraid to go outside those reference points. I sense this real fear in the music industry. A lot of it is because the industry has become a lot more corporate. People won’t take risks anymore. In the early 90s—that’s the only time I can talk about because that’s when I started—magazines were putting unusual bands on the cover. Magazines put Suede on covers before anyone had ever heard of us. Commercially, that was very ill-advised—but at least it suggested they had a sense of purpose. Now I get the sense people only back who they think are gonna win, regardless of if they actually think it’s any good or not. They will back who they think are the winners, and they will write good reviews for the bands they think are gonna sell lots of records whether they like them or not, and I think that’s a fucking terrible way to be. People are too afraid of not being cool? Or getting it wrong? No one’s willing to get it wrong. No one’s willing to stick their neck out and become a hated figure. No one’s got that kind of confidence. Everyone’s too willing to comply. It’s a terrible thing. But things go in cycles, don’t they? Maybe it’ll move into another period where people are taking chances.
When is the last time you suffered Stendhal syndrome?
At the Musee d’Orsay in Paris. I was looking at the Toulouse-Lautrecs, which were absolutely amazing. I’ve never been a huge fan of Toulouse-Lautrec before, but seeing the paintings in the flesh—as it were—is just so amazingly powerful. They’re so beautifully observed. I’m not sure if I actually experienced Stendhal syndrome, but I’ve read about it and it’s an extreme reaction to beauty—that’s the closest I can imagine it to be.
What’s it actually feel like?
Like drinking too much coffee. Slightly restless euphoria. Or maybe I’m getting it confused with actually drinking too much coffee. I’m a huge fan of art . I spend a lot of time in galleries and that’s my favorite period of art as well—the post-Impressionists. Paul Gauguin and those artists. I love all the medieval painters as well. People like Bruegel and Cranach and Holbein. There’s something incredibly primitive about it—Bruegel’s ‘Return of the Hunters’ is so atmospheric. What I really like about Holbein is he’s such an amazing draftsman and a great observer of human features. He could completely capture a person. You’re looking at someone who lived 500 years ago but it could be someone passing you on the street. They’re so real. I love that about Holbein’s paintings.
Did you want to try and observe things that carefully in Suede songs?
It’s difficult in the framework of pop music. It isn’t a very subtle medium. It doesn’t have as much as fiction or fine art. You’re in a very rigid structure—melody and rhyme and rhythm and those things are constricting you. I don’t think pop writers can ever take it to that depth of observation. But what pop writers can do is engage at an emotional level that other artists can’t do. The pop song, when done right, is incredibly powerful. That’s partly to do with the simplicity as well. Truth in music is incredibly important, but artifice can be incred- ibly important as well—that’s something I’ve done quite consciously. Lots of the songs I’ve written for Suede have been deliberately superficial but perversely enough there’s a kind of truth in that. A sketch is powerful because you fill in the missing pieces. You fill in the framework yourself. If it’s too full, there’s no space for you to interpret it.
Francis Bacon said, ‘The job of the artist is to deepen the mystery.’
Absolutely. One of the most important quotes ever about creativity. Something I’ve learned through mistakes over the years is it shouldn’t be too clear what you’re doing. Sometimes the sketch is so powerful because of the room for interpretation. As soon as you know what something is about, it somehow kills the mystery. And mystery is so important in music. That allows the song to have life beyond what it was intended for. When a writer’s writing, they have a very specific thing in mind, but they don’t know about the life of the listener. The listener applies his life to the music and there’s a new interpretation. That’s why a good song has so much power. It reaches into people’s lives. But to do that, there needs to be a sense of mystery. I’ve always tried to do that with detail. There’s this whole thing with great songwriters saying songs should be universal, but I actually think songs should be opposite—strangely specific and set in a place to make them real. I mean, still allow space for interpretation.
You said once that Suede writes about the used condom, not the beautiful bed. That kind of detail?
That’s not my favorite quote I ever said—but it keeps coming back. It must resonate with people’s vision of what the band is about. It’s quite a crass way of saying it, but I suppose it’s got some sort of truth. I always wanted to document the sort of grubby side of life. I didn’t want to talk in rock cliché. ‘Baby, I love you!’ clichés. I wanted to sing about the world I saw around me, and the world I saw around me was the used condom. It was the dusty street, the flickering TV. It was that use of detail and the fact I was born in the U.K. that made me write about the U.K. in detail, and it became distorted into the cliché of what became Britpop later—but it was never this nationalistic, jingoistic intention. It was just a desire to write about the world I saw around me.
Did you have to feel like you were living a Suede song to write a Suede song?
I don’t feel I deliberately changed my lifestyle. But I didn’t rein myself in. I felt justified in writing what I was writing—the right thing to do for my artistic vision was live the lifestyle I was singing about, but it’s kind of a chicken-and-egg thing. I was living that, obviously. But you can’t live that lifestyle forever and wanna remain alive. Things have to change. I championed—well, I documented it, and then you realize that what you’re documenting is quite harmful.
Did you think you were going to end up on a prison ship like Dan Treacy?
Well, toward the end of the 90s, things started getting quite dark. Life was definitely changing. I thought, ‘Well, maybe we need to veer away from something.’ I always feel I’m slightly on dodgy ground when people talk about this whole concept of the artist as a damaged character—it’s such a powerful cliché that people really wanna believe in, and I think there’s so much great art made through clarity and sobriety. The damaged artist casts a huge shadow people sometimes can’t see beyond. Me personally, as an artist now I feel much more in control of my art. Much more driven. Certainly more than I did ten years ago. But people need to believe in that sort of figure.
Jason Pierce said he started Spacemen 3 because of people like Roky Erickson and Alex Chilton—that he felt he could do what they did because they were flawed and not professional and perfect.
It’s the ultimate DIY ethic, isn’t it? The ultimate punk thing? Saying it doesn’t matter how incapable or damaged or all these pejorative adjectives you wanna apply—not you can still create art, but it almost makes your art more interesting or valid or gives it an edge you wouldn’t have if you weren’t damaged? Someone like Ian Dury—the ‘cripple as artist.’ It gives the audience a fascination, I think.
You said you were making music to find community in a fucked-up world. Did you ever find that community?
It’s always a search for some sort of community, isn’t it? There’s a line from one of the old songs, ‘New Generation.’ ‘We take the pills to find each other.’ A search for human … ownership or whatever. I don’t know. It’s strange to say because I’ve always conducted my career and Suede’s career almost as outsiders. I’ve never felt accepted by the music industry. I still don’t. I’ve never felt part of any sort of gang, and I never really wanted to be part of any gang. The only gang I’m part of is this weird disparate group of non-members—the ‘others’—and I’m quite happy in that role as well. I don’t jealously look at other people’s lives and wish I could be like that. I don’t have that search for community I used to have— maybe I realized the reality of things.
Does that mean it’s not out there? That it was never there? Can bands create these communities anymore?
That’s the definition of a decent band. They create a community. When I answered your question, it was in a personal sense. Whether I’ve found a community. But hopefully Suede as a band created a community. That was one of our real intentions—I loved bands like the Smiths who had this world you went into, with the sleeves and the reference points. You very much immersed yourself. I wanted Suede to have that sense as well. Almost a strong Suede way of being. The Suede army, as someone once said.
If you didn’t find community, what did you find?
It made my life. It gave me all those things we were talking about earlier. It gave me everything. Gave me purpose in life. I wouldn’t ever advise anyone to do what I did! I’ve been incredibly lucky in my career. 99 percent of people who go into music won’t be as lucky. It is a lot to do with luck! The fact I’ve met Bernard Butler—little things! I might never have met him, and we never would have written those songs and Suede would have been a very different band. I never just say, ‘This is what you should do!’ I was just confident and stupid enough to do what I did, and it just sort of worked! But some of the decisions I made—they were pretty rash!
Is it necessary to commit totally to being creative to be good at being creative? To jump in with no safety net?
Absolutely. You’ve gotta let yourself out there. I didn’t even have an instrument to fall back on! ‘I believe I got enough of a voice to say something interesting, and I’m gonna do it.’ Confidence verging on stupidity that happened to pay off!
Does pop music defend the brave and stupid?
I think so. You have to push it as far as it’ll go. Part of the reason the public loves pop music so much is the drama of the story. You have people who have no idea about the drama and just wanna listen to Phil Collins records and that’s fine, but there’s a whole other group of people that love the back story—how it’s made and why people fall out and fall in love. It’s almost treating the world of music like you’re watching a soap opera and people love that.
Why do people fall in love?
Probably some sort of chemical function. I don’t wanna be unromantic about it but it fulfills a necessary function for the human race.
Tumblr media
L.A. Record (US Magazine), April 2011
19 notes · View notes
eafsegse · 3 years
Text
He leaned close
As this population becomes more numerous, it becomes less productive. It was often his hands that hurt the worst, especially his missing fingers. Was too busy trying to cover my man. Two sellsword captains were on hand as well, each accompanied by a dozen men of his company. “Never a morsel of anything could I put into my mouth. Credit to Doug (future Long Jump champion) and Sugi (windswept after a Malaga five hours a day Yoga retreat) on the left for their pace getting back, staying strong and breaking fast. Involuntary and abrupt contractions of the diaphragm leads to hiccups. Connor Washburn is a big play threat out wide as well. "Immediately you say, 'What's this song about?'" Eriksrud said. One skull was larger than the rest, grotesquely malformed. Such a ting as dat, Missis, tetch your heart so, ef you don’t mind, ‘t will fret you almost to death. I do not view this accident as some sort of virus infection that's about to run through the entire Concorde fleet. “Where is she, Lord Snow? Have you galeb spodnjice moved her to one of your other castles? Greyguard or the Shadow adidas fgTower? Whore’s Burrow, with t’other wenches?” He leaned close. Yet when they parted, Jon Connington did not go to the sept. One day you will know.”. How I’ve been missing you all this time! But there it is! I couldn’t help it! I wasn’t able to manage it, my darling! You look a little thinner, you’ve grown so pale . The deadline is the Friday before you would like the event to appear in the next Friday's calendar of events. My name. She should never have been nominated. He kissed her hands, her feet. And this is the one we set this week.. They won't be perfect for every single cyclist no shoe is or can be but it's an impressive debut. He gazed up at Old Fishfoot with his broken trident. CO2 belching volcanoes failed to keep pace, so the atmospheric level of the gas slowly declined. The first definite mention of cricket in Sussex was also in 1611 and relates to ecclesiastical court records stating that two parishioners of Sidlesham in West Sussex had failed to attend church on Easter Sunday because they were playing cricket. Then one of the
Mens ADIDAS ORIGINALS
crossbowmen let fly. I done videos with Arnold Palmer people I never dreamt I would ever meet. On Thursday, December 1, 2016, in the chapel at Sparkman Hillcrest Funeral Home, located point de croix chaletat 7405 West Northwest Highway, Dallas, Texas 75225. Q The air conditioning in our '91 Chevrolet Caprice works sporadically. It was forwarded by Mr. It burns, and rages, and roars, till everybody in the neighborhood sees that something must be done. Even so, her hand was shaking as she raised it to her face. Fridays and Sundays. Could this be proved (we need hardly say that it is not), it would relieve but slightly the dark picture of their
diadora focicipő
guilt. Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek followed with the other dogs at Lord Ramsay’s heels when his lordship strode forth to greet his father. But what right have you to reckon on such forgiveness, and make bets about it? And is it possible you haven’t once reflected what distress, what bitter feelings, what doubts, what suspicions you’ve been inflicting on Natalya Nikolaevna all this time? Do you think that because you’ve been fascinated there by new ideas, you had the right to neglect your first duty? Forgive me, Natalya Nikolaevna, for breaking my word. All you saw was one Bumgarner. I thought it was a person, so I slammed on my brakes only to find that it had disappeared! (I did a walk around of the car). A soft star in the distance, it glimmered faintly through the fog, beckoning them on. Based on preliminary surveys, the Westgate Smoky Mountain Resort Spa in Gatlinburg likely entirely gone, the Tennessee Emergency Management Agency said in a news release. (2) What are the local ordinances on parking? I nike air vortex desert sandwas parked on the street for more than 72 hours and my neighbor called parking enforcement. HOV Holdings' trademark application is only for the Air Cannabis name, not the website's logo. “A man must know how to look before he can hope to see,” said Lord Brynden. Do foreign governments exclude their population from the reading of the Bible?—The slave of America is excluded by
brassiere garcon
the most effectual means possible. It can easily just be an
lugosis carhartt
act of titillation or self release that means nothing except for that moment of temporary pleasure and release of tension. She saw old faces and young faces, pale faces and dark faces, smooth faces and wrinkled faces, freckled faces and scarred faces, handsome faces and homely faces, men and women, boys and girls, even babes, smiling faces, frowning faces, faces full of greed and rage and lust, bald faces and faces bristling with hair. The inhibitors jam the receptor sites, slowing down or preventing the chemical reaction that would occur if the correct active substrate entered the site. Laguna Seca famous corkscrew takes on a whole new dimension when racers are behind zapatillas guess mujer corte ingles handlebars and flying around the curves as fast as pedal power can allow. This is because with the increase in the size of the wings, another aerodynamic force known as drag also increases. St. It's also efficient (5.1 L/100km combined cycle) and quite unobtrusive for a diesel.. The following are some of the side effects that are known to be associated with this medicine. But I believe I’m still drunk from this morning. The Elephants have produced plenty of top talents who have enjoyed success at the club level for a number of years now, but the national team has yet to live up the hype and expectations, exiting the World Cup in the group stage three times running. We defined an event as a dispensed N05 medication at least once during follow up. Air the bottom of the moon which is closer to the horizon more than the top, squishing the two halves together into an egg or oval shape.. He graduated from the University of Oklahoma in 1936. Some are drug addicts with criminal records. Players interested in participating must pay a $55 cash or money order fee. Partisanship has a role here, too. Advertisers of the time were quick to capitalize on the era liberal ethos. But the problem was how can I use a homemade ice powered AC unit without looking like a total idiot at the office? I thought to myself, if I was to make a home made ice powered AC unit, it galeb spodnjice needs to be: portable, discreet and easy to maintain. "The next free agent gets a little bit more the next a little more, and so on and so forth. Anyone who cannot come on the 11 a. She was the mother of twin boys, Grant and Crosby, who were born on March 16, 2016. We will take for them two thousand eight hundred dollars. Witherspoon, the same who said to the editor of the Emancipator, “I draw my warrant from the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament to hold my slaves in bondage. This way was better, quicker. You saw them, the arrogant Ser Jared and his nephew Rhaegar, that smirking worm who wears a dragon’s name. Those who had the strength called out.
0 notes
writing-the-end · 4 years
Text
LoL Chapter 3- Gildara
Master Post
A Wizard Hermits tale (AU belongs to @theguardiansofredland )
In the Northern fields of Lairyon, Gildara waits for the Order of Hermits. The land around them is different...dying. Is this what the Magistrate sent them to discover? What kind of creature, what kind of plague causes this? The only way for them to find out is by going deeper- literally.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
“It’s like a sea of grass. Look at how it rolls like waves.” Scar whistles, watching wheat dancing in the wind. 
Doc nudges Grian. “I see where you stole your hair now.” 
Grian takes off after Doc, shrugging off the hybrid’s attempt to puppeteer him and tackling into the ground. Iskall steps over the two, deep in conversation with Ren. The two share a fistbump, before Iskall casts his magic circle. A molded rod of radioactive material, which he’s dubbed iskallium, appears before them. Iskall grabs his creation and gives it a flourish. Ren attempts to mimic Iskall’s magic, his own magic circle starting red before turning a muted green. 
Just behind Iskall and Ren practicing, Cub, Scar, and Joe are deep in a conversation about the land around them. Wide fields of wheat, surrounded by row after row of carrots, potatoes, and more. This is the breadbasket of Lairyon. At the edge of the fields that surround the road, tall pines loom at the base of rocky mountain climbs. They’re south of Foresta, yet to cross Turtle River, but still within the fertile soil that the city is known for. 
A shadow passes over the traveling guild, before red wings flap to the ground. Tango turns around, red eyes anguished as he grips his flaming hair. TFC notices the body language of their scout, and steps forward. The entire road goes quiet, the guild the only travelers on this route. “What did you see?” 
“Its… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s big.” Tango’s wings fold away and disappear. 
“The monster?” Zed asks, creeping closer to his friend. 
“The destruction?” Impulse adds, following. Both trying to comfort Tango. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
Tango shakes his head, his fiery hair half a step slower than his initial movement. “It looks like a black scar, like a dark bruise against the land. But nothing is destroyed. It- I can’t describe it, man. You just gotta keep walking. We’ll see.” 
And so they do. Tango seems shocked by what he saw, and the hermits try to ease his fears. With time, the emotions are eased and everyone relaxes when Tango can smile again. They’re more than just a guild. They’re a family. Most of them only have each other, and as chaotic as their guild can be, they’ll do anything to make sure each person is happy and safe. They care about each other, comfort each other. 
Ren stays near Tango, telling jokes and stories to keep up everyone’s morale. His brown ears prick up as he hears a change in the wind around him. He feels something brush against the skin of his feet, and looks down. “Whoa, my dudes.” 
Everyone stops, turning to look at Ren. He’s gazing beyond his sandaled feet, to the ground. A swirl of grey, clawing along the dirt like a vine reaching for a tree to choke from life, reaches out towards the gilded fields and verdant forests. Ren scrapes the sole of his shoe against the dirt, trying to scrape away the ash. But no matter how deep he digs, it remains monochrome. And it’s growing before their very eyes. 
Another skein of grey reaches past Joe’s feet, and he hops away from the strange phenomenon. He shivers, pulling his cape closer to his body. Despite being a warm summer day in north Lairyon, he feels like an icy breeze has just dug right into his bones. Into his core, striking at his heart and soul. He looks around, but Stress is nowhere near him. 
“There’s more.” Scar whispers, pointing down the road. The creeping darkness reaches out towards them. Out from Gildara. “This has to be that ‘discrepancy’ that the magistrate spoke of.” 
TFC bites his lip, but nods for the team to move forward. “Keep a tight watch, gang. Report anything out of the ordinary.” 
They continue forward, walking into the monotone ground. Around them, the fields wither to ashen plains. BDubs steps off the road, picking up a stalk and looking closer at it. The color looks like it was burned, but he can still see each individual grain on the wheat. It looks like it wilted, poisoned or left without the ability to grow. The entire field looks the same way. Every field. Dead farms on colorless land. 
The small town of Gildara rises in the distance. Tucked against the safety of a pine forest, with the open plains as it’s front yard. A short bridge rises over a dried creekbed into the village. 
“It looks like they had a drought.” False whispers, pressing forward with the braver souls. Mumbo and Jevin slip into the middle, spooked by the village. 
“It’s not a drought.” Grian responds, fingers playing with the ash colored needles of a tree. “These trees still look like they got a recent rain. That creek should be flowing.” 
“And things just beyond this grey stuff are well fed.” Zedaph adds. 
“Guys?” Iskall calls out, hurrying back to the group as they continue through the monochrome town. “Wh-where is everyone?” 
TFC stops, looking around. The town is small, but the houses look warm and welcoming. With large windows and open porches, but not a soul is to be seen. There’s no voices, no wails or whimpers. Not even a birdsong. No bodies, no bonfires. Doors remain closed, but shops are propped open, inviting customers to peruse wares. It’s like the entire town just simply...vanished. Everyone, every moving creature is gone. 
“Cleo?” TFC looks over his shoulder, but she’s already on it. Turquoise blue magic wisping and waving across the open air, Cleo’s arms and fingers moving in a choreographed series until the spell is cast. But the circle goes nowhere, hanging in the dead air with nothing to attach to.
“There’s no bodies anywhere. No ghosts either. There’s nothing.” Cleo reports, letting the magic fizzle away. Beneath her, the ash colored ground sparks and swirls. 
“It doesn’t look like a monster or bandits came through.” Xisuma notes. “There’s no sign of a fight, no claw marks or blood even.” 
“So where is everyone?” Keralis rubs his arms, looking around. He coughs, his throat feeling tight and lungs feeling heavy, his body exhausted. Like a storm is moving in, the wall of high pressure sending them into lethargy. Well, most of them. Grian gets excited, but even now he looks pressed. 
“Let’s check town center. If there’s anywhere we’ll find clues, it’ll be there.” TFC points down the road. The guild stays silent, as silent as the world around them. Devoid of color, until one of them looks up the mountainside. Beyond the clawing darkness, they can still see the dark green of alpine forests. The further into town they walk, the more the pressuring feeling rises. Like they’re being crushed, like air trapped deep within a mountain. Far underground, and just as dead and unmoving. Even the wind has stopped blowing. 
“What is that?” Etho questions, pointing towards the well at the center of the town square. The grey turns as black as ink, crawling free from the stone well and dispersing out into the grey blemish across the land. Etho tries to slip into the shadow of the darkness, but there’s nothing. It’s not a shadow- this is something else. 
Cub peers down the well, into the dark hole. “It’s coming from the water supply. Are we sure this isn’t some plague or poison?” 
“It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.” Doc points out. Beside him, Scar activates his magic and creates a series of steps. Down the well’s stony walls, the hermits descend into darkness. Into the maws of the beast. 
“Anybody got a light?” False questions, the only visible thing before her being Cub and Scar’s eyes as they glow a faint blue. 
“I got it.” Impulse pushes Tango forward, his hair illuminating the cave system they are within. Following the underground stream that terraforms the rock. 
Tango sighs. “I think I can do better than just my hair, man.” He draws his scrawling magic circle, summoning up flame that dances just above his hand. 
“And this is why having the explosives mage and a fire mage living in the same house is a bad idea.” False groans, but let’s Tango take point. He directs the flame, funneling the light as best he can forward. 
“Or we could just make Grian get his archangel aura.” BDubs adds. 
“We’ll be blinded then.” Mumbo adds, feeling his friend shift beside him nervously. He’s still healing from the last time he used his ultimate power. 
The cave around them opens up into a cavern, and Tango’s torchlight stops. Tango pulls his hand down, blowing on the flame. Trying to get the fire to burn brighter. But no matter how fierce the fire burns, it can’t make it through the darkness around them. 
Because the crystal before them takes it all. Absorbs all his light, leaving none to bounce along the walls of the cave. It hurts to breathe, the air thick as water and as heavy as rocks. The crystal hovers in the air, just above the spring of water. As soon as the creek wells, it evaporates. Turns to darkened ash, neutralized by the crystal above it. Tango steps back, behind TFC. “Alright man, this is your thing. What kind of creepy crystal makes water and color disappear?” 
“And what did it do to the town above us?” Cleo finishes, watching as TFC steps closer. He raises a gloved hand, pressing it against the cool, smooth crystal edge. He immediately retreats his touch, waving his hand like it burned him. 
“Whatever it is, it isn’t good. We should break it, and hopefully it’ll break whatever curse it’s causing on the town.” He steps back, feeling dizzy and fatigued. His head feels fuzzy. Impulse steps up first, a bright yellow circle quickly drawn and tossed onto the crystal. Seconds later, the magic explodes and the air shocks outward. 
The crystal is unharmed. Impulse tries again, this time with Ren mimicking him on the other side. The gem is as smooth as before. Xisuma steps up, snapping his fingers. But the destructive void magic is useless. Even when Ren’s imagination magic tries it’s hand in joint with Joe’s poetry, the crystal remains. 
Things get more aggressive. BDubs wraps a vine around the crystal, but upon touching the gem the plants wither and turn to blackened ash. Scar tries to pierce the jewel with stone, but it falls apart like silt, raining over the guild. Finally, False gives in and charges the gem. With a two handed sword raised, she leaps and swings the blade into the ebony stone. And immediately, the metal rusts and decays. 
“How do we break this?” Stress questions, picking at the rusted remains of False’s sword. 
“I don’t know, but Magistrate Dolios needs to know about this.” TFC steps up, despite the sickening feeling he gets near the crystal. He feels weak, tired. Using a diamond and his magic, he’s able to break off a tiny piece. Hardly even bigger than his pinky fingernail, but the best he can do. For a second, he swears he can feel the crystal vibrate beside him. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like this.” 
The whole guild is in agreement, turning back the way they came. But the way is blocked. Grian’s face lights up as he sees the faces of farmers and villagers. “Look, this must be where the townfolk have been hiding!” 
“Grian wait-” Iskall reaches out, grabbing Grian by his cloak and pulling him back. “They...something doesn’t look right.” 
Tango raises his flame, trying to see the strangers. Trying to get a better look through the black and grey air. But they’re the same color, and the edges of their bodies, their fingers and limbs flaking away like embers and ash. “I… I think the crystal has grey-ificated them as well.” 
The woman’s eyes snap open, revealing haunting white eyes. The iris is gone, only glowing luminosity remaining. Her hands raise up, and a magic circle appears. It doesn’t look right- her motions are sloppy and the inscriptions are poorly drawn. Magic snaps and seethes across the air, uncontrolled and uncontained. 
The ground beneath the hermits feet turns soft, rock and dirt turning into quicksand and engulfing the legs of the hermits. A farmer behind the wizard raises his hand, pointing blankly to the crystal. And behind the struggling guild, the swearing and grunting to escape the mud scape, the crystal awakens. A black mist swirls around the crystal. 
Then strikes towards the captured hermits.
33 notes · View notes