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schleierkauz · 4 years

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The Color of Revenge: Chapter 14

Welcome, everyone, to what may or may not be the last chapter we get. It’s unclear. Fingers crossed. Anyway, there’s a lot to unpack here, can’t wait to hear everyone’s takes. :D

Chapter 14: The other Witch

Jehan’s workshop was at the end of the street where Ombra’s blacksmiths resided. It was an unassuming little workshop but all the other guild members watched what happened there with suspicious envy.

Why could this boy do things with melting iron none of them had managed in decades? The Fire-Dancer wasn’t even his father!

But Dustfinger tamed the fire for him! the men whispered, ash clogging their pores and wrinkles even though they scrubbed their faces clean each evening.

Yes, that’s it. Beautiful Roxane’s son works with magic! they said, fearful yet contemptuous. But Jehan’s talent had nothing to do with magic or Dustfinger’s fire. Jehan loved iron. Just as Dustfinger loved fire and his mother the plants who brought healing. All art begins with love.

Jehan was working on flowers for a window grate when Dustfinger came down the street. The crowds between the houses retreated as if fire itself was visiting.

Everyone in Ombra was talking about the people who disappeared and how Dustfinger hadn’t been able to protect them. Some voices were even accusing him and the Black Prince of witching them away. Admiration easily turns into fear and distrust and neither Dustfinger nor the Prince had ever made any effort to appeal to the good citizens of Ombra.

Maybe it’s good that they’re all gone some whispered. The Bluejay, the Inkweaver, the bookworm woman – hadn’t they all brought nothing but danger and unrest to Ombra? Five years are a long time and people forget quickly.

Who still remembered the Piper and the massacre at the market? Only those who had lost friends and relatives there. Who remembered the kidnapped children and how the Bluejay had traded his own life for theirs? Wasn’t he the reason the Piper caught them in the first place? some murmured.

Yes, none of them had ever really fit in. They had probably just gone back to where they’d come from. Wherever that was…

Many of those who flinched away from Dustfinger thought all that. But some felt pity when they saw the pain on his face. We all know the fear of losing what we love.

Jehan submerged the iron flower he was working on in the cold water that stood next to his forge and wiped the grime off his hands.

“Any leads?“

Why was he even asking? The desperation on his stepfather’s face was answer enough.

��Call her,“ Dustfinger said. “Call the witch.“

Jehan pointed towards the bench that stood in front of the blackened walls of the smithy.

“She’s here.“

The girl who stood up looked even younger than Dustfinger had expected. But considering she was a witch, that didn’t mean much. Her brown hair was so short it looked like deer’s fur, which meant she was not yet 100 years old. The eyes, with pupils as narrow as a cat’s, were wide and alert like those of an animal who’d had to escape the dogs many times. But Dustfinger also found strength and curiosity in her gaze. And well-kept secrets.

“Dryope. This is my stepfather.“ Jehan tried his best not to blush but the body rarely complies with such wishes.

“I know.“

The girl bowed her head before Dustfinger like she would for her own kind. The witches’ magic was not so different from Dustfinger’s – he talked to fire, they talked to stones, plants and animals. The difference between dark and light witches was that the dark ones mainly spoke with things that could bring death while the light ones searched for healing.

According to the plants she had chosen to have tattooed on her forehead, Jehan’s friend belonged to the light witches: Wild chamomile, woodruff, eyebright. But plants, just like humans, have a light and a dark side. And it was said that many light witches eventually switched sides because their longing for power or eternal youth could only be satisfied with sinister potions.

“Jehan told me about the stick. Can I see it?”

Dustfinger handed her the stick with the Black Prince’s face. Like most witches she was wearing three rings. Each one chose her stones herself. Dryope’s fingers were adorned with moonstone, malachite and carnelian. The moon, growth, fire.

She weighed the carved wood in her hand and smelled it. Then she nodded appreciatively.

“She used alder. Silver-Alder, probably, even though it’s dangerous to collect.”

Jehan looked at Dustfinger.

Silver-Alders. Once, more than 20 years ago when he’d still travelled far north to let his fire play at distant markets, Dustfinger had seen one of the infamous trees with his own eyes. Roxane believed that powerful elves were trapped within these trees, spellbound by fairies because they had dared to steal water from their lakes in order to create magical mirrors.

The tree Dustfinger had seen when he’d barely been older than Jehan actually looked like a contorted figure. Old stories. There were so many of those that it was impossible to say which were true and which were made up. Underneath the alder there had been silver, that’s how they’d gotten their name. Spoons, coins, goblets… It was said that silver had been the elves favorite metal and that they granted wishes in exchange for it. Wishes for health and love, but also for darker things.

“These sticks aren’t particularly dark magic,” Dryope said. “They steal faces but they don’t harm those whose likeness they take. I make sticks like this for couples who come to me because they want to carry a keepsake of their beloved with them. I use willow, though. My likenesses aren’t as exact as this one but it’s enough for my customers.”

She gave the stick back to Dustfinger.

“Is this why Jehan called me? It’s really not dangerous.”

“No, there’s more.“

A few merchants came down the street and stopped when they saw Dustfinger. They hurried along when Gwin jumped on his shoulder and bared his teeth at them.

Dryope stared at the marten with delight and whispered a few words that made his ears perk up.

“Have you ever heard of a spell that traps people within pictures?”

Dustfinger tried to shoo Gwin back into his backpack but the marten jumped on the shoulder of the short-haired girl. No human could compete with a witch.

“Pictures?“ Dryope petted Gwin’s horned head. “I have heard of pictures that the child-eaters put on their walls in order to hide inside them. And pictures that make sinister things appear when you sneak them into someone else’s pocket.”

“What about pictures in a book?“

Dryope shook her head.

“Witches don’t have books. Books are for princes and rich merchants. We don’t write our spells down because we fear that the words might become too powerful.“

“Is that so?“

Dustfinger’s smile was bitter.

“I wish everyone was so wise… Let’s assume I’d pay you to trap someone in the illuminations of a book for me. How would you do that?”

But Dryope just shook her head again.

“I’m telling you: I don’t know anything about books. I only speak with living things.”

“Oh, books are very much alive in my experience,“ Dustfinger replied. “All too alive for my taste. Wait until you see what we mean.”

#the color of revenge #inkworld #cornelia funke #ly dont look #come onnn cornelia you can't end things here!#but man what a chapter #the people of ombra are rude as hell huh #also i thought the child eating witch was one individual not like.... a whole community tf #what a lovely place to start a family!#if the plague doesn't get your kid it might just get eaten!#also... i love dryope.... sure hope i got her name right #and i love how unimpressed she is with that stick like #you nerds called me here to look at a souvenir? pathetic.#i see jehan takes after his stepdad when it comes to crushing on ladies wayyy out of his league lol #hfkgjfdh i just checked cornelias twitter and apparently shes just been busy with the wild chicks script this whole time #thats hilarious to me #good for her #priorities

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plutoandpolaris · 5 years

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Fantasy AU: To the Stars

Summary: Jackie’s childhood was relatively comfortable, but even still he dreamt of something more beyond the borders of his little village. Dreaming of something, however, doesn’t mean you’re prepared for it.

Warnings: Animal attacks, Animal death.

The mill was a small one, situated on the top of the hill overlooking the coastal village. His father would be up before the sun to harvest the grain and begin the grinding process, while his mother gathered the sacks and prepared the last week’s bread to be sold in the market.

Jackie was usually the last one to rise, although his father often woke him earlier to help him with the harvest on days where the abundance was high.

It was a hearty summer that year, his thirteenth birthday only a short week away, but even still he woke each day to his father banging his scythe against the base of the stairs to wake him up.

“Grain’s not going to harvest itself!”

While the mill was often stocked with grain from other nearby farmers who dropped it off to be ground, Jackie’s family had their own grain field, though small, to provide a little extra harvest for the bread they’d sell.

Each farmer also owed his family a small portion of their grain for the use of their mill, meaning that bread or porridge was often on the menu for quite literally every single meal. He didn’t mind though, it was one of those things you got used to.

For his birthday, his mother would always make him a pie from the berries that grew at the edge of the forests around the village. It was a special thing, she barely had time to make something so extravagant. They’d even get meat sometimes, a small cut of lamb maybe, that she’d make last down to the very last scrap.

His elder brothers had all moved out and gotten jobs of their own, on their own farms with their own families, leaving only Jackie and his two younger sisters, six and eight years old.

Usually, he was stuck on field duty with his mother (or father, if it was his week) while his sisters learned how to bake the bread or were sent on simple chores around the mill. Jackie’s father refused to make them do fieldwork until they were at least ten, he didn’t want them to hurt themselves on the sickles.

So that left Jackie with much of the field duties alongside one or both of the adults. It was backbreaking work, especially since he was too small to use a full-sized scythe yet, but the constant repetition of the swinging and tying had become comforting to him. Familiar.

If his parents were feeling nice that day, they’d let him off a little early and let him go down into the village and play with the other kids. They’d pretend to be valorous knights, jousting with branches off of the trees and pushing each other into the freezing water on the coast.

It was a simple life. A good life.

Yet still, every morning he’d watch the ships out on the ocean with their bright crimson sails and wish, if only for a moment, that he could go with them. See the world outside of his little kingdom. Visit the distant shrouded islands out there in the surf, only visible on the clearest days. Hitch a ride on one of the trading wagons and see where it would take him, see the faraway places the weary merchants hailed from.

But he was not a merchant. Or a sailor, or a knight. He was Jackie, son of the miller, destined to own the mill in his parents stead and live a comfortable yet dull life grinding grain until his bones ached and creaked like the old wooden rafters of the windmill.

It almost felt selfish, in a way, to wish for more when what he had was a miracle in it of itself. His family was well off, whole and relatively happy. He lived in seclusion away from the war-torn highlands of the north, shielded from them by the vast desert. The Dire had spared the village for yet another winter. What more could he need?

And so he relegated himself to his destiny.

But still, every so often he’d awaken to a clear night a lot like this one, and hear the dappled sky call to him from the confines of his second-floor bedroom.

He tossed and turned in his bed, the woolen sheets scratchy and uncomfortable instead of the usual comfort they brought him. The heat had made it hard to sleep, and eventually he gave up trying, instead opting to slip out of bed to get some fresh air.

He was careful to keep his feet light as he made his way down, to avoid the groaning wood waking up the rest of his family. He slipped out the door into the cool summer night, relaxing a little now that he was far out of earshot as he jogged down a short way to their family stable.

It was nothing extravagant, a small wooden hut with two corrals, enough for the family’s two horses. An older dark brown mare named Brinta, and Jackie’s favorite, Marsaron, the black stallion they’d bought at auction to pull their wagon since Brinta was getting a little old for it.

He gave them a short greeting, patting Marsaron gently on the nose before saddling him up. It was difficult, considering Marsaron’s draft horse stature, but Jackie managed to clamor atop him nevertheless. He gave the boy a derisive snort as if to say:

Are you really doing what I think you’re doing?

Jackie forged on, riding Marsaron along the top of the hills surrounding the village until the windmill was but a vague silhouette in the darkness. It was a peaceful night, the air cool against his overheated skin, the soft glow of the still lit lanterns down in the valley giving the village an almost ghostly appearance. Late at night, when the world was asleep and it was just Jackie and his steed under the silver gaze of the moon, he could almost imagine himself as one of the great heroes of legend, on his way to his next victory.

He stopped at the edge of a cliffside overlooking the ocean, half dismounting half falling off of Marsaron’s back as he brought the horse to a stop. Pulling out a rope from Marsaron’s saddlebag, Jackie tied him to a nearby tree, leaving a few carrots nearby as thanks for the ride.

The cliff was a sheer drop into the rocky coast below, the sea spray peppering his face as he approached the edge. Taking special care not to get too close, Jackie took a seat a few feet from it, the grass soft and wet with dew that soaked into the thin cloth of his nightclothes.

The sky was dark and endless above him, not a cloud in sight, the moon full and bright and the stars twinkling down at him as if in greeting. His family wasn’t the most religious, save for the occasional few coins dropped at Silva’s altar for a good coming harvest, but Jackie could almost imagine the glowing eyes of Lune looking down at him from the dark canopy of the night sky. Watching over him, in a way.

A low growl startled him out of his musings, echoing out from the dark forest behind him. He whipped around, only to come face to face with a pair of wolves, inching their way out of the forest, beady eyes twinkling in the darkness. A third followed farther behind, its gaze transfixed on Marsaron.

Jackie jumped to his feet, eyes darting around for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing. The wolves suddenly sprung forth in a burst of speed, the third latching onto Marsaron’s back while the other two came for Jackie.

Marsaron bucked and squealed, managing to dislodge his attacker and land a strong kick to its midsection. The wolf went flying into a nearby tree with a sharp crack, scrambling to its feet and scampering back the way it came.

One of the wolves came barreling into Jackie, knocking him onto his back dangerously close to the cliff's edge while its jaws snapped at his throat.

He held it back by its neck, hands sinking into its tough fur as he fended it off with all his strength. The other wolf was fast approaching, and Jackie knew he couldn’t fight both at once. He screamed and cried for help as the wolf atop him got closer and closer to closing its jaws around his neck.

Then, with a sudden burst of adrenaline he pushed, shoving the wolf off of him with all his might, sending it careening off the cliff into the tumultuous waves below. He heard a sharp bark and a distant splash as it hit the water, but that was the least of his worries as the last wolf circled him, not scared off by the fates of its brethren.

He took one last step backward, his heel flush against the edge of the cliff, praying to every single god he knew of as the beast edged closer and closer. He shut his eyes, bracing himself-

“Jackie!”

He looked up, bewildered, as an arrow plunged into the wolf’s skull, sending it tumbling to the ground where it then laid still. On the crest of the hill was Jackie’s mother, bow in hand.

She dismounted Brinta and rushed to him, scooping him up into a bone-crushing hug. She held it for a short few moments before pulling back, terror and concern melting into anger.

“What were you thinking?! You could’ve been hurt or worse! I rush out here thinking someone’s stolen Marsaron and I see you-“ She trailed off, eyes landing on the bloody cuts and scrapes covering Jackie’s arms and chest from the wolves’ claws.

She sighed, kneeling down to examine the wounds closer.

“We need to get these looked at. Come on.”

She turned, untying Marsaron and handing him the lead while she took Brinta’s reins.

The walk back was slow and uncomfortable, anxiety radiating off of Jackie as he pondered all the ways his parents could punish him for almost getting himself killed.

He eventually found the courage to break the silence.

“Are you going to tell Father?”

She paused. letting out another sigh.

“No. No use getting him worked up, he’s been stressed enough as of late.” Turning to him again, her tone hardened. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Every day this week I want you out in those fields. You’re going to be doing all of the harvesting and grinding yourself. I could be much harder on you, but I figure the wolves were enough of a lesson.”

They continued walking, but he could see the tension drain out of her the farther they got from the cliff. Her eyes were lined with dark circles, pure exhaustion coming off of her in waves, and Jackie began to feel extraordinarily guilty about making her come out and rescue him in the middle of the night on top of everything else she did day to day.

She seemed to sense the guilty expression on his face. Her eyes softened.

“If I’m being honest though, I was wondering when you’d start getting into trouble. Your brothers were little devils when they were your age.”

“Really?”

All of Jackie’s older brothers were nearly adults by the time he was born, he didn’t get to see them much.

“Oh yes, definitely. Lysan once broke his arm wrestling the neighbor’s hogs, had to have it in a sling for months. Or Kyrie, he somehow managed to get himself stuck on top of one of the windmill blades and your father had to climb up there to get him down. Took all day.”

She laughed, Jackie giggling along with her. Imagining Lysan wrestling a pig was a mental image he never thought he’d have, but it put his stoic older brother in a slightly different light.

“I used to get into all sorts of trouble when I was young too. I have a feeling it’s in our blood.”

He looked up at her, into blue eyes so much like his own, and felt inclined to believe her.

He had no idea how right she really was.

So that's that! This isn’t the most exciting addition to the AU, but I just wanted to chill with something easy and give some insight into Jackie’s childhood. I hope you all enjoyed it anyway.

(Taglist)

@egopocalypse @shadowsinyoursoul @epicfangirl01 @kitnkas @mijako98 @anothermarkiplierfan @iris-the-asparagus @bunchofdoodlesinspace @spicydanhowell @ekhoecho @awkward-bullshit @amockingbirdslament @acuriousquail @hollenka99

Please let me know if you would like to be added or taken off. Thanks!

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye fanfiction #jackieboy man #jacksepticeye au #jackieboy man fanfiction #pluto's fantasy au #pluto's writings

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jpriest85-blog · 5 years

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Fallen Hero Sidestep Bio

Finally finished a character Bio for my Fallen Hero MC, Maryam Qadir

Sidestep

Name: Maryam Qadir

Gender/preferred pronouns: Female, she/her

Height: 5ft 5” (165.1cms)

Eye color: grey

Hair color and style: dark brown and styled in a neat Bob cut.

Face claim: Heidy Karam

Physical description: Maryam appears to be a Middle Eastern woman with a light olive complexion in her early thirties. Average height and with a pear-shaped body type, with a heart shaped face, noticeable eye bags, thin eyebrows with a small scar bisecting the left brow, an aquiline nose, and a small mouth with a prominent cupids bow.

Vice: coffee

Heart Break scar: outsider

Expletive: Son of a bitch!

Likes: Caffeine, death metal, musical theatre, dogs, cats

Dislikes: looking to long in the mirror, dealing with feelings

Romantic interests: F!Dr.Mortum & Ricardo Ortega

Personality: Maryam is intelligent and empathetic, which makes her a very good actress when necessary. Being able to read off the intentions and mood of the people around her and play the part accordingly when needed. This has served her well over the years, especially when she needs to lie or manipulate someone to further her plans. She's very private about her personal life even with those who she considers friends, their are still things she keeps secret. She doesn't forgive easily, even back in her hero days she was known to hold petty grudges against Steel and would often retaliate with pranks and verbal barbs when she felt wronged. She's was always very curious, which caused some issues back on the farm. She was well known to have a sense of humor back in her hero days, trading friendly quips and banter with Ortega and Anathema, or bickering with Steel. She doesn't joke around as easily as she used to but when she does joke they tend to be more along the lines of gallows humor. Maryam tends to be very hard and critical of herself especially when she remembers how she was like back in her Sidestep days, and has intense self loathing about her past and current actions. She also has some issues about control in her personal life, she takes comfort in having a certain order to things weather it's her living space, preparing her coffee, or changing her hair, personal wardrobe and makeup. Even with things like touch she prefers to do things on her terms. Sadly when it comes to things like dreams, memories, and her personal feelings she isn't as in control as she'd like and that terrifies Maryam. She hates the thought of losing control of herself just as much as she hates how the Farm trying to control her. She wanted her own life and identity so badly losing that identity either to the madness she glimpsed in other villains minds or having it taken away from her by the Farm again would be worse than death to Maryam.

Puppet

Name: John Doe

Gender: Male

Height: 6ft (182.88cms)

Eye color: blue

Hair color and style: red and wavy worn short and neat.

Face claim: Reece King

Physical description: A tall young man in his twenties of mixed ethnicity, with tanned completion and Slim athletic build. He has a square jawline, dimpled chin, a full mouth, hollow cheekbones, and almond shaped eyes.

Personality: John is charismatic, charming and clever. He's very good at reading a person or situation and acting accordingly, which has served him well with some of his more volatile clientele being able to sooth tempers, or redirect aggression when necessary. Though his friendly demeanor doesn't make John any less dangerous. While he lacks mods or any known boosts he is still a capable fighter and keeps armed either with a gun or gadget for self defense.

Villain

Name: Revenant

Armor type: Mysterious

Power ups: Armor and Speed

Motivation: show them the truth, Anarchy

Nemesis: Sidestep her past self

Stats in Fallen Hero Rebirth:

Strength of mind: 60%

Sublet Manipulation: 70%

Infamy 38% /Obscurity 62%

Arrogance 33 % /Anonymity 67%

Ruthless 32% /Empathy 68 %

Daring 46% /Caution 54%

Misc. Info & Headcanon:

•Maryam never actually chose the name she uses now. When she was wandering around after first escaping from the farm she befriended an elderly refugee couple, Muna and Amir. Muna had Alzheimers and started calling her Maryam thinking she was her dead daughter. Muna's husband Amir initially too pity on her, thinking Maryam was a homeless run away, but quickly became disturbed when she took playing house too far by mimicking his deceased daughter.

•Anathema introduced Maryam to musical theatre and when they were both bored they often used to sing excerpts from their favorite performances. It used to drive Steel crazy.

•When Maryam was first starting out as a vigilante she hid her identity wearing goggles and a scarf wrapped around her head kind of like a hijab. It made it easier for her to blend in with the Arab and Muslim refugees in Los Diablos.

•Back in her Sidestep Maryam used to wear bright colored makeup and black and blue spiked bracelets with her costume. It even became a bit of a fashion trend among her teenage and young adult fans, to wear spiked bracelets and bright colored lipstick.

•Maryam has mixed feelings about her old Sidestep fan-merch, and there was an incident where a cosmetic company tried to make her a spokesperson for their Sidestep inspired lipstick line. Maryam quickly shut them down when she learned how shady the company's business and how dangerous the cosmetics actually were. So they were pulled off before ever coming to market and are considered the holy grail of rare Sidestep merch. Herald of course owns the rare sample cosmetic set and even some of the promotional advertising for the lipstick that was never used.

•Maryam is well known to hold petty grudges when she felt offended even in her hero days. Sometimes she used to prank Steel when she was especially mad at him, and one time she got him by rigging a glitter bomb. It took Steel weeks to get all of that glitter out of his armor, and even longer to get Ortega to stop laughing about it.

•After her second escape Maryam used to often disguise or alter her appearance whenever she went out. Wigs, colored contacts, different styled outfits and full make up to hide or alter her facial features. She even disguised herself as a nun when she infiltrated the hospital to physically retrieve her puppet.

•When Maryam first started interacting with people as her puppet, John, she'd unconsciously mimic some of Ortega's speech and mannerisms. Or more specifically didn't realize she was projecting things she remembers Ortega saying or doing that she found attractive. Eventually Maryam started building and evolving off of those traits, and mixing in some of her own to eventually evolve into John's current persona.

•While Maryam is reserved about showing off skin her puppet John is not. He will often lounge around Dr. Mortums lab in various states of undress like a Calvin Klein model, or think nothing much of answering the door wearing just a towel.

•When John/Maryam commissioned Dr. Mortum to design the Revenant suit they had the Doctor add a few stylistic touches. There is detailing in the armor that makes it resemble a skeleton and the mirrored helmet has an etched skull decal, that becomes more visible under certain lighting or when up close. Along with the dark color scheme and cape the overall appearance is very cryptic and gives off a grim reaper like aesthetic.

•There is a neighborhood Bodega Maryam likes to shop at for groceries because they carry a brand of imported coffee she loves. Hector, the elderly gentleman who runs the Bodega has a bit of a crush on Maryam, because she reminds him of his late wife, he even gave Maryam the nickname María Bonita, after an old Spanish love song. Maryam has used this to her advantage, dressing up in flattering clothes and chatting up Hector to get a discount on his imported coffee.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero #sidestep: maryam #revenant #puppet:john #character bio

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dahlthir-blog · 7 years

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➜ Caedis Cruor has been accepted!

Welcome to Dahlthir, Cat! Your application for Caedis Cruor has been approved. You’ll have 5 days to turn in your blog to the masterlist. If you need more time, you can send us a message!

The character portion of the application can be found under the cut. A level 4 vampire with level 5 boots! Well, not really but those must be pretty powerful boots to withstand such strong winds. Whomever this army belonged to needs a taste of justice or something! At the very least, the vampire lord did get punished in the end (with death). It’s still so sad, though. I’m just glad that Caedis wasn’t banished and that he left on his own terms. I hope Dahlthir treats him well!

Other Characters: Thraece Sealgair Faceclaim(s) & Series: Ferid Bathory from Owari no Seraph

External image

Character Name: Caedis Cruor

Housing: Above his butcher shop

Age: Looks 25, is 200 years old

Appearance: While seemingly effeminate, Caedis is incredibly strong due to his vampire lineage. He is 6’ 3” but gains another inch due to his love for boots that can withstand a cyclone. His hair is naturally white, but it has a metallic gleam making it seem silver toned, or when matted and dusty from travel or battle, looks gray. Despite his seemingly flawless face, he has had many facial scars that have healed up. In fact, one would only be able to tell if he were to ingest or be impaled in some way by silver. His fangs appear to be fairly normal canines, perhaps larger and sharper than an average person’s but he is able to extend them when drinking. He is fastest, strongest, and sanest after feeding, and becomes less so if he has gone too long without sustenance, and it is visible on him as his eyes show a beautiful but disturbing shadow of purple, as if slightly bruised, and his eyes darken to a red so deep it might as well be black. On the whole, he is often smiling, and seems like a cheerful enough fellow, if a bit extravagant and lofty. Are they a part of the Adventurer’s Guild? He is not, he runs a butcher shop at the edge of the market with a small farm out back, and lives above it on the second floor. This is his livelihood and also his source of blood (as drained from meat in preparation to sell). Warnings: Blood/Death/Violence/War Personality:

(+) He is patient and curious, and is willing to help those who need it, occasionally lending his strength to guild members going on quests (when requested for such from the guild leader)

(+) He shows gratefulness and understanding of his own advantages.

Ex: He normally hunts animals, as a human would, with bow and arrow, but he is aware that he maintains an advantage and is accordingly grateful.

(+) He is loyal, and will go to war for those who have earned his trust.

(-) He is vindictive, and is not afraid to exact revenge if someone he cares about is hurt, or if someone betrays him.

(-) He likes to play head games, and will toy with someone as if hunting them, if they get on his bad side.

(-) He is possessive to the point of danger.

Background: Caedis was not born a vampire, nor is Caedis his birth name. He took the name the night he was captured, what he calls the night of massacres. His was a small mountain village, tucked into the leeward side of the mountain, was mainly farming. They stayed amongst themselves mostly, but they trades with other villages at the larger markets, and it was through those trade days that Caedis’ human parents met. His father was from the mountain village, and his mother from the edge of the rainforest nearly a day’s ride away. They fell in love as young children, and married as young adults. They had four children, of whom Caedis was the youngest, and only boy child. His sisters were loving and played with him often. His parents were doting and did the best they could for all of their children, including teaching them all to read and write, despite being middle class of that area. It was when Caedis was twenty that a powerful army stormed through the village. Thankfully his sisters had all married and moved out to larger towns, but he lived with his parents to care for them, and was unable to save them when he was captured by the army. Almost all of the elders of the town were killed, and the soldiers and their captain took over the town, conscripting the young men of the town to their army, and putting the young children and girls to work. Caedis was rebellious even then, and was often punished in his failed but destructive attempts to get revenge. It took five years before finally the vampire lord for which the foreign army fought, took notice of Caedis. It was then, at twenty-five, that Caedis was turned into a vampire as punishment for disobedience. His sire however, underestimated him. Caedis bided his time, and healed himself on small animals that came too close to his cage outside, tricking the lord into thinking that his starvation of Caedis was successful. The night that he intended to bleed him out in front of all the ranks, in a show of power, that he could create and destroy even immortals.He was not however, expecting Caedis to be faster, stronger, and hell-bent on revenge. Caedis slaughtered him, and then turned to the troops next. He didn’t leave a single one alive. Sicked, and drunk on the blood of hundreds, he crawled away from the battlefield lay waiting for death on the floor of his childhood home. He awoke to find his sisters there, with others from the neighboring villages, helping to repair the town, and to begin caring for the young children who had been slaving away for the vampire lord and his army.

He was terrified that they would think him a monster, and that he would be shunned, but instead, he was hailed a hero. His village rebuilt with his sisters, and their husbands leading the way. He stayed for fifty years there, watching as his sisters grew old, and his nieces and nephews grew older, and he did not change. Eventually it grew too much to bear, and he moved on after a goodbye to his sisters. He went back for a visit many times to check on his nieces and nephews, and then his great nieces and nephews, and after that, decided that watching from afar was an easier task than watching his family live mortal lives, leaving him over and over. He still has people watching over them, making sure they will always have everything they need, and knowing that he would be there to help them if they needed, in heartbeat, though his no longer beat.

Level: 4 General Powers/Abilities/Unusual Traits Description: What can they do? He has inhuman speed, strength, agility, and senses making him the ultimate predator.

What is the range and the limit of their powers? He is limited by how long it has been since he’s fed, and also if he has been injured with silver.

How do they use their powers during an ordinary day? He is a butcher so the animals he does not raise for slaughter (such as his cows, sheep, and chicken) he hunts for (such as deer, rabbit, and quail). Specific Powers/Abilities/Traits of Note: He is also able to hypnotize, meant to immobilize his prey, but he has never used.

Extra: Due to his trauma from being turned into a vampire the way he was, he is ashamed of it, and plays himself off as very cavalier about everything, almost recklessly. He is however lonely, for friends, and for family, and does not know how to approach people.

#dahl acceptance

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osimint · 7 years

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Ghosts of 1962 can be laid to rest at Doka La, says Shiv Kunal Verma, author of '1962, The War That Wasn't'

Shiv Kunal Verma, author of highly acclaimed books like 1962: The War That Wasn't and The Long Road to Siachen: The Question Why and a trilogy on the Northeast, is intimately aware of the ground situation in both Sikkim and Arunachal Pradesh. Speaking about the stand-off between India and China at the tri-junction border, he said, "If you are familiar with the terrain around the tri-junction, there is no way the Chinese can try and cut off the Siliguri Corridor from that axis."

Here's the full interview.

Do you see any similarity between what happened in 1962 and the situation presently unfolding vis-a-vis China?

The answer is both yes and no. Let's be very clear about one thing: The army even in 1962 was quite capable of taking China on. In fact, wherever they were allowed to fight — Rajput Regiment at Nam Ka Chu, Sikh Regiment at Bum La, Garhwal Rifles at Nuranang, Kumaon Regiment at Walong, and Jat Regiment in DBO and the Galwan Valley — they gave an excellent account of themselves. It was the senior leadership, both civilian and military, that imploded. Also, had the Indian Air Force come into play, it would have been a different story. In my mind one thing is quite clear: This army is no pushover. I filmed the Kargil war and the thing that impressed me the most was the fact that every man was moving forward, going about his job with no panic or fear. Not just soldiers, even civilian truck drivers, Ladakhi porters, everyone. It was fantastic.

But yes, there are similarities. We still continue to play around with our military leadership and at times we are too passive in our approach. The Chinese for a long time had been playing the probing game. And this time they probably cut too close to the bone. The way I see it, we had to react. Fifty-five years ago, when USSR started installing missile sites in Cuba, everyone was freaked. In this case, the tri-junction virtually overlooks the corridor. The Chinese wanting to push the road up to the tri-junction was uncalled for; India had to put its foot down.

You had said earlier that it's like putting your hand in a hornet's nest.

It most certainly is. It's imperative that we are prepared for all eventualities. The Chinese have always been unpredictable and you cannot make the same mistake twice. It would be ridiculous to assume that they will not do this or that. But if they do push for a border engagement, I think they are in for a shock. It may be a hornet's nest, but at the end of the day, you should make sure you are the guys who get to eat the honey.

So you think a border clash is a possibility? Would the Chinese follow up on their threat to throw the Indian Army out of the Doka La plateau?

They are welcome to try, but that would be suicidal in my opinion. Firstly, the Doka La plateau is purely an ego issue for them; in reality, it serves no actual military purpose. If you are familiar with the terrain around the tri-junction, there is no way the Chinese can try and cut off the Siliguri Corridor from that axis. It would mean an all-out war and it would require a major logistic exercise to do something like that. If they have to do something to save face — since they have been making a lot of aggressive statements — they'll try and spook you by moving troops in other areas and hope the Indian public and the media panic.

On the other hand, I don't think India has a choice. Strategic value or not, we simply cannot allow the road to be built. How this plays out will also decide how the India-Tibet border issue is eventually settled. Equally importantly, it will also impact the future defence of the subcontinent. And it's important for us as a people to understand that Nepal and Bhutan, by virtue of being on the southern side of the watershed, are also key players in the overall defence of the subcontinent.

China can be expected to do the unexpected, but just what do they gain by actually getting into a border scrap with India? The trade equation is extremely lopsided in their favour. Not only is India a huge emerging market, we are also an emotional people. Already, comments on social media and other networks about boycotting Chinese products are giving them the heebie jeebies. The moment the first shots are fired in anger across the border, be it at Ladakh, Himachal, Garhwal, Kumaon, Sikkim or Arunachal, I think there will be a tsunami of anti-Chinese sentiment which could result in massive economic losses for them. And plus, let's not forget the rest of the world still views China with suspicion and most countries would become even more wary. As time passes and the matter lingers, the danger for the Chinese leadership is that the Doka La issue may become more and more internalised.

There is talk of the US not sitting idle if there is indeed a clash between India and China. The Malabar exercise's timing was interesting in that regard.

Frankly, even though the general impression is that we have been getting rather cosy with the Americans of late, let's not be under any illusion. They are nobody's friends. In the build up to 1962, they played a fairly provocative role. Take the supply of weapons through Sikkim, the CIA's not so covert role in helping the Dalai Lama escape, and U-2 flights over Tibet. Bottom line is, we shouldn't need anyone else to fight our battles for us. And I think it's time our politicians developed a spine and trusted our own army, air force and navy.

Of late, if you listen to various think tanks, one would get the impression that they are getting carried away with the so-called improved geo-political ties between the US and India. So long as Pakistan with its umbilical cord intact exists as a key ally of the Pentagon, it does not really matter if Donald Trump has this mad desire to hug Prime Minister Modi and everything 'Hindu' or not. In fact, Russia still remains the key player as far as we are concerned and it saddens me to see so many of our experts turn their backs towards Moscow. Vis-a-vis China, Russia will always be India's greatest counter-balance and the fact that the Russians are the immediate northern neighbours of the Chinese certainly puts them in a far better position to deal with Beijing than the United States does.

So how do you see this play itself out? What should India do?

Nothing really. Doka La is Bhutanese territory and the standoff costs us nothing in real terms. China has to give an undertaking that they will not build roads, be it for sightseeing or for military purposes. The day they revert to the standstill status which they had earlier agreed upon with Bhutan, the impasse will end.

At least in the case of Doka La, we have the ability to stand up and say enough is enough. The Malabar exercise was probably aimed at sending out a message to China by the Americans and the Japanese, but there is nothing much happening in the Indian Ocean to stop China from doing what it jolly well wants to do. Take the case of Sri Lanka for example. After getting into a hole where it borrowed recklessly from China, Prime Minister Ranil Wickremesinghe is now having to brush aside all opposition and consider handing over the Hambantota Port on a 99-year lease. Though India along with the US and Japan and the people of Sri Lanka are protesting, the Sri Lankan government is caught on the horns of a dilemma. I think it's important for all countries in Asia and Africa to see for themselves just how China is operating.

This has been China's modus operandi for decades. From India's point of view, Hambantota isn't any different from the Doka La plateau. The security of South Asia is already in tatters, with Pakistan virtually being a province of China. It is therefore vital that all countries — Nepal and Bangladesh in particular — keep the security of the subcontinent in mind and watch each other's backs.

What about the land border between India and China?

The border with Tibet is what you mean. China has been playing games since 1949 and it's a pity that no one ever challenged their interpretation of history. Mao made the biggest landgrab of all time when he annexed Sinkiang and Tibet in 1949 and 1950. Suddenly India had the Chinese on our entire northern frontier and all existing treaties with Tibet went out of the window. Someone needed to challenge Mao's narrative. But nobody did it then, and we seem to hesitate to take the subject head on even today, for reasons I cannot understand.

If you really see how things developed in the first and second decades of the 20th Century when the border between India and Tibet was being drawn up, be it the Morshead-Bailey expedition or the Simla Agreement of 1914, everything is there in black and white. What's more, the Chinese have none of the original documents, for they went with the Kuomintang government to Taiwan. We also have the Dalai Lama sitting in India for five and a half decades. He may be a man of peace who does not want to ruffle Chinese feathers, but he can easily ratify what the Tibetan Kashag and Lõn-chen Shatra agreed to in Simla vis a vis Tawang.

Much the same can be said for the existing boundaries with Kashmir. India has to aggressively put out the counter-narrative for its own people, and also for China and for the world. If you don't do that, the Chinese will continue to dispute every grazing ground and tree in the Himalayas.

I come back to the importance of developing the counter-narrative. The exaggerated China-centric version of history doled out ever since Mao came into being has a basic flaw; a lot of it is simply not true! There have been times when Chinese emperors have bowed their head before the Mongols and the Tibetans and paid tribute. But that means nothing in today's context. The McMahon Line for example was drawn up based on a physical survey of the watershed, backed up by a demographic and historical analysis of the entire belt extending from Burma to Nepal. That the Southern Himalayas have nothing to do with Tibet is a fact and I see absolutely no reason to be defensive about it.

I've been moving around quite a lot on the eastern sector and it's obvious that our road infrastructure is far from adequate. The other side has excellent communication network as well. Does that put our army at a disadvantage?

The northern side of the Great Himalayan Range — call it the Trans-Himalaya if you like — on the map looks more daunting because of the height. However, the watershed acts as a massive rain shadow and the Tibetan plateau in comparison to the southern side is a lot more stable geographically. The terrain on our side is far more complex, but over the years our defence planning has vectored all those factors in. The advancement in rotor wing and fixed wing technology has also changed the equation quite a bit. I personally think we do not have to try and match the Chinese road for road, rail for rail. Ecological factors must be kept in mind and at the end of the day, the Himalayan belt has to be protected. Look at what happened in Kedarnath? In fact, the maniacal need to develop the areas on our side is killing the Himalayas. We may even need to learn from Bhutan and restrict entry into these areas completely.

You've also been critical of the Indian media in the past. You even told Maroof Raza on Latitude that the Chinese probably looked at Indian television channels as force multipliers.

In this case, I think the Indian media has been a lot more restrained and I'm happy to see that. The Doka La story was kept under wraps for nearly two weeks, and it was eventually the Chinese who broke the news, and they have been getting shriller and shriller. Having said that, whichever way the Doka La story plays out, I think it's important for the Indian side to not get carried away. There are no brownie points to be scored here. We have to just do what we have to do, and that's to stand our ground and if necessary, fight to protect it. What is absolutely vital is for every soldier manning the bunkers facing either China or Pakistan to be secure in the knowledge that every man, woman and child stands firmly behind him.

In the middle of the standoff, Eastern Command is seeing a change of guard. With General Pravin Bakshi retiring in the next 24 hours, there will be a new army commander holding the baton.

To me it seems that the man who has been the army commander for the last two years and who knows the ground situation better than anyone else should stay there for a while. At least until the situation on Doka La steadies out. It is unfortunate that games being played at the top level continue to be played and appointments today are seen to be more and more political. I think Doka La should also sound an alarm pertaining to the state of our armed forces. You actually have CAG in the middle of all this going on record to say we have ten days' ammunition reserves.

I think that was the main reason for all the hullabaloo, around a former army chief's khulasa in 2012. At a very basic level, Doka La underlines the fragility of geopolitics. Here are two nuclear armed countries ready to go to war over a desolate, godforsaken plateau that borders Bhutan. To me, it brings to mind what President Roosevelt is quoted to have said: "When you walk alone, just carry a big stick". And it's up to our politicians and bureaucrats to ensure that the danda isn't hollow.

Published Date: Jul 30, 2017 09:28 pm | Updated Date: Jul 31, 2017 11:33 am

Rajeev Bhattacharyya

http://www.firstpost.com/india/ghosts-of-1962-can-be-laid-to-rest-at-doka-la-says-shiv-kunal-verma-author-of-1962-the-war-that-wasnt-3874349.html

#doka la #doka la crisis #doklam #south asia #india #china #border dispute #1962 war

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axiom-of-man-blog · 7 years

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Chapter one:Year 44 DE (Dawn of Eminence)

A man said to the universe: “Sir, I exist!” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.” -Stephen Crane

I wake up to her standing over me in my bed, pale, eyes glazed over, her hair a mess and her night gown clung to her sweaty body. She’s ghastly pale, heavy bags under her eyes. She is gaunt. “Icarus.. I.. I need to be buried..” she says at almost a whisper I rub my eyes as I start to rise out of bed. I can hear the birds chirping outside my window. Blades of light came in, slicing up my room. In the morning cheer, a walking corpse seemed out of place. She puts her cold, clammy hand on my shoulder; she reeks of booze and BO. “Icarus, I need you to bury me. I’m... dead. I shouldn’t be here.” “Mom, have you been drinking?” I say. “Honey… Please. I need this.” Her hand slices into the heat of mine as I bring her to the basement. My mother suffers from a delusion ever since the accident and her reincarnation. Reincarnation: a stupid flowery name for when someone dies and their backed up mind is placed into a new body that has been either donated or sold and have plastic surgeons reconstruct the face and body as close as possible -- if you are rich like us, that is. So she, in fact, isn’t wrong; she died. She should be dead. My father never had those last moments erased before the “reincarnation”. So because my mother’s mind is more frail than most she has a depersonalization disorder. It’s what happens when, “I think therefore I am” turns into, “I think, but I am not.” So the only way she can rationalize this is to insist she is dead and demand us to bury her. This happens once every few months. She won’t let anyone touch her to try and erase the memories. It’s too much of an embarrassment to have her go to counseling for an important man like my father. So he found his own solution. We bury her. She squeezes my hand as I unlock the basement door and take the steps down. The basement is lavish, large drapes covering walls to look as if they are holding out the light. A hardwood floor that reflects the candlelight and always empty pews. It was a priest short of being a church, or a killer short of being a bad horror movie. In the center of the finished basement we have a casket with a hole underneath. I help her in and as I close the lids.

“Thank you,” she sighs as she is enveloped in darkness. I lower the casket into the hole with the automatic mechanism. This has to be done or else she won’t eat or drink. What’s the point of a corpse eating? So we have this ritual so she doesn’t actually die. It takes a day usually and she is rejuvenated and perky. Then the cycle starts again.

As I sit at the island in my house’s large open kitchen I rub the bumps at the base of my neck. This is where the stim implant was put into me. Usually they are put in around the age of eighteen, My father had one put in me when I was 8. Almost losing his wife he wanted to make sure his son had the same insurance. So since eight I was connected to the global network. My memories everything I am stored in a computer as well as a small chip in the implant under my skin. My life reduced to ones and zeros. It’s strange to think of life being reduced to a series of electrical synapses in our brain. A series of on and off switches that when amassed together is who we are. My thought is broken by the babble on the little TV on the kitchen counter “Jason Carway, the owner and mastermind behind Prometheus Systems, announces his plan to make his implants universal and available to everyone. Some say he is trying to bring the classes together, others say he is trying to make humans irrelevant, while James says he is just trying to make the world a better and safer place. “Jason Carway is pushing for mandatory installation of his implants now that most jobs require you have one. Later, is the black market body trade becoming an epidemic? More later at –“ “That’s enough of those assholes,” I thought to myself. I sat there, eating my bagel in silence. After moving from the city years ago, I thought it was way too quiet. There was always a hum of busy noise. Car horns, people yelling. It took me awhile to realize that it isn’t any quieter up here -- just a different kind of noise. Instead of insufferable noise of the human habitat, I am listening to the sounds of the natural habitat. A myriad of sounds, bugs buzzing, birds singing their songs, the occasional wolf in the night; all of them trying to assert themselves, sexually or territorially. It leaves an earthy taste in my mouth as I listen to the racket. It doesn’t mix well with my bagel.

I decide to go next door to see my uncle, Henry the local eccentric hippy prepper. It’s still cool despite being mid may. The luxury of living up in the Adirondack Mountains, some of the woods higher up there is still some remaining snow. The last of the waning corpse of winter; holding on for dear life. I hear a “thwap” as an arrow sinks into a target and my uncle looks at me grinning. “Hey there, Icky. I think I can finally best you and your hawk eye,” He says as I approach. “We will see, old man,” I reply, grabbing my bow off the picnic table. It’s a light instrument resembling a recurve bow, although it’s made of an alloy that gives it more power than the compound bows of the past. I draw, aim, and release all in one quick motion. My three fingers moving with machine quickness, the arrow sinks in next to one of my uncles, stripping the feather off on one side. “I’ll be damned,” he says, “What the hell kind of sorcery are you working with, man?” This is an old tradition between us trying, trying to best each other, trick shots. It started after he read me lord of the rings as child to help me sleep at night. I became enthralled with Legolas, the elf, and wanted to start learning to shoot bow and arrow. My mother objected, my father was indifferent, and my uncle leaped at the opportunity to teach me something. Having no children, he projected his need to be a father on me, even though the man was near his 70’s without ever having a reincarnation. It’s rare to see anyone that age, despite the medical advances making it easy to live regularly to 100 years or more, unless they are of the pauper class and can’t afford it. “Your old man is still out of town?” he asks. “Yeah, It’s been 3 weeks now.” He examines an arrow’s feathers. “You know I don’t agree with what he does.” “I know. I know.” “Never liked a man who profits from war and suffering,” He comments more to himself than to me. “I know he’s your father, I know Carol fell in love with him years ago, but he is married to his company and his vision.”

We talk about this a lot, my absent father, my broken mother, how I should feel about it. He knows that complex emotions are not tangible to me. He is quiet for a moment, rolling the arrow back and forth in his hands.

“The Freethought Movement, they have it right. We should not let technology take our humanity away.” I stand silently. Politics aren’t my thing. Prometheus Systems wants to standardize the singularity. They want everyone to be “connected body and mind” to their network, to live forever in a paradise that we create here. With a fee, they back up everyone’s memory so they can live in any body they want or without a body and just transmit themselves to other people who act as puppets temporarily, Echoborgs, or green eyes. When an AI or someone wants to be somewhere without leaving their home, they control them and they see through these special contacts that are standard issue. The contacts glow green when someone else is in control. Essentially people can bi-locate; they can always live forever as long as the money flows in to keep their minds backed up on a hard drive somewhere. They acquire people from agencies that hire people as their job to let someone control them for a certain amount of time. It’s a shallow job that can put you in a lot of danger. Green eyes tend to be targeted by the Free thought Project and its sympathizers as people who have betrayed their humanity. There has been a few bombings at donation centers, These centers people can go to and sell their body to be used to house someone who has died, They essentially turn the body into a puppet that is controlled by the stim implant. The person they were is effectively wiped off the earth. The poor do this because it pays well, they can set up their remaining family for years depending on the body. There is always a shortage in usable bodies. “They want to make the rich immortal and wipe out the poor.” That is how the Freethought Movement summarizes it. They see Jason Carway as a false profit promising a false salvation, while the world sees him as a messiah. “Governor Percy has it right, He is having a protest down in Austin Texas, I am surprised that state hasn’t seceded its already like another country.” Governor Cornelius Percy has fought technological progress since long before he gained office. Texas is one of the only states where it isn’t mandatory to have a stim implant to work. They donation centers, and any enhancements are highly taxed. “Texas is a state of humans, A state with a soul” Is Percy’s slogan that you hear everywhere. “There’s no room in this world for a man who thinks he’s a god,” He declares as he draws back his bow. I notice his pristine shape; it always takes me by surprise. The muscles in his arms work like tight cables as he knocks his arrow and draws. His stern but friendly face focused a crooked nose, and a silver pony tail hanging to his mid back. The arrow is loosed and strikes the target, piercing a quarter he had glued there. He grins, “Think you can hit a penny at 40 yards?” “Of course,” I say.

The thing about memories is that they aren’t corporeal, they are malleable. Every time you unpack a memory it changes. Like clay, it’s the same item, same memory but you leave imprints and it’s never the same. Human memory is fallible and prone to influences. It’s what makes last memories so ephemeral. The thing about last moments is you don’t realize they are the last. It’s just another day you take for granted in the obdurate gyre of your life. We want certain moments to be evocative, that’s why we taint them with happiness when we recall them. The fact is there are places you have been, people you have talked to for the last time, and their features have already faded from your mind.

#Horror #cotard delusion #cosmic horror

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