Thinkin bout Cryptid Luke…
A few ideas I have…
Luke in Legends’ continuity rebuilt the Jedi Order, but in Disney’s continuity, he did not. And while I strongly dislike Disney’s version of Old Luke, I do like the idea in my head of a lone Jedi operating without any Order (which is not what Disney’s Luke is, so I guess there’s nothing really there…)
Like, in the days of the Old Republic, you had to ask the Jedi for help. The Jedi sometimes stumbled on problems, yes, but they mostly responded to cries for help.
Luke doesn’t have that option. Yes, he can respond when a Force Sensitive calls for help with magic rocks, but for the most part, he is just wandering. He is going where the Force guides him. He is just… not there, blink, there.
I like the idea that things go to shit, Luke shows up in his ominous black hood, Luke solves the problem, then Luke vanishes as quickly as he came, with no trace he was ever there.
However, side idea: Luke travels with his motley crew of children. But, THEY are ALSO crypids!
Like, you are a citizen of some planet. You are just standing on a corner, waiting for a space bus, looking at a space newspaper, and you glance up and see an ominously cloaked figure standing on the opposite side of the street. You cannot make out any features. It is dark out, and he is standing beneath a space streetlight, but all the light does is cast his face further into shadow.
Quickly, you look back down, hoping that the ominous shape across the street hasn’t noticed you. You feel a chill run down your spine. You sneak a glance back up, only to find that there is another black-cloaked figure, standing right beside the first. It is half the first’s height, but it’s also cloaked in darkness.
You look down again. You hear a noise, like moving fabric, and look back up, worried the pair is approaching, only to find another small, ominous shape has joined the first two beneath the space streetlight. You can’t bring yourself to look away, and so watch as another black-cloaked figure emerges from behind the tallest one, the first one.
Finally, the shape moves as though inclining its head. You feel your heart begin to race as it slowly turns to face you, and the streetlights finally illuminate a mouth. A mouth that is baring a smile full of sharp teeth, right towards you.
A space bus suddenly drives past, blocking your view for only a second. But, as the bus passes, the four shapes are gone. Vanished without a trace. The streetlight goes out. You decide that you should never smoke death sticks again, despite the fact that you have never smoked a single death stick in your entire life.
(Luke was going to the grocery store with his children. He was just trying to wait for them to catch up, since he got lost in thought trying to figure out how many vegetables to get. He noticed that the person across the street seemed scared, and so tried to smile reassuringly, but there was a noise in a back alley that he and his three students darted over to check out. It’s a cat. The four of them are very pleased.)
Or, I like to think that there’s a rumour that if you say “Skywalker” in an Imperial base, Luke Skywalker will show up and destroy the place. Most of the Stormtroopers and older people are like “psh, yeah right. Jedi can’t hear their name across the galaxy.”
But, slowly but surely, the whispers of Skywalker’s name are dying out. Because he. Keeps. On. Appearing. Right after anyone says his name, even if it’s in a whisper.
(Luke just so happened to be in the area. It was the will of the Force ¯\ _(ツ)_/¯ )
There are so many options for Cryptid Luke! So! Many! Options! This man does not know how to enter a conversation like a normal person, he just appears from the shadows and scares people. Most of the galaxy think he’s just a myth created by the New Republic and the Empire. The leftover Jedi themselves think that he’s just a myth made up by the New Republic and the Empire. Nobody believes he exists aside from the people who have seen him, but even they are half convinced that they made him up.
I just would like Luke to randomly show up, kill some Imperials, scare some other Imperials, adopt another child, then go home. It’s my ideal.
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tfw you see some stupid post that paints medieval peasants eating just plain grey porridge and acting as if cheese, butter or meat was too exotic or expensive for them, and have to use all your inner strength to not just reblog it with an angry rant and throwing hands with people. so i will just post the angry rant here
no, medieval people did not only eat grey porridge with no herbs or spices, they had a great variety of vegetables we dont even have anymore, grains and dairy products, not to mention fruits and meats, all seasonal and changing with the time of the year. no, medieval food was not just tasteless, maybe this will surprise some of you but you can make tasty food without excessive spice use, and can use a variety of good tasting herbs. if you'd ever tried to cook some medieval recipes you would know that. medieval people needed a lot of energy for their work, if they would only eat fucking porridge all of the time they would get scurvy and die before they could even built a civilisation. they had something called 'pottage' which was called that because it was cooked in one pot. you could leave the pot on the fire and go about your day, doing stuff and come back to a cooked meal. they put in what was available that time of the year, together with grains, peas, herbs, meat etc etc. again, if you would try to make it, like i have with my reenactment friends, it can actually be really good and diverse.
dont confuse medieval peasants with poor people in victorian england. dont think that TV shows what it was really like. dont think that dirty grey dressed people covered in filth were how the people looked like.
they made use of everything. too poor to buy proper meat? buy a sheeps head and cook it. they ate nettle and other plants we consider weeds now. they foraged and made use of what they found. hell, there are medieval cook books!
most rural people had animals, they had chickens (eggs), goats (milk and dairy), cows (milk and dairy), sheep (milk and dairy) and pigs (meat machine), and after butchering they used ALL THE PARTS of the animal. you know how much meat you can get out of a pig, even the smaller medieval breeds? the answer is a lot
if you had the space you always had a vegetable garden. there are ways to make sure you have something growing there every time of the year. as i said they had a variety of vegetables (edit: yes onions are vegetables, for those who dont seem to know) we dont have anymore due to how farming evolved. you smoked pork in the chimney, stored apples in the dry places in your house, had a grain chest. people could go to the market to buy fish and meat, both fresh and dried/smoked. they had ale, beer and wine, that was not a luxury that was a staple part of their diet.
this post ended once again up being longer than i planned, but please for the love of the gods, just actually educate yourself on this stuff and dont just say stupid wrong shit, takk
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Little blurb that’s been sitting in my Docs for while based on @auspicioustidings idea from a while ago now i think— But yeah! I’be got like zero motivation to continue this- butttttt i liked the scene a lot so it shall be seen now! (Plus it’s Mhari’s Birthday!!! Happy Birthday Mhari! :> Even though i’m a few hours late into the day Hope you’re having a wonderful birth celebration!)
Based on a a scene i cooked up where reader finally gets caught by none other than the Ghost himself:
The weight of a gun in your hand is familiar.
So is the quiet sounds of a break in. You point at the door, watching, waiting. Like clockwork it creaks open, and there he is.
“Don’t move.”
You say sharply. Making the gun in your hand well known to the intruder.
Silence. He stares at you, you stare back. How many times have you done this dance? Tense words and a dashing messy escape. (The poorly wrapped bandages around your abdomen throb answering you question for you. Too many then.)
You sigh, and lower the gun.
He doesn’t even look suprised.
With a soft, Thump! ,you plop backwards onto the bed, arms outstretched. The gun is still in your hand but it’s dead weight. (Just like you.)
“…You’re not gonna ever stop are you?”
It’s said up at the shitty hotel ceiling. Hushed in the darkness of the room.
“No.”
He says it so simply.
You hum, pulling your knees and legs up onto the bed and rolling over. Back facing him, on your side. You snag a plushie on the way, hugging it close to your chest and settling your chin atop its head.
“Well shit. Turn all my red flags to white then, i give up.”
Defeated. Hushed. Tired. It sounds so unlike your normal voice. “But you already knew that didn’t you?”
There’s a dip in the bed, true to his namesake- he was silent as he walked to sit. You haven’t even heard him.
“…Who did your bandages?” Gruff bastard with his gruff voice. Sounding way too passive for talking with you, an enemy, his target actually. He should be barking orders and threats to you, you’ve heard the way he speaks on a mission before, all bite and harsh. But he shows none of that tension now. Not a lick of hostility.
“Who do you think?” You snort out, tucking your face into the head of the plushie and vehemently ignoring him.
“Kid, you need help. You can’t survive on your own.” Straight to business it seems.
Without even turning to look at him, you halfheartedly raise your middle finger.
He sighs.
Silence. Blissful, damning, silence. You’ve no more fight left to give and he knows it. Months on the run, months of constant near death escapes, months of being hunted like a dog. You’re tired. So tired.
“Ya know, Torture isn’t an effective way of getting info outta someone: statistically speaking.”
“We’re not gonna torture you.”
“But you do want that info don’t you?”
More silence.
You hum knowingly.
“And what happens after you get your precious information? You’ll kill me? Maim me like all the other fuckers who end up in your shit list?”
“No. Never.”
He says it with such ferocity it almost takes you by surprise for a second. If you were to be facing him, you would see the hardness of his eyes. The pure conviction swarming in his gaze.
“Not you. Never you.”
…
Finally you turn to him, feeling far too much like a young little kid on the playground who just can’t understand-
“Why?”
Something in his gaze softness. He wants to tell you this because he cares. The team cares. All of them- that they saw you, a prickly, panicked little bird in over their head and flying blind- but he knows it an answer you won’t accept. One you won’t understand. Not at this stage. Not yet. You don’t believe in words, you’ve been lied too far too many times for that.
So he says something you will believe. A watered down version of the truth that feels like such a disservice to everything that makes up your very being.
“You’re interesting.”
You seem to digest his words. Turning them over and thinking in that little head of yours.
‘How long is that interest gonna last?’
That's what you want to say. You want to scream at the top of your lungs that he doesn’t want you. No one does. He’ll get sick of your brashness eventually- he’ll learn and grow used to your tricks. And when your spontaneity grows old, you know what’ll happen.
But you don’t.
You say nothing except—
“…Can I at least pack my bags? …please?”
He knows you don’t have much to pack. He also knows you’re one tricky, flighty little bird. However, he heard your small plea, sees the defeated look in your eyes, the way your hand is so lax around the gun.
Gently, oh so gently, he takes the gun from your hand. You don’t even try and fight him.
“Sorry little bird. Can’t trust you to pack.”
The sad look on your face nearly makes him reconsider. But he can’t risk you getting away again. Not when you’re so easy to catch right now. So vulnerable.
“Can’t you restrain me and then i’ll tell you what to pack?”
That, he can do.
“Up.”
Commands come so naturally to him. You’re almost jealous at how easily they fall from his lips.
Like the old defeated dog you are, you listen, sitting up and presenting your hands to him to restrain. You don’t meet his eyes.
He takes no chances, you are securely bound with a pair of handcuffs. He tugs on them, standing you up and nudging you to the common area of your hotel room. It’s a sizable room, a nice hotel, though truthfully you hadn't really been thinking when you booked it. Brain to frazzled and exhausted to think about anything beyond a clean bed and a hot shower.
The lights are flicked on by his gloved hands, flooding your vision. You hiss blinking and adjusting while he nudges you to the center of the room, down into your knees.
“What am I looking for here, bird?”
Your gaze flicks to him, then to the corner of the room, a vent right by a little corner desk with a lamp.
He follows your gaze and then, (with one last hard look towards you that screams ‘stay’), he walks over. Inside the vent is a crumpled up backpack, old and raggedy. It looks out of place amongst the clean cream colors of the hotel amenities.
He prods at the thing, trained caution. (You don’t blame him after your last stunt with explosives.)
Unceremoniously he opens up the bag and dumps all its contents on the floor. You wince, watching your whole life be scattered on the ground.
A journal, a thermal blanket, a lighter, cash, USB sticks, Your laptop in its thick padded casing (thank god), stolen hotel amenities, nicotine patches, several pill bottles, a half empty water bottle, a pocket knife, bullets…
Your own personal little horde of trinkets.
“Was that necessary…?” You mutter, as he stuffs some stuff back into the bag.
“Can’t blame me for bein’ cautious.”
“Well- i could.”
He turns to look at you. Just… stares at you, all you can see is his eyes at that dreadful mask, boring into yours. He doesn’t need to say anything. You both know you could but you never. Been through too much to really blame him.
You’ve saved his life before, even though he was hunting you. You both know you would never blame him for doing his job. Not at this point.
(Just as he would never blame you for running.)
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