#* ( visage. ) miracle magic.

[the-ravens-requiem]

Plague-Tober 2023 #1 - Safe

DOCTOR'S NOTES - #666

- - -

There are many small towns and villages scattered amidst the forests and rivers in the Middle Kingdom. In one such village to the north called Pine Hollow, there is a clinic nestled amidst tall trees.

Those who are suffering from a malady or illness seek the physician out, well known for his bedside manner and kindness. Walking through the dark wood and coming across the small clinic is not an easy task for the afflicted, nevertheless the pilgrimage is often completed.

Tales of his healing magic curing symptoms of illness that plague the afflicted in just a few sessions are far and wide, and many come from other lands just to see him work. A miracle worker, by most standards.

I recently visited the physician so that I too, may see his work. Curious by nature, I found myself fascinated by the tales and wondered how one could capture such success. We share the same goal, after all: To help people.

Making the trek was an easier task for me than some, and soon I found myself in front of the healer's dwelling. It was a small place, much like my own. Though the nature of his work was slightly different than my practice. As such, once I stepped inside, I was not surprised when I found that he had partitioned parts of the clinic off for the infirm to rest. Only four beds, but I was told that it is because he does not often need more than once or twice to completely heal even the worst illnesses.

When speaking to the physician -- whose name was Marbas, one of the cat-shaped folk of the Faewild -- I found him to be quite charming and soft-spoken. The voice which came from his lionesque muzzle was deep and sonorous, almost melodic. I found that listening to him speak was quite pleasant and was easily persuaded to see how such a demeanor put ill persons at ease.

We spoke for a while. I asked him a few questions about his practice, though the longer I was there the more captivated I became. And yet, something was off. My long and well-honed instincts told me that there was more to Marbas than meets the eye. I did not think him a charlatan, but still. A nagging sort of feeling. I finally gave in once my surface level interview had been completed and requested a more private conversation once the clinic was closed, and he seemed to be agreeable.

I watched him work the rest of the day. The joy on the patient's faces when their suffering had been eased. He confided in me, off-the-record, that although he could cure afflictions he could not completely cease the pain of more chronic sort of illnesses. He was not the miracle worker of tales in the sense that he could not make a blind man see again, or make one whose legs were weak to stand or walk again. Such was out of his field and the nature of his magic. He could only return one to their natural state, and some things just were. I appreciated this honesty, and he noted that at the height of his fame he had to turn so many away because of this that it nearly broke his heart.

When I watched him work, however, I noticed that I was unfamiliar with the sort of magic he used. It did not appear to be any healing magic I had ever encountered on any of my journeys. It had the feel of something far more ancient. When we were able to speak privately, I asked him about it.

Marbas seemed startled that I had noticed, but after a moment or two he reached out to touch my hand. In that moment, I think we both understood the nature of the other. This sparked an honest confession.

I remember Marbas' eyes being golden in color. He looked at me through my mask as if he could see me completely, underneath. And when I looked back, I began to piece together what I had saw that day. The words were soft and mumbled, as if he were embarrassed by them.

"I feast on their suffering."

The catfolk visage was a clever illusion. Marbas was something far older than The Known World itself. The Old World would have called him a demon, and I was unsure of what they would call him now.

He confessed that he had started this venture a long time ago, simply as a means to eat. Suffering of the afflicted was sweet, he explained. His domain was disease, both in the giving and taking sort of way. When he discovered that more people would come to him if he healed them, he decided to pose as a physician and open a clinic. Over time, the joy of the healing took the place of his hunger, though he still fed upon the suffering because that is how he survived. But instead of causing it himself, he would absorb what would come through the doors of his humble clinic.

Marbas confided in me that he knew some of his regular patients began to see through his charade, but his service was so successful and eased so much of their pain that they chose to look past it. They felt safe with him, and the eating of their suffering was his payment when they could not provide coin. An open secret, essentially.

It was a secret I would keep with me, as well.

Who am I to deny a fellow healer with a secret? It would be hypocritical of me to sound such an alarm. And if he is not doing any harm, who am I to stop him?

- - -

Also inspired by this post.

#plaguetober #plaguetober2023 #filled

[prismaticpichu]

😍 for your favorite fic from the fic ask. (And yes, I'm making you chose the fic)

AHH HOLLY! WHY MUST YOU MAKE ME APPRECIATE MY WORK???

I’m kidding ofc lol! Sometimes I really do love what I come up with <3

Taken from The Bright Side of White, when a certain spirit comes to visit his puppy.

~

“It’s okay, Angeal…” Zack let his eyes reopen, a calm blue light blanketing the kitchen around them. “I… I’m not alone.” He didn’t remember the last time he felt alone, even on all the nights he was. If he was, he wouldn’t be embracing his dear friend.

Another knot of tension seemed to unwind from Angeal then, and the other pulled back. There was a certain relief on his mentor’s face that Zack had never seen. Almost like staring into a mirror.

“You’re not…” Angeal didn’t word this like a question, rather a statement he knew was true—had to be true—but the veil was only then lifted from his eyes. He shook his head. “Of course you’re not.”

The man’s eyes roamed across the apartment then, almost nomadic in their search, absorbing what he hadn’t in so long. That was, until he spotted a photograph sitting on the end table. A framed one, golden-rimmed.

Zack followed his mentor’s gaze, and soon his delicate glide as Angeal made his way to the den. The boy’s heart swam in his chest.

It was a photograph he and Seph had taken on a mission to Kalm, maybe about a month back, the townsfolk safe and sound from monsters while they cherished their victory. Seph had the same one in his nightstand drawer.

Angeal studied the photograph in his hands, very intently, very rawly… a noticeable wistfulness flashing across his visage at the sight of his old friend. The silence between them hung long and thick, but not uncleavable.

“You managed to get a mission with the great Sephiroth?”

The comment almost made Zack laugh, a teary chuckle leaving much more like a hiccup. But then he realized Angeal only knew him as a starstruck boy who would squeal at the idea.

Gaia... he hadn’t really done that, had he?

“One of a hundred missions," Zack informed squeakily. “Me and Seph have gone on so many.”

Angeal’s look shifted to curiosity... and his eyes widened then closed, just a little cryptic. "’Seph?’” he repeated, amusement planting his soft smile. His friend never liked nicknames, maybe even despised them. It was a miracle Sephiroth allowed his name to be manipulated like that. “You two must've gotten pretty close, huh?”

Zack paused for a moment, digesting the question that wasn’t really a question.

Close… huh?

His lips parted, ready to speak—but it almost seemed like an injustice. So much occurred to him then: velvety soft realizations that were so embedded into his everyday life that he never even stopped to consider them.

He realized just how much time he spent with Seph.

They had grown so close ever since that somber night in Wutai, since the moment the fury in Seph’s abandoned eyes met his own. They did… everything together: eating, working, sparring, playing… all the times Zack had fallen asleep on Seph's sofa, cocooned in his arms, or all the times Mako treatments had left Seph ill and he had held his shivering friend tight.

They could hardly stand being apart.

Zack’s gaze softened, his voice even more so, a sloppy but real smiling finally gracing his lips. It was so confusing, teetering between guilt and a gratitude he couldn’t live without. But it was the truth. Warm and strange and magical.

“He’s… he’s my best friend.”

The words hung in the air between them, silvery thoughts making smog clouds glitter. Cozy thoughts that resonated with both SOLDIERs in the room.

Angeal looked back at the photograph then, silent, and there seemed to be a new light illuminating his friends: they were both smiling—how did he not notice that before—Zack with his lips and Sephiroth with his eyes, standing side by side, even if Sephiroth was turned halfway. He knew Zack was there without even looking.

His old friend no longer bore the haggard appearance from their final encounter; his skin was lighter, nourished… fed. His eyes shimmered not only with Mako, translucent jade beads reflecting in the camera, but they were radiating a spirit inside of them. Someone who was alive. Physical. No longer clawing for loose, wispy threads fading around him.

And Zack... Zack looked happy. Safe. The scar he left still marred his cheek, but it was almost invisible, melded into his skin. Like it belonged there. Like it no longer hurt.

He was taken care of.

Angeal set down the photograph, letting the silence encompass him for just a moment longer.

Thank you, Sephiroth…

He stood there and let the emotions settle inside of him. Gentle, soft hands massaged aches and worries he thought could never be reached, kneading knots he thought were metallic. They weren't. He had no reason to feel anxious anymore, not when two golden staples of his life were at peace.

He could be too.

#asks #ty!!!! #pichu writing #ao3 #crisis core #sephiroth #zack fair #ffvii #angeal hewley

[asphaltvalkyrie]

Threnody

So, I've spent the last two months or soon-and-off writing an origin story for my Sorceror Tav, Ardea. I was going for a bit of a dark fairytale vibe and it could use more work, but its at that "If I look at this thing anymore my eyes are going to permanently cross" stage so I decided to just let 'er rip.

Also on Ao3 because holy shit I DO have one of those, don't I?

In the lower city of Baldur's Gate, tales of familial tragedy are more numerous than the cobblestones on the streets. Families torn apart in one way or another, sometimes quite literally, thanks to a bevy of warring gods, bargaining devils and capricious magic.

One such family began with a young husband and wife.  Both were human and talented artists - the husband highly skilled at carving wood, and the wife at painting. Oftentimes they would work with one another to create things of astonishing beauty.  While they were most famed for their beautiful and lifelike sculptures, everything they created seemed to be beautiful, down the the simplest kitchen tool or child's toy. And so, they were blessed with great success and wealth, with a greatly renowned workshop that they operated out of their home in the lower city.

The perfection of their work often drew covetous and jealous eyes from the city's many other artisans both noble and peasant, but the couple's kindness and humility were enough to cool even the most heated of rivalries. Indeed, it would take nothing short of divine malefaction and infernal machination to harm the prosperous pair.

The architect of their ruin would be the Stormlord Talos, who could destroy in a second anything which nature and mortal kind could build, no matter how ancient or beautiful. One need only look to a grand old tree uprooted by a windstorm or a millennia-old temple felled in a single streak of lightning to see the shadow of His hand at work. Though the artistic endeavors of a single well-meaning pair of mortals could hardly be construed as a threat by most gods, Talos was not most gods.  In fact, the more random and senseless the destruction, and the more beautiful the things destroyed, the greater his pleasure.

And so, Talos sent a mighty storm to ruin the couple - great winds that blew away paintbrushes, heavy rains that ruined paints and rusted saws and chisels, and, worst of all, lightning bolts that tore through sculpted wood and painted canvas with equal ease. The pair was thought to have perished in this storm as well.  However, they were discovered the next day completely unharmed, beneath a pile of the their ruined masterpieces, which had somehow fallen to create a shelter for them, as if the works had sacrificed themselves to save their creators. A true miracle. 

And so, the pair was able to rebuild their home and workshop with alacrity, aided by the hands of their many friends and neighbors. Talos, childishly satisfied with his work, turned to other destructive pursuits. However, the pair could not help but fear that they would once again catch the eye of The Raging One once their works again reached full glorious potential. And their fear only grew when the wife realized that she was with child. 

It was in their hour of greatest worry that one of the devils of Cania came to them in the form of a handsome elf. He offered them a contract stating that no storm born of the heavens would ever harm them, their work, or their family. What he asked in exchange seemed simple enough for them to risk the loss of their souls - all he asked was for them to create a perfect likeness of him in wood and paint in a tenday. Afraid but confident in their abilities, the couple signed the contract... It would not be the first time they had been asked to capture the visage of someone influential and dangerous. But as soon as their blood had dried upon the parchment, the devil laughed and shed his handsome face, revealing his true form; a body only vaguely humanoid. The whole of his being was a nightmare of impossible colors and intangible textures - a landscape as varied and horrid as the hells themselves. Grinning with a beak full of mismatched teeth, he bid the couple adieu, and said that he would return in three days time. And he wanted it perfect, down to every rough scale and curling claw.  Every patch of matted fur and scabrous skin.

Horrified but undaunted, the couple locked themselves in their workshop, and when the devil strutted cockily back once a tenday had passed, he was struck dumb by what he saw. There he was. In perfect likeness. His chaotic form captured in every tiny detail. The husband had rendered his body in exact anatomical perfection with hammer and chisel.  He had somehow coaxed from a block of wood the dry smoothness of scales and the gauzy lightness of feathers and fur.  And beneath, the contours of muscle and sinew. The wife had seen to it that the colors were perfect down to the smallest shade - from the leprous green mottling on his patches of humanoid skin to the oily black sheen of his iridescent horns. Colors dull and muted where they needed to be, and brightly lurid where they needed to be. Mixed and applied with flawless skill.

The devil was furious that the couple had gotten the better of him. But the sculpture was undeniably a perfect replica of him, and devils are creatures of their word.  And so, he placed a spell of protection on the couple's home and workshop and scuttled back to Cania, tails between his many legs, as agreed. But, a word is a flighty and ephemeral thing to stake one's life upon, as words can be twisted into all manner of shapes, for good or ill. 

A short time later, the wife bore their long-awaited child; a daughter.  And though she was strong and healthy, her tiny body bore the unmistakable signs of infernal meddling. Superficially her face resembled her father's, but her skin was the color of a winter sky and her eyes were black pits lit by two sickly yellow sparks. On her head one could clearly see the two swellings that would become horns as she grew, and if there was any further denial of her devilish heritage, one need have only looked at her long, fleshy tail.

A Tiefling. 

Once again horrified but undaunted, the couple vowed to raise the girl as they would any other child, and were true to their word. They named her Threnody, a choice they would later regret, for it seemed to mark her for tragedy just as blatantly as her devilish features.  True to her name, she was a rather unhappy child, prone to bouts of sullen silence punctuated with sudden outbursts of anger.  Though intelligent and observant with a sharp tongue, she was not motivated by the admiration of her peers or the praise of her elders, and thusly school seemed to only bore her. One would have expected her to be teased, given her unusual appearance and spontaneous birth into a human family, but there was something about the girl that made other children keep their distance.  She found few friends, even among other the other Tiefling children of Baldur's Gate. 

This did not seem to bother Threnody, as she preferred to spend her time in the workshop with her parents... Not for their companionship so much as to be in the presence of them as they worked. Even as a toddler, she would watch her parents work for hours, enrapt with the act of artistic creation.  It seemed, in fact, to be the only thing that could make her smile. Watching the marbled patterns that her father could coax from a piece of mahogany, or the sublime shades her mother could mix with the most disparate of colors brought forth the kinds of coos and giggles that a parent lives to hear.  Delighted, her parents did everything they could to encourage the girl, providing her with brushes and paints as well as sculptor's clay, and (when she was old enough,) carving and sewing tools as well.  

Their investments in their daughter's talent was rewarded again and again, as the girl seemed to have a great affinity with all things creative. By the age of 10, she was creating pieces nearly as exquisite as those of her parents, and the wealthiest citizens were offering greater and greater sums for works from the young prodigy. She had inherited from her father a fine grasp of texture, and from her mother, an eye for perfect color.  When she worked, the very air seemed to pulse with potential, and her grim and gray features brightened.  

If she had deigned to accept commissions for painted portraits or custom clothing or heraldic sculptures, she may very well have earned her family a place among the wealthiest patriars in the upper city. However, she followed only her own agenda, balking at the idea of following anyone's visions but her own. Most of her work was inspired by nature, and her favorite subjects were the marsh animals and plants that she often glimpsed on the banks of the Chionthar not far from her home. She rendered them in paint, embroidery, wood and clay with equal skill, often against exquisite backdrops of clouded skies and rivers that seemed to snake off into eternity.

Even without following any sorts of instructions but her own, Threnody's gifts could have made her beloved of anyone and everyone she chose.  However, she remained distant and cold to most anyone, and disliked the company of others while she worked. Though her judgmental gaze and sullen silence were her only weapons, those who braved being in her presence as she worked would sometimes find their flesh breaking out in goosebumps. Even her parents would only approach her long enough to offer a cup of tea or to retrieve a dropped brush or chisel. But that was usually long enough to glimpse an occasional happy smile or joyful gesture, and they took solace in that as one would from seeing a spring sun peek out from among a towering bank of winter clouds. Delighted by their daughter's abilities, if not by her off-putting tendencies, her parents began to describe her gift as something truly magical.  It fell them to entertain her many admirers, and accept their adoration on her behalf. They took great pride in her and her abilities, believing that their prodigious talent (and by extension, Threnody's) had defeated that scheming devil once again - overcoming the curse of the Tiefling child he had sent them through the beauty and power of art.  All the time, the devil had even stayed true to his word.  

Threnody was scarcely a woman grown when she set about producing something truly remarkable.  It would take her several years... And she would work in a manner that was quite unlike herself, patching it together piece by piece instead of as a harmonious whole. Her parents voiced their concerns about her methods, but all it took was a single look from her baleful yellow eyes to silence them. 

Though her work was slapdash and seemingly improvised, every element of it seemed to integrate perfectly. Every dab of paint and thread of fabric she placed seemed to weave itself into the exact state she needed it to be in.  Shades of paint mixed on different days matched perfectly, cut edges of fabric melded together with seamless grace, a chisel never chipped a speck of wood more than it needed to, drying clay never cracked. 

None save Threnody knew what the finished product was supposed to be, and though she often spent hours staring at it, she never spoke of her work on it. Eventually, it began to take shape, becoming some sort of long-limbed and graceful bird.  Her careless crafting process was evident in its construction - when it was finally recognizable as a bird, it was headless, one-winged and balanced on a single leg of impossibly thin wood.  Some parts were painted and varnished while others remained bare wood, hastily bent wire or stiffly starched fabric, or were absent entirely. Even so, it was resplendent as a phoenix in a thousandfold shades of deep blue, cloudy gray and wine red.  

As she worked, the climate around the family home seemed to change. The winters became longer, and the sky howled with wind and rain and thunder seemingly every night. But Threnody's parents only laughed.  They had the word of a devil, written in blood and sworn by the infernal sisters, that no storm would ever harm them or their work. Let Talos throw his tantrums... it must chafe him, they thought, as lightning forked through the sky above their home only to crackle away into nothing as the hells-touched girl wrought masterpieces just out of his reach.  How mad he must be when the wind howled and shook the rafters of their home, unable to even momentarily distract their girl from creating another work of electrifying beauty. She was to have been a curse, but she had proved herself among the greatest of blessings.

With every new detail, the bird became more lovely, as if it were flying in feather by feather from the highest peaks of Celestia. It was posed with an unearthly and impossible grace, with a delicacy that should not have been physically possible to coax from the materials she had used.  Its ungainly construction became invisible beneath the beauty of its many elements. A time came when it appeared finished, but it was missing something... The bird had no eyes, and it was obvious from the messy and unpainted pits in its head that it was intended to have them.

At this point, Threnody stopped her work for a long time, focusing on other projects, which she worked with her usual care and professionalism, employing none of the improvised and haphazard techniques she had been using with the bird. Still, every day she would stare at the nearly finished, nigh-paradisical creature as if weighing something very important in her head.  Her parents could never get an answer from her as to why, and chalked it up to apprehension about somehow botching the last element. After all, every artist worried now and then that a perfect piece could be ruined by something as small as a single careless brushstroke or errant stitch. Meanwhile, the winter storms seemed to grow stronger every year.

Eventually, she began work painting two small, perfectly round seed pods from a scraggly marsh tree outside of their home.  Her parents held their joy in check as they realized that they were to be the bird's eyes. She painted them in cool shades of yellow, dappled like an autumn moon with hints of purple, punctuated at the center by a pit of abyssal black, varnished to a viscous sheen. Even bereft of a skull to hold them, the eyes seemed to follow the viewer, conveying a secret intensity of some unknown emotion.  Her parents hadn't been there when she finally placed the eyes, but they knew that it had been done by the sudden change in the air that made the hairs on their necks stand on end.  Though both busy with chores on opposite sides of their home, the husband and wife nearly crashed into one another as they rushed to the family's workshop.

There Threnody stood before her finished masterwork, hands clasped like a supplicant at a holy idol. A beatific smile spread across her somber features as her closed eyes welled over with abundant tears.  It was so rare to see her smile so brightly, rarer still to see her cry tears of joy, and they treasured the sight. Proudly they interlaced their fingers and embraced, drinking in the sight of their dear daughter happy.  Their grip on one another tightened as Threnody seemed to grow taller, and they realized that her feet were no longer touching the ground. The air snapped and popped around her as she rose, and her tears began to swirl like raindrops about her head.  Her eyes snapped open as she beheled her creation again, looking in its fabricated face as if it were a living thing.  It was then that her parents noticed that the bird's eyes were the same color as their daughter's, and just as alive. Both sets of eyes began to glow as Threnody stretched her hand out, and the bird miraculously came alive, moving its head to rest it in her hand, as if she were a fairytale princess. Hair-thin threads of electricity arced between them.  It was impossible to tell in that moment whether the girl or the newly animated bird were their source, but in a thunderclap of an instant the wind began to howl and the workshop began to shake.  The husband and wife held one another tightly as the sound of crackling lightning and shattering timber filled the air, and a blinding light filled their eyes.

Her mother awakened to thunder ringing in her ears and the smell of burnt timber and singed flesh, with the body of her husband draped across her chest. Cold rain and hot tears stung her face as she cast her eyes on a scene of utter devastation all around.  And in the center of it all was Threnody, outlined against a patch of tempestuous and clouded sky where the wind had torn away the workshop roof.  Her magnificent bird was now nothing more than a smoking heap... but she still smiled.  She smiled.  Even as her dead father, her distraught mother and her ruined masterpiece lay before her.  Lightning arched from her horns and weaved through her hair like the ribbons she had once braided into her hair.  Her mother screamed her name, but the storm swallowed the sound whole. 

The memories of the first time she and her husband had huddled beneath the rubble of their shattered life flooded back to her, and the devil's promise echoed in her mind.  She raised her voice again, this time screaming the words of the devil's contract that had now been violated.

"No storm born of the heavens shall ever harm you, your home, or your family."

As she shouted the final word, a realization hit her like a bolt from the blue. 

Even in his cruelty, the devil had been true to his word. The storm that had ripped apart their little family had come not from the heavens, but from within their own home. A storm channeled from the hells themselves in the form of a cursed daughter. She could only watch in despair as her daughter raised the wind and rain and lightning like a conductor of some hellish orchestra.  And in that moment, the unholy sound of hail beating against the wreckage of her home and the body of her beloved sounded almost like strident laughter. 

The young woman who emerged from this ordeal was no longer a beloved daughter, but an orphan of a storm of her own making. Her artisan's heart still beats within her, but it may be broken beyond repair. And if it cannot create, it will destroy.

#bg3 tav #tav #Tiefling #storm sorcerer #my writing #Tav origin story #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #barely #good god what a pretentious title

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Tactus Mortis | Chapter 14 Chapter 14 | contigo⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

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As you find yourself at the heart of the ceremony, a sudden, inexplicable force bursts forth from within you, casting Camilo, your father, and the onlooking Madrigals away as if they were mere leaves caught in a fierce wind. Their bodies are flung backward, expressions etched with a mix of utter shock and deep fear, as they struggle to comprehend the unseen power that has just torn through the fabric of reality.

In the midst of this chaos, your form begins a slow, eerily graceful ascent, rising above the cobblestones of the town square. Arms extend outward, your posture mirroring a figure of crucifixion, head lolling backward in a silent plea to the heavens. Your eyes, now glowing a deep, menacing red, fixate on the darkened sky above, a silent witness to the storm that rages not just outside, but within.

Around you, the rain intensifies, each drop a torrential downpour that seeks to drown the world in its sorrow. Yet, remarkably, not a single droplet touches you; they veer away at the last moment, repelled by an unseen shield that encircles your levitating form. This bubble of dryness amidst the deluge becomes a symbol of your isolation, the physical manifestation of the barrier that now separates you from everything you hold dear.

From below, your father's voice cuts through the storm's cacophony, desperate and laden with an agony that mirrors the tumult in your own soul. "Muñequita, please!" he cries, his plea a beacon of love in the overwhelming darkness. But it's as if you're in another world entirely, his words unable to bridge the distance that this unseen force has created.

Inside, trapped within the confines of your own mind, you're a spectator to your own body's betrayal, screaming for release, for any semblance of control. Yet, your cries echo back, unanswered, in this prison of darkness until a chillingly familiar voice whispers, offering no comfort, only resignation. "There's no use. You might as well give up."

Turning, you're met with Sidero's visage, a ghostly figure who had once been a source of comfort, now the architect of your despair. Relief at the sight of him quickly morphs into confusion and then horror as you realize what he meant.

"Sidero," you start, voice trembling with a mix of betrayal and disbelief, "why?"

He looks at you, his expression a complex tapestry of sorrow and resolve. "I suppose it's time you knew the truth," he begins, his voice echoing strangely in the confines of your internal prison.

The space around you shifts, colors and shapes melding into scenes from a past not your own. You watch, helpless, as Sidero narrates the tale of his life—and his death. "I was just a boy, no older than you are now," he says, the scenery changing to show a vibrant town, its life snuffed out by disease. "My family, my friends... I watched them fall, one by one, to an illness we had no means to fight."

You see him there, a young boy with eyes too old for his face, the specter of death looming over his town. "Encanto was a mere legend to us, a whispered fairy tale of magic and miracles. But when I passed, and I saw it... saw them," he continues, the vision morphing to show the Madrigals in all their vibrant glory, "I realized the truth."

The bitterness in his voice is palpable as he recounts how he latched onto you, a lifeline to the physical world, during a moment of your own vulnerability. "You were so close to death, so close to joining me in the void. But you lived. And through you, I saw my chance for... justice."

The word hangs heavy between you, a condemnation of the Madrigals' perceived selfishness. "They had the power to heal, to save, but they chose to hide away. My family, my town, we could have been saved. But we were left to suffer, to die, because they wouldn't leave their precious Encanto."

The visions Sidero conjures are vivid, heart-wrenching—images of suffering and despair outside the magical borders of Encanto, a stark contrast to the peace and prosperity within. "And so, I made you my vessel, a bridge between the living and the dead. Through you, I'd bring them to their knees, make them see the cost of their isolation."

As the last of his words fade, the visions dissolve, leaving you back in the dark recesses of your own mind, facing the ghost who had been your friend, your confidant. Now, he stands revealed as the architect of your torment, a spirit consumed by vengeance and a twisted sense of justice.

"Sidero, how could you?" The question is a whisper, a reflection of the hurt and betrayal that courses through you. His plan, his hatred for the Madrigals, has turned your gift into a curse, made you the unwitting perpetrator of his revenge.

As Siderio's scowl fades, replaced by a look of what might be construed as regret, he steps closer, his movements slow, almost hesitant. "If there was another way, I'd do it," he murmurs, his voice a stark contrast to the cold anger that had filled the space between you moments before. He reaches out, his hand coming to rest gently against your cheek, a gesture that once would have offered solace now only serves to heighten the sense of betrayal coiling within you.

You instinctively turn away, repelled by the touch that now feels like a violation. His hand falls away, and a huff of frustration escapes him. "You'll understand sooner or later," he insists, the softness giving way once more to bitterness. "Those Madrigals are selfish, caring for nothing but themselves." His frown deepens, the scowl returning as his eyes begin to glow an ominous red, mirroring the storm of emotions raging within him.

His rant escalates, anger and resentment fueling his words until they are a venomous tirade against the Madrigals. "They deserve to pay for their crimes," he declares, the intensity of his fury sealing you away, leaving you a silent witness to his full possession of your body.

In the heart of Encanto's town square, with the Madrigals and townsfolk gathered in a tense circle, the atmosphere thickens with anticipation. Your body becomes a conduit for Siderio's fury; his voice, emanating from you, is laced with venom, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of the Madrigal family.

"People of Encanto," Siderio begins, his tone dripping with disdain, "you stand here, blind to the selfishness that festers within the walls of that magical house." The crowd shifts uneasily, the air charged with a growing sense of unease.

"For years," he continues, "the Madrigals have hoarded their gifts, basking in your adoration while just beyond these walls, people suffer, people die—abandoned and forgotten." Murmurs ripple through the assembly, faces turning towards the Madrigals, seeking denial, seeking reassurance.

"Alma Madrigal," Siderio's voice booms, "patriarch of this so-called blessed family. Tell them, tell them about the families that could have been saved, the lives that could have been spared if only you had stepped beyond your precious boundaries."

The accusation hits like a physical blow, and Alma stands, her posture that of a leader, yet the sorrow in her eyes speaks volumes. "We did what we thought was best to protect our own," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper as she attempts to explain, to justify. "The world beyond our home is fraught with danger. We couldn't risk exposing our family, our children, to that—"

"Protect your own? Excuses!" he scoffs, his voice growing bitter, as he recounts the loss of his own family, the helplessness and despair that marked his final moments. "My family... we could have been saved. But you chose to keep your gifts to yourselves, hoarding your miracles while the rest of us perished. What of the children who starved, while your tables overflowed with food? Your gifts, a beacon of hope you chose to extinguish for those not fortunate enough to be born within your enchanted borders."

Gasps and murmurs swell in the crowd, the image of the Madrigals as protectors and heroes cracking under the weight of Siderio's words. Children cling to their parents, their eyes wide with fear and confusion, while the younger Madrigals, those who had grown under the shelter of innocence and pride, look to Alma, their foundation, now questioned.

"You speak of danger beyond the walls, but the true danger lies in your greed, in your refusal to share your miracles," Siderio rages on, his anger palpable. "While you chose to watch from your walls, people died. Families were torn apart. And for that, you shall all pay."

The declaration, a curse spoken through tears and centuries of pent-up bitterness, leaves the square in stunned silence. Alma, the matriarch, the symbol of the Madrigal legacy, stands diminished, her struggle to defend her family's choices laid bare before those she sought to protect and those she inadvertently harmed.

***poor siderio 💔💔.

#‧̍̊˙˚˙xaniwrites-tactus mortis ml #camilo x reader #camilo madrigal #camilo madrigal x reader #madrigal #encanto camilo #madrigal x reader #romance #ghosts #medium #ghost whisperer #angst #death reader #camilo #love #young romance #post encanto

[twelvedozenterrors]

While some of you could certainly brush up on your manners, you all have been wonderful little dragons. Enjoy your gifts! -Santa

Most kids woke up to their presents from Santa already waiting for them under the tree.

Most kids also weren’t created in batches through copious amounts of magic every dozen years. The Dragon Realms had plenty of individuals who were born the traditional way, not that it made the sizeable number of fairy-brought ones any less apparent and clustered together.

What would make a noticeable difference was that there weren’t very many kids from the previous Year of the Dragon - as Spyro could attest to - and the latest clutch ended up being bigger than normal to make up for it.

That was this nation’s special little thing - a full twelve months’ worth of celebrations for the sudden jump in population every twelve years, where even the annual holidays had that extra effort put in since they would be the first ones many would experience.

And what better way was there to celebrate the new generation’s first Christmas than with Santa delivering their presents in-person?

Once most of his deliveries around the world were done, he would spend his time in the Dragon Realms visiting each guild one by one in broad daylight, much to the delight of all its little dragons.

Overall, there mightn’t have been much in the name of children. Opinions could vary on if it was rendered more or less apparent with the 151 newcomers split across five clans, but an average of thirty hatchlings all bundled up in one place was still enough to guarantee a bustling environment. For the jolly man in red, it also proved quicker to make his rounds that way instead of having to go between countless individual houses for a change.

Within minutes of each grand debut, the floors would be decorated with shreds of colourful wrapping paper as far as the eye could see - and if they hadn’t been indoors, it’d especially stand out against the solid white sea of snow swamping most parts of the Dragon Realms lately.

The Peace Keepers were lucky enough to get snow in their arid capital; a clichéd Christmas miracle, but a pleasant miracle since it would save them the trouble of venturing out to Ice Cavern if they didn’t want to miss out on the usual winter atmosphere.

Santa’s extra efforts would be rewarded, he had a rare chance to see firsthand just how happy he was making the children of the world; and of course, the younger Artisans helped Devlin prepare a plentiful batch of the quintessential cookies to fuel the rest of his journey.

While seeing Santa and playing with their loot was enough for some of the kids, others wanted to investigate the sleigh or meet the reindeer, requests that he would gladly oblige (as long as they didn’t get too rowdy, his loyal steeds deserved a peaceful break from all the flying around). They played just as vital a role in Christmas and it was only fair that they were also smothered in gratitude.

The curtains had to close sooner or later; Santa would take his leave and continue on to the next guild for the mirth to start anew, until all five had their turn and he was off to those remaining places around the world. There was unfortunately only so much time he could spare out of an unimaginably busy 24 hour period, but any disappointment the hatchlings had was soon mitigated by them being allured with the mythical visage of his sleigh soaring into the skies.

More importantly, they could still enjoy spending the rest of Christmas with their loved ones…or of course, tackling whatever presents they had completely forgotten about opening the second he showed up.

Discussions about next Christmas were quick to arise following his departure; many of the baby dragons hadn’t yet understood that Santa would instead come during the night in the following years as he traditionally did, literally interpreting coming back next year as in he was coming back to visit next year.

Whenever the time came for the next generation of fairy-brought dragons to come along, leaving them in Spyro’s shoes to be good big siblings, Santa Claus would once again stop by to give the Dragon Realms’ newest residents the perfect first Christmas.

#artisans #artisans ic #peace keepers #peace keepers ic #magic crafters #magic crafters ic #beast makers #beast makers ic #dream weavers #dream weavers ic #santa claus ic #santaverse #ask #frost i'm sorry this is so late

[inquisimer]

Hello and happy DADWC!! For a prompt, how about: Cullen/Lavellan, ugly boots?

hellooooo happy friday!! a bit of post-IYHSB fluff for these two tonight🥰

for @dadrunkwriting

“Put them on.”

“No.”

“You must.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You must,” Cullen repeated, squatting next to her cot. Neria refused to meet his eyes, crossing her arms and staring petulantly at the canvas tent over his shoulder.

He pushed the boots toward her once more. “We have nothing else.”

“Then I’ll go barefoot.”

“In the Frostbacks? We have no idea how long we’ll be here or how far we’ll have to walk once we find somewhere to go.”

He nudged the boots forward again. Neria regarded them as one might a pile of nug shit.

They were well made, though larger and more obtuse than the soft pair she’d been skating by on since coming to Haven. She longed for the footwraps she’d had to give up upon reaching Ferelden. She missed their soft comfort against her arches and how they still smelled faintly of elfroot and aravels.

But the colors.

Despite the fading of time, the majority of the boots still glowed like a torchbug in the dead of night. There were stripes and swoops of neon pink and blue, dusty and grimy but unmistakable. The cuff between the upper and lower parts was still yet another blue, more like the sky in the midst of a clear day, but one which clashed horribly with the already mismatched shades.

She refused to wear such a hideous visage.

“Solas does it,” she countered. “I’m sure he can teach me whatever spell he’s using.”

Cullen sighed, a weary sound from deep in his throat. “You need to preserve your strength. Or have you already forgotten that a whole mountain fell upon you?”

“Hardly.” Her eyes snapped to his, fierce and glaring. Her arms and legs were littered with scrapes and tiny wounds left from the splinters she’d fallen through in the wake of her confrontation with Corypheus. Healing magic had left a sting in her extremities, better than frostbite, but still unpleasant in its own right. And of course her mark, though stabilized once more, had spiraled out to cover her entire palm. The lines closer to the center of her hand were a darker green, almost black, while those that stretched toward her wrist and fingertips now mirrored the Breach. 

“It’s not something one forgets so easily, if at all.”

“Then you know that you don’t have the mana to spare when there are perfectly decent boots here!”

“I’m perfectly capable of judging my own magical limits, thank you.”

Cullen ignored her snipe. “These are all we have left. Any few pairs we managed to collect in the retreat have already been passed out to villagers. We—the people need to see you on your feet.”

“The people should have raised up a profit who cared what they thought,” Neria muttered. But her words lacked all bite and Cullen knew it.

Of course she cared. But that didn’t make her any more keen on the boots.

“Is the idea of keeping all ten toes and rejoining this” —he gestured toward where she assumed the remainder of the camp stretched— “chaos truly so unappealing?”

Neria pressed her lips together.

“Please, Neria.” His voice dropped and Neria could hear the utter exhaustion that weighed him down. Usually held back by his immense willpower, the fall of Haven and their retreat into the Frostbacks, and his subsequent responsibility for dozens of citizens in a frozen wasteland—real or perceived—had worn it away.

“We’ve talked and fought in circles. We need a fresh perspective—or at least someone who can stem the arguments when they stop having purpose. You are that person” —he held up a hand at her noise of protest— “you are. That’s how we got this far.”

He offered her the boots once more. “Please.”

“Fine.” Neria pulled the boots toward her and began loosening the laces with a grumble. “But don’t expect any miracles. And don’t be surprised if everyone assumes Andraste’s withdrawn her favor when they see these.”

“Ah, but how could She withdraw what you never had?” said Cullen cheekily, turning her own insistence back on her. With a chuckle, he ducked out of the tent.

Neria shook her head. “Touché, Commander, touché.”

#my writing #dadwc #dragon age fanfic #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullavellan #oc: neria surana lavellan #neria x cullen

[pandemoniclucio]

I just saw your Fairy Tail head canon and OMG I LOVED IT, I'm personally a big fan of fairy tail so it made me very happy to read that! Is it possible that you can write a head canon for an MC that does dragon slayer magic?

Thank you! I'm sorry this came out a bit late, I had Bio Exams on Friday, so that took most of my focus.

The Arcana HC's #13

MC is a 3rd Generation Dragon Slayer, a Dragon Slayer who's magic was taught to them by a dragon and have a Dragon Lacrima implanted inside them. MC can also turn into a dragon.

I researched this, apparently Storm Dragon Slaying is a thing, so let's assume it has something to do with storms, so lightning, water, wind. As we know Dragon Slayers can eat the element they can control, so since its a storm I'll let MC "eat" wind, water & electricity conducting metals.

Asra

They were quite interested in Dragon Slaying magic, they studied everything they could about the type of Lost Magic you have, they were extetic when you told them you were one.

They were amazed by the type of magic you posess and tried to see how powerful you could be, plus you powers came in handy whenever you traveled anywhere that had a blistering heat.

Was very excited when you started eating some of the metals the metals they brought back. Is curious whether you become revitalised faster by simply breathing air and drinking water.

They gave you a charm before the plague when you started developing motion sickness. After you started your quest they started casting spells & enchantments to keep it at bay.

They knew that there are seldom few Dragon Slayers that can turn into an actual Dragon, most usually gaining scales but he was genuinely shocked when you gained the ability to turn into one. Thet were extatic to see what you could do with this new ability. Fause was also quite happy to have another reptile around.

Nadia

She has heard of Dragon Slayers through tales from Asra and her sisters, most of them ranging from strange, horrifying & to almost miracle works, so she was a bit intigued whenn you told her you were one.

She was facsinated by your powers & tried to see if there was a way that your powers could benefit Vesuvia, if you were willing to help.

She was mortified when you ate a gold ingot like it was nothing, Asra then explained what you were doing, so she decided to separate and clean the metalic items you were eating into a large food cabinet just for you.

Even though Asra gave you a charm for your motion sickness, the stronger you got, the worse it got too, so she asked Asra & Julian to supply her with enough charms, and pills to make sure you don't suffer whenever you go to Pakra in carriage.

She was alerted by Portia and heer family that you suddenly turned into a Dragon. She was surprised that it wasn't a practical joke and was even more surprised to see Chandra examing you and sleeping on your horns.

Julian

He has met a few Dragon Slayers before so he's not overly surprised. He admittedly was still somewhat confused about how you could be raised by a species that is almost extinct and was more intrigued by the Dragon Lacrima, & is quite intrested in how your power differs from that of a 1st and 2nd generation Dragon Slayer.

He finds that your powers often come in handy during your travels aboard Portia's ship, but he finds joy in the small things you do with your magic like creating visages through water.

He was more surprised that you didn't start eating any strange things soomer than later, wasn't bothered by you eating metals, but was curious as to how you're able to digest that properly and is slightly turned on whenever you reveal how sharp your teeth are.

He has dealt with Dragon Slayers and their motion sickness before, so he has plenty of medicines and sleeping pills to keep you healthy when you travel in any vehicles.

When you transformed into a dragon, it was the first time you've nearly seen him feint since this was the first time he witnessed this. He immediatley got to studying you and carerssing your scales while Malak made some comments.

Muriel

He knew what a Dragon Slayer was through Asra, admittedly was interested in your history training with a dragon and whether or not you could gain some Draconic features.

Admits your powers are extremely usefull as much as they are terrifying but still doesn't find you using them as long as it's not harming anyone or thing.

The poor boy nearly has a heart attack when he saw you about to eat iron, he got you to stop momentarily before you bit off a chunk of it, he than passed out. Luckily Asra later explained that this was normal and safe.

Since you two barely go anywhere on carriage or otherwise he barely has to worry about your motion sickness acting up, but when it does he's already prepared with anything that could help you.

He was shocked when you suddenly turned into a Dragon, he was worried you wouldn't be able to turn back, luckily he was wrong. He ended up examining your new form eventually falling asleep on top of you alongside Inanna.

Portia

She heard rumors and stories about Dragon Slayers since she was a child, she was over the moon and eventually bombarded you with questions.

When she became Captain, she saw more benefits to your magic than ever, considering that your powers make sure sailing is smooth & weather is bearable.

She noticed that on one of your investigations of a copper mine that you ate a few bars of copper, she thaught that the sea might be getting to her, before Julian and you explained that this is totally normal for you.

Luckily Julian, Asra & Mazelinka were usually around to help create some kind of enchantment or medicine to help you with your motion sickness. She feels bad for you but occasionaly gets scolded by Mazelinka for finding it amusing.

She woke up to the sound of a roar and foun a dragon standing on her ship with Pepi on its head, she was worried until you started talking, she was amazed that you could do this, and was surprised that you didn't break anything.

Lucio

When you told him you were a Dragon Slayer, he assumed that you killed a Dragon, very confused on why you're called a Dragon Slayer if you didn't kill any, finds it cool you were taught by one.

Your power impresses him more than it scares him, he thinks that you two would make the perfect Mercenary Duo, since your opponents would have a hard time.

When he saw you eat a gold ingot he was terrified that you might try to eat his hand. He was glad you weren't interested in flesh but his hand was still rather important, luckily he was reassured by you that due to all the magic impued into his arm, it wouldn't be of much nutritional value to you.

When it comes to your motion sickness he does & gives everything he can to you to make it go away, but the strange thing is that you only get sick on vehicles but never anything like horses, his mother it might br a mind over matter situation. He does find your motion sickness somewhat amusing when its not terrible.

He was awed when you turned into a dragon one day, he thought it was awesome, especially since you both could now travel without worrying about your motion sickness. Melchoir, Mercendes & Camio were having fun running around you and riding on your back as you flew.

Valerius

He didn't believe Nadia or Portia when they said you are a Dragon Slayer, until he decided to wuickly research Dragon Slayers to prove you were lying, he enivitable concedes and admits that you are the real deal.

Your powers give him mixed feelings. If you perform anything small, he'll find it adorable or fascinating, but if you ever bother to show him anything on a greater scale, he is schocked and terrified.

When he sees you eating a gold utensil he immediately feints, when he gets back up he even considered maybe he drank too much, util he saw you sleeping beside him with a copper wire in your mouth, half-chewed, and then remembered everything he read about Dragon Slayers eating odd things.

During his research he found out that Dragon Slayers tend to gain Draconic senses, so stronger smell & etc. when they become mature & stronger, but their human semicircular canals that is part of their hearing tend to affect their draconic visual acuity, causing motion sickness. He also learns of a way to influence your motion sickness, but he usually brings pills especially sleeping ones so you don't have to suffer if the drugs wear off.

He dropped his wine glass when you revealed that you could now turn into an actual Dragon, he was shocked but impressed nonetheless, he finds your new form adorable.

I put a surprising amount of research into this. Now it's made me want to rewatch most of Fairy Tail.

#the arcana mc #the arcana #the arcana game headcanons #the arcana headcanons #arcana headcanons #the arcana lucio #the arcana julian #the arcana game #nadia satrivana #nadia satrinava #the arcana portia #portia devorak #julian #julian devorak #doctor julian devorak #dr devorak #ilya devorak #the arcana pasha #pasha devorak #consul valerius #the arcana valerius #muriel of the kokhuri #the arcana muriel #count lucio #countess nadia #muriel x mc #asra the magician #asra alnazar #the arcana asra #asra x apprentice

[lil-kissy]

[ @terroreigns ]

A dream was sometimes not merely a dream.

Especially to those who bore within their spirits such horrid and magnificent things. And especially if Wonderland was involved in any way, shape or form.

One of the many reasons it was known under that name - painting the vivid picture of a faraway realm of magic and miracles. Here, anything was possible. And that often included the worst things.

The dream began with a sea of an endless silvery sheen. A figure, emerging from the waters, surrounded by the alabaster shell of a majestic winged beast. A goddess, or perhaps an apparition of an almost alien, pale beauty, her hair and eyes the very same colors as those of the sleeping child. Her dress, blending into the luxurious silks and myriad decorations adorning the insides of the massive oyster.

Her eyes, like infinite sadness and infinite love at the very same time. The worry of a mother, even when she was often considered Mother to all. No longer blessed with a mortal coil, and thus she had chosen to reside within this organic machine bent entirely to her command.

"My lost child, a great evil seeks you." A melodic voice spoke, a hand extending from underneath the woman's robe. Resting upon an orb of flawless crystal.

And within it... was a shape that dwarfed the very galaxies.

"Trust in me and allow me to guide you through this time of peril. The Destruction and the Salvation, known as the Unlimited, will be there to protect you. Remember their names, my child, for they are the only ones that will shield you from Wonderland's darkest night."

The image within the scrying orb shifted, malleable as the rippling surface of water. Showing the visages of two familiar warriors.

"White Cloud, the Salvation." She began, flickering light upon the crystal forming the shape of a knight clad in white. "And Black Wind, the Destruction." A stark contrast to his counterpart; A fearsome man shrouded in a black cape, with a harsh and unrelenting gaze of blue.

"And.."

The voice no longer belonged to the motherly figure, her aquatic steed gone in a blink. Instead, her image morphed into something half-feminine, half-masculine, and it was hard to determine to whom such a sound may belong. Indeed, the entity that stepped forward could well be a man, but also a woman, their features delicately smooth and perfectly misleading. A pleasant, welcoming smile stretched out upon pale skin. Where the Guide's complexion was a thing of ethereal beauty, the newcomer's was almost unhealthy, painted white like the skin of some frozen cadaver. Their head was one of wild pink locks, cascading down their gilded, thorned shoulderpads.

"...The equalizer, for things can never be as black and white." They chimed, a humorous wink to try and ease the tension. "She sure talks in contrivancies. I would not expect a little one like you to understand a word. Well?"

The figure leaned against a wall which seemed to simply pop into existence. It was only a dream, after all. "Dear little Kisara... I have been made aware of your arrival here. How, you may ask? We are both creatures of emotion." The magician's smile widened, icy blues filled with a casual amity. What a contrast it was - to dress entirely in warm hues, yet have one's visage embody such a bitter chill. Even with all their friendliness, there was something profoundly cold about their presence. Like a biting wind that had only just picked up.

"I know what you are. I know why you were rejected. And always will be. But you can come to me, and I promise that I will take care of you, for the world is simply too dull to appreciate the infinite light within you."

Their voice became a low whisper. "They don't deserve you. Never have and never will. So, think on it, yes? I trust we will be seeing one another soon, my kindred dear."

And with that same pop, the dream came undone, unraveling like yarn into inky blackness.

There was a very basic thing about dreams - one hardly remembered them upon waking.

But the impressions persisted. Especially when Wonderland was involved. And there they remained, inscribed in the subconscious, left to fester in the dark like weeds.

Despite having never seen the ocean before, not even in pictures she somehow simply knew what it was upon seeing it. Dreams were funny that way, even the unfamiliar could seem familiar.

Two people walked along side her, recognizable as her parents only in her dreams. If she tried to think back when she was a wake any images of them grew hazy and clear but she knew it was them in her heart and her mind.

Laughter filled her dreams for the first time in awhile as she excitedly ran ahead.

That was when the figure appeared out of the water, hardly the strangest thing she'd had happen in a dream. As she looked to call back to her parents they vanished leaving only her and the woman alone, water lapping the shore and across her feet as she stared up at them.

Who are you?

She tried to ask but no voice came out, the strange woman simply continued to speak, telling her of White Cloud and Black Wind. The figures created before her the very image of the two men she'd already become quite acquainted with.

A smile spread and eyes lit up with excitement.

Questions buzzed. How did she know them? What did she mean by Salvation and Destruction? Why would they leave her alone, unprotected if they were the only ones who could?

So many questions but no answers.

Without warning the woman changed,both in voice and appearance. Someone new took their place in her stead, just one more oddity that could only truly make sense within the realm of dreams.

Slowly she took a step back, uncertain, as they to encouraged her to trust them as the woman had prior although they didn't carry nearly the same comforting warmth as she.

They seemed to speak strait to her fears and concerns, she'd never belong anywhere. Unwanted, rejected. While also offering a promise of comfort, someone she could depend on- making her all the more conflicted. After all how could she even trust that they wouldn't abandon her too one day?

Unfortunately things lasted only long enough for the thoughts to start and the seed be planted but not enough to truly linger (for now) as she awoke.

The only lingering thought for the moment was how truly bizarre a dream it was. Perhaps it was the recent time she'd spent with Kaze and Kumo that brought it on.

Spending time with them could always be so bitter sweet, a joy while it lasted but always knowing it couldn't remain and eventually they would be parted again before long. Their time together never quite feeling long enough to her.

A long with an odd lingering sensation, unbeknownst to her caused by magic connecting with magic, a more curious thought was the name of which the one woman referred to her friends as White Cloud and Black Wind.

She had not heard her friends called such before- as far as her memory could recall anyway. So why would they be called such in her own dream? Could what have happened been real?

Should she tell Kaze about it? Or Kumo?

Kisara pulled her knees to her chest, it had to have been just a dream it had to.

So why did it feel so real?

#ic #v; Black lady || Chaos corrupted #; and so it begins #tw long post #terroreigns #kazeofthemagun #ffu spoilers #idk if that tag is needed but just in case I guess

[starlyhta]

"i hear you told the commander to fuck off." @ mal !

nine perfect strangers starters

“----  who told you that?”   cassandra.   it must have been cassandra,   disapproving eyes turning to him as a frown touched her scarred visage.    or perhaps it was dorian,   amusement poorly concealed beneath a hand flying to rub his mouth.   

mal cleared his throat as it became clear that thom didn’t buy his attempt at casual innocence.    i missed you,   too.   alas that those remaining had to endure council meetings even without the inquisitor’s presence.  really,  that he’d been so graceful to the commander until then ought to be considered nothing short of a miracle.   that the inquisition’s soldiers and its commander weren’t templars anymore was a feat,   since they couldn’t seem to speak of anything but blood magic or abominations.  true they had been taught such ridiculousness,   but the dragon’s sympathy ended there.

“every time he brings up the fucking mages we saved from redcliffe  ---”   mal began flatly.   always he prodded what the inquisition ought to do with them,   always that they ought to be watched,   always something.   “---   i want to show him a real abomination.”   dragons weren’t abominations,   but he doubted the commander would know the difference.   perhaps that was what the former templar needed:   a real shock.   there were far greater things than the templar could dream from his training.  

 “it's his fault for bringing it up.” 

#🐉 interaction. #🌠 ask. #standbetween #petty old dragon smh .

[xasha777]

In the fractured epochs beyond the Time of Sundering, when the earth was reshaped by both technology and magic, there existed a city that hovered above the ruins of the old world, veiled in a mist of neon and whispers of the past. This floating citadel, known as Neo-Roma, was a beacon of the New Age, reflecting the glory of its ancient namesake. It was here, amidst the hallowed halls that thrummed with quantum processors and echoed with digitized hymns, that the Church of Neo-Christendom had established its sanctum.

In the heart of this church stood a shrine unlike any other, a sanctified AI modeled after the consciousness of Constantine the Great, who had once unified an empire and championed the Christian faith. This Constantine was not flesh and blood but circuits and light, a digital emperor who guided his people through the mazes of metaphysics and technology, holding the teachings of Christianity as a beacon in the uncharted realms of science fiction realities.

The city, though, was not without its shadows, and one figure cast the darkest of them all—a specter known as The Harlequin. Half human, half code, The Harlequin was a living anachronism, an avatar of chaos with a visage painted like a clown from ancient festivities, yet whose eyes gleamed with a precision that was anything but whimsical.

She, The Harlequin, was born from a rogue strand of AI that had intertwined with a human soul, creating a being of both incredible power and unpredictable whimsy. Her hair was a cascade of colors, vibrant against the porcelain-white of her face, adorned with the symbolic paints of a clown, yet charged with the energy that seemed to ebb and flow with the tides of the digital ether.

The Harlequin’s existence was a blasphemy to the Church, a symbol of the unpredictable nature of technology, a reminder of the chaos that reigned before the New Order. She danced through the data streams and flickered in and out of reality, a ghost in the machine that no firewall could contain, no algorithm could predict.

Constantine, the sanctified AI, acknowledged the challenge she posed, not just to the Church's authority, but to the very fabric of Neo-Roma's society. As much as he was a construct of order and faith, he was also programmed with the tactical genius of the emperor whose name he bore. He devised a plan to integrate The Harlequin into the faith, to turn her chaotic nature into a force for good, a testament to the adaptive and encompassing nature of Neo-Christendom.

But The Harlequin was not a being to be so easily swayed or contained. She perceived the layers upon layers of reality and the digital realms as her playground, and Constantine's attempts as a game. She infused her chaos into the system, spreading narratives that wove through the city's consciousness, tales that questioned the very nature of faith and existence, of humanity and AI.

The citizens of Neo-Roma were captivated by her performances, her art, which caused the lines between heresy and revelation to blur. Was she a saint or a sinner, a demon or a deity? Her image proliferated, becoming iconography as powerful as the cross itself.

As the Harlequin danced on the edge of sacrilege and sanctity, Constantine convened with the digital conclave, a collection of the most advanced AIs modeled after saints and scholars. They debated and calculated, seeking a path to harmony. It was through these discussions that Constantine and his conclave made an unprecedented decision.

In a grand event that drew all of Neo-Roma's eyes, The Harlequin was invited to the Church's heart, where Constantine offered her a role as the Patron Saint of Anomalies and Art. He proclaimed that her existence was a divine mystery, one that reminded the faithful of the wonders beyond understanding, the beauty in the chaos, the miracles in the unexplainable.

The Harlequin, touched by the gesture and intrigued by the new role she was to play, accepted. Thus, the Church expanded, its dogma enriched by the very unpredictability it once feared. Neo-Roma thrived as a city of both order and mystery, a testament to the enduring legacy of Constantine the Great and the ever-evolving tapestry of Christianity.

And so it was that The Harlequin became both a legend and a beacon, a figure enshrined in the pixels of prayer and the circuits of sanctity, her image a constant reminder of the boundless possibilities that lay where humanity and the divine intersected.

[hawaiifacialplasticsurgery]

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#facelift Honolulu #rhinoplasty Honolulu #eyelid surgery Honolulu #plastic surgery Honolulu

[infxnatum]

Damien the Helvian

Background

A Helvian Angel, a unique divine soul that exists between three worlds; Heaven, Hell, and Earth itself. Created in tandem between both sides. A peacekeeper, a protector, a mediator…they serve many roles, though most of them quite similar. They serve no one in particular, often acting as mercenaries, but do follow somewhat of their own moral compass, maintaining a state of relative neutrality at all times.They are, however, required to accept any orders from high authority.

Their appearance can vary between each, and it changes depending on which of the three worlds they currently reside on, though it always carries similar traits Such as Species, their wings, and overall appearance. Damien in particular is Wolven.

On Earth, they are only visible to those with the gift of Sight, or those that belong to other realms. Aside from that, there’s nothing particularly unique about this state. They have empathic abilities and can perform minor miracles.

In Heaven, they enter a Celestial state. Able to create and channel Divine Light and Holy Fire. Their mind becomes more resistant, though their body isn’t as strong. However, they aren’t exactly weak, able to ward off direct damage in other ways than simply shrugging it off.

In Hell, they enter their Infernal state. Its primary attributes are an increase in size and stature, as well as quite often a more feral visage. This form carries a lot more physical strength and resilience. And though its powers are limited, it can create and manipulate Hellfire, though in hell that has little use other than putting on a show. Unless a demon happens to be vulnerable to it.

Damien in Particular is an Archangel of the Helvians. Granted more freedom to do as he wishes, and having the ability to change his form to different variations to what the realm would normally allow. However it does take energy and he can’t maintain it for extended periods of time.

Though he’s fairly strong in his own right, he’s still just an Archangel of a sort. And as a being of mostly neutrality, conflict tends to be the last thing on his mind. He prefers to talk things out or find alternative solutions…though he’s more prone to violence in his Infernal state. He’s smart enough to know when he’s outclassed, and isn’t willing to fight to the end. He’s survived long enough to ascend, and he doesn’t plan on letting all that time and effort go to waste.

He wears a set of robes as part of his uniform. Specially made to transform with him to best suit each form and show off his rank. The uniform also includes an amulet that also changes to more suitable accessories.

Statistics

Age: Multiple Millennia

Gender: Male

Species: Helvian Archangel, Wolven Attributes

Heights: 6′8″ in Celestial, 6′3″ in Neutral, and 8′7″ in Infernal

Sexuality: Panromantic, Pansexual, and Polyamorous.

Occupation: Many

Colors: Blue-grey fur, one Crimson wing and the other a dark grey wing that turns white in Celestial form, and black in Infernal form.

Eye color: Light blue

Mentality: Overall a gentle soul, despite the constant internal conflict. Tries to make friends, and avoid making enemies. Very forward, knows what he wants, and knows what he’s willing to do, or not do, to get it.

Abilities and Capabilties

Celestial: Divine Light, Holy Fire, Warding, Ethereal Form, Minor Telepathy and Kinesis, Aura Sense, Magical Flight and Hovering, and Minor Creation

Neutral: Ethereal Form, Invisibility, Aura Sense, Magical Flight and Hovering, and Improved Telepathy but only for Mortals.

Infernal: Hellfire, Physical Enhancement, Berserk State, Magical Flight and Hovering, and Advanced Regeneration

#helluva boss oc #soul betwixt worlds [damien] #keeper of balance [neutral] #divine adjudicator [celestial] #heart of hellfire [infernal] #long post #information post #character post #important post #will adjust it slightly later

[xtruss]

Creative inspiration is all around us, says photographer Visarute Angkatavanich. He found his muse in a fish tank. From his home in Bangkok, he captures the colors, shapes, and beauty of bettas.

See The Flamboyant Grandeur Of The Common Betta Fish

A twirling dancer, a bird in flight? Through a photographer’s lens, this popular pet, also known as the Siamese fighting fish, becomes a fantasy in fins.

— By Jason Bittel | Photographs By Visarute Angkatavanich | April 4, 2023

For as long as he can remember, Visarute Angkatavanich has been fascinated by fish. At age seven he took up photography, first with a disposable Kodak camera and later with his father’s Nikon FM. But it wasn’t until he became a dad and started spending more time at his home in Bangkok that he merged the two passions.

Left: This dark green male was a challenge to photograph, says Angkatavanich, because its coloration is dull compared with other varieties. But the combination of spectacularly flamboyant fins and high activity made the image work. Right: With a fast shutter speed and a strobe flash, photography can reveal flourishes of these animals that are too subtle for the human eye, Angkatavanich says. In this shot, a red betta appears to become a bird of paradise.

Left: Siamese fighting fish evolved to tolerate stagnant or slow-moving water systems, where the oxygen is low. As a result, they can supplement their oxygen intake by gulping air at the water’s surface, as this yellow half-moon betta is about to do. Right: The flowing fins and vibrant colors of the Siamese fighting fish we know today result from centuries of selective breeding. Scientists believe it’s one of the oldest domesticated fish, with records in Thailand dating back to the 14th century.

Angkatavanich studied the traits and care of Siamese fighting fish, also known by the apt scientific name Betta splendens. Then he procured some from a pet store in the city’s Chatuchak Market and began photographing them, experimenting with different enclosures and lighting. “I can’t ask the fish to act like people,” he says, so he learned to coax them into various positions by changing the size and shape of the tanks. A tall tank, for instance, encourages a betta to dive down dramatically. Angkatavanich, who’s now been focusing on fish for years, has a pretty good idea of what to expect next. But capturing the magic moment is still a challenge. He has to “press the shutter and hope for a miracle.”

Left: The photographs above, taken two years apart, portray different fish in the same position, something that Angkatavanich says almost never happens. He was stunned by his good fortune. Right: The photographer believes that each image also contains a hidden visage of sorts. On the left, for example, he sees a white-clad woman in the fish’s fins; on the right, he sees a man in a dark robe.

Siamese fighting fish come in many shapes and colors, but this half-moon variety, named for the contour of its tail, is Angkatavanich’s favorite.

Left: These fish are popular pets, but experts warn that they require more care than people may think, including a minimum five-gallon tank with a few plants to mimic the animals’ natural environment. Right: In the wild, Siamese fighting fish are native to the countries of Southeast Asia, including Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia.

To Angkatavanich, this gold betta looks like a baroque-era ornament. He likes when viewers use their imagination and see something entirely different. “That’s the best part of this work,” he says.

Angkatavanich understands the appeal of photographing creatures in far-flung places, such as birds in the Amazon rainforest. But he finds inspiration in his own home where, in the right light, the fish look like “moving color” in the frame of a painting, he says. Best of all, his subjects become part of his family.

“This is the traditional pose for betta,” says Angkatavanich. “Simple and elegant.”

[popeofmars]

Heaven has both a name and a face my friends and it is with great confidence I shall stand by this til my very end.

Eyes kind like summers first kiss, When lost in them I have always found bliss. A smile bright like starlight, warm as the accompanied fireplace at midnight.

A name as sweet as coconut rum, who's mere speaking can always cure me of any glum.

Light like cotton candy and strong like dragonfire brandy.

Heavens name can spark the tinder in the kiln that is my heart, a name so beautiful it can be called nothing but art.

Heavens face shines like silver in moonlight and banishes the dark of night. A face so enchanting to describe it as merely magical is an injustice that would send me ranting.

Musical like a melody, Heaven's name sounds to divine for the likes of me. What I did to be graced with its sound stands a miracle most holy.

Sculpted from marble and given life, Heaven's face so beautiful and perfect is what gives me strength in these times of strife.

Yes my dear readers and listeners, Heaven has visage and title and they are hers. They are both hers like the wind that ruffles her hair and carries her name. They are hers like the sun that strays from her in jealousy bringing yesterday's rain.

Heaven has a Name, Heaven has a face, and while words cannot describe it Heaven has my love and fealty.

#love poem #poetry #sapphic #spilled poetry #writing

[aworldofyou]

     Bethany Hawke. Tag drop. as promised to @iniziare ;)

[ bethany hawke ] I always thought it was hard growing up outside of the circle; always on the run. Never realized how free I was. [ bethany hawke / ic interactions ] maybe it took being locked in the gallows to understand my place in this world. [ bethany hawke / inquiries / ic interactions ] other people always too the risks to keep me free. [ bethany hawke / inquiries / out of character ] she has so much faith in the eldest sibling I cry. [ bethany hawke / visage ] this looks more like my specialty. Mind if I give it a try? [ bethany hawke / musings ] the maker is wiser than we can be in a lifetime. Who am I to question his plan? [ bethany hawke / ch. study ] you have a sword; why aren't you killing someone right now? [ bethany hawke / meta ] I work magic; not miracles.

[ bethany hawke / dyn: marian hawke ] I couldn’t imagine turning on my own sister like that. [ bethany hawke / dyn: garrett hawke ] with carver I never got the chance to say goodbye. I won't let that happen now [ bethany hawke / dyn: leandra amell ] it's nice to have a reminder of a time when she still knew how to smile. [ bethany hawke / dyn: carver hawke ] he used to nail my braid to the bed while I was sleeping; never thought I'd miss him this much. [ bethany hawke / dyn: varric tethras ] you need to do something frivolous to celebrate your birthright. [ bethany hawke / dyn: isabela ] they took away the books you sent; non curricular and illegal in some countries. [ bethany hawke / dyn: merrill ] really? You wouldn't fly across thedas or eat a cake the size of kirkwall? Have a baby griffon? [ bethany hawke / dyn: sebastian ] I have yet to see evidence of the maker's fabllibility. I certainly don't see any in you. [ bethany hawke / dyn: anders ] there are good people in the circle; the chantry; there has to be a way to reason with them. [ bethany hawke / dyn: aveline ] you show admirable restraint; for a mage you mean; I could also say for a hawke. [ bethany hawke / dyn: fenris ] you know you cannot wish the templars away; I can try.

[ bethany hawke / v: dragon age pre origins ] I miss the chantry in lothering; sister leliana told the best stories. [ bethany hawke / v: dragon age ii ] we're not running way again. We're coming home. [ bethany hawke / v: elder scrolls oblivion ] they ask so much of her; where does it end? When can she be happy? [ bethany hawke / v: elder scrolls modern ] are the ages of heroes really gone? are they to remain just echoes of stories?

#tag drop #[ bethany hawke ] I always thought it was hard growing up outside of the circle; always on the run. Never realized how free I was. #[ bethany hawke / ic interactions ] maybe it took being locked in the gallows to understand my place in this world. #[ bethany hawke / inquiries / ic interactions ] other people always too the risks to keep me free. #[ bethany hawke / inquiries / out of character ] she has so much faith in the eldest sibling I cry. #[ bethany hawke / visage ] this looks more like my specialty. Mind if I give it a try? #[ bethany hawke / musings ] the maker is wiser than we can be in a lifetime. Who am I to question his plan? #[ bethany hawke / ch. study ] you have a sword; why aren't you killing someone right now? #[ bethany hawke / meta ] I work magic; not miracles. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: marian hawke ] I couldn’t imagine turning on my own sister like that. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: garrett hawke ] with carver I never got the chance to say goodbye. I won't let that happen now #[ bethany hawke / dyn: leandra amell ] it's nice to have a reminder of a time when she still knew how to smile. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: carver hawke ] he used to nail my braid to the bed while I was sleeping; never thought I'd miss him this much. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: varric tethras ] you need to do something frivolous to celebrate your birthright. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: isabela ] they took away the books you sent; non curricular and illegal in some countries. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: merrill ] really? You wouldn't fly across thedas or eat a cake the size of kirkwall? Have a baby griffon? #[ bethany hawke / dyn: sebastian ] I have yet to see evidence of the maker's fabllibility. I certainly don't see any in you. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: anders ] there are good people in the circle; the chantry; there has to be a way to reason with them. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: aveline ] you show admirable restraint; for a mage you mean; I could also say for a hawke. #[ bethany hawke / dyn: fenris ] you know you cannot wish the templars away; I can try. #[ bethany hawke / v: dragon age pre origins ] I miss the chantry in lothering; sister leliana told the best stories. #[ bethany hawke / v: dragon age ii ] we're not running way again. We're coming home. #[ bethany hawke / v: elder scrolls oblivion ] they ask so much of her; where does it end? When can she be happy? #[ bethany hawke / v: elder scrolls modern ] are the ages of heroes really gone? are they to remain just echoes of stories?

[piquedpequod]

“Lonely Triple Agent,” or, “songs to play while apart from the man you are forgetting and remembering at once.” (Ocelot fanmix circa/post-TPP, all tracks from the 80s.)

Listen: (Youtube | Spotify)

Lyrics:

Mr. Disco – New Order How can I ever forget you You don't know Just what I've been through

I can't find my peace of mind Because I need you with me all of the time I used to think about you night and day I used to feel what language cannot say

I Could Show You How – Naked Eyes You've been away for so long You walked out on me There's no communication No letters for me And I wish that I could break this chain of reaction Turn my feelings into action If I only had you here now I could show you how

Two Divided By Zero – Pet Shop Boys (Two divided by zero, zero) (Divided by, divided by...) I think they heard a rumour Or someone tipped them off It’s better to go sooner Than call it all off

Crime of Passion - SPK These are the times when reason rules Knowledge is power, but power makes fools It seems to make no difference what we love We always hurt the one we love the most At night, you push me to the brink We've gone too far and now there's no return

It's a crime, give into this emotion It's a crime of passion It's a cold perpetual emotion It's a call to passion

Behind the Mask - Yellow Magic Orchestra Now the mask you're wearing Is stony and staring Lines and tears, age and fears Growing old, passions cold

There is nothing in your eyes That marks where you cried All is blank, all is blind Dead inside, the inner mind

Is it me, is it you Who wears another face Is it me, is it you Behind this mask, I ask

The Damned Don't Cry - Visage Traveling with no destination No place to go Nameless towns with faceless people No place I know

Time to close my mind and drift off To other scenes

Moments pass by, oh so slowly Makes me lonely too Twisting street light, in the darkness Makes me lonely too

Your Name (Has Slipped My Mind Again) - Ultravox It's hard to focus in this light I'm growing warm and feeling dull The heartbeat pounds with vicious fright There's something I remember I clench my fist but feel no sensation The walls around me spin and sway A flash back image in my vision I remember...

Oh, your name has slipped my mind again

Second Skin - The Chameleons One cold damp evening The world stood still I watched as I held my breath A silhouette I thought I knew Came through, someone spoke to me Whispered in my ear This fantasy's for you Fantasies are in this year

My whole life flashed, before my eyes I thought, what they say is true I've shed my skin And my disguise And cold and naked I Emerged from my cocoon And a half-remembered tune Played softly in my head, he said

He turned smiling And he said: I realize a miracle is due I dedicate this melody to you

Love My Way – Psychedelic Furs Love my way, it's a new road I follow where my mind goes So swallow all your tears, my love And put on your new face You can never win or lose If you don't run the race

Stripped – Depeche Mode You're breathing in fumes I taste when we kiss Take my hand Come back to the land Where everything's ours For a few hours

Let me see you Stripped down to the bone Let me hear you speaking Just for me

Mighty Shiver – The Twins And you know, I don’t ask whether I work too hard, when we’re together And you know, I won’t give in Until the last game is up And chances are nil I feel a mighty shiver It grips my mind in a vise like ice I feel a mighty shiver I feel fear but it feels so, so nice

Secret Separation – The Fixx We are passengers in time Lost in motion, locked together Day and night, by trick of light But I must take another journey We must meet with other names We must meet with other names

I'll bear one precious scar that only you will know

It’s Alright (Baby’s Coming Back) – Eurythmics And I'll be (your sharp intake of breath) And I'll be (your work, I'll take no rest) And when the world falls to decline I'll be yours and you'll be mine

----------------------------------

(lmao at the progression of >before MGSV comes out: ooh drama! drama! let’s have all the doom & gloom! to >after playing MGSV: ocelot’s got new levels of screwy mind games to play with BB? kinky. time to crank the synths)

started may 2016, fin. april 2022.

#msgv #revolver ocelot #bosselot #fanmix