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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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I was wondering if you could do a prompt with Cal and the reader where they’re both inquisitors, or the reader (as a Jedi/force-sensitive) having been supposedly “killed” during a fight with an inquisitor, only for Cal to find out later down the road that they’ve been turned into one, and it becomes his mission to save them and convince that he would never abandon them? I hope that’s okay and not asking for too much! ;~;

Nonsense! This is definitely okay and you’re not asking too much 😊😉 It was a little tricky to make the fic not look like a reverse twin of my 2 similar-sounding fics “Come Back To You” and “A Path I Can’t Follow,” but I saw it as a chance and a happy challenge to mix up the plot and add up what I wished I could’ve done on either fics. So, here you go, Anon! ☺ I hope you’ll enjoy the fic and I’m really sorry that it took a while in making it—as I was caught up in other requests and my own fic as well.

“Someone Left to Save” | Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: The Mantis crew arrives to the capital of Ulfin, in the planet of Pevera, under siege. They meet the local rebel cell spearheaded by the former Republic admiral, Jax Beneb, who seeks to destroy the Empire’s occupation that was aggressively imposed upon while exploiting the planet of its natural resources. A plan is devised to destroy the Imperial’s main base of operations—as well as their influence—in the planet; however, it was a do-or-die mission that you and Cal had gotten yourselves caught in.

A/N: Also, Happy 40th Fic for me! ;;w;; I never saw myself expanding my masterlist with requests from other people, I just thought it would slowly grow with my own ideas and prompts but here I am now! 😭😭❤❤ I’m so glad you guys stuck around and liked my content, I’m forever grateful and really appreciate the support! You guys are the greatest!!! 🥰💖✨💜🌼

Tags: Force-Sensitive! Reader, Inquisitor! Reader, Jedi! Reader, Fake Death, Jedi turned Inquisitor, Seduction to the Dark Side, Turn to the Dark Side, The Dark Side of the Force, Aftermath of Torture, Torture, Psychological Torture, Redemption Arc! Reader, Possible Redemption, Premonitions

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, physical and psychological torture

Also in AO3

Next: Part 2 | Masterlist

1 of ?

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE COUNTERATTACK

Many travelers would call Pevera as Felucia’s near twin—due to the vibrant, unusual, and colorful flora, the formidable yet fascinating fauna, and the great lakes that stretched and blotched across the continent. However, it colors begin to fade as the Empire devours it with its shroud.

All of you have gathered in one of the temple ruins that make up for the rebel cell’s meeting halls. Beneb and the fighters settled in the jungle that’s miles away from the capital Ulfin’s boundary. You and Cal listen in on the exchange of the soldiers and Beneb regarding their plan of their counterattack.

The main target? The Imperial outpost that’s been erected at the city.

The operation was quite elaborate for a rebel cell, nevertheless, Beeneb was confident that it was manageable—since he had put his faith on his soldiers to be the good ones, albeit being an interesting medley of misfits.

“We will strike at night—when they are most vulnerable, they’ll be under the impression that nobody will be outside due to the curfew,” Beneb interjects, he raises a finger at you. “[Y/N] will be part of the small division who’s in charge of planting the explosions at the very foundation of the building. The explosion will divert the Imps’ attention to their outpost while we free the captives and our men in their holding camps.”

And the former admiral moves his finger to Cal, “You, on the other hand, will go with the assault division. You’re one of the best fighters I’ve seen, my boy, and we’re gonna need all the brawn we can get until the captives have been freed.”

He never liked this idea not one bit—since its conception, he wasn’t really keen on the thought of having you take on one of the most dangerous tasks of this mission: explosives. You had to talk it out of him just so he’s convinced and reassured that this plan will come through.

At the end of the briefing, Cal pulled you to a secluded spot in the camp: at the side of a tent, which is still slightly in sight of other people around the camp.

“You’ve been uneasy since the start of the briefing,” you point out.

He reasons out his exact sentiments on the plan—he doesn’t like how Jax Beneb planned this whole counterattack.

“It seems risky,”

“Cal, in these times, everything is risky,” you argue. “I was hoping you’d have some trust in me—given that they put me in the explosives team.”

“I do trust you. It’s… It’s the plan I don’t trust,” Cal muttered, strictly within your earshot.

“They’re gonna have to do better if they wanted to kill me off,”

“Don’t joke like that,” he clicked his tongue, apparently ticked.

“I’m not joking,” you shrug your shoulders. “I meant it—I’m not that easy to get rid of, and neither are you.”

Cal fell silent. You had him back to a corner on that one. His eyes were wary of the partisans that passed you by, those pair of green irises shifted from one person to another, avoiding eye contact or greeting them with curt nods and mumbled hey’s and hi’s.

You bring your hand to his cheek, gingerly turning him to face you.

“I know it’s scary, but it’s gonna be okay,” you caress his cheek with the knuckle of your forefinger, he nuzzled his lip to the cushion of your thumb.

That same night, you were restless.

You’re haunted by the vision of red and orange burning blindingly behind your eyes, the rumble felt so surreal you feel the vibration at the soles of your feet, and whatever tension it brought you it was suffocating. Later on, in your nightmare, you’re greeted with the sight of Cal lying flat on the floor, facing up, his face is covered in ash and soot, red marks signify fresh yet minor burns, a streak of blood paints along the side of his face. Meanwhile, you can feel yourself lying right beside Cal’s unconscious—and seemingly dead—body. You want to scream, but you’re mute, with only the sound of a hundred, faceless screams, explosions, and the flaring inferno wrapping around the two of you.

“Cal, please get up…!” you hear your subconscious self beg, your voice cracking as you choke on your own words. You couldn’t even hoist your hand to nudge him, let alone touch.

He doesn’t budge. Embers continue to flutter over a plume of black smoke wafting in your direction.

You jolt up, awake in a cold sweat. Your eyes adjust to the dimness of your tent, lit by a single power lamp, your ears prick up and listen to the cacophony of insects chirping in the sparse vegetation of the outskirts. The bioluminescent sap of the trees flowing underneath the bark glowed around the camp in place of the bonfire that’s been put out for tonight.

Cal shuffled in his bed, he was woken up by your exclamation and shallow, rapid breathing.

“[Y/N], is something wrong?”

“I… Yeah…” you stammered, massaging both sides of your head as you hunched your back. “Bad dream is all… Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep, Cal.”

He hesitated, but did so shortly afterwards. He didn’t close his eyes yet when he laid his back flat on his bed, he tossed to his side facing you, but you returned to your own bed with your back turned to him. Cal watched the steady by labored rise and fall of your shoulders as you coax yourself back to sleep, although you struggled in doing so.

It was a restless night. You literally fought it off by having a quick sparring session with one of the partisans.

Cal approached and leaned against the banister of the pen where you and spar buddy fought. He noticed the sleight of your hand is still intact—the grip around the hilt is firm and secure—but your ankles when buckling seemed flimsy; it’s not that he wanted you to fail, rather he anticipated the likeliness of you fumbling once the opponent lands a blow against your practice rod—which is nothing short of a typical electrostaff with a dead circuit.

“Did you get enough sleep last night?” asked Cal as soon as your sparring was over.

“I’ve caught enough winks. Why?”

“Your form looked off, that’s what,”

“Did I now?”

“Looks like you’re not as confident as you were yesterday,”

“Cal, my nightmare had nothing to do with the counterattack,”

He dismisses it by mouthing the word “Sure” and then the two of continued to talk with the banister between you. Seeing that he is the only person you can confide to with these kinds of dreams, you eventually caved in and narrated everything to him—even the macabre part where you find him lying lifeless next to you and he doesn’t budge.

“Okay, I won’t lie: that is scary.”

“It’s only a dream, Cal, don’t take it so seriously,”

“For a while there, you sounded like you did,”

“Well, it felt real—but that doesn’t mean I believe it,”

The bickering ended before the tension would even rise. Even if neither of you are talking about it, there’s always something that reminds you of it—anything was a potential stimulus: the campfire evoked the images of the burning light that seared your eyes, the collective voices of the fighters gradually melding together into one indistinct voice reminded you of the faceless screams.

This went on for the rest of the day, even during a recap meeting with Jax and the partisans. After that short meeting, you were led by one of the partisans who will handle the explosives with you on the day of the operation.

“Come on, we’ll teach you how the detonators work,”

“O-Okay…”

The partisan sensed the warble in your tone, she chuckled, although not to offend. The adult woman clapped your shoulder and slung her arm around it, hauling you to her side.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, little spark! You’ve got enough time to run away from it before the Imps could even realize it exists!”

While you were being stowed away by the detonations experts, Cal joined in with the fighters who were constantly warming up and sparring at one another—with the one collective reason that they want to be in tiptop shape when it’s time for the operation to be executed. Even without touching you, Cal had sensed your anxiety, he’s noticed your episodic wincing and migraine attacks, and though you insist that you’re fine—both of you perfectly know that nothing seems fine anymore as the day for the counterattack approaches ever so briskly.

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cristalconnors · 4 years

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BEST SONGS of 2019

20. “MOTIVATION”- Normani

“Why would we ever do something instead of falling into the bed right now?”

Watching the 2019 VMAs, it was easy to feel despondent about the current state of mainstream pop. And then Normani descended from a basketball hoop, breaking up a string of lifeless performances of cookie-cutter top 40 with a preposterously physical tour de force that harkened back to an era when pop fame felt like something closer to a meritocracy, when talent mattered more than spectacle. It felt like a major arrival: at last another pop goddess that truly had all the goods. The public may not have caught up to her quite yet, but “Motivation” is a statement of purpose for Normani: I’m here, I’m very fucking talented, and I’m not going anywhere.

19. “SO HOT YOU’RE HURTING MY FEELINGS”- Caroline Polachek

“I cry on the dancefloor, it’s so embarrassing”

The charms of “So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings” are seemingly endless. First, there’s that title that makes you chuckle the first few times you hear it. Then, there’s the pre-chorus that title is effortlessly plugged into: a crystal clear image of lovelorn insecurity placed atop a sublimely simple melody that builds into a harmonious, show-stopping chorus. But the song’s zenith has got to be that bridge, marrying a mind-bending, distorted vocal solo that more closely resembles electric guitar with the singsongy refrain “show me your banana,” effortlessly striking a balance between the highbrow and the silly, casting Polachek as the carefree pop diva she perhaps always should have been.

18.“WAY TO THE SHOW”- Solange

“Candy paint down to the floor”

“I want it to bang and make your trunk rattle.” I think about that quote a lot when listening to “Way to the Show,” the grooviest track on When I Get Home- the one whose meandering funk bass line and countless key changes build to an explosion of synth runs and gun cocking, showcasing Knowles’s growth as both a songwriter and curator of mood as she crafts a singularly hallucinatory, heavenly vision of Houston and the sounds that raised her.

17. “WONDER BOY”- ARTHUR RUSSELL

“I’m a wonder boy. I can do nothing”

The back catalogue of notorious perfectionist and genreless chameleon Arthur Russell is so vast, so varied that even 27 years after he was taken from us, we’re still being treated to new material. Every single song of his that’s been released posthumously, including all 19 tracks of Iowa Dream, feel like their own revelation, each of them a uniquely dazzling bucking of all your expectations of what a song of his should sound like. “Wonder Boy” is unique in how tidily its melancholy, frosty images of impermanence sum up the tragic story of Arthur Russell the man- the brilliant artist who never found success and only ever managed to put out a single album while he was alive- the wonder boy who could do nothing.

16. “I THINK OF SATURDAY”- Moodymann

“I called you on Thursday... I called you on Friday...”

“I Think of Saturday” starts simply enough, listing the days of the week almost as a gimmick, evoking soul and early rock filtered through a house lens, until halfway through the song when the beat drops away, introducing a brief sample of Joe Simon’s “With You in Mind” that’s followed by the reintroduction of the beat, but now accompanied by a recurring distorted, dissonant chord that reframes the song as a sinisterly rousing account of unrequited desire and delusion that refracts itself over and over again.

15. “SOFIA”- Clairo

“I think we could do it if we tried”

The opening bars of Clairo’s “Sofia” sound like a really good Strokes knock off, but the song quickly reveals itself to be something vastly more interesting, unfolding itself steadily over the course of three minutes as she and producer Rostam Batmanglij subvert well worn pop tropes to craft an exquisitely textured, soul-baring, and ultimately hopeful anthem for young wlw everywhere.

14. “LARK”- Angel Olsen

“What about my dreams?”

Olsen’s widescreen, abstract vision of a break-up song is thrillingly unbound from the constrictions of song structure and narrative, favoring instead the visceral power of strings and drastic dynamic contrast to craft a symphony in miniature, a “journey through grief” as Olsen herself describes it, that announces the bold, panoramic vision of her fourth album.

13. “WALK AWAY”- (Sandy) Alex G

“Someday I’m gonna walk away from you. Not today...”

“Walk Away” evokes the sense of being trapped, stuck in a cycle of recognizing unhealthy relationships or habits and being unable or unwilling to do anything about them, looping the simple two line refrain over and over and over again to weave a hopeless, woozy tapestry of crunching beats, acoustic and electric guitar, mournful piano and harpsichord, and distorted vocals.

12. “THIS COUNTRY MAKES IT HARD TO FUCK” (BJÖRK REMIX)- Fever Ray

“That’s not how to love me!”

Björk isolates the most memorable line from Fever Ray’s “This Country”- “this country makes it hard to fuck!”-and explodes it, distorting it and stretching it across a fearsome sample of the droning, discordant flutes from “Song of the Alféreces and Dances of the Chinos,” evoking a kind of tortured funhouse mirror image of the current state of reproductive rights that rightly recasts Fever Ray’s song as a horror film.

11. “ABOUT WORK THE DANCEFLOOR”- Georgia

“I was just thinking about work the danefloor...”

“About Work the Dancefloor” is Georgia’s ode to the cathartic, restorative powers of the dancefloor, where your worries fall away as you melt into the crowd and language abstracts itself, as evidenced by that perplexing chorus that doesn’t seem to mean anything- and why should it? When you’re lost in her pounding bass and gurgling synths, that incoherence is strangely comforting. You can cast whatever meaning you want onto it and work through it physically, together.

10. “GONE”- Charli XCX & Christine and the Queens

“I try real hard, but I’m caught up by my insecurities”

The jelly squiggles that criss-cross Charli XCX and her collaborator’s faces on the artwork released for the singles from her latest album Charli suggest a kind of symbiosis, a cosmic intertwining of sorts. But only “Gone” achieves a true melding of the minds, where Charli and Chris’s best and boldest instincts collide, complimenting one another seamlessly in this dizzying vision of insecurity and isolation that unravels into a stunning pop abstraction.

09. “CELLOPHANE”- FKA twigs

“Why don’t I do it for you?”

Usually for FKA twigs, more is more. Her songs are busy, even the slower ones, packed to the brim with glitches, unusual rhythms, and a million little details that pull attention, giving them texture and making them extremely immersive listening experiences. “Cellophane” pares those idiosyncrasies back. They’re still there, but the focus is twigs’s voice, which bends and cracks and really emotes in a way we’ve never heard. Her voice is naked and unvarnished, allowing her to be truly vulnerable in a way we’ve never heard either, and it’s heartbreaking.

08. “CINNAMON GIRL”- Lana Del Rey

“If you hold me without hurting me, you’ll be the first who ever did.”

“Cinnamon Girl” is the culmination of every other ballad she’s ever written. They were practice and this is the real deal- a painterly missive on tumultuous love that reads like a pained confession whispered in confidence, something Lana’s always done well, but her composition has never been so exquisite or immersive, so beautifully in concert with her poetry or her velvet voice, or so flawlessly constructed, effortlessly building toward a show-stopping finale that asserts Lana as the postmodern princess of Americana.

07. “COOKIE BUTTER”- Kim Gordon

“Industrial...metal...supplies...”

“Cookie Butter” has got to be the most stunning showcase of the power of Kim Gordon’s voice, as she drags out some vowels, muffles others, attacks consonants and bends words until they don’t sound like words anymore, all atop a trance inducing beat drives towards the song’s unlikely climax- Kim Gordon saying “cookie butter” in the most impossibly distinct way you could imagine that carries the weight of an EDM drop, leading the track into it’s disorienting second half that both clarifies and obscures the half that came before it. Haunting and addictive.

06. “CATTAILS”- Big Thief

“You don’t need to know why when you cry.”

To hear Big Thief talk about the process of writing and recording “Cattails” on their episode of the Song Exploder podcast, one is struck by how organic it was. Adrianne Lenker describes it as a “magic wind” that swept through the studio, the song kind of falling out of them in one take. That sense of life comes through in the song, the simple, sublime repetition, bounce, and build of it sounding like a transmission from deep within the soul, a cosmic image of nostalgia and grief that is as cathartic as it is heavenly.

05. “GOD CONTROL”- Madonna

“I think I understand why people get a gun.”

“God Control” is ostensibly about gun control, though you’d be forgiven if you had a hard time discerning what exactly she’s trying to say. Like some of her best work, it’s provocative and maybe a little empty, but damn if it isn’t supremely interesting and compelling as hell. Madonna taps into a sense of apocalyptic malaise and skepticism of authority that feels at times remarkably in tune with the public consciousness, at others a grotesque caricature of it, to uniformly fascinating results as she spins a deranged disco yarn that, once those swirling strings hit, is downright euphoric.

04. “GOLD TEETH”- Blood Orange, ft. Gangsta Boo, Project Pat, & Tinashe

“We gon’ rumble in this ho!”

Blood Orange takes Project Pat’s “Rinky Dink II/We’re Gonna Rumble” and explodes it, gifting it both playful levity and added depth with a rollicking beat minor chord synths respectively, effortlessly criss crossing Hynes’s many disparate strengths and interests in the most effortlessly rousing and joyful track in his entire ouevre, elevated by the powerhouse Three 6 Mafia reunion verses of Gangsta Boo and Project Pat himself.

03. “INCAPABLE”- Róisín Murphy

“I don’t know if I can love, in all honesty.”

“Incapable,” Róisín Murphy’s virtuosic disco epic, stops time. That indelibly simple bass line loops over and over and over again until you’re lost in it, the song slowly building itself on top of it, adding claps here, hi hat there, rising towards a stunning sequence backed by whooshing synths where the song really comes alive, where an almost boastful breakup anthem morphs into a glamorously melancholy self-indictment in which she ponders that maybe it’s her there’s something wrong with, creating a dazzling dichotomy between the pitfalls of introspection and the bliss of the dancefloor.

02. “MOVIES”- Weyes Blood

“The meaning of life doesn’t seem to shine like that screen.”

“Movies,” appropriately, plays out with a big screen gloss. Those arpeggiated synths feel like they’re slowly expanding as Natalie Mering coos atop them, wondering how if movies are fake, how come they’re more real than anything in real life? As the synths suddenly give way to frenzied strings, the song splits itself open, giving itself over wholly to the melodrama, the sweeping enormity of feeling that Mering so masterfully conjures as she longs for the vitality, the simple answers, and the meaningfulness of movies.

01. “DO YOU LOVE HER NOW”- Jai Paul

“There’s a time for everything.”

On June 1, 2019, when I first read the news that Jai Paul had released new music, news so momentous it was accompanied by a red “breaking news” banner on Pitchfork’s home page, I immediately found my headphones and sequestered myself. I knew whatever I was about to listen to would require my undivided attention. Quite frankly, I was shocked it existed at all. After the notorious, devastating leak of his music in 2013, he’d exiled himself so thoroughly that it was easy to believe he was just gone forever. But here it was, the second coming- two (2!) new songs, effectively doubling the amount of (completed) material he’s released in an official capacity.

Pressing play, I was a little nervous that it wouldn’t live up to my expectations, that it might somehow diminish the work of his that I’d loved so much, that changed the way I think about pop and R&B. That didn’t end up being a problem. While “He” is excellent, “Do You Love Her Now” is maybe the most stunning piece of music he’s ever written. Billowing, moseying guitars provide the heartbeat for what starts as a straightforward, sublimely simple send up of 60′s and 70′s R&B. But this Jai Paul we’re talking about, and nothing he does is simple. Nuances and complexities creep out organically from the fabric of the song- synths whiz in and out, harmonies soar to the forefront of the soundscape seemingly out of nowhere and fall away just as suddenly, crafting an immersive, richly textured listening experience that is unpredictable, washing over you like a wave, building, cresting, and crashing over and over again.

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u-jin · 4 years

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IT’S ALL DARK

status: headcanon ft. @lockekatirci situation: first meetings location: somewhere near market zero time: hour unknown, the streets are swept black, even the late crowds have quieted TRIGGER WARNINGS: death, blood, mutilation, gore

DEMON CAT OPENS, POURING TERROR ONTO THE STREETS:

It’s like an animal bent over prey, a darkened image of a not-quite man bent over a not-quite corpse, a carving knife in one hand, fingers stained red and face sprayed, blood dripping from the ends of his hair as he works in the back alley of an abandoned pub. This, he thinks, is art. He reels back and slices down again, a horrible tearing sound, a dull thud. He leaves his knife protruding for a moment, bare hands reaching into a gaping crevice, past bone, past the squishy, slippery texture of human insides, seemingly searching for something, a growl of frustration. He pulls back again, the cold air freezing the wet texture of his skin, and is stopped by a feeling like ice, a slow prickle running up his back, a sensation familiar to one thing -- someone is watching him.

Then he looks up, red up to his elbows as he draws the knife out of the body's ribcage, the air moving and transforming, a face somewhere in the darkness. He stands slowly, making the shadows writhe and shift around him, the light cascading into the dark, his own person being revealed like a feral dog, eyes wide and face beautiful in it’s stoicism, it’s in freedom from hunger in the one moment after hunting, covered in blood and chunks of flesh. He finds him, a being more wraith than man, appearing as if conjured. The knife hangs loosely in Ujin’s hand, curious and open, he takes several steps towards the shadowed figure, face cast like the undead in the way the darkness hangs over his eyes. He pushes light closer, plays with his own mind in the form of illusions, the slow, clandestine drip, drip, drip of scarlet falling past his arms to the concrete, a mutilated corpse lying motionless in the background.

He’s curious, treacherous, he creates the illusions and yet he isn’t sure if he conjured it himself, sanity sometimes slipping in his ache for blood, his draw to the macabre, then the light reveals a face and he realizes that it cannot be a creation of his own because he doesn’t make beautiful things. He draws closer, eyes narrowed, knife heavy in his fingertips, something in the back of his mind saying that he must take this one too, that he has to reap every last creature he sees, he has to devour, consume. He can’t stand the sight of something that appears so clean despite the way the blackness clings to him, something untouched despite the intensity in his stare, but there is no fear, not exactly, instead something that looks as starving as he is, and Ujin wants nothing more than to slice him open and chew on his bones.

The shadows are domain to the beasts and the butchers, and the man appears well at home, he steps closer, eyes molten gold and tinged velvet, narrowed and curious. Who are you? What can you do for me? How he loathes pretty things, hates those that mirror himself, delicate features and dark dispositions, is it possible to be this empty? This angry? He sears molten lava, mouth spitting ash, the ground rumbling with the tightening suture of an oncoming storm, a building intensity in the locked stare of two monsters, two unholy creatures, one caught feasting in his right and the other a watcher, an onlooker, an uninvited guest.

His head turns carefully to the side, his mouth opens his mouth as if to speak, reaches out as if to touch when behind him there’s a clatter, and he turns, paranoid and sharp. He sees a rat scurry from beneath a heap of trash and just as quickly he turns back, greeted with only the image of a brick wall and, for a moment, he appears thoughtful. Eventually his tongue clicks behind his teeth, as if this occurrence was nothing strange, as if performing for an audience of one. He still feels the presence nearby, but worse things have burdened him, far worse has happened, and he turns back around, head cocked and smile returning, wild and wrathful. Another monster in his midst, one he does not recognize, one he’s surely meant to hunt. The features linger, transparent, almost crystalline, not solid or definable but just as vivid.

He’ll be back, he decides, before drawing his knife up and returning to his art project.

AND SO RETURNS HELL HOUND ( @lockekatrici ) , WATCHING FROM THE SHADOWS:

Through static darkness; suspended in the shadows like an invisible fly on the wall; obscured by all living creatures, Locke almost becomes the dead in the way existence no longer stands tangible. Only the nearly inaudible breaths whisper his presence in amongst the night and he’s simply watching. It’s not clear how much time has passed, but in the veil, there’s a weightlessness that keeps time as an illusion; a figment of reality that no longer cares for such trivial cogs in a clock. Not even the metal hands under the steel of Katirci’s watch can attract his attention when such a display of vehemence captures his admiration. A sickening snap echoes; evidence of tendons tearing from tissue, an explosion of liquid bursts from the hacking of meat where silver carves deep, splits open the disfigured animation like a fountain and allows arteries to spurt red and paint the streets in colour. Like a mosquito that pierces with the same necessity to thrive; saps life; energy from a being, a strange obsession with needing to inch closer starts crawling under Locke’s skin. It’s as though that craving for a knife to cut open his own flesh overpowers reasoning; he wants to be in the place of the canvas currently being maimed to forge a new entity. It evokes a memory, the harsh sound of bones cracking a small boy’s shoulder blade in youth; a wail that’s fast silenced when another comes down and drives deep the venom that in elder years swarms the man’s veins like a parasite; a poison that builds him to something beyond becoming ruination.

He’s the god of the night and deities like to be seen; worshipped and offered sacrifices as favoured by most sentients; Lokman as a divinity is an image formed entirely of delusion, though, diluted by his own deep rooted belief he is greater than his own beasts.

Because he stares in awe at the one before him; sees everything in the hues of the man – if he could be called such a thing, the frenzied ghoul that appears to be the reaper of offerings; such a beautiful thing that Katirci’s own false illusion of playing silent spectator falters and he steps out to meet the other; as if only to see his face close up, marvel in the features that are blessed with the sangria that peppers warm skin, melts down perfected features; a jaw that even belonging to something with ferocity; untamed in the actions of the blade he holds can only belong to something of primal nature. Would you take my hand if I wiped red from your face, if only to see deeper? A madman’s misconception, because he already sees it all.

And above that, the stranger sees him. A kind of outlandish stare that’s a myriad of perplexion and the hunger behind the man’s eyes; matches Locke’s own if only by a single shade, so he believes. There’s no shift of eyes to the knife in the other’s hand, knowing that Locke’s own is sheathed in the rear of trousers; a personal measure, opposed to that of protection. For a moment, both men are still, admiring each other and any third eye could assume a standoff, but it’s nothing of the kind; there’s only a drawn need to the grisly and Lokman’s lip ticks in one corner, not as a taunt, but as an unorthodox manner of greeting. It might have been as prominent as firing a bullet, the only shift that begins the shift of the two that’s evident past the two heaving chests that indicate they’re alive.

An abrupt clatter of tin resonates, tears the other’s gaze away, offers Lokman opportunity to disappear; create a new diversion in the beams of black that shape inconsistent waves between the pub’s alleyway. He’s become a ghost again; once more opportunist, stealthy in becoming absent to the other who’s own speed is admirable. But it’s never quite fast enough, he can see the momentary flicker where lowlights project amber street lights over the features of the stranger. It could easily be a dream manifested from hauntings; memories that plague Locke’s head from years prior. But it’s far too real, he can sense it like a false sixth sense that is all in his mind, the need to still capture a streak of red on his own fingertips if only to become closer to the man; so Lokman can be seen by him as Katirci plays witness to his misdeeds.

Then, like it never happened, the brief encounter of two monsters in the dark, the other begins hacking at the mutilated mass, unhinged and ignorant perhaps to any ghosts gracing him. It seems so pitiful to be disheartened, that Locke’s not accustomed anymore to feeling forgotten so swiftly in situations with such merciless intentions. The stranger’s got something better in the dead in front of him. A demon in the rear of Locke’s head, coaxing lies; truths? Into him like sweet pumps of that delicious poisonous venom he’s drowned in.

The briefest emotion, unrecognised – entirely unfamiliar; so fast to fleet from his body like a powerful force uses him as a conduit to another world for just a split second. More so that it’s such an old feeling, he’s forgotten what it’s like; rejection; being unknown once more to the person he’s spent perhaps hours staring at in the mists for the other man to only see him for seconds.

Unlike the stranger who’s hijacked his thoughts; all rationality – if there ever was any, Lokman does not forget such a moment and there’s no denying the bloodied face that he’s memorised isn’t the last painted picture he’ll leave with; a promise. He’ll be the ghost that haunts the man.

#ii. headcanon #ft. hell hound #blood //#death //#gore //#mutilation //#lockekatrici

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thewhumpstuff · 4 years

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You and I, Me and You [8]

@badthingshappenbingo [Original characters and content for prompt - Backhand Slap] Special thanks to @simplygrimly and @lettuceknighted for all their help and it was a lot! I feel like a child learning to walk and you guys held my hand throught this ;) --------------

[Teaser and Master List] [Archives of our Own] (You and I, Me and you: Chapter 9)

[<– Previous] ~ [Next –>]

Below the belt.

“Should’ve given me a chance if you really wanted to know. But you know what they say, if at first you don’t succeed, try try again.”. Her voice echoed in the cell and in his head. Jared clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes as she seemingly, threatened his life. Her words were blatant too and hurtfully so. She twisted the words he used to encourage her playfully. Not that she had any way to act on her words. Does she really want me dead, then? He looked down at the implement in his hand. And he hated her for being right. He could not simply channel the spirit of someone like Scarlett… Brutally, and yet, systematically thrashing a victim with a cane, especially an incapacitated one like Akira. Especially against Akira herself. It was not something Jared could pull off, not unless he absolutely had to. And he hated being in that situation, he had been there too many times.

But there were other things he could do… Death would merely be an unlikely sequela. In the end, it was an inevitability any way. He recognized that some part of his brain, did not quite reject that outcome as vehemently as it should have. He let the thought come… and go. No, I won’t let her take anything from me anymore. Besides, I’m better. Jared snorted. “Yeah? You wanna have a go… Shira?” She looked at him resolute, neck slightly craned to accommodate for the collar. Her eyebrows shot up with a certain eagerness. Tempers were smouldering. “You really are that curious, eh?” He answered by shoving his hand into his pocket, he clicked something, and the collar expanded. “The chain needs a valve, but the lock opens with a button…” She muttered with a mild fascination, it had enough room for her to wriggle it off her head, but it was heavy enough to require some effort.

He kept his distance and chuckled at her observation. “Didn’t expect us to employ designed theatrics?” A part of her could not fathom why he still insisted on associating himself with SpecSyn. It was her turn to slow clap. She beamed with mocking exaggeration. “Congratulations, my Red Knight! You have successfully risen to the level of your enemy. Because, honestly. SpecSyn does play nastier don't they? Either way, aren’t you proud?” Her accusation was against him as much as it was against the organization she had sworn her loyalty to. So she just decided that SpecSyn was nastier? Is that why she decided to simply stop doing her job? She really had a knack for killing the small joys he was trying to derive. The ghost of his chuckle echoed in the room. His palms were itching now. He dug his nails into them as he opened and closed his fist, stretching his fingers. “Go on then, get the shard, Akira, I’d hate for this to be one-sided.” Back to Akira instead of Shira. The sharper ache she had once felt at the loss of endearment, was much duller now.

She was tired, she was hungry, she was addled, and she was pissed. So, she leapt off her feet and flung herself at him. That was just insulting and pathetic. He had enough time and warning. His free hand wound towards the opposite shoulder, then it swung towards her face, once she was close enough. Smack. The combined momentum was enough for the impact of his knuckles and fingers to knock her back. Her face swivelled. Everything blurred. She panicked briefly, but he did not follow up with anything… yet, and gave her a chance to compose herself. Was he going to draw this out? Was this some perverse lesson? She gasped and stumbled backwards, carefully avoiding the smaller pieces of glass still on the floor. She held her ground. The sting of the slap felt intense enough to leave a lingering sense of numbness. Her ear rang a little. Her tongue jutted out to catch the trickle of blood that snuck out of the corner of her mouth, her lip split a little. Slowly, she righted her head to glare at him again. He had successfully evoked the feral in her. Never, had he struck her like that before. So, it was truly over then. This was it. At least, that is what it felt like. Her breathing was uneven, so was his.

“You expected me to roll over and die for you, Shira?” A drawl was not a common tone for Jared, but it suited him fine now. She realised that he adopted Shira whenever he got his taste of a small victory. He is mocking me… by mocking us! Or… Despite her being the captive, the interrogee… Being at his mercy, maybe she still had some hold over the situation. A part of her revelled in that knowledge. She wished to savour it for as long as she could. The power struggle between them was palpable. Akira wasn’t sure about killing him before, but she sure as hell wanted to now. An animalistic war-cry tumbled out of her lips. She threw herself at him yet again, but this time, her leap was measured.

He really did not peg her for the sort to make the same mistake twice. But then, she was being bullishly bellicose. Was she still not thinking with her head? He decided to use the cane this time, swinging it over his head almost warningly as she got closer. She did not stop. So, he decided to follow through. But he should have trusted his hunch. She was thinking with her head alright.

She did not simply lunge at him, she had a plan. Akira stepped in, towards him. Her arm shot straight out, as a wedge between him and his outstretched limb. Hers was flattened against her ear and blocked the incoming strike before he got the full-swing’s worth. The stick slid against her; she rolled her arm over his, to lock his stick-wielding wrist. Before he had the chance to wriggle out of this, which he certainly could manage with sheer brute force, she jabbed her knee into his crotch, once… twice, reared up for thrice but couldn’t follow through as her hatred waned. He exhaled sharply, then grunted as he keeled forward. The other hand caught her knee, her hesitance gave him time. “Below the belt… really?” A raspy, strained voice called her out. She would have retorted that after the slap, this barely left them even. But she was more interested in shutting him up.

She rearranged her knee, pulling it closer to herself. Her joint whisked his blocking hand on the way to its target: his face. He pulled away enough to prevent a nose break and almost opened his mouth to let his teeth graze flesh, but he did not want to fight dirty, or worse… end up with his teeth knocked in. His lips split in two places too. All he had to do, was to wait for her to make a mistake, because he was certain she would. She manoeuvred him to the floor, with his arm still in her grip. She pivoted him, by twisting the arm cruelly, as he fell. She ensured that he landed on to the glass shards on the floor. The cane slipped out of his hand. “Here, have your god-damn shards.” She hissed pressing his face into the ground with her knee and holding his arm in a lock, her hip flush against his elbow.

The small cuts against his jaw and cheekbones spouted crimson. But there were other pressing matters to deal with. Literally. Something was pressing against a joint he was rather attached to. Her legs stretched over his throat and neck as she sat back, with his arm pulled across her. She kept her elbows tucked in and his wrist in a strong lock as she slowly bucked upwards, rolling her hip against his outstretched elbow. “Having fun?” His words were still laboured, but the implication in his voice almost made her head cloud again. Almost. Keeping her motion controlled so she could draw this out, took effort, so her own voice was worn too. “You betcha!” But to show him that she was serious, she notched upwards just a little faster and just a little higher. He drew a sharp breath; he choked out a sound and swore with anguish. “F-FUCK…” Akira could have sworn she heard something crack. She loosened her grip.

In fact, she had not heard a thing, because nothing was broken. He was still reeling from the explosive pain between his legs. But his arm was fine. He flexed his elbow, it was close the fork between her legs now. In a moment of flitting anger, Jared considered taking revenge for the crotch shots but thought better of it. He sharply tucked his arm towards himself. His wrist slipped out of her grip. The moment the hold was broken, the two of them snapped away from each other, and they got to their feet in a hurry. I will walk away a better man.

Barely though, he did just test her concern for him and was surprised to find it was still there. He was not happy about the tactic he used, especially because it worked. In the recesses of his mind, he wished she did not betray any evidence of feelings that she may or may not have for him. That uncertainty, complicated things, in intent and in action. Akira let out a hollow, giddy giggle, it cracked the words she used to call out his cheap tactic. “I thought I’d be able to tell if you were ever faking it.” He rolled his eyes and absently flicked his thumb over the cuts on his face, to assess the damage. Expectedly, the touch elicited a sharp sting across the wounds and viscous crimson painted his skin.

She stumbled backwards to keep her distance, till her back was flush against the wall. “I mean… You could never tell when I did.” Her words dripped with bitterness. Naturally, she was hurt that he had exploited the fact that she still cared, it came as a surprise to her too. Now that it had been used against her, that tendon of attachment broke like the arm had not. It made her want to hurt him again. Somehow.

He had never paid much mind to the lurking feelings of inadequacy when it came to her, of not being social enough, happy enough… experimental enough. She had never let him dwell on it too, not until she left for Q.B… and met someone else, or so it seemed. It was not the original source of his antagonism towards her. He did not wish ill upon her for moving on as the distance and circumstance made communication impossible. But, with the backdrop of friction and guilt, her words touched a nerve he did not know had been exposed all this time. Neither did she.

Jared was unexpectedly swift. He really should not have let her petty words drive him to lash out. And he realised as much, in the time it took for him to close the distance and throw a punch. She barely managed a guiding parry and a small side-step away from him. The air his motion perturbed, whisked against her side. His knuckles collided with the wall. His own aim had wavered enough for him to miss, just barely. Her side step assured it. He was glad he did, even though, this time something did break. He groaned, but his fist remained against the wall and his arm stood like a fence between them. Aki’s fear rose like bile. She swallowed. If that had connected, she would be… considerably hurt. Without giving her a chance to recover from the shock, or himself from the pain, he stepped in closer yet and folded his elbow. His forearm fell across her throat. His shoe fell across her bare feet. Panic. There was the mistake he had been expecting. She tried to claw her way away from the wall and he let her, just enough to slip his arm around her throat. That's it then, for real this time. He's going to kill me. She thought as the arm coiled around her like a snake, tightening to slowly choke the life out of her. She almost wished she had taken the chance to tell him everything. She felt just as breakable as his arm and just like she could not break a limb, he certainly couldn’t break her. He did pull his arm towards him and squeezed, carefully. Not to kill, just to neutralise. As he slowly felt the struggle melt out of her body, his rage followed suit and melted out of him. She slackened in his hold.

[Category 2] [Tags: @cashieeetime and @beckstriad (because you’ve already seen the process ;) )]

#whump #badthingshappenbingo #captivity #interrogation #backhanded slap #fighting #playing-dirty #you and I me and you

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teratoscope · 6 years

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Valagasp

You open the final lock on the book and it bursts open from within as a cloud of evanescent creatures spill from the pages, each held aloft on a set of wings beating so furiously you can scarcely see them except as a sort of dark, buzzing haze. Their bodies are long and gangly; each leg comes to an immeasurably fine point and holds a translucent edge from knee-length down. Their flesh looks painted on in watercolor. Each eye is a pinprick spot of black on a head the size of your thumb, and yet its gaze seems to overflow with malice. HD 1 MV 240’ flying AC chain AT bladed kick x2 (1d3+1 cutting) Special vorpal dust, sharpening touch

vorpal dust—as a full action, a Valagasp may travel in a straight line 60’, scattering enchanted nanoparticulate in its high-pressure wake; anything in its path makes a Dex check and takes 3d6 piercing damage on failure. sharpening touch—once per day a Valagasp may enchant a humanoid-scale edged weapon, compressing the lethal end into two and a half dimensions. When a Valagasp-sharpened weapon hits, roll damage as normal; on any result other than a 1, deal the maximum possible damage. On a 1, the blade shatters, flinging razor-sharp fragments in a 5’ radius. Bystanders take 1d8 slashing damage (Dexterity check for half).

It is known that there are certain inks that can make even a novice painter evoke flesh from the page, or trap the material within it, but only a master can conjure valagasps. Those who can need nothing special; they can be called up with charcoal or ink or pigments or embroidery or blood—anything that can render an image on a plane. But to conjure them you must capture the likeness exactly. You must see them before you ever put anything to the page, because they are not summoned from whole cloth. They have always been precisely where they were before they were drawn. The valagasps are everywhere. They infest all two-dimensional planes; they thrive there. Being drawn merely invites them into three dimensions, which is full of dangers but also full of food. The valagasps have little to eat besides each other in their home planes. They’ve been doing that for a long, long time. They can be appeased with fresh meat, seasoning, and the company of other valagasps, but their appetites for all these things don’t stay sated for long. They cannot push themselves back into two dimensions once they’ve been decompressed—in any case they hardly ever want to—but magic can cram them into place. Usually they then have to be held there by constant physical force. Usually this means sealing the page in a scroll case, or in situations involving a large population, a well-bound tome with thick, heavy covers. These things become very valuable collector’s items, both for their novelty and their potential value as a sort of improvised explosive device, though fakes abound as nobody wants to open one of the damned things to check. It’s said that there are other things in the valagasps’ world that can be captured, with the right eye and a deft hand. It’s also said that you can wind up there if you’re in the right productive fugue, though how you’re supposed to get back is unclear.

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fantroll-purgatory · 6 years

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Phomet Burzum Review

Alternia

They’re they/them and where one of my original struggles was deciding whether they’re boy or girl, I think I’d rather keep it ambiguous. Not sure if the sprite helpfully evokes that. This is mainly playing into the idea that the Sabbatic goat possesses all sexual characteristics to be ‘both’ at once, and with how Norse Seidhrs (magic practitioners) were generally woman with magic being seen as a womanly thing. Despite this, Odin himself is shown to study and use Seidhr magic, so that’s fun.

I love that they’re nonbinary and tbh you don’t need justification for them to be nonbinary any more than you’d need justification for them to be a boy or girl. (Everyone please send us more nb trolls we have so few and I love them all dearly). I would…caution you about creating a nonbinary character using the reasoning that Baphomet has intersex characteristics, since those two things are neither synonymous nor even really related at all? I mean I love this androgynous kid and will die for them and will pour my heart and soul into the redesign in which I maintain their gender ambiguity but just. Y’know? And there’s still enough reasoning for them to be nb on the basis that subverting gender norms is very much a part of punk culture and that Seidhr does indeed have a murky history in terms of which gender “should” use it so it still holds if you need a narrative reason.

Name: Phomet Burzum

‘Phomet' is from a shortening of ‘Baphomet’ which is the goat-headed figure that has come to represent the Sabbatic Goat, tying to their symbol and minor Satanic themes.

Burzum is the word for ‘darkness’ in Black Speech from The Lord of the Rings series.

God I love that’s he’s a little bit similar to a troll I recently reviewed. Hecate Bafmet and Phomet Burzum: BFFs 4 LYFE (however short Phomet’s may be)! Skulking around in the dark! You’d better watch out, you’d better watch out, *you’d better watch out,* *YOU’D BETTER WATCH OUT*! These two unsavory characters are comiiiing to tooown.

Strife Specibus:Axekind for now mainly as a joke on an ‘axe’ as a guitar slang term. Could instead do ‘guitarkind’ and have it go into axes later a la Rose’s knitting needle kind acting as wands.

Fetch Modus: Cryptogram - Has to spell out words with musical notes. Probably gonna use the French method for simplicity.

Blood color: Rustblood - Blooooood. But no, they’re a rustblood kinda based off a concept I had. With the True Sign of Aries being a Time one, with the social pressures kinda forcing Time as a concept over the rust caste, I’m making a cult based off Death Metal aesthetics rather than juggalos. Some sort of redblood solidarity where they wear corpsepaint. It’s meant to be a kind of mirror to the Juggalo cult, who are mirthful and the highest land caste, whereas this Metalhead cult is more stoic, macabre and comprised of the lowest ladndwelling caste. Dunno.

I do know!!! That’s metal as FUCK. Also I’m DEF adding corpse paint to their sprite!!!

Symbol and meaning:It’s a goat head, referencing the Sabbatic goat.

As with the previous troll I reviewed, it reads well and matches Aries “sign language,” and I’ll see what I assign them after looking at their aspect and moon.

With that said, since I’ve now made a similar comment twice in a row I think it’s worth going back and establishing what exactly does make a sign fit its caste’s language in case anyone wants to do a fan sign beyond the extended zodiac that could still plausibly fit within canon…

Trolltag: Nothing yet, used to be ‘cantankerousGrendel’ but I’m not sure it’d fit them these days.

Given that you’ve worked them into a death cult, how about culminateGeneration? It also works with their Void aspect.

Quirk:They talk lyke thys tü be as BRÜTAL as possyble - They replace ‘I’ and the matching sounds with ‘y’ and replace ‘u’ and matching sounds with ü. This is meant to mimic the trends a lot of metal bands to to their names in order to look cooler.

hjfsdk;l when I said that with the umlauts it honest to god sounds like someone trying to do a goat imitation so PERF. Also brings to mind associations with Brütal Legend so I figure we’re gonna take this WAY over the top.

Special Abilities (if any):They’re a magic practitioner, and regularly communes with mysterious dark entites (Horroterrors) for song advice and inspiration. In return, their resulting music often carries a lot of eldritch effects to it, which Phomet doesn’t mind because it looks so BRUTAL.

Lusus: (I’m proud of this) Pentaram - It’s… a goat head with five spider legs. It’s species doesn’t live long, they can barely move around because they have five fucking legs to support a whole goat head. Not even big ones, they’re just about average. Phomet hates their lusus and thinks it’s completely lame. When it gets sprites and is this not bound to the cruel mistress of gravity, it looks WAY cooler. Mainly based on the Sabbatic goat again, this time with the goat-headed pentagram.

dhgsljk;lafjha;jeg I love them so much. They’re a Parentaram.

Personality: Honestly, this is kinda where I struggle the most. The most I can think of is Nathan Explosion from Metalocalypse. Their voice is a similar growly type.

The character you seem to have created with Phomet is one who is very attracted to the lük of things and not to the substance. I like that for a Void player! Their interests in stuff is initially superficial, ‘empty.’ This sets them up for a very interesting arc in which they will need to actually face up to what they’re doing, the good the bad and the ugly. Dig a little deeper into this theme! You can do a lot with it.

Interests: Magic, music (playing guitar, listening to bands, composing their own stuff, singing), occult studies, looking up brutal and gruesome things online (basically an average troll google), haircare.

Title: Knight of Void - Off the bat, I’m in the 'Knights are passive’ camp and that their class verb is 'Serve’. I often try and approach my Knight characters from different perspectives but they all more or less come to the same thing, so it’s cool.

(ʘ‿ʘ ) You have come to…a blog that does not actually subscribe to that verbiage so my advice from here on out may not apply…

Anyways, their interest and dabbling with dark, esoteric magic is a good link to Void in my opinion. Forbidden, unknowable things that are best left obfuscated. The Horrorterrors are very Void-coded, such as how people can interpret Rose’s Grimdark status as her acting as a Void player, as well as residing in the Furthest ring, furthest from the Light of prospit.

Phomet regularly communes and 'serves’ Horroterrors in the way similar to a Warlock from Dungeons and Dragons serves their patron. What Phomet gets out of this is some kickass riffs and lyrics whilst the HTs just get another emissary or plaything.

I…hm. I mean I think Knight of Void actually does apply here just not for the reasons that you do. Knights tend to be drowning in their aspect, and Phomet is definitely doing so here. They’re surrounded by secrets and horrorterrors and have almost no understanding of the depth of the forces with which they’ve involved themselves. Ideally, a Knight would grow to eventually wield the very things under which they’re being suffocated.

I’ve not really thought about personality in regards to this classpect, that’s what I’m struggling most with them.

Yeah, if we look at someone like a Dave or a Latula, Knights tend to come off as very superficially cool specifically because they don’t understand that they should be concerned by everything they’re overwhelmed with. I think you’re fine just making Phomet a punk #aesthetic kid like many of us were in middle school and letting them come into their own from there.

Land: Nada

Does this mean you didn’t assign one or that they don’t have one??? Because the latter would be really interesting if you want to give them no choice but to consort with horrorterrors; if they, for example, die before getting in and wake up on their moon after a kiss, they might find that their planet never manifested/was destroyed before they could enter.

Or, if you do ant them to have a planet, how about Land of Metal and Mirrors? It would fit their aesthetic really well and also be a sly dig at their own vanity, with mirrors that show warped reflections or aspects of themself that they don’t like. The way to reach the denizen would be to accept all reflections as true expressions of themself, allowing them to warp between mirrors (including one located at the heart of the planet, inaccesible by any natural means).

Dream Planet: I wanna say Derse, but Prospit would be a nice ironic fate for them.

I think this is a question of what you want to do with them. It’s not as simple as Prospit = nerdy goofballs and Derse = edgy coolkids, though that may be what someone gets if they initially saw the moons to which the kids were assigned. Vriska, one of Homestuck’s most famously murderous and grey-moral characters, is a Prospit player. This is because her character’s focus is on Destiny. She relies heavily on predestination and is all about living up to be the grand hero she knows she’s meant to be. If you want Phomet’s arc to be about breaking free of forces to which they’ve dedicated themself with little understanding, you’d go with Derse (which is my pick, personally, especially because it puts the horrorterrors right in their ear before they even get into the game). If you think that they have a destiny to fulfill (even a dark one like eventually becoming the horrorterrors’ permanent plaything), then you’ll wanna go with Prospit.

So. With A Void assignation and a Derse moon, we get Arittarius, The Sign of The Astronaut. And interesting pick, especially if we go with the concept that they don’t have a personal planet! So let’s move to the redesign!

So. You may have noticed that Phomet has undergone something of a transformation. Let’s go top to bottom on this.

Horns - I gave them a new set of horns to match their new symbol. We already have a troll with this symbol, but I didn’t want to repeat her horns on them and their new pair looks like the tops of eighth notes as a nod to their musical inclinations!

Hair - So the thing about death metal fashion is that the folks in it have great hair, but it’s not necessarily as neat as Phomet’s original style. Their hair also tends to be longer, and chin-length on a Homestuck sprite sometimes translates to ear-length in Hero Mode, so I really wanted to hit the length home. I pulled this straight from a fan-troll sprite sheet, then added some definition at the top. One of the little cowlicks got lost behind their horn, but I wanted there to be five directly surrounding their face to reference the pentagram.

Corpse paint - I pulled the colors directly off Gamzee’s face to further drive home the mirrored implications. I even mirrored Phomet’s own face paint to make it look a little like a Rorschach blot. Finally, I futzed with their mouth makeup until it kind of looked like the silhouette of a goat head?

Eyes - So part of maintaining an androgynous look is to make things a Little Unsure. Did I add eyelash definition to their eyes or did I just make them more diamond shaped? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Who knows. We’ve seen undereye makeup exactly ONCE on a troll but I liked how it made their bags stand out so I applied it over the corpsepaint.

Mouth - Hey :V Did you know goats don’t actually have upper teeth? That’s all just one gum, baby. I found this out while spriting Phomet’s mouth and now I have to live with that information and you do too. They have an underbite now, and just enough lip definition to make you cock your head. Is that lipstick? Are their lips just full? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Vest - I added some pockets to make them more utilitarian

Symbol - t b h this one just looks like a totally plausible variant of the symbol you already gave me.

Belt - It is. A SPIKE BELT.

Boots - constantly use fantrollartroom’s combat boot sprite???? MOI? Yes, yes I do, they have done a better job of spriting combat boots than I ever could and I love combat boots and they’re metal as hell so they get some.

So that concludes our review! Luv this scamp please get them a comb for me.

-TR

#ancientvacation #phomet burzum #phomet #burzum #rustblood #review #redesign #tr review #fantroll #submission

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totallytubulargirl · 7 years

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Contrition (fluffy raph x reader)

Authors note: I try to describe their thoughts and feelings more then I usually do because I feel that most of the time it really adds to the story. Idk if you don’t like this please let me know if you do though also let me know haha thanks papa bless

Summary: When college rears its head, you break up with Raphael. But you love him so much, how will you ever survive ?

Leonardo flung open the door to Raphaels room. “Get up.” He commanded, irritation edging in his words. Raphael grunted, unpleased to be woken up from his slumber. “This is the third time this week you’ve been late to train RAPH.” He made sure to put an extra snap into Raphael’s name so he knew how aggravated Leo really was. The massive turtle crawled out of bed, directing a disgruntled look towards Leo, “So?” he rolled his eyes. “What’s it matter?” He asked solemnly, quickly forcing himself to scowl when he remembered who he was talking to. “You can’t just blow of your responsibilities, Raphael.” He spat. Raphael snapped his head in Leo’s direction. “OK fearleass leader tell me what I should do then, since you’re all knowing.” Raph’s face sat steady in a mean expression, half hoping that Leo had a real answer for his question. “I never said I was all knowing raph,” He said. “But you need to get out of your head and communicate.” Leo stepped forward and Raphael took it as a challenge, standing up and squaring his shoulders to his older brother. Tension over flooded the room, as Raph twitched his jaw, ready to take his Leo on. “Or what?” Asked Raph. Leo contemplated the look in Raphael’s eyes, and whether he should take his brother down a notch or two. He stood unwavering to Raphaels size. Leo’s blue eyes were stoic against his auburn ones and his fingers twitched with the anticipation of action, when suddenly a voice from the doorway forced their fists to their sides. “Is this a bad time?” asked [Y/N], wide eyed and with a box in hand. Raphaels muscles froze beneath his scales, he slowly turned his head towards the doorway, afraid of who he might see. Leo eyed her and Raphael before storming out of the room. “Fix this please.” Leo demanded quietly as he passed [Y/N]. She looked at Raphael, who was glaring into her skull as if she would only see him if he moved. “Raph?” She tried smiling reassuringly. She adjusted her fuzzy grey track suit awkwardly. “Are you ok?” His eyes were suddenly animate. “Whaddo you care?” He slammed his pillow onto his bed, bursting it open. Feathers flew around him as he turned away from her. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth against each other as he curled and uncurled his fists. Sorrow flashed over [Y/N]’s face as she slowly inched towards his bed, plopping the box down. “You know I care Raphael.” She reminded him quietly. Raphaels mind flashed with a thousand memories of [Y/N] caring for him. The way she caressed his face with soft skin that invoked a feeling in him he could only describe as addiction. He huffed in frustration, snapping himself back to reality. His eyes were suddenly wide with hope to see her again, no matter how painful it was. He cautiously turned around, the blood rushing to his ears made it almost impossible to hear anything else. [Y/N] quickly perked up at the notion of facing him. She had brought back a small box of his things. Reminders of his existence left scattered around her apartment. Things she couldn’t bear to look at anymore, things that gave her an excuse to see him again, one last time. The stabbing pains in her chest would never go away if she didn’t. She forced something resembling a smile onto her face. “How are you?” She asked, avoiding eye contact. Raphael flared his nostrils at her question, forcing his lips together and holding his tongue back. How did she think he was doing? It had only been three days since they had broken up. His heart still felt like it was shattering, the pieces slowly ripping from the tender muscle underneath. Raphael cautiously studied her face, his gaze wandering down to the soft flesh of her breasts pressing up against each other, forcing his lungs to seize, choking him from the inside out. “Why are you here?” He asked, the pain in his voice forced her to look at him, to face what she had done. She could feel emotion rising to her throat forming into lump. “I- uh brought your things.” She trailed off, shoving her hands in her pockets. He looked at the box full of stuff he was almost positive he didn’t want. He crossed his arms across his plastron carefully. “Thanks I guess.” He grumbled. [Y/N] was out of words but she was desperate to stay in case they did come. “Why was Leo mad?” She asked meekly. “S'cause he’s a tight ass.” He replied. She wondered how he could be so calm about everything, how he was so collected when she could barely keep herself together. “You always say that.” She said quietly. The room was still, like the calm before a storm. “Both of your training sais are in there.” She said, reaching into the box to a pull out a sai, much smaller then his own. She smiled, remembering when he had brought them over to train her. He shook his head, “Keep ‘em.” He insisted. “They’re yours.” A small part of her was shocked at his trust in her to keep his boyhood sais, but she knew that even now they both still loved each other. She looked down at the small sai wrapped with a deep red cloth at the handle. “I miss you.” She said quietly. He felt his heart jump in his chest, “What?” He asked. She didn’t dare take another leap of faith. “Nothing.” She intertwined the strips of cloth hanging off of the sai in between her fingers. Raphael quickly swallowed his pride in the heat of the moment, uncrossing his arms, leaving his heart vulnerable to harms way. “I miss you too.” He whispered. She looked at him, and their eyes finally met. An undeniable electricity danced in between them, before fizzing out as they looked away. “Well you seem like you’re doing good.” She said calmly but a twang of pain in her voice gave her away. Raphael almost laughed. He was anything but good. “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Good.” She slumped her shoulders forward. She didn’t know what she had expected coming here but she now felt defeated. “Am I 'sposed ta be torn up on the floor cryin’?” He asked as anger rose in his chest. “Raph that’s not what I meant-” “Nah what’re you, too good for me?” She saw the anger began to take over him but that didn't stop anger from invading her own body. “Why do you always have to take it there raphael?” She rose her voice, failing to hold her emotions back. “Sorry I’m not falling apart without you.” He waved his hands mockingly in he air. “Well I am!” She yelled, casting a silence that echoed through out the room. Raphael didn’t know what to say. Didn’t she want to break up? Wasn’t it her idea in the first place? The way she stood before him now made those things seem to not matter. He wanted to comfort her, to wrap her in his arms and paint her toenails because it always made her feel better when he did. But he stood rigidly in place. “And you don’t think I am?” She could hear him cracking his knuckles nervously. Raphael felt anger making its home in his chest, he clenched his fists at his sides, straining his knuckles until they turned a light green. He barreled towards her, “I tried to ignore it,” he breathed steadily, controlling the approaching explosion. “I tried to sweat it out,” he explained. “But your voice plays on repeat in my head like a song.” He yelled, burying his face in his hands. “I know I can’t ask you to give up your life for me but-” he stopped. “I just… don’t know what to do.“ He whispered, baring his soul for what felt like the world. She glanced down, tears welled in her eyes at the thought of permanently leaving Raphael behind. He saw a flash of something familiar in her eyes, before tears streamed down her cheeks. He shook his head clear of impossible scenarios, and remorse once again blanketed his golden eyes, quickly covered by anger. He was angry that she had to leave, he was angry that he was sad, he was angry at the world, and he had no one to blame but himself. He sat on his bed, brooding, unwilling to direct his insatiable anger towards her. She looked at Raphael hunched over, frustrated as hell, yet she knew his hands could evoke the most tender of touches. She hyped herself up before adrenaline began rushing through her veins, “I’ll take a year off.” She proposed. Raphael looked at her questioningly. She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was. “What?” He stood up and approached her. “I can take a year off of college,” she paused, her mind was thinking to fast for her grasp any real thoughts except that she loved him. Son of a bitch, she thought, I love him. “I think we have something here, and I think we shouldn’t throw that away.” She bit her lip nervously and her toes curled up. “But there’s something I need to know first.” She trailed off. She couldn’t stop now, no matter how scary her words seemed to be. “I want to know,” she paused and forced herself to look into his eyes. “If you love me.” She couldn’t put her life on hold for something that wouldn’t work out, she needed to know he was serious. Raphaels eyes glistened trying to grapple with the fact that someone cared about him enough to put everything else on pause. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he could hear a loud thumping in his ears, but he convinced himself to say the words he hadn't had the guts to say before. “I do,” he said. “I love you.” He watched her brown eyes light up at his words, astonished that she seemed so genuine. He expected this to be a cruel joke, that she would laugh at him for thinking that anyone could actually love him and break the spell at any moment. “I love you Raphael.” She declared. He walked towards her and she ran into his arms without another thought, catching him off guard. He quickly enveloped her and breathed a sigh of relief that she was finally in his arms again. She felt his heart thump at an alarming pace against her ear. [Y/N] suddenly longed to look into his face, to see the raw emotion he buried so deeply. Raph watched her pull her head away from his chest and his heart hitched in his throat. She saw something glisten in those golden pools of honey that gave her the courage to kiss him. She pushed her face against his, the roughness of his lips a jarring contrast to her plush ones. She couldn’t get enough of him, after three days of not seeing him, not even being able to talk to him, made her truly cherish the closeness. Raphaels scales tingled under the gentleness of her touch, it was more exhilarating then beating the living daylights out of a thousand foot soldiers.

#tmnt #tmnt 2016 #tmnt raphael #tmnt x reader #tmnt fanfiction #tmnt bayverse #raph x reader #Raphael x reader

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fillystick · 4 years

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WEEK 7 & 8 LECTURE NOTES

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WEEK 7:

PAUL KLEE

Painter (expressionism, cubism, surrealism)

colour theorist (Paul Klee Notebooks)

taught at Bauhaus with Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky https://www.paulklee.net/

WHAT PAUL KLEE TAUGHT IN BAUHAUS (1921- 1931)

“First letters, then symbols, then, finally, how to read and write,” Klee demonstrated multiple ways a point can become a line, a line can become a plane, and so on. This would lay the groundwork for future works, this needed to be mastered before tone and color entered the picture.

“Observe the Fish Tank” Klee requested students spend time observing the fish’s activity in his aquarium, as he thought artworks (even abstract works) should be inspired by nature. “perhaps starting from nature you will achieve formations of your own, and one day you may even become like nature yourself and start creating.”

“Draw the Circulatory System” In his lectures, he described the nature’s patterns with scientific reasons, mapping mathematical equations and arrow-filled diagrams on the board. Klee would sketch on the chalkboard the movement of blood through the body, as he said the human body reflected how art is created.

“Weigh the Colors” Klee only introduced color after students understood fully about lines and planes. Klee’s lessons about color combined scientific precision with a deep sense of mysticism. Klee required his students to create color diagrams of their own, including one assignment in which they visually weighed one color against another (the color red, as it turns out, is heavier than the color blue)

“Study the Greats” Artists should break down the artworks of their peers and forerunners into the most elementary components—line, form, and color—to determine what makes an image successful or problematic. Klee provided students with feedback on their works in his home, Of all the Bauhaus masters, Klee was the only one who did not give grades.

“We do not analyze works of art because we want to imitate them or because we distrust them,” he once said. Instead, we do so “as to begin to walk ourselves.”

5 Art Lessons from Bauhaus Master Paul Klee

OSKAR SCHLEMMER (TRIADIC BALLET)

Oskar Schlemmer's ballet of geometry – in pictures | Art and design

Schlemmer's work aligned with Bauhaus’ thinking: merging art and technology, man and machine.

Schlemmer was the first artist to fuse dance and modernism through his exploration of abstraction in real space.

Break-away from classical ballet's: from the focus on the soloist and the duet to the emphasis of a collective approach to dance.

The costumes can be seen as a living embodiment of Schlemmer's previous sculptural and pictorial work, it reflected the idea of the New Man during the early 20th century.

Oskar Schlemmer Paintings, Bio, Ideas | TheArtStory

WASSILY KADINSKY

Russian painter, father of abstract painting

Point and Line to Plane (1926) Kandinsky presents details of the inner dynamics of non-objective painting, with the role of point in nature, music, art, and the combination of point and line that results in a unique visual language.

WHAT WASSILY KADINSKY TAUGHT AT BAUHAUS (1922–1933)

“Express your inner world, not the latest artistic trends”

an object could only legitimately be considered art if it was an unadulterated

He believed that theory came after, not before, true artistic creation

He felt that the expression of one’s inner reality was crucial to achieve moral integrity

true artists should be prepared to be misunderstood throughout their lifetimes

“Don’t paint things. Paint in abstract form” art is not only abstracted but entirely non-representational.

“Approach color as a window into the human soul” Kandinsky believed that each color had an personality, and compared colors to the keys of a piano, and the human soul to the piano itself. As an artist used colors, he or she was in effect playing different musical notes, causing “vibrations in the soul.”

“Inject rhythm into your painting, like a musical score” Kandinsky said an artist should experiment with repetition, ordering, and scale, not just with colors but also with points, lines, and planes. These arethe building blocks of a composition.

“By creating original work, you will further the cause of humanity” The artist is obligated to use his or her talent to make a positive impact in this way—to create sincere, original work that helps humanity toward collective enlightenment.

Wassily Kandinsky on How to Be an Artist, Wassily Kandinsky Artworks & Famous Paintings

DER BLAUE REITER

A german expressionist group originating in Munich in 1909 (members include Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc, Gabriele Münter)

The name referred to Kandinsky and Marc's belief that blue was the most spiritual color and that the rider symbolized the ability to move beyond

Their art was structured around an idea that color and form carried concrete spiritual values, they often drew parallels between painting and music

Der Blaue Reiter Movement Overview | TheArtStory, Der Blaue Reiter – Art Term

MARCEL BREUER (FURNITURE- INDUSTRIAL FABRICATION)

He was the first furniture designer ever to use tubular steel

Wassily Chair (1927-28) Breuer’s use of the newest innovations in bending tubular steel for the entirety of the structural frame demonstrated the possibilities of modern industry applied to everyday objects

Cesca Chair (1928) innovative and daring design that embodied many key aspirations of modernist design, it was made of an industrial material symbolic of the machine age and was visually transparent because materials were reduced to a minimum, giving it an abstract quality

The Cesca: One of the most important chairs of the 20th century

MOHOLY-NAGY

Interest in photography: encouraged artists to modernize with the new age: think about the history of art, to reproduce old formulas and experiment with vision, thus stretching human capacity to new tasks.

space, time, and light was a major theme in his various media of works.

László Moholy-Nagy Art, Bio, Ideas | TheArtStory

JOSEF AND ANNIE ALBERS

leading pioneers in 20th-century modernism, and the duo are renowned for their output in painting, colour theory, textile design and weaving.

READ MORE: influence of Anni and Josef Albers on fashion

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WEEK 8:

BOLTED BOOK by Italian Futurist Fortunato Depero

a portfolio of his career, also a showcase of his skills as a designer and typographer

industrial aluminum bolts (a detail that symbolized the progressive machine-age mentality of the Futurist movement)

It is is widely recognized as the first modern-day artist’s book and as a paragon of avant-garde bookmaking.

READ THE WHOLE BOOK HERE: Page by Page - Depero Futurista

MARINETTI founder of the Italian Futurist movement

Zang Tumb Tumb: Adrianopoli Ottobre 1912: Parole in Libertà 1914

The title Zang Tumb Tumb evokes the sounds of mechanized war—artillery shelling, bombs, explosions.

VORTICISM

literary and artistic movement in England (1912–15)

it attempted to relate art to industrialization

celebrated the energy of the machine and machine-made products

vorticist compositions were abstract and sharp-planed, showing the influence of Cubism and Futurism.

Vorticism - Important Art

RUSSIAN FUTURISTS (1912 - 1916)

similar to the Italian Futurist movement, but Russian Futurists celebrated traditional their heritage, including aspects of folk life and religion. They drew from a wide range of Russian "primitive" art forms - religious icons and woodcuts, ancient pagan sculpture, folk art and costumes - that they translated into increasingly pure color and abstract forms.

Russian Futurism

#byfilly

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hcmcundergroundmusic · 7 years

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Cine-Concert: Rắn Cạp Đuôi / Brakhage / Golebiowski

CINE-CONCERT: RẮN CẠP ĐUÔI / BRAKHAGE / GOLEBIOWSKI

Cine-Concert for March at Salon Saigon will feature the underground band Rắn Cạp Đuôi, in tandem with the mythical film Dog Star Man (Prelude) by director Stan Brakhage!

Banner photo courtesy of Georgia Golebiowski

Entrance fees: 160,000 VND (general ticket); 100,000 VND (student ticket. Appropriate student IDs need to be shown at the door ) Ticket purchase deadline: 12 PM, 31/3 Link to tickets: https://ticketbox.vn/event/cine-concert-ran-cap-duoi-brakhage-golebiowski-64575/40056

Concert: Rắn Cạp Đuôi (S – bass, synths; V – guitar; H – drums; G – guitar, vocals) is a Saigon-based collective of autodidacts for whom the relative absence of virtuosity might (or might not) have been made up for with an abundance of goforit open-mindedness. Schizophrenically hopscotching between but never comfortably resting in (garage rock, sludge metal, post-hardcore, hauntology pop, drone, dub, and other manifestations of left-field sonicity), the group channels the un-neat ruleless strangely ferocious world of quantum mechanics.

Ever the advocates of all things serpentine, in their first Salon Saigon appearance the Snakes are to shed their skin once again. Forgoing (most of) their rock-music tendencies, Rắn Cạp Đuôi delves into subterraneans of abstract electronic vibrancies – only hinted at throughout the band’s live sets and its members’ solo pursuits – to present an original score for Stan Brakhage’s seminal avant-garde film work Dog Star Man (Prelude). In a similar vein, the evening’s proceedings will be opened by the live premiere of a collaborative genre-crossing project between Rắn Cạp Đuôi (sound) and their fellow traveller, Saigon-based artist Georgia Golebiowski (video).

(text by The Onion Cellar)

Cine: DOG STAR MAN (PRELUDE)

Stan Brakhage, 1961, 25 minutes

Stan Brakhage’s films explode with sensual beauty: bursts of color heightened by extreme contrasts in hue and shape and by stunning depth effects; more monochromatic passages of nonetheless equal intensity that sensitize one to the glories of tiny differences; nearly flat, slowly changing fields of color that wave like blankets in the wind, only to be interrupted by a cut that opens up a vast space; rapid explosions of paint that seem just on the cusp of suggesting a nameable object.

The montage of Dog Star Man (1961–64), which juxtaposes its characters, principally Brakhage himself, with imagery of blood vessels and the sun, the forest and the stars, family and architecture, and explicitly erotic imagery, evokes numerous associations, from the banal to the sublime. Layers of faces and rocks and paint on film combine in multiple superimpositions, ultimately building to a meditation on one man’s place in the cosmos that can also be read, apart from its hint of a plot, as a light-poem.

(text by Fred Camper)

#live music #saigon #vietnam #ho chi minh city #ran cap duoi #experimental film #experimental music

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