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cardest · 3 years

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New Orleans playlist

Hungry for some po boys? Feeling the Mardi Gras vibes for this weekend? This is the ultimate NOLA playlist, right here. Play the songs here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC182dTlE-Gii6ZOO5ZrN1Z1T

Louisiana and New Orleans, all in the one awesome playlist. If there are songs I left out, let me know and I can add those. Or come meet me at Le Bon Temps Roulé and we’ll listen to this NOLA playlist together with drinks.

LOUISIANA & NEW ORLEANS

001 Bob James - Take Me To The Mardi Gras 002 Earl King - Ain’t no city like New Orleans 003 John Lee Hooker - goin’ to Louisiana 004 Crowbar - Wrath Of Time By Judgment 005 True Detective - Theme (The Handsome Family - Far From Any Road) 006 EyeHateGod - New Orleans Is The New Vietnam 007 The The Meters - Chicken Strut 008 Paul McCartney - Live And Let Die (from Live And Let Die) 009 The Rolling Stones - Brown Sugar 010 Lucinda Williams - Crescent City 011 King Hobo - New Or-Sa-Leans 012 Concrete Blonde - Bloodletting 013 Down - Underneath Everything 014 True Blood Theme Song (Jace Everett - Bad Things) 015 Corrosion of Conformity - Broken Man 016 The New Orleans Jazz Vipers - I Hope Your Comin' Back To New Orleans 017 Willy DeVille - Jump City 018 Left Side - Gold In New Orleans 017 Necrophagia - Reborn through Black Mass 018 Johnny Horton - The Battle Of New Orleans 019 Dr John - Litanie des Saints 020 Foo Fighters - In the Clear 021 Redbone - The Witch Queen Of New Orleans 022 Jucifer - Lautrichienne 023 Danzig - It's a long way back from hell 024 Harry Connick, Jr. - Oh, My Nola 025 The Gaturs - Gator Bait 026 Jon Bon Jovi - Queen Of New Orleans 027 Cyril Neville - Gossip 028 Carlos Santana - Black Magic Woman 029 Gentleman June Gardner - It's Gonna Rain 030 Eddy G. Giles - Soul Feeling (Part 1) 031 Tool - Swamp Song 032 Beasts of Bourbon - Psycho 033 Seratones - Gotta Get To Know Ya 034 Chuck Berry - You Never Can Tell 035 Grateful Dead - Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodleoo 036 Pale Misery - Hope is a Mistake 037 Exhorder - Homicide 038 King James & the Special Men - Special Man Boogie 039 Chuck Carbo - Can I Be Your Squeeze 040 Amebix - Axeman 041 Tomahawk - Captain Midnight 042 Waylon Jennings - Jambalaya 043 Heavy Lids - Deviate 044 Red Hot Chili Peppers - Apache Rose Peacock 045 Necrophagia - Rue Morgue Disciple 046 Johnny Cash - Big River 047 Albert King - Laundromat Blues 048 Meklit Feat Preservation Hall Horns - You Are My Luck 049 Le Winston Band - En haut de la montagne 050 Dr. john - I Thought I Heard New Orleans Say 051 Down - New Orleans is a dying whore 052 Samhain - To Walk The Night 053 Creedence Clearwater Revival - Green River 054 Southern Culture on the Skids - Voodoo Cadillac 055 Bonnie, Sheila - You Keep Me Hanging On 056 Warren Lee - Funky Bell 057 Elf - Annie New Orleans 058 Cannonball Adderley - New Orleans Strut 059 Doug Kershaw - Louisiana Man - New Orleans Version 060 Willy deVille - Voodoo Charm 061 The Animals - The House of the Rising Sun 062 Porgy Jones - The Dapp 063 Lost Bayou Ramblers - Sabine Turnaround 064 IDRIS MUHAMMAD - New Orleans 065 John Lee Hooker - Boogie Chillen No. 2 066 Hank 3 - Hillbilly Joker 067 Nine Inch Nails - Heresy 068 Talking Heads - Swamp 069 Irma Thomas - I'd Rather Go Blind 070 Mississippi Fred McDowell - I'm Going Down the River 071 Dee Dee Bridgewater - Big Chief 072 Dr. John - Creole Moon 073 Agents of Oblivion - Slave Riot 074 Steve Vai - Voodoo Acid 075 Saviours - Slave To The Hex 076 Kris Kristofferson - Casey's Last Ride 077 JJ Cale - Louisiana Women 078 Cher - Dark Lady of New Orleans 079 LE ROUX - Take A Ride On A Riverboat 080 The Melvins - A History Of Bad Men 081 Floodgate - Through My Days Into My Nights 082 Opprobium - voices from the grave 083 Quintron & Miss Pussycat - Swamp Buggy Badass 084 Child Bite - ancestral ooze 085 Sammi Smith - The City Of New Orleans 086 The Explosions - Garden Of Four Trees 087 Bobby Boyd - straight ahead 088 Bobby Charles - Street People 089 Wall of Voodoo - Far Side of Crazy 090 Rhiannon Giddens - Freedom Highway (feat. Bhi Bhiman) 091 Elton John - Honky Cat 092 Serge Gainsbourg - Bonnie and Clyde 093 Fats Domino - I'm Walking To New Orleans 094 Cruel Sea - Orleans Stomp 095 Down - On March The Saints 096 Danzig - Ju Ju Bone 097 The Neville Brothers ~ Voodoo 098 Megadeth - The Conjuring 099 Miles Davis - Miles runs the voodoo down 100 Elvis Presley - King Creole 101 Led Zeppelin - Royal Orleans 102 The Lime Spiders - Slave Girl 103 BIG BILL BROONZY -'Mississippi River Blues' 104 Kreeps - Bad Voodoo 105 Dirty Dozen Brass Band - Caravan 106 Kirk Windstein - Dream In Motion 107 Eletric Prunes - Kyrie Eleison - Mardi Gras 108 Merle Haggard - The Legend Of Bonnie And Clyde 109 Corrosion of Conformity - River of Stone 110 THE ADVENTURES OF HUCK FINN (MAIN TITLE) 111 Zigaboo Modeliste - Guns 112 ReBirth Brass Band - Let's Go Get 'Em 113 Inell Young - What Do You See In Her? 114 Jimi Hendrix - If 6 as 9 (Studio Version) Easy Rider Soundtrack 115 Deep Purple - Speed King 116 Exhorder - The Law 117 Crowbar - The Cemetery Angels 118 A Streetcar Named Desire OST - Main Title 119 WOORMS - Take His Fucking Leg 120 steely dan - pearl of the quarter 121 Tabby Thomas - Hoodoo Party 122 Black Label Society - Parade of the Dead 123 Dwight James & The Royals - Need Your Loving 124 Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter (2012) The Rampant Hunter (Soundtrack OST) 125 PanterA - The Great Southern Trendkill 126 Ween - WHO DAT? 127 Earl King - Street Parade 128 Ernie K-Doe - Here Come The Girls 129 Dejan's Olympia Brass Band ~ Mardi Gras In New Orleans 130 Body Count - KKK Bitch 131 Goatwhore - Apocalyptic Havoc 132 C.C. Adcock - Y'all d Think She Be Good To Me (from True Blood S01E01) 133 The Meters - Fire On The Bayou 134 Dr. John - I Walk On Guilded Splinters 135 Balfa Brothers - J'ai Passe Devant ta Porte 136 Ween - Voodoo Lady 137 King Diamond - 'LOA' House 138 Creedence Clearwater Revival - Born On The Bayou 139 Dax Riggs - See You All In Hell Or New Orleans 140 Professor Longhair - Go to the Mardi Gras 141 Dixie Witch - Shoot The Moon 142 Ramones - The KKK Took My Baby Away 143 Fats Waller - There's Going To Be The Devil To Pay 144 Mississippi Fred McDowell - When the Train Comes Along with Sidney Carter & Rose Hemphill 145 Treme Song (Main Title Version) 146 Tony Joe White - Even Trolls Love Rock and Roll 147 Nine Inch Nails - Sin 148 Exodus - Cajun Hell 149 NEIL DIAMOND - New Orleans 150 James Brown - Call Me Super Bad 151 Jimi Hendrix - Voodoo Child ( Slight Return ) 152 Allen Toussaint - Chokin Kind 153 Dash Rip Rock - Meet Me at the River 154 Hawg Jaw- 4 Lo 155 Hot 8 Brass Band - Keepin It Funky 156 Hank Williams III - Rebel Within 157 Dejan's Original Olympia Brass Band - Shake It And Break It 158 Jelly Roll Morton - Finger Buster 159 The Royal Pendletons - (Im a) Sore Loser 160 Little Bob & The Lollipops - Nobody But You 161 Gregg Allman - Floating Bridge (True Detective Soundtrack) 162 Michael Doucel with Beausoleil - Valse de Grand Meche 163 Dolly Parton - My Blue Ridge Mountain Boy 164 Othar Turner & the Afrossippi Allstars – Shimmy She Wobble 165 Jucifer - Fleur De Lis 166 Soilent Green - Leaves Of Three 167 Ides Of Gemini - Queen of New Orleans 168 Betty Harris - Trouble with My Lover 169 Lead Belly - Pick A Bale Of Cotton 170 Candyman Opening Theme 171 Goatwhore - When Steel and Bone Meet 172 Acid Bath - Bleed Me An Ocean 173 Pere Ubu - Louisiana Train Wreck 174 Walter -Wolfman- Washington - You Can Stay But the Noise Must Go 175 Alice in Chains - Hate To Feel 176 Body Count - Voodoo 177 Live and Let Die - Jazz Funeral 178 Smoky Babe - Cotton Field Blues 179 Professor Longhair - Big Chief Part 2 180 Lewis Boogie - Walk the Line 181 James Black - Theres a Storm in the Gulf 182 The Balfa Brothers - Parlez Nous A Boire 183 The Jambalaya Cajun Band - Bayou Teche Two Step 184 The Deacons - Fagged Out 185 Thou - The Changeling Prince 186 Black Sabbath - Voodoo 187 King Diamond - Louisiana Darkness 188 Doyle - Cemeterysexxx 189 KINGDOM OF SORROW - Grieve a Lifetime 190 Hank Williams III - Louisiana Stripes 191 FORMING THE VOID - On We Sail 192 BUCK BILOXI AND THE FUCKS - fuck you 193 Down in New Orleans - The Princess and the Frog Soundtrack 194 Trombone Shorty & James Andrews - oh Poo Pah Doo 195 Whitesnake - Ain't No Love In The Heart Of The City 196 The Dirty Dozen Brass band - Voodoo 197 Joe Simon - The Chokin' Kind 198 Down - Ghosts along the Mississippi 199 AEROSMITH - Voodoo Medicine Man 200 Nine Inch Nails - The Perfect Drug 201 The Byrds - [Sanctuary III] Ballad Of Easy Rider 202 The Iguauas - Boom Boom Boom 203 PJ Harvey - Down By The Water 204 Louis Armstrong - Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans 205 Dr John - Right Place Wrong Time 206 ESTHER ROSE - handyman 207 Lightnin Slim - It's Mighty Crazy 208 Slim Harpo - Blues Hangover 209 Irma Thomas - Ruler Of My Heart 210 WEATHER WARLOCK - Fukk the Plan-0 211 Superjoint Ritual - The Alcoholik (Use Once And Destroy) 212 Stressball - dust 213 Trampoline Team - Kill You On The Streetcar 214 Xander Harris - Where’s your Villain? 215 Dukes of Dixieland - When The Saints Go Marching In 216 Kid Congo & The Pink Monkey Birds - Su Su 217 Danzig - I'm the one 218 EyeHatteGod - Pigs 219 Hank Williams Jr - Amos Moses 220 The Cramps - Alligator Stomp 221 Crowbar - The Serpent Only Lies 222 Shrüm - drip 223 Thou - The Only Law 224 DR. JOHN - Babylon 225 Garth Brooks - Callin' Baton Rouge 226 Wild Magnolias - All On A Mardi Gras Day 227 NCIS New Orleans TV Show theme 228 Skull Duggery - Big Easy 229 Harry Connick Jr. - City beaneath the sea 230 Elvis Presley - Dixieland Rock 231 Tom Waits - I Wish I Was In New Orleans (In The Ninth Ward) 232 Neil Young - Everybody's Rockin 233 Philip H. Anselmo & The Illegals - Delinquent 234 CORROSION OF CONFORMITY - Wolf Named Crow 235 Widespread Panic - Fishwater 236 Lillian Boutté - Why Don't You Go Down to New Orleans 237 Bryan Ferry - Limbo 238 Scream - Mardi Gras 239 EyeHateGod - Shoplift 240 Better Than Ezra - good 241 Duke Ellington - Perdido (1960 Version) 242 Bob Dylan - Rambling, Gambling Willie 243 Big Bad Voodoo Daddy - sAve my soul 244 Le Roux - So Fired Up 245 Concrete Blonde - The Vampire song 246 Boozoo Chavis - Zydeco Mardi Gras 247 Idris Muhammad - Piece of mind 248 Les Hooper - Back in Blue Orleans 249 Doug Kershaw - Cajun stripper 250 DOWN - Witchtripper 251 Soilent Green - So hatred 252 Professional Longhair - Big chief 253 Willie Nelson - City Of New Orleans 254 Tom Waits - Whistlin' Past The Graveyard 255 Brian Fallon - sleepwalkers 256 Patsy - Count It On Down 257 Into the Moat - The Siege Of Orleans 258 Bruce Cockburn - Down To The Delta 259 Jello Biafra · the Raunch and Soul All-Stars - Fannie Mae 260 Exhorder - Asunder 261 Cane Hill - Too Far Gone 262 The Slackers - peculiar 263 Crowbar - A Breed Apart 264 COC - Wiseblood 265 Necrophagia - Embalmed Yet I Breathe 266 EYEHATEGOD - Fake What's Yours 333 Alan Vega - Bye Bye Bayou 666 DOWN - Stone the crow

I don’t beads by the way! Hit play here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-iHPcxymC182dTlE-Gii6ZOO5ZrN1Z1T

#new orleans #New Orleans playlist #NOLA #NOLA playlist #Louisiana #corrosion of conformity #Alan Vega #necrophagia #New Orleans songs #mardi gras #Mardi Gras songs #crowbar #eyehategod

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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 4 years

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Vampr Erik Origin

Okay so let me make a disclaimer:

I had to do a lot of research to try and create his back story in summary form. I basically learned a lot of shit that I didn’t know so with that being said, you guys can feel free to fact check me because I feel like this needs to be factual as far as the history of it goes. Also, Erik was born/reborn in an era that is very touchy. I mean, we go through crap as black people everyday but I used some very degrading words to represent how it was back in this time. If this is offensive, please feel free to let me know I will change it. I don’t want to offend or make anyone feel bad. So, here it is! This is the origin I came up with.

Erik Stevens is his alias but he was born Ricardo Dupoux. Erik was born in 1856 in New Orleans, Louisiana. Just 29 years before he became a vampire.

Erik’s mother was born in 1836. Her name was Fabiola Adonis and she is from Louisiana but her parents and family (Erik’s grandparents) are from Sainte-Dominigue which is now known as Haiti.

Erik’s father was named Jacques Dupoux. He was born in 1827 in Cuba and he migrated to Louisiana with his family when he was just four years old.

Both sides of Erik’s family originated in Sainte-Dominigue and began to migrate out during the black Haitian Revolution as free people of color. The Haitian Revolution was a successful insurrection by self-liberated slaves against French colonial rule in Saint-Domingue, now the sovereign state of Haiti. The revolt began on 22 August 1791, and ended in 1804 with the former colony's independence. It involved blacks, mulattoes, French, Spanish, and British participants—with the ex-slave Toussaint Louverture emerging as Haiti's most charismatic hero. The revolution was the only slave uprising that led to the founding of a state which was both free from slavery, and ruled by non-whites and former captives. It is now widely seen as a defining moment in the history of the Atlantic World.

Haitian Vodou, is an Afro-American religion that developed in Afro-Haitian communities amid the Atlantic slave trade between the 16th and 19th centuries. It arose through a process of syncretism between the traditional religions of West Africa and the Roman Catholic form of Christianity. Vodou is an oral tradition practiced by extended families that inherit familial spirits, along with the necessary devotional practices, from their elders. In the cities, local hierarchies of priestesses or priests (manbo and oungan), “children of the spirits” (ounsi), and ritual drummers (ountògi) comprise more formal “societies” or “congregations” (sosyete). In these congregations, knowledge is passed on through a ritual of initiation (kanzo) in which the body becomes the site of spiritual transformation. Many Vodou practitioners were involved in the Haitian Revolution which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and formed modern Haiti. The Roman Catholic Church left for several decades following the Revolution, allowing Vodou to become Haiti's dominant religion. They referred to themselves as “serving the spirits” more so than using Voudou to refer to Haitian religion.

Jacques Doupoux and Fabiola Adonis were well respected within the Vodou community. Erik’s father was a hounsi bosale and Artisan. Hounsi is essentially a dedicated member of Vodou, an apprentice of priests. His mother, Fabiola, an Ounsi, oversaw the liturgical singing and shaking the chacha rattle which is used to control the rhythm during ceremonies. She had a voice that used to lull Erik to sleep. Jacques wanted Erik to follow in his footsteps and later become an oungan; a Vodou priest. He was born as a “child of the house” or a pititt-caye. Being an oungan provides an individual with both social status and material profit. Erik was present for his father's initiation when he was just a baby with his mother in a shared Ounfò; Vodou temple. There were four levels of initiation that Jacques Doupoux went through. That sealed Erik’s future.

The Ounfò was a basic shack in Bayou St. John. The main ceremonial space within the Ounfò is known as the peristil. brightly painted posts hold up the roof, which is often made of corrugated iron but sometimes thatched. The central one of these posts is the poto mitan or poteau mitan, which is used as a pivot during ritual dances and serves as the "passage of the spirits" by which the Loa; the spirits, enter the room during ceremonies. It is around this central post that offerings, including both vèvè and animal sacrifices, are made.

Free people of color owned the most property in Louisiana but of course, that didn’t go down in history because the whites didn’t like it. As for Erik’s family, his mother and father were free people of color that became sugar planters, for slave owners, and they also shared Haitian refining techniques to successfully granulate sugar. Erik favors his father more so than his mother, sometimes confused as his father’s younger brother.

The Colfax massacre and the Coushatta massacre happened in 1873. This sparked fear for Erik’s family and they held a certain Fete for Lwa which is a public ceremony. The drums beat, the congregation started to sing and dance for the Lwa. The Lwa came to the ceremony via possession. The Lwa prophesied, healed people, cleansed people, and blessed them and assisted them in resolving issues. Erik was 17 years old and he didn’t share this with his parents but he was running for his life from a group of white Southerners one day when he was walking the bayou of New Orleans. Erik ended up sleeping in Baton Rouge until the morning.

Erik often stays within the Ounfò, well into adult age. He became a hounsi bosale like his father, often participating as a ritual drummer or an ountògi. He would sing specific songs in Haitian Creole with some words of African languages incorporated in it. He was a Food Artisan like his mother. He admired her craftsmanship in the kitchen. Cheeses, breads, fruit preserves, cured meats, beverages, oils, and vinegars were some of her handmade specialties. This is one thing that attracted women to Erik besides his handsome features. He was Strong, tall, studly, rough around the edges and not afraid to challenge someone to a fight or a gun battle. Erik was charming, protective, heroic, funny, cocky which earned him the nickname “Big Ego Ricardo”. Erik was hard-working, religious, smart, sculpted, dependable, and an amazing lover in bed.

Long dreadlocks, whiskey-colored eyes, full, soft lips, and a smile with dimples so deep it charmed anyone. He wore fundamental ivory cotton band collar work shirts unbuttoned to show off his defined pectorals because he was proud of his body, sometimes paired the shirts with a vest, cotton brown or black knickers, riding boots, and a series of Vodou jewelry around his neck and on his fingers, some with symbols representing Papa Legba, La Sirene, Ogoun King, and Baron Samedi. During Vodou rituals, Erik would wear a cotton cloth around his head like a bandana, bare torso because of the amount of sweating he does during drumming to keep up with the dancers, Vodou symbols painted on his face to represent whichever Loa they were serving, white linen pants and bare feet.

He was obsessed with guns. He would often go down to the bayou to practice with stolen pocket pistols, shooting empty glass bottles and bean cans. He’s a protector, he did this just in case his family were in danger. The symbol of Vodou love on one of his ring fingers is what attracted his late wife, Justine LeBlanc to him when he was 27 years old. He was selling artisan bread one afternoon from an open shop window on Bourbon Street. Justine was six years younger than Erik. She was a Creole of color from Louisiana, like Erik, except her family were sent to Louisiana on slave ships from sub-Saharan Africa instead of Haiti like Erik’s family. She spoke a bit of English, and French with words from African languages. Erik spoke English and Haitian Creole with a little bit of Portuguese and Spanish.

Justine LeBlanc worked closely with Marie Laveau, who was rumored to be the granddaughter of a powerful priestess in Sainte-Dominigue, who began to dominate New Orleans Vodou that later became Louisiana Voodoo. These spiritual leaders served a racially diverse, mostly female, congregation. Weekly worship services took place in the homes of Voodoo leaders. Their sanctuaries were characterized by spectacular altars, laden with statues and pictures of the saints, candles, flowers, fruit, and other offerings. Voodoo ceremonies consisted of Roman Catholic prayers, chanting, drumming, and dancing. Vodou was brought of Haitian origin, however, the type practiced in Louisiana later in years is almost always known as Voodoo.

Erik was known to be a ladies man. He spent time flirting and fucking woman within his community. Pussy was practically thrown at him. Justine, however, changed all of that. They spent so much time together within one summer that Erik decided that he wanted to jump the broom with her which was symbolic of sweeping out of the old and sweeping in to the new to welcome a new household to the community. Justine lost her virginity to him the evening after their marriage and that’s when they started having children. Erik has two young twin girls; Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. After that, Justine couldn’t conceive anymore which she was often depressed about. Erik wanted to be fruitful because his mother came down very ill when he was five and she couldn’t conceive either. It was either her life or her ovaries so she had them removed.

Despite everything going on in America with slavery and racism, Erik; Ricardo, lived a happy life. He was feared and respected, a following of close male friends were like his comrades. They had his back, Erik had theirs. That all didn’t last very long. In June of 1884, when Erik was just 28 years old, things began to make a turn for the worst. Erik’s father, Jacques Dupoux, was lynched. With the 1880s dawning, a new era of violence ensued. White supremacy represented a central tenant of their platform and led to even greater levels of violence as they tried to reverse the advances made for African Americans during Reconstruction. They capitalized on rumors that black crime had expanded after the abolition of slavery. As a result, the number of lynchings soared across the South and hundreds of lives were being taken. Lynch mobs often justified their actions as attempts to defend white Southern womanhood from “libidinous” black males.

This angered Erik, causing him to gather a following of men who also lost family. Erik led the revolt to fight back white supremacy. They attached about 15 homes and killed between 55 to 60 whites throughout Louisiana. They also arrived on a local sugar and cotton plantation that often sought help from Erik’s own family for harvesting sugar cane. The revolt and about 20 slaves burned the plantation to the ground but that wasn’t before they hacked the entire family to death. Erik was made public enemy number one. His face was on wanted posters throughout the South but he was depicted wearing a scarf around his mouth and nose. Of course with Erik’s actions, some of his family and friends suffered. Vodou rituals were invaded and the members slaughtered. Marie Leveau and her following were protected but not Erik’s lineage.

Ricardo Dupoux AKA Erik Stevens returned home after successfully burning down another plantation and killing the entire family, including the children, execution style in 1886. Marie Laveau warned Justine that Erik was dangerous and he would endanger her and the children if she stayed with them. Marie instructed Justine to bring her something that belonged to Erik, something sentimental. Justine brought her Erik’s father’s ring that he wore around his neck. Marie performed a ritual that later informed Justine that Erik was in grave danger and this life as Ricardo Dupoux would soon come to a bloody, gory, gruesome ending. Marie told Justine that she couldn’t interfere because that could possibly go badly. Justine had to keep that big secret to herself to protect her children no matter how much she loved and adored Erik.

Erik wasn’t himself anymore. He became this angry, rude, vengeful man that killed without a backwards glance. He also turned to what is said to be evil magic in Vodou. Instead of becoming an Oungan, Erik became a Bokor and an occultist. A Bokor is a Vodou witch for hire who is said to serve the loa “with both hands”, practicing for both good and evil. Their black magic includes the creation of zombies and the creation of ‘ouangas’ talismans that house spirits. Bloods are usually chosen from birth but Erik was instead initiated in. He found the spirits, the orisha’s the Eruziles, not a priest in the flesh. The whites kept crossing the line in a spiritual and physical sense, it became Erik’s right to protect himself and his family with curses and hexes.

Erik caused moderate to severe suffering to those he seeked revenge on by hexing them and also using dark charms such as curses, the most heinous act on an individual; the worst kind of dark magic. He performed blood maledictions, a specific type of curse that may not kill the target but can remain within the victim's body, and be passed down as a genetic defect that can resurface generations later. Erik would inflict intense, excruciating pain on his victims, poison them, and cause flames called Move Dife which means “bad fire”, an enormous flame infused with dark magic to seek out living targets. Fabiola and Justine were afraid and they didn’t support Erik’s new choices. The light she saw in her son was indeed gone. He was of greatest fear within his community and within the Southern white community.

How did Erik meet his demise?

It happened in June of 1888, five months before Erik’s 33rd birthday. The White league and the Ku Klux Klan had been deactivated since the 1870s but some members worked closely together to hunt down and kill Ricardo Dupoux, soon to be known as Erik Stevens. He decided to use Erik Stevens as an alias since his name was so well known in Louisiana where he lived. No one besides the people close to him knew how his face looked since he wore it covered but his name however was remembered. If things didn’t go as planned for him and he needed to flee with his Mother, Wife, and children, he could have his name changed to Erik Stevens. A trusted friend named Augusto Richard’s wife named Beatrice Richard and her five children were held at gunpoint in their home. They found out where Augusto lives and used that as they way of finding Ricardo.

From what they tell him, Augusto’s family will be freed if he agrees to help the Southern white men capture and kill Ricardo Dupoux. At first, Augusto declined and said that Ricardo is a trusted friend of his. They punished him by beating his wife and threatened to hang her from a structure similar to a gallow. Augusto finally gives in, joining forces with the evil white men in exchange for his family's protection. Ricardo and Augusto have been friends since they were children. Augusto was sort of a co-planner with Ricardo to attack white supremacy and racists homes along with plantations. Augusto fabricated a new place to attack, suggesting that him and Ricardo go alone this time. Ricardo agreed without hesitation because he trusted Augusto. They arrived by horse outside of New Orleans near Maurepas Swamp……..

_______________

“Augusto...poukisa nou is it la?” Ricardo asked Augusto in Haitian Creole why they were there. He didn’t like speaking English just in case he was overheard. Ricardo’s eyes squinted suspiciously around him before he cut his eyes that looked black in the dark at Augusto.

“Mwen regrèt, frè,” Augusto spoke with a shaky voice, tears flooding his eyes. He told Ricardo that he was sorry.

Ricardo pulls out his pistol, aiming it at the shadows of the trees. He couldn’t believe he was being set up by someone that is supposed to be his friend. Ricardo told his wife and mother that he would be home safely and for them not to worry. He couldn’t trust anyone now. If he got out of this alive, he was going to cut ties with his followers.

“Well, well, well...look what we got here, a nigger with a gun!!”

Ricardo follows the source of that thick southern accent echoing in the night and finds a white man standing behind him with a gun pointed at his temple.

“Drop it, boy, or I will splatter this here swamp with ya monkey brains,” He threatened while making his gun click. Ricardo could see out of his peripheral more white men stepping out of the shadows. The moon light made the weapons in their hands shine.

“Listen to him nigger!!!” One yelled.

“AIN'T SO TOUGH NOW!!!” Another yelled while a series of laughter came soon after.

“Listen, I know ya can speak English, boy. Ya friend here told us everything. How ya niggers get a hold of books I wouldn’t understand,” He laughs before spitting in his face, “I’m gonna enjoy killing ya, just like ya enjoyed killing my friends ya fucking animal. This is how we’re gonna celebrate the ending of slavery...we’re gonna gut ya, and then we’re gonna throw ya filthy dead fucking body in the swamp so the gators can finish ya.”

The foul breath of this white man would have made Ricardo puke if it wasn’t for the gun pointed at him.

“Hey, Jenson, pass me my knife!” He yells, “I wanna Kill this one slowly.”

Like a swarm of stinky flies, the white men crowded Ricardo, some kicking him in his ribs, others in his face, bloodying him up. Ricardo didn’t drop to his knees willingly, he took each and every blow like a champion, even when his vision blurred from the blood trickling from a gash in his head from being pistol whipped. Augusto stood watching the entire thing. He was Disgusted with himself for allowing it to happen.

“Should we kill his wife? His mama? His little girls?!!!!” One of them punched him in the face while two men on each side kept him still since he’s so damn strong. It was almost inhumanly strong.

“AUGUSTO OU FUKIN TRÈT!!!” Ricardo yelled, before spitting out blood on the dirt covered ground. He called Augusto a fucking traitor, “Mwen gen yon fanmi! ti bebe mwen yo! ti bebe mwen yo! ou trèt!” Ricardo growled angrily with his deep fearful voice. He could only think about his family right now. What if some of these men were watching his house right now? They definitely were plotting something besides beating the living shit out of him in the swap.

“Kick this nigger down!!! It’s six of you and one of him!!!!”

A blow struck Ricardo’s spine so hard he felt it snap. He was on his stomach, his cheek hitting the dirt painfully. One foot was placed to the back of his head while angry tears fell from his eyes.

“Any last words? And say it in English before I slice your goddamn tongue off,” The man with the boot to his head spoke harshly.

Ricardo clenched his jaw while breathing in the dirt. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, however, the asshole in him wanted to toy with them.

“...Which one of ya is da father of Helen Landry?” He asks.

It was silent for a second until the boot on the back of his head was gone, being replaced with a hand yanking him by his dreads, lifting his head from the ground. Ricardo smiles smugly, his bloody smile almost as sinister as the blood from the gash in his head flooding his eyes.

“Let me ax ya something...are ya the reason my little Helen is dying? Doctor says she only has three days left...ya poison my little girl with ya voodoo magic?”

“I CURSED ya little girl with my Vodou magic…” Ricardo spits his blood in his face, “And if I were ya, I would go check on her, Doctors don’t always tell da truth.”

Augusto flinched when he witnessed Ricardo being kicked in the face. His jaw had to be broken now. He was being lifted off of the ground again, a sharp whimper of pain escaping his mouth. His feet gave out beneath him and now he was being dragged. His chest and abs were covered in dirt just like his handsome, swollen, and bloody face. His busted lip drooped and leaked blood while his groggy voice tried to form sentences. The men laughed at him but all Ricardo did was look at Augusto with unblinking eyes, one of which displayed broken vessels.

“Anything else ya got to say, nigger?”

The source of the voice didn’t matter to Ricardo. All he kept thinking about was his family and how he failed them. His father was probably ashamed. Ricardo looked towards the sky. If only he could call on Baron Samedi or Maman Brigette. He wasn’t in the safety of his Ounfò either. He could only hope that at this moment his mother, Fabiola, was summoning the spirits.

“Guess not, hold him down.”

With a dull, jagged knife, Ricardo was stabbed in his stomach. He felt like he was punched. The impact pushed him back a little and he wheezed. A tearing sensation and a noise followed. The pain took a while to kick but he could feel the blood trickling. When it was finally withdrawn, he felt something hot and cold at the same time, pulling the skin with it as it's removed. Ricardo’s cry was a brilliant sound to them, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar. His fists clenched and shook each time his skin was being torn to shreds. The knife rotated and the sound of his muscles and nerves being gouged growing louder. Then, without warning, the white man jerked it all the way into his stomach, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside him and the black handle was pushing against his broken skin.

“Die Coon!!!” They yelled in unison before celebrating with loud hoots.

“Look at him choking! This ugly motherfucker is bleeding out! Let’s take him to the water!”

Ricardo could feel his body falling to the ground. His hand clutched his wound but blood seeped between his fingers. He felt weak, his eyes opening and closing. Augusto stood there spewing apology after apology while crying hysterically.

“As for ya,” the white man that stabbed Ricardo multiple times drops his knife in the dirt, reaches in his back pocket with his bloody, cut up hand and pulled out a gun, “what? Did ya really think we were gonna let ya go free? Ya just another disgusting nigger too, and ya nigger bitch, ya nigger kids? Dem dead too.”

Ricardo watched with low eyes while Augusto took his last breath before being shot in the head, point blank range.

“Wastin’ all dese good bullets,” the white man pocketed his gun again, “Hall em’ up! Let’s take em’ swimming!”

_____________

Crowded tabletops with tiny flickering lamps; stones sitting in oil baths; a crucifix; murky bottles of roots and herbs steeped in alcohol; shiny new bottles of rum, scotch, gin, perfume, and almond-sugar syrup. On one side was an altar arranged in three steps and covered in gold and black contact paper. On the top step an open pack of filterless Pall Malls lay next to a cracked and dusty candle in the shape of a skull. A walking stick with its head carved to depict a huge erect penis leaned against the wall beside it. On the opposite side of the room was a small cabinet, its top littered with vials of powders and herbs. On the ceiling and walls of the room were baskets, bunches of leaves hung to dry, and smoke-darkened lithographs.

This is where Ricardo Dupoux rested upon a makeshift bed surrounded by oil burning candles. A sulfurous rotten-egg smell that is often associated with marshes and mudflats occupies the room. His entire body ached and the sharp pain prickled his scalp. Licking his dry lips with his equally dry tongue, Ricardo tried looking around with his sore eyes but the discomfort caused him to close them. It felt damp and gloomy around him, clearly nothing is quite what it seems to be. Ricardo could feel a powerful energy surrounding him, if only he could move his body. A few rickety floorboards creaked like someone was sneaking up on him and it made Ricardo jumpy. He wasn’t physically able to help himself.

“Ricardo Dupoux, ki sa yon sipriz bèl eh?”

A seductive voice of a woman spoke to him in Haitian Creole. This wasn’t a pleasant surprise exactly.

“Kiyes ou ye?” His voice was so hoarse and his throat felt raw.

“Who muh? Well...I’m yuh rescuer of course, handsome.”

“Kisa...ki kote sa a?” Ricardo coughs painfully. He could taste blood in the back of his throat.

“Well, don’t Yuh sound sexy speaking deh Creole to Mama Dalma. Yuh in muh shack, Ricardo.”

“Mama Dalma? Prètès Vodou a?” He spoke with astonishment.

“So, muh assumin’ yuh heard stories about muh from way back when...what else do yuh know bout’ me?”

“...Nothing.” He finally speaks English.

“Yuh know so much about muh voodoo mystic powers in the Caribbean 175 years ago…I’m honored.”

Finally, standing above his shell of a body was Tia Dalma herself. Tia Dalma was a practitioner of voodoo, a hoodoo priestess with fathomless powers that was perceived as a legend. Supposedly, she has uncanny powers to foretell the future, to summon up demons, and to look deep into men’s souls. She’s mysterious and beautiful with delicate patterns accentuating her hypnotic eyes, long but slender dreadlocks like him, deep melanin skin so smooth and unblemished, and lips painted black. She wore a sheer black dress that showed off her nudity beneath it, so many curves that looked delicious, and a mystical necklace dangling between her small breasts. Ricardo could feel her seductive energy enticing him into a tangled net. She playfully giggles while stroking Ricardo’s bare, sweaty chest with her long black nail flirtatiously.

“Poor baby, him carve yuh up?” She spoke with her Jamaican Patois. Mama Dalma looks Ricardo up and down like she wanted to mount him. She was so happy she couldn’t hide her beautiful smile.

“Did ya heal me, Mama Dalma? I thought I was gon’ die by a white man’s hand.”

“I’ve seen yuh fight big brawla, I’ve seen yuh cap a shot, I’m impressed wit’ yuh...haven’t seen a man deh brave in a while...queng dem white boys.”

“...ya been watching me?” He squints his whiskey colored eyes,“who ya for ya to be watching me?”

“Mhm, I been watching yuh, handsome...It’s because I want to save yuh...give yuh a better life than this.”

Ricardo was shivering, his skin pale and cool, difficulty breathing, mentally confused, and his blood pressure kept dropping. His chest was rapidly moving from breathing too fast, heart rate beating so fast it was almost painful, and he felt like he was running a fever.

“Easy nuh, yuh going into septic shock.” She takes her hand to pet his dreaded hair like a baby with the back of her hand.

“W-what?” His lips trembled. He was numb.

“Awoah. Muh herbes are keeping yuh stable but if I take deh herbes away...yuh die.”

Ricardo closes his eyes.

“Unless...yuh have two options, handsome.”

“One’s that I should trust? How do I know ya not poisoning me? Hm?”

“I’m gonna ignore deh...here are yuh options. Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality.”

“Imòtalite? Baron Samedi?” He almost choked on his own spit from trying to speak.

“Better than the power of a Loa...yuh be immortal until meeting deh true death. Yuh have superhuman physical abilities, senses, flight, and healing.”

“What power is dat?” Ricardo’s eyes are glossy. He didn’t have much time. Mama Dalma was cunning, she could have healed him with her voodoo but what’s better? Healing him with the possibility of him dying again or turning him into what she became 175 years ago back in her little shack in a tree in Cuba, hanging onto her last breath. Ricardo was perfect in every way and she wanted to walk the earth with someone close to her...someone attractive and strong.

“Yuh ain’t got much time...make a decision, Ricardo Dupoux,” Tia strokes his face, “It could all be yours…”

Ricardo’s eyelids fluttered before he nodded his head. Anything to stay alive. Anything to get revenge. If he was going to come back stronger and immortal, he could wipe out every single one of them. He needed to get off of that table. Mama Dalma was convincing. Maybe it was her magic that persuaded him but none of that mattered.

“I’m glad Yuh agreed.”

Sharp, fangs extended from her teeth while she looked at him excitedly with hungry eyes. She came down on Ricardo with superhuman speed like a blur, causing his eyes to grow wide with surprise. It was almost painless, more like a pinprick considering how his body felt at the moment. The sharp points sank into his flesh like a knife to soft butter. His body twitched as his blood pooled around the back of his head, dripping to the floor of the shack and seeping between the wood. He started feeling even more woozy and lightheaded. She was really applying pressure with her fangs. He could feel his body going cold and then it felt as if his soul had left his body. Ricardo didn’t know how long this went on but it felt like forever.

Mama Dalma retracts her fangs, lifting her face from the crook of his neck slowly before staring down at Ricardo with her enchanting eyes. Her fangs pop out again and now she bites her own wrist before placing it over Ricardo’s mouth. He hesitated at first but Mama Dalma opened his mouth for him. Ricardo tasted his own blood before from his busted lip or if his gums were bleeding. He even tasted blood during a sacrifice at a Vodou ritual. It was vile with a salty metallic taste. However, Mama Dalma’s blood was surprisingly sweet, and scrumptious. Just that small amount dripping on his tongue gave him the effects of alcohol consumption.

“Deh is enough, Ricardo,” She tells him, “Ricardo...deh is enough.” She says with a more stern voice.

Ricardo wraps his hand around her wrist, applying pressure to keep it there. He could feel his body changing for the better already. Her blood...he couldn’t stop. He grunted, growled, and moaned from the taste. His tongue swiped her wrist and his own teeth tried to bite her for more but he was still so weak.

“Ricardo, deh is ENOUGH, no more!!!!!”

Mama Dalma yanked her wrist away speedily, her eyes staring down at her wound healing before her. She gave Ricardo a cold look, one that has him wishing he would have listened.

“When I tell yuh to stop, yuh listen,” She spoke with a spiteful tongue.

“It was so good,” Ricardo spoke with a weakened voice, “I want m-more.”

“Soon, muh child…” Mama Dalma kisses his lips, “Now we go to rest,” Mama Dalma wraps her arms around Ricardo and then with her superhuman speed they were out of her shack and laying in a dug up ditch. The soil was cold against Ricardo’s back. Mama Dalma places him in a wooden coffin, the moonlight creating a halo around her. His eyes drooped shut and he could feel his body shutting down like his organs were no longer working. Mama Dalma crawled into the coffin with him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping a single leg around his waist.

“When yuh wake, muh child, yuh will be Erik Stevens now...Ricardo Douboux died tonight.”

Mama Dalma kissed his cold cheek before she shut the coffin so they could finally rest until tomorrow night when Erik Stevens will finally be immortal.

#killmonger #Erik Killmonger #black panther killmonger #nahimjustfeelingit-writes

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alexilulu · 6 years

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10 Games I Played in 2017, Roughly Ranked

This is wildly long lol so have fun, idiots

#10: DESTINY 2

This is sort of awkward. Destiny 1 was a game I enjoyed with small reservations; it was obvious how hampered they were by their own backend in creating new content and design spaces to explore, prior to The Taken King. Even then, it had shining moments of joy for me. I adored the goofy dead ghost hunting like halo 2/3 skullfinding, using every trick at your dispoaal to find another morsel of insane, well-crafted tidbits of lore for this world that the game itself rarely even touched on, let alone explored. Destiny 2 was supposed to be the "we listened and we're fixing it" for that game, and a needed jump to a new backend that would free them to create the things they dreamed of.

The grimoire was removed wholesale, those bits of lore still true presumably but inaccessible in the game again. Instead of finding ghosts, you examine objects in the world, getting a 2-sentence Nolan North quip that usually is more funny than it is educational about this sprawling world they created. And it doesn't save that anywhere. We actually moved backwards in term of the lore's accessibility to the player, somehow. The game itself is still Destiny, helmet popping and aiming down sights and kicking balls around the tower, and it's storyline was ambitious in a way the original was not, actually making you feel at least a little weak for about 10 minutes before you're back to killing Fallen and then doing donuts on your Sparrow on top of their corpse. The game treats itself as both too serious and totally unserious in the same breath, a monologue of serious consequences punctuated by Cayde cradling a chicken and petting it gently. It's good, but it remains to see if it'll reach the same comfortable spot Destiny 1 got to by the end of it's lifespan.

9: NIOH Here's where I admit that some of these games I've played, in that I played it for a few hours and haven't had time to return to it. I have it on good faith that Nioh is an incredible game, and from the bits I've touched I know that to be at least probably true. I've heard it described more as a Diablo-esque loot-game pretending to be a Dark Souls ball-busting difficulty monster than vice versa. It's something I'm hoping to come back to, and if I'd been able to spend more time with, I likely would have put much further up the list.

8: Dishonored: Death of the Outsider Another game I fuckin' haven't had time to complete, Death of the Outsider is the thing I and several friends have wanted for years; Billie Lurk fucking shit up. And her powerset rules. I'm only like 2 missions in, but I'm looking forward to finishing the rest sometime before Christmas, hopefully. Dishonored 2 was definitely a game I was thrilled to play, and I know this will be more of the same.

7: Resident Evil 7 What could be better than the creeping horror of a deranged family out in the Louisiana Bayou? Resident Evil 7 was honestly so unbelievably effective at learning from the last 5+ years of immersive horror games while still, at it's heart, being a goofy Resident Evil game under that. That style clashes at times; The moment when you go outside to the courtyard of the mansion and find a double-keycard locked door when the most advanced thing in the whole house before now has been the goofy projector-doors that hearken back to the ancient history of the series. I think it sticks it's landing well, with a good lategame twist and plenty of goofy superscience in between. I've been meaning to go back to it for the Chris Redfield DLC, but I don't know if I actually want to, to be honest. That game was a fun ride, and they did their best to add the usual replay stuff like a NG+ gun and such, but I think I'm okay leaving it where I left it, on good terms.

6: Tacoma I bought the hoodie that came with a LUNAR TRANSFER STATION TACOMA patch Fullbright sold long before that game had it's transformation following feedback from beta testers, and I never stopped looking forward to it coming out. Gone Home was like a...I won't say formative, because it isn't true, but it was definitive for me. A story about two girls falling in love together doesn't come around that often, and the attention to the setting and feel of being in this old, deeply lived in house. Tacoma shows that same love of character and place in spades, giving you an even more intimate look at the world the crew of the Tacoma lived in together. I honestly lost it when I noticed during a scene that next door, their cat was asleep on the shelf above the laundry machine. Just the smallest details and love shown for everyone involved broke my heart and put it back together in a different shape. A vision of a world utterly fucked by corporatist greed such that they are essentially their own extragovernmental entities, and people live on anyway, just being people. It's so sad, but still sort of hopeful? Even if the world is garbage, people will keep on living as best as they can. It's very millennial of myself to find solace in that idea, honestly, but that's this game for you, one crafted based on the excesses of the last decade spiraling out of control.

5: Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood In any other year, this game would be #1. You're gonna hear me say that a few more times here before we're done. Final Fantasy 14 has been a constant in my life for the last 3 years, delivering again and again the sort of joy that only comes from a game lovingly made by people dedicated to their own love of the genre, the setting and their playerbase. That's the only way I can describe it, lovingly crafted. Naoki Yoshida loves this game, and so does his team, and every inch of that game radiates this. The storyline itself is a little meandering, jumping from a failed revolution to formenting a successful one, to returning triumphant with new armies and allies at your back. Everyone in that game is, again, a joy to be around. It has a somewhat similar roadtrip feel to Heavensward, but never treads the same ground in the same way. It's more like...taking your friend abroad to another country, while Heavensward was a road trip across a state that stops and starts in fits and spurts. I don't know if this expansion will hold my attention in the same way that Heavensward did, or that A Realm Reborn did. I don't know if I have that part of myself that's willing to ride with an MMO across the lifetime of it's expansion this time. I want to support this game, and the people who make it, and my friends who do still ride with it. But this might be my last expansion.

4: Tales of Berseria If this came out any other year, it might be my game of the year. You'll hear that 2 more times before we're done. I've never been a Tales person. I know people who are, and I understand the mystique, but I never Understood it until repeated praise (and some very cute lesbian ship art) forced my hand into buying it. I don't know if I'm gonna be ok when I finish it. The game is very baldly about doing bad things. The protagonist is a demon on a blatantly self-destructive revenge quest against the self-appointed savior of the world, aided by a demon swordsman who wants to kill his brother, a witch with existentially depressed ennui, a boy who barely knows who he is, a pirate cursed to bring ruin to those around him, and a pure maiden with a tragic backstory trying to do good in the world who has fallen in with them through a series of missteps so comic they're mostly just sad. Together, this totally uncohesive group of misfits abandoned by the world, rejecting it and destroying everything that stands in their way. It crushes my heart on the regular. This is definitely a 60+ hour JRPG because I just got to hour 20 and there's absolutely still so much left to go. They've introed villain after villain, placing the shotgun on the mantelpiece for Velvet to mangle herself with just to kill them in the blast. This game breaks my heart. The world it's in is awful, every party member has been utterly ruined by some facet of it that happened to conflict with a totally normal thing they wanted. They're the devil's rejects. And I love every single one of them.

3: Butterfly Soup Remember all the praise I gave Gone Home back there? This game is like that for me this year. You can just make a game about some queer girls playing baseball and being in love, and I'll love it with all my heart. It's not hard for me to peg why I love it; Akarsha is like a fucking mirror pointed directly at my face with a moustache painted on it, Diya's anxiety and gay panic is so deeply relatable that I very nearly cried the first time she said the word Lesbian to herself and immediately tried to convince herself she's not gay. Brianna Lei's depiction of young, messy, goofy girls living with all the problems that happen to kids their age; insane parents, abuse, self-discovery, a lot of bad jokes and getting all too real at a moment's notice. I honestly cannot wait to see what else she can bring to the table.

1 (TIE): NieR: Automata If this game came out any other year, it would be #1 without effort. The original NieR did something at just the right time, with just the right amount of feeling. A rejection of the trend of father figures rescuing their child and getting the good ending, NieR was a quest to protect a girl to the detriment of everyone around the protagonist, including the girl herself. The final ending of that game ends with you erasing yourself from the world so that you never existed, to save someone who deserves to live and would have if not for you. NieR's destructive quest to protect his daughter literally destroys the world around him, disrupting millennia of careful planning and manipulation by people far smarter than him. All because they took his daughter. Damn the world, he wanted what was his. NieR: Automata follows another 10,000 years after that, in the same world, scarred by a war that broke out centuries ago. The game frequently lies to both you the player and you the protagonist, but the protagonist already knows better, and simply doesn't let on. The game focuses, instead, on the ways that something built by humans craves to become like its long-gone masters. Androids are built to be physically ideal, sexy and at times loving to one another, because that's what humans did. It's unclear if they chose this for themselves or if humans did it to them (and obviously Yoko Taro chose for them to be like this, human choice or no), but it's how they live. The machines they fight do the same, playing a phone game across millennia of what humanity was, trying to fill the holes in their life with gender binaries, sexual intercourse, children and family and love. What separates them from us? Are we any different? Do we deserve to be different? Do they? I don't know how to talk about this game coherently. There's so much there. People recently have been talking about it again, as lists like these come up, and so many bad takes are floating around that it crushes my heart. 2B's sexy, so the game is horny. It's bad because you have to replay it 5 times (no, wrong, bad). It's bad because 9S is a softboy and 2B could have been a lesbian with any of the women throwing themselves at her (come on, dude, at least try). I'm not gonna try to rebut any of these, because the game itself doesn't need my defense. It stands on its own. It's the best game I've played in the last 5 years, in all likelihood. It's definitely my favorite of the last decade.

1 (TIE): Persona 5 If this game came out on any other year, it would be #1 with a bullet. This game had an insanely tortured development cycle. Pushed back again, then again, then again. Remember that February 2012 graphic that used to go around, and likely will right around Valentine's Day? Characters were revamped, removed, redesigned 5 times in the case of Haru (who started out as a boy, somehow). But it's exactly the game I needed in 2017. I was a transplant in Texas in 2004, going into high school in a new state where we knew no-one and nobody. I was quiet, spending most of my time outside class reading the 6th Dark Tower novel, Song of Susannah, a 2 inch thich hardcover beast. Because it's high school, rumors started about whatever they thought I was because I was quiet and wore a hoodie to school regardless of the weather, hiding guns or knives or what have you. Akira's experience touched me, in ways I never thought I would be a decade after graduating. Shit, everyone touched me in some way. Yusuke's quiet acceptance of the abuse and labels applied to him by his teacher and his fellow students. Futaba's isolation in the wake of her mother's death hit me in the heart; I dropped out of college when my own mother had a spinal cord fusion in her lumbar spine that ruined her life, left her with 10% her previous mobility. I mourned for years. Haru's quiet demeanor and the immediate, effusive joy she displayed whenever she could be with her friends, no matter the context. Ryuji's bristling rage at authority that ridicules him. Even the side cast struck me in ways Persona 4 and 3 never did. Kawakami's tiredness with the world, her exploitation she brushes off as a fact of life. Takemi's cool acceptance of being forced from the job of her dreams into treating bruises and being blackballed by the world she worked to survive in. Sojiro's struggles with cruel family that would destroy the daughter he loves as his own. Persona 5 is a game about the ways that society is designed to strike down the odd man out, casting them aside as worthless or ridiculous. The simple girl run into a cult, the daughter of a model forced into a role she never asked for, the typecast and the downtrodden, who deserve so much better than the world they've been given. This is a deeply flawed game. Within hours of Ryuji standing side by side with Ann to defend her from the casual sexism of Kamoshida or any other number of aggressions, he becomes a slavering hound doing the same thing to his best friend. The writing, when it's not inconsistent, simply isn't there; Haru's final and rather grand entrance peters off into maybe a dozen lines she has in the main story following her introduction. 6+ years in development can do some bad stuff to a game. But I love it, despite all of that. I can see what this game could have been, with a less tortured development, with a director who didn't ask the character design to make all of the female confidants "cuter". With a more focused vision, a clearer goal, and a better route there. All of that said, I still love my satanic crime ring. And I probably always will.

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vidmidnews · 6 years

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Not to be confused with the nearby Singing Oak tree in New Orleans' City Park, the "Music Tree" does not make any music but rather pays tribute to it. This dead oak at the south end of Bayou St. John has been reborn as beautiful chainsaw artwork. The tr

#news

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brooklynislandgirl · 11 months

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How much fapping is too much fapping

Things That Make You Squirm || Accepting

"Well, I s'pose..any kine is really too much, if you t'ink about it. Exposin' yaself t' nicotine, even if it much healt'ier dan smokin' cigarettes, or toxic metals like nickle, chromium, tin, lead, aluminium. Not to mention acrolein dat can cause irreversible lung damage, an' of course da polypropylene glycol..." Clearly Beth had misheard him, had mistaken the shape of Remy's lips though that seems to not as common as when she speaks to other people. And when he repeats the word? She confesses to: "I don' know what means dat." It's a slow process and she can almost feel him wanting to tell her 'nevermind' which is something she's far more used to than she should ever be, but Remy seems to have a wealth of patience for her. With a little creative sign language and a deliberate careful enunciation she goes from knitted brows and nodding along to the revelation of wide, wide, yes, and her mouth forming an almost perfect "oh." Yes, okay. "Uhm. I'm not sure? Medically speakin' I'd say when it start to chafe or hurt? Even all da lubrication natural or oddahwise won't stop a friction burn completely. But I mean...as long as ya havin' fun an' dere's no pain. Well, you know your body bes'." She looks away then. "An' before you aks...I don'...I don' really practice self-stimulation. Don' really get any kine out of it an' it just...it feels so very pointless."

#Mahalo!Tagg <333 #Le Diable Blanc|Remy~Gambit~LeBeau #Fireflies|Remy and Beth #Don't Say the M Word|X-Men au #Reborn on the Bayou|Louisiana #Lost in Translation || N S F W

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brooklynislandgirl · 10 months

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♡ he thinks he is slick about it

Hung in My Heart || Accepting

She sits on the log, watching the forest come alive with the soft glow of fireflies, so much more at peace here than she is in the city. The entire drive out ~because she asked, she knows. This wouldn't be his choice if he were the one making it~ had been made in a stony kind of silence; uniform, heavy and tinged with grey. Might have continued on while she and Remy sat there, but then one of the bugs lands on one of her outstretched fingers, so little in comparison to his. "Dere's..." Her little voice is soft. It is hesitant. "Dere's a man. An' he promises dat...dat he'll fight for us, an' need us t' help him fight for oddahs. Dat we shouldn' have to be afraid any more. Dat we shouldn't hate....hate ourselves for not bein' like...dem." She tilts her head toward him, eyes wide and dark and serious. "Come wi' me, Remy. Help me find him. I...I don' wan go wi'out you."

#lediableblanc-amareauxdeschats #Le Diable Blanc|Remy ~Gambit~ Lebeau #Fireflies|Remy and Beth #Don't Say The M Word|X-men au #Reborn on the Bayou|Louisiana

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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

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For le fluster meme: Remy propped an elbow on the table, manners be damned, and flexed the long fingers carefully. "Got asked what dese were for earlier. Didn' quite tell de truth. Well 'sides from pool playin', 'n de esthetique, dose Ah 'fessed up to, de gloves...well dey help keep de mos' important fingers sof'n supple f'findin' de peach pit. De one dat don' come from no tree, dat is." He shrugged smirking, withdrawing his arm from the table and pocketing the hand, finding one of the many essentials he kept in his pocket and fidgeting with it. "Cuz dey sure as heck ain' hidin' m'fingerprints wid half dem out in de open, dunno what half-witted soul started spreadin' dat dumb rumor."

Little Fires Everywhere || Accepting

It's an almost animalistic reflex, the way her eyes drop from his face to his hands when he waves his fingers though she makes no move to try to take hold of him or otherwise touch them. She tries her best to keep her hands to herself and she's never quite sure if some how or some way there will be a spark or some other sign of their abilities. Even in private, even in his home, where they so often end up spending their time. It is a fear she hasn't yet learned to let go. The gloves do nothing to detract from their length, their shape. If anything, the black against his skin only enhances their best qualities. She greedily takes in the details as he offers them, once more tracking his mouth and eyes once she's noted his hands. She'd wondered about the reasons herself but had never had the gall to ask. Her natural temerity doesn't quite allow it. The aesthetic she understands. Shooting pool makes sense too, that's why there's chalk for the stick and chalk for the hand, one needs to keep limber and to not stick to the wood. But that's when he loses her, when he starts talking about fruit. Ripe and full of sweetened juices, she's never known a peach to be difficult to consume though most of the time people prefer the processed and canned variety rather than the fresh. Partially because they don't have access to tree-grown fruit, but the so called modern world offers things that are fast and easy and…that isn't what he's talking about, or so he says. The confusion marks itself by a faint furrow of her brow, the way she tilts her head. She isn't exactly staring at him but rather her gaze trails off beyond his shoulder and he can all but see the way she's wracking her thoughts in search for the right answer. "Mebbe someone ya cheated or someone ignorant? Unless you can change ya prints organically?" She tries to be in the moment but she doubles back. "I..I don' t'ink I undahstan'. If not from da tree, do ya get ya peaches from farmer market?"

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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

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Advent Calendar: Day 21 @multi-mused

Even after nearly seven years, it still feels weird to her to see his cabin ~and it’s always been his, even when he deigned to share it with her~ decorated for Christmas. One demigod celebrating the birth of another, elevated above and beyond him and his kin in martyrdom, the Living Word gone from the world. He does it for her, knowing how deeply Catholic her roots are and how even knowing her and how she is, he chooses to honour that slim belief she’s never divested herself of. Now he does it for their son, too. Styxx, tucked into his bed and dreaming. She’s tried to leave him free to choose his own path but in a lot of ways he will always have a foot in two worlds. Divine like his father, earthly like his mother. Greek and Hawai’ian. Though he was born semi-awakened, he’ll never be a sleeper and for that she is glad. She stands in the living room, staring at the flickering fire with her hand wrapped around a coffee mug. She doesn’t see anything in the flames that tell her what the next year has in mind for any of them; whatever fates there are have been notably silent in that regard. Though as they’re in the middle of the Makahiki, she sees no reason to disturb the peace by being demanding. She feels him long before he settles in behind her, looming over her like a monolith as he always has. An ache of longing comes over her. He wraps his arm around her, his hand spanning from just below her lungs to somewhere just south of her belly button. It’s another olive branch, offering her an embrace rather than pulling her close without question. She leans into him. Covers his hand with her free one. Without speaking a word, she tells him how beautiful everything looks. How amazed she is that he’s put it all together, that Styxx will be absolutely enthralled with the gleaming little bike that looks like a replica of Zarek’s own motorcycle. That she looks forward to reading and listening to him read the books. She knows there’s also dinosaurs, legos, and a host of other things beneath the tree. There’s also several boxes festively wrapped with his name on them, though she made absolutely certain that she didn’t even think of them so as not to ruin the surprise. It’s the same reason why she does not go traipsing through his thoughts to catch a glimpse of what he might have considered for her. She takes a sip of her coffee then carefully sets it down on the nearby end table. The dip and turn doesn’t remove his touch and when she’s done, she turns and leans in again, this time pressing her cheek to his chest, just below his heart. It still echoes inside her own, that phantom pair of beats just a tick off from her own pulse. Once distractingly unusual, it’s become a comfort to her, a living symbol of how connected they are, and will always be. She finally answers the unspoken question that lingers between them, the softest of her whispers, and tinged with everything she feels. “I am happy to be here, Kealoha, as is our son. More than that, I would hope you are too. And that you’ll still feel that way in the morning when we have to clean up.” While she is teasing him, of course, every word is laced with love. “Do you want more coffee, or should we go upstairs?” They do not require sleep, it’s simply a luxury. And while the bayou sees no snow, it is wickedly cold beyond the walls, the wind shrieking through the cypress trees.

#multi-mused #Hello Darkness|Zarek Morrians #The Warrior and his Witch|Zarek and Beth #A Little South of Heaven|main verse #Reborn on the Bayou|Louisiana

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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

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Advent Calendar: Day 1

@mynameisanakin

“Wintah Solstice or Yule is da Longest Night, da peak of power of darkness ovah da ‘aina. It also da turnin’ point, aftah which da nights grow shortah, days get longer as light is reborn into da world. Amongst da Verbena, it is seen as a child, newly born in da underworld from da womb of da Goddess. It is a time of spirit descendin’ into da form an’ solidarity of matter, represented by da stillness of da cold an’ frozen eart’. It is also a time for craftin’ an’ repairin’ or workin’ indoors to make an’ fix da tools needed for da coming year.” Beth glances over her shoulder as she arrays a garland of holly and ivy along the mantle of the fireplace in the great room, allowing the ripe red berries to catch light from the windows, to make sure that Anakin is following along and not bored to death by her lecture. She’s careful not to impose her beliefs on him, despite having a firm hold of her own paradigm. He’s still constructing his own, waiting for the right mentor to find him. Some part of her suspects that search is not so strenuous, that he is content to remain within her umbrage. She’s prideful in her belief that her tradition gives her an older legacy, and she will swear that it is the ways of the Wyck that spread like fire among the Sleepers aeons ago, changing only a little with each culture that adopted that faith as their own. Of course, she also says that most Traditions will have the same story to tell, and most of them would be wrong. Except she’d do it with a wink and a smile, with very little more than playful sibling-rivalry in her tone. In the wan light streaming through the sheer curtains, his profile is still razor-sharp but not deathly worrisome, he’s filled out slightly since his arrival on her doorstep. In the three years he’s been under her roof he’s regained his colour, he’s grown a little more confident in himself, and no longer has that rattling cough that worried her into insomnia for months. He still hasn’t overcome all of his pains, illnesses, or neuroses, but she’s no longer afraid to leave him unattended nor does she think she will wake up one morning to find a bare home and clinic with nothing but her regrets for company. “Da Art of Matter, for Verbena involves infusing cold an’ unlivin’ substance wi’ Spirit and Life. Da ability t’ take an’ shape da raw stuff of da world into tools an’ da kine of beauty has always been seen as a magickal art, an’ we hold to da views of smi’ds, weavers, carpenters, an’ oddah crafters as practicin’ a sort of magick of dey own. By understandin’ how Prime has passed t’rough Spirit to become Matter, a witch can see da essence or Pattern of matter an’ alter it to suit his will.” This is all theoretical to her, she has never been able to learn that particular Art, though with specially prepared items, she can still bid spirits to bind with them to create talismans and fetishes, and he’s already known quite intimately how well she wields the sphere of Life. But she still owes him an explanation of all the Spheres, and how they were attempted to be taught to her. She hates having to acknowledge that his home is nothing like her own, save for the blessed heat and humidity, but they make a good go of it. “Foci of Matter magick are da tools of craftahs an’ makers, from simple kitchen utensils like knives, spoons, an’ bubblin’ cauldrons to da hammah, chisel an’ da anvil. Fire is a focus for da Matter Sphere, transformin’ da heat of da hearth,” she pronounces that word with extreme care, forcing herself the digraph correctly for him, “da oven, an’ da forge. We are known for firin’ or forgin’ matter into new forms as one might fire newly moulded clay t’ set its shape, or beat red-hot metal into some new life. Personally, I find it small kine silly…clearly Fire belong to Forces, but ya eventually gonna see dere’s a lot of overlap between da Spheres. What I’d like ya f’ do, aftah ya help me set up da candles t’roughout da house an’ we go grab lunch…Was t’inkin’ we go t’ T’irteen an’ grab some mushroom phillys an’ a impossibly huge order of dose tater tot nachos….is to come up wi’ somet’ing you’d like to make or some talisman you’d love f’ have… an’ we can practice t’ see if you got a talent f’ Matter. Personally, I’mma hand make us some 'ahu'ula ahead of carnival season.”

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brooklynislandgirl · 2 months

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@cajuncur {{from this morsel}}

Beth would have smiled at the faintest, scratchiest sound of her name. She would have wallowed in the comfort of it, worn it like a blanket on the couch in winter. That Beth though hasn't be alive in a while and so her mouth doesn't tilt up at the corners. She doesn't jump up, invite herself in, doesn't throw her arms around the other woman. Instead she allows her eyes to fill with saltwater tears ~proof that all humans have a bit of her Mother in them~ and then lets them run down her face, following the grooves on either side of her nose before she bothers to wipe them away and takes a breath. She leans forward, elbows resting on her thighs and clasps her hands in the space between her knees. "I brought us some coffee. No kine put in it except some cream an' sugar. Don't remembah how f' ya take it. I'm sorry." She feels a little guilty about that, too. "I got some King Cake, too." Beth can't really stand beignets any more either but that's nothing she needs to get into, isn't important in the present moment. "But yeah, is me. An' only me, I promise." A gust of wind shivers the winter foliage along the bayou's water. The stairs and porch creak around her. She assumes the scent of her gets carried to the door. It hasn't really changed, or at least she hopes it hasn't. "I was afraid ya nevah would come back. I…I didn't know where ya went an' I nevah had a cell phone number for ya so I no could call. I hope it's okay dat I came by to see you. Dey told me you were here. If you don' wan me to…you can jus' tell me t' go."

#cajuncur #In Murky Moonlight|Marion LaCroix #The Rougarou and the Witch|Marion and Beth #Reborn on the Bayou|Louisiana

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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year

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69. What turns you off?

Generating Steam Heat || Accepting

The question isn't surprising, not with the way her fingers circle around his wrist and halting the slow climb of his fingers up the trellis of her thigh. Without his gloves there's a combination of textures at the border of her skirt hem. The words are breathed against the length her jaw. Tactile expression that she cannot misunderstand because there's a solidity to it and somehow it bypasses her ears and etches itself full in her brain. She groans almost soundlessly and the hand that had been recently lodged in his hair slides down across his cheek and drops to his shoulder. She pushes herself up and away from him, the sparks between them becoming banked. She's not angry, she's not even annoyed. She wouldn't call it hurt either. She isn't sure what the question makes her feel. "I..I don' really know," she says eventually. She twists her lips to one side, equally ambiguous as her answer as to whether it's a frown or merely a subconscious facial tick. "Mebbe mo' beddah question is wha' works for me. I…I like deep breath-stealin' kisses, gentle bites. I like da way ya hands feel on my skin." She glances up into his face, past his fine features and into those black and red eyes that intrigue her beyond words. "I t'ink dat mebbe I don' like so much how in movies an' in some stories when da man talk stink…ah… say mean stuff. More dan jus' vulgar, but I'm not real use t' talking like dat eiddah. But callin' ya woman a female of loose morals-- s word, uh dat oddah one….means same kine ~implyin' bein' paid for sex~ is really gross." She knows that's muddled but she's not about to spell it out any further than she already has. "Degradation in general. When I work as a nurse I got enough urine an' defecation on me dan I care t' t'ink about an' I don' see it havin' a place when ya try f' make love wi' someone. Don' wan someone who only interested in me because of da family money an' prestige, t'inkin' dat dey can use me like a personal ATM. An…An I don' like roses." She scoots back on the sofa toward its arm, setting him free. "Wha' about you? I mean you have more experience, not da kine of man who get turn what wi' ya charm an' ya handsome good looks, so I feel like ya have way more experience. Are dere any t'ings you really like dat I should know about?"

#Mahalo!Tagg <333 #Le Diable Blanc|Remy ~Gambit~Lebeau #Fireflies|Remy and Beth #Don't Say the M Word|X-Men au verse #The Crescent City|New Orleans #Reborn on the Bayou|Louisiana #Lost in Translation || N S F W

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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years

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Balsam and Cedar- Is there something you do or once did that you never would have considered in the past? {Francois' co-parent}

Candles Burn a Hole in the Floor || Accepting

The first drips are fast and heavy and red. Slightly coagulated as they get forced down the drain. She stands at the sink and scrubs. Scrubs until there is nothing but a pink tinge, then pauses and scrubs some more. The soap foam becomes clear just like the water but she doesn’t stop. Not until Anakin’s hand braves the scalding heat and insinuates itself between her thumb and the spot on the back of her other hand that should have been rubbed raw by now. It's only her extraordinary innate grace that prevents such a thing. The lowest kind of magick.

His voice is low at her ear. Spoken slowly that she might catch every word of his question, with the intention of causing a disconnect between her hotly running circuits. The personal cost to him is infinite degrees beyond anything she can calculate and mathematics is her strong suit. She's all but quivering there in his hold, a subtle shake of adrenaline spiking through her system. The emotional equivalent of casino carpets, the colour of which is interpreted a hundred different ways and never once accurately confirmed one way or the other beyond it being an off-putting eyesore.

Her spine is stiff, and her neck protests when she straightens it to adopt her full and wholly unimpressive height, especially when he’s got a full foot and still more on her. Tall as Andy, about half his bulk, which makes Anakin somehow seem even larger in his looming. He always tries to seem smaller. To be unobtrusive. To apologise for taking up space. To not draw attention until he wants to and at that point he glows. Were it not for his penchant toward a darker, less robust draw toward the Great Wheel, his shockingly wild disregard for most forms of human life ~particularly the ones who move in the circles he’d like her to forget~ she thinks that the Cult of Ecstasy might have found a stalwart champion for their paradigm in him.

She closes her eyes a moment and lets the question flow up, over, and around her. Rolls her neck along the backs of her shoulders and listens to the popping and creaking that follows with a wince.

Normally she has no problem talking to Anakin at length on whatever thought has caught his fancy. Regardless of how personal the information, regardless of where it might lead. She doesn’t believe in withholding knowledge honestly sought and there are few things she would discourage him from. This is perhaps one of them. She also knows that were she to insist on it, she could send him away. Up to bed to finally get some well-deserved rest, feeding the Tree is always gruelling even when the sacrifice made is a willing one. But more likely he would take it as a reason to shoulder even more guilt, presume that he’d angered or annoyed her with too many questions too much of the time. He’d rake himself over his own coals and Beth worries that maybe if he did so because of some imaginary slight done to her, that he would backslide into his more dangerous addictions of self-harm or mind altering substances. He wouldn’t have to go far, she’s sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he was sorely tempted, he could easily break into her meds cabinet and abscond with them before she was any the wiser. And maybe if she didn’t love Anakin as she does, if she hadn’t grown to depend on him with all his quirks and peculiarities, she might not care so much. The most likely scenario though is that he would slink off to the attic and continue to lay claim to it as he’s been doing for months now. She isn’t sure what it is he does up there, she’s only dropped by once since he’d chosen it as his space, and that had been by invitation. Anakin needs to feel that the house has a place for him, and he needs his own space to work with either ritually or as some kind of human nest that he cannot be rousted from. Somewhere he feels safe when even the shelter of her arms, or the kindness of her smile can not offer it to him.

Neither of the two options ~sending him off or answering the question~ are easy ones. And it all comes down to just which one she wants to do the least. He’s only trying to help. And he’s also picking at a scar yet to be completely healed as long as it's been since she’d earned it. Reluctantly though Beth pulls away from him, letting his gaze fall onto her back as she moves towards the refrigerator and its gleaming chrome surface. She pops the freezer door open and scans the shelves before reaching in. Anakin is used to watching Beth drink. Wine to pacify the ache in her heart, to wind down the endless spinning thoughts she usually tackles in the evening when everything is quiet and she can’t find sleep. He’s seen her have it at affairs she’d rather chew her own arm off to get away from, where his presence and the rich blood-red are the only two things that seem to offer her any solace. There’s the fruity drink from her first time seeing him in public that had fascinated him so, but those she doesn’t make at home. This is different. This is a fifth of Titos, so cold that the glass bottle immediately frosts over when it comes into contact with open air. Her fingers spin with slow grace as she unscrews the top and puts the bottle to her lips, eyes closed and face open with pain. For such a small woman, she can take a very large gulp. She breathes out. She closes her eyes and sucks her lower lip, full and lush as any of her roses in bloom, and pins it there with those sharp teeth. There is a sound that accompanies it that can be heard even from where he is standing, and it is both heartbreak and a wistfulness that has no equal in all the time he’s known her. She takes another drink as full as the first, blind by choice. Then she holds it out toward him in silent invitation as she dives inwardly.

She sees herself throughout the stages of her life thus far, three decades that have never been so radiant as she might have hoped they would have been. So much smaller than she is now, cowering in a corner of her closet, arms gripped around the hideously patched turtle that lays in her bed in its dotage, beloved more than any of the thousand things he could point to in the house with price tags larger than a year’s salary. The shouting and the screaming between adults drowning out every other sound that has always been too much and too loud in a way she could never shut off. Years on, watching as all the other children splintered off together in pairs and groups and finding herself on the outside of it all, so much younger than them. Not understanding the whispers and laughs when they hold hands and she wants to make bracelets from the clover, crowns from the dandelions. She’s every right to be here intellectually but her mode of speech and her inability to get on make her an outcast. She wants friends, too. Older still and yet aeons younger than she feels in the moment, drawn to a particular place and a particular figure that shares some passing resemblances to Anakin; lofty height. Piercing blue eyes, pale gold hair. Hands that are unspeakable in their beauty. A spark of life so bright it is blinding. And for all that, he is the enemy. The metal and circuitry beneath his skin proclaims that twice as loudly as the rhetoric that spills from the perfect shape of his mouth. Which becomes the moment Andy sits them both down, and the three of them discuss… bloodlines. Laid out things that were neither what they wanted to hear but had somehow already expected. Billy’s fingers and her own searching each other out beneath the table. Three pieces of a single soul and belief makes them have to choose whether to remain so close or take their roles on either side of a war that began a thousand years before. Standing there helplessly watching Andy and Billy shouting, all threatening gestures. A bit like watching King Kong have a go at Godzilla and you are trapped between them, only human, incapable of making one side listen to the other. Another swig from the bottle, and another following that. The assault of poison in her system and she does nothing to filter it out of her blood. Beth cannot drown. She will grow gills and she’s a strong swimmer but she can wallow and that is what she is doing now. Seeking some kind of senseless absolution. She is as brittle as frost and doesn’t bother to hide it. Maybe she won’t even try until morning after she’s made herself sick in penance for what she couldn’t ever fix.

Even still, it cannot compare to the loss. Not of body or even of mind, but an open wound of the soul. Billy had told him there was going to be an attack. Had urged him to let the others be a sacrifice, to save himself by not going. Andy stared him in the eye as he strapped on his armour ~physical and metaphor all at once~ and said he couldn’t do that. His tradition and his honour dictated he save as many as he could. Frustration. Anger. Eldest against youngest. The actual order that she stay home, as far away from the gathering as possible and she acquiesced. As she’s always done. If she’d gone? She could have prevented it. She could, she knows. Maybe not all of it but certainly Andy would have lived. After all, it’s her purpose and her calling, to weave the thread of life, give it full measure just as Anakin’s is to sever the corrupt and the stagnant. Instead, Beth did as she was told. And now…. Now there’s nothing. And it still feels like it only happened minutes ago. Her eyes well with unshed tears and the pain etches delicate features into an ugly mask of grief and inconsolable senselessness. Her free hand that doesn’t have a death grip on the bottle rises to press itself to her chest. She exhales a skittering breath in a maladaptive hope of restraining her emotions, something she’s never been good at. A humourless laugh, so faint it might have been a sigh comes next before she cuts her gaze back at him, shadowed by her lashes, her lips pulled tight showing her teeth, the primal markings that say not all of her is human. Anakin gets his answer in a whisper. “I’ve finally learned….to say no.”

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