#alas... a blight upon me...

[dandyshucks]

me: okay i am just going to do a quick sketch. nothing fancy. we gotta sleep soon :|

the "quick sketch" a half hour later:

im not done it yet djdksl gotta fuck around w a bunch of limb placement still, but i gotta SLEEP

#good golly i hope this doesnt look like shit in the morning when im actually properly awake DHFJDL #i know theres a lot of things wonky with it but this WAS supposed to just be a quick sketch so 😭 #i wasnt so worried abt things at the beginning but now im in too deep to rly fix things a whole lot LOL #alas... a blight upon me... #dandy.cmd #doodlebug.jpeg #suggestive #I GUESS ?? IDK LOL do ppl count photos of wrestlers as suggestive... bc thats technically what this is... #hes wearing the wrassle boy gear i designed for him teehee :3

[ozzgin]

I just watched The First Omen at the cinema and you may go ahead and cuff me for blasphemy, but…

Yandere! Devil x Reader

You have been chosen by the Cult as the one to carry their ungodly plan after many failed attempts. This time it was a success, yet not for the reasons they might expect. The Devil has his eyes on you.

Content: female reader, mentions of pregnancy, religious themes, blasphemy, violence, horror, a non-consent scene!, based on The First Omen (2024); image from the promotional poster

Why you, of all people? You're not particularly devoted to religion, nor do you stand out in terms of virtuousness. Or lack of, for that matter. Alas, their reasons remain unknown.

What's certain is that you woke up one day and found yourself strapped to a foreign bed, staring into a ceiling you didn't recognize. You weren't alone. Around your helpless form stood men and women, dressed in black and wearing a solemn smile. Your forehead received a gentle, encouraging stroke from the hand of the priest. The scent of chrism invaded your nostrils.

You begged them to release you. The older man spoke softly in your ear. "You are serving a greater purpose. It is all in the name of God." God? Purpose? You rolled your eyes back and gazed upon the large painting hanging behind you. Virgin Mary and her blissful smile and stretched out hands felt like a mockery.

The holy image vanished as a black cloth was nonchalantly draped over your face. You felt the rope tighten around your neck and begun gasping for the scarce air barely making it through the thick canvas. A crescendo of muffled chants, and the room went abruptly quiet. Had everyone left?

Then you heard it. That profane growl, causing the entirety of your body to shiver in repugnance and terror. You trashed, and pulled, and screamed, to no avail. A clawed hand rested on your bare stomach, then a second one traced the rest of your body. You laid limp, vision blurred as the room swayed in tandem with the sacrilegious act.

You'd been defiled by a Beast. The next time you opened your eyes, you were back in your bed. Your hopes of it being a mere nightmare were shattered the moment you lifted your gown and noticed the deep scratches, the monstrous prints left on your skin, and the hollow sensation in the pit of your stomach. Your body had been tampered with, and something was growing out of your misfortune. A vile blight, throbbing with life within the comfort of your flesh.

You spent the months haunted by voices and visions. The grotesque, horned Creature would frequently reappear in your mind, exhausting all other thoughts. Such a heavy, imposing presence. It wouldn't let you forget, not even for a second: you belonged to Him, and He would soon return to retrieve you. The mother of His child, the object of His adoration. Was such a thing even conceivable?

You prayed to be left alone, yet the Cult naturally longed for its promised gift, bound to come back eventually. And so, once more, you were facing the people who caused your despair. "We've come for the child", the priest explained, glancing at your obvious, bulging belly. The clawed hand framing it was still a fresh wound that never healed, almost as an ominous warning: this body was owned by a jealous God.

Your trembling hands revealed a pocketknife. This time, you were prepared. The group took a moment to observe your daring gesture, then proceeded to approach you with calculated steps, with newfound resolve. Would you be able to keep them away? Their intentions were clear: you were in possession of the Antichrist, and they needed to secure this immense power.

The ground shook, and everyone froze. You glanced at the altar painting, the same one that witnessed your corruption. Virgin Mary remained with an unfaltering smile. From behind the ornate frame, large, horrid hands creeped out. A travesty of everything Holy. The priest gasped and quickly threw his hands in prayer. This was not part of the plan. This was not meant to happen.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis-" he began, but his voice was cut short. His face turned pale, and he clutched his chest with a terrible grimace. The nun next to him let out a scream before she was pushed away by an invisible force. Her body hit the wall with a loud, wet sound of bones breaking and flesh tearing. You stared at the massacre unfolding before you, devoid of any fear. Somehow, in the depths of your soul, you knew you'd be safe.

An enormous shadow emerged from behind the painting, twisting, bending, stalking towards you. Your nose scrunched at the stench of blood. You were the last one standing among corpses. To your surprise, you exhaled deeply, shoulders drooping in comfort. A silent voice murmured in your ear, telling you not to fear. That Father was finally home for you.

Foolish, ridiculous humans. He'd been willing to entertain their petty plans of grandeur, until he met you: your tender, frail body, your innocent soul. How exalting it was to have his way with you. You were meant to be the one. To carry His offspring into the damned world. But not for some trifling reason of a Cult desperate to crawl their way back into control. Their greatest mistake - which led to their demise - was to assume the Devil himself can be controlled, ordered around. He has allowed you the greatest honor of joining him, out of your free will, to sow the seeds of chaos as his beloved mortal.

Thus, he couldn't have possibly allowed anyone to interfere. What you saw that day, in that old, musty underground cavern, was an omen: a bloodbath awaits the one who dares to approach his human.

You look up into the demonic orbs: trenches of madness, obsession, vulgarity, burning holes into you, slurping your very existence with hunger and lust. You are his.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #devil x human #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #monster x reader #monster x human #monster smut #monster romance #horror #tw religious themes #the first omen #demon x reader #demon x human #terato

[takerfoxx]

All right, one of the main things I talk about on this blog are ships, so here's a quick rundown of my favorites.

Kyoko Sakura/Sayaka Miki (Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Ah, KyoSaya, my beloved. What can I say about them? Let's start with how they are each other's perfect foils, with several important similarities to draw them together while several major differences to keep that spicy clashing. They are the perfect example of soulmates, two characters who, when in opposition, constantly get worse and worse, but when they're on the same page, they bring out each other's best qualities. Not bad for a relationship that started with mutual murder attempts and had a murder/suicide as its midpoint!

Canon? Eh, sort of. Obviously, PMMM likes to skirt the line, but they definitely knew what they were doing. So, not officially confirmed canon, more of, "And they were roommates!"

2. Suletta Mercury/Miorine Rembran (Gundam: the Witch from Mercury)

You know a pairing is strong when it's the most recent one but also rocketed up to the number two spot.

Suletta and Miorine are opposites attracting in its purest form. The socially anxious and all loving country girl and the cold and cynical corporate heiress, these two are such fundamentally different people that if it weren't for the bizarre circumstances that brought them together, they probably wouldn't even be friends. But they were brought together, and as the grew to understand one another and got closer, both they and we found just how much they had in common, and how perfectly they complemented one another, with each of their strengths covering the other's weaknesses.

Canon? Absolutely. They're married, bitches! No further interpretation needed!

3. Shinji Ikari/Asuka Langley/Rei Ayanami (Neon Genesis Evangelion)

The one poly ship I am absolutely feral over, AsuShinRei (or the Israfel Special) are an example of a ship that cannot work in canon, would absolutely be a terrible idea in canon, but man, don't you wish you lived in the world where it would work? For as toxic, avoidant, and abusive these three are to each other, their respective traumas and personalities are such that if they could get just the slightest bit better and reach out to one another instead of pushing each other away, they would click so wonderfully well. Alas, it is not meant to be.

Canon? Lol, no.

4. Princess Entrapta/Hordak (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power)

I debated putting this one so high up over the heavy hitters that it sits atop upon, but at the end of the day, as a grumpy autistic introvert, these two just meant so much to me. It's like each represents different aspects of my personality, and watching them interact made me feel seen in a way I didn't even know I needed.

Canon? Kind of. At the very least, they're extremely close friends with a possibility for romance.

5. Luz Noceda/Amity Blight (The Owl House)

I had a real hard time choosing whether this or Catradora should take the number five spot, but while Catradora has that wonderful enemies to lovers with so much delicious angst, Lumity edges it out by being the rare pairing that got together at the midpoint, letting us actually see their relationship build and grow instead of ending on them getting together, and it was wonderful.

Canon? Absolutely.

6. Adora/Catra (She-Ra and the Princesses of Power)

But let's not take anything away from Catradora. I love enemies to lovers. It's that spice of conflict between two people that are at constant odds but also deeply understand one another better than their friends do that makes all the difference, and them being former best friends just pushes it over the edge. You can feel how much they care, no matter how often or how violently they fought, and Catra being pulled back from the brink and the two finally being honest with their feelings was so cathartic.

Canon? Hell yeah.

7. Nanoha Tamamachi/Fate Testarossa (Lyrical Nanoha)

An oldie but a goodie. Nanoha and Fate are probably my first real ship, and set the standard for many of my ships to come. Enemies to lovers, close personal relationship, battle couple, whole nine yards. And while it predates me truly getting into shipping, meaning I'm not as gaga over them as I am the others, you have got to respect those who paved the way.

Canon? Basically. I mean, the time period and culture prevented them from outright saying it, but come on.

8. Marisa Kirisame/Alice Margatroid (Touhou)

To be honest, I don't ship/ship these two like I do the others. More of, I read a lot of really touching doujins about these two when I was first getting into Touhou and I like their dynamic. But like NanoFate, you have to give it up to the OG's.

Canon? Nah.

And any other ships fall into "I liked them when I was a kid, but feel really weird talking about them as an adult" or "MC x Best Girl in a harem series, but does that really count?" or stuff that I like but don't feel strongly enough about them to include.

#puella magi madoka magica #pmmm #gundam the witch from mercury #g witch #neon genesis evangelion #nge #she ra and the princesses of power #spop #the owl house #toh #lyrical nanoha #touhou #kyoko sakura #sayaka miki #suletta mercury #miorine rembran #shinji ikari #asuka langley soryu #rei ayanami #princess entrapta #hordak #luz noceda #amity blight #adora #catra #nanoha takamachi #fate testarossa #marisa kirisame #alice margatroid #kyosaya

[lillid0ptera]

Words from the World Below #1: Saint Aster's Recollection

Oh yes, I remember it… "The Surface". I still feel it, the light shining down upon my skin before The Collapse. You want me to tell you of the The Surface? Oh of course, all those whom visit me seek memories, too bound by the woes of the past. Regardless, thou hath come all this way for answers so I am obliged to give them, to the best of mine ability.

Let me say to thou of the day God fell from Heaven, and The Surface collapsed into itself. The sun was so beautiful, its tender light granting life unto the creatures of The Surface. Ah yes its warm tender light, giving life all it has from the plants to the animals to the people. It were a time without Dark, a time when humanity still saw the grace of God's light. Oh… oh how beautiful it were, to feel God's grace upon my flesh, to feel its light scatter across my mortal form, a feeling now lost among us all. Why oh why? Why would God hath fallen on that blighted day? The day the clouds turned dark with thunder for the first time… I remember some had anticipated the day of God's arrival, yet not this. Nay they foresaw a God of holy sunlight, in all its radiance. On this day alas, we saw not God but instead a fetid cadaver of innumerable bone and flesh, uncountable lengths of decay and death permeated its form. God was mortal, and its light twas snuffed as it fell into The Surface. This… this was The Collapse when God fell and the world of mine and mine people was thrust beneath the earth into the Dark.

#dark fantasy #world building #fantasy #fiction #religious imagery #lore #creative writing #original character #character art #character design

[mx-lamour]

9 - Kiss

[Sonnet time! + audio!]

1 He tells a story of his homeland, far beyond the reach of Strahd von Zarovich. The name means little in this foreign war against the the Tergs and other Goblyns, which in turn mean nothing much to him who knows that only gardens tended grow to height and this one calls him, so he willing goes to make his bed and cull the weedy blight. When someday settles down this solemn place, his duties sparse in times of earn-ed peace, perhaps he’ll speak again of home and taste the nectar of his hard-won harvest feast.    When Alek Gwilym goes to fight for this,    he sometimes dreams of one begrudging kiss...

2 I vowed that I would heed thee for all time A promise I would pride myself to keep Protect and guard thee as if thou were mine And I would sow, that thou might always reap

Alas, thy deepest hunger waits for her Whose quiet beauty piqued a jealous rage One heart so tangled with another, turn’d And trap’d thy soul within a misty cage

If only thou hadst spared my tender wound So vicious made upon the waxing night Had not then slaked on blood which there did bloom And stolen all the years which were thy right

   If only thou didst ask for my whole life    The whole I'd give—though not, myself, a wife

3 The lips of every enamored lay would sure be tempting on this stormy night. To sate himself on loving flesh--but, nay, a plot of gruesome treason lays in sight. There is no room for error, now he knows what young malignant traitor lurks within the castle walls—and then the darkness grows and bounds upstairs to head him off again. To witness there his lord’s own deep unrest but glimpsed in candlelight through window yon, has carved the heartbeat hollow in his chest; replaced it with ensuing dread—No dawn    will light upon the face of either man    when darkest powers gain the upper hand.

4 My love, I will not wander from thy side Command me now to leave thee, all alone, And I would find it hardest to abide What dark despair hath gripped thee to the bone?

Please open up thy window glass to me And leave us not to horrors of the night I know not what might muster hope to thee But we’re together now, love… It’s all right

Upon thy face I read a thousand frights However time doth lead me here again Despite the hour of the ageless night I’ll find a way back to your side, old friend

   Thou tellest me I’ll not remember this…    Wouldst thine own heart forget thy fervent kiss?

* * * In the end, this was relevant to #4 - Bloodstain [Ao3 Collection] [prompt list by @syrips]

#vampentine's 2024 #curse of strahd #stralek #strahd von zarovich #alek gwilym #i strahd #sonnets #creative writing #fan poetry

[witch-and-her-witcher]

A little post-run softness for you because I'm trying not to write for a week and failing:

The heroic Count Odo returns to his estate after successfully repelling the Blackclad invaders and restoring his beloved queen to the throne. Who has been watching over his land while he's been away? Who could not write to him because of the circumstances but received irregular correspondence, including one frightfully vague, foreboding message smudged with the inescapable Angren mud when he thought all hope was lost?

Who, when he arrives, Count Odo meticulously removes his armor and road dust before presenting himself, unerringly deferential even in his own home?

It is Lady Odo who receives him with a familiar reserved nature, back straight and shoulders back as she has never let the weight of the years bend her posture or break her iron will. His mother who, always diligent and refined, shows her unfaltering love for her son by warding off blight, brigands and famine from his lands and people through precision and guille befitting their family crest.

He takes her now willowy hands into his own: they feel too rough, too large when he can still remember her gentle, reassuring squeezes as a boy, when her fingers could wrap around his palms that are now too thick from sword handling.

"I know 'tis you'll ask upon first, my health and then th' state of affairs here - but, my son, I must insist you indulge me this once. Tell me."

Reynard studies the light brown of Lady Odo's irises, flicked with gold. Resolute, unyielding. She'd needed it, raising a child who'd inherited all of her will and wit, but with his father's arrogance and performative nature.

How many of her steel grey hairs had he alone caused?

Alas, he'd been paid back in kind and many times over with his own follies and then his troops.

Sentimentality has never been a characteristic of either of them, but Reynard finds himself fighting back emotion as his mother continues to watch him expectantly.

"There's t' be a ceremony in a month's time. Her Grace ... Meve will name me as her consort."

Although she can't squeeze the entirety of his hand as she once could, Lady Odo presses her fingers against into the calloused flesh of his hands where she can with tears shining in her eyes. Markedly the closest he's observed his mother to crying in all his life.

Neither can speak against the swell of emotion.

#with mothers day approaching i cant help but project some thoughts #probably more mama's to come #but can you imagine how long she's watched her son pine 🥹 #Reynard #Thronebreaker #my writing

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Future on Hold [Chapter One] Realm of Puppets [Cidolfus 'Cid' Telamon]

A/n: I probably shouldn't post this yet as it's ahead of the poll I put out, but with a day left, it's clear who the winner is. I'm writing this in the sense that those reading are fandom blind. A note to remember is, the kingdom mentioned below was created by me, and the story takes place before the events of FFXVI when Cid is still a soldier for Waloed. Please enjoy.

Warning(s): FFXVI lore, original characters, and locations, bullying, discrimination, anger.

As darkness blanketed Valisthea and the tower bell chimed, the Kingdom of Salacia in the east fell. Its residents upon returning to the safety of their homes at curfew never saw it coming.

Hours before, Eirene Belmont, a woman in her prime with thick black hair cut above her shoulders, rested on the stone parapet of Saltrock Castle, staring out at the endless choppy ocean near the south coast of the continent of Ash. It was a stunning sight in her opinion, and while it was stunning, it was also ominous. 

A mile off the coast, jutting out from a crescent-shaped island was a beautiful Mothercystal, named Drake's Wing, a massive translucent spike from which the Kingdom of Salacia drew its aether, a fuel the residents used to make their lives easier, giving them the power to cast variations of magic. 

Revered in Salacia, it gave comfort to those who drew from it, and while its power was sought after by those from neighboring realms, especially to the west on the continent of Storm, it did little to ease Eirene's worries.

The land was slowly dying. A blight had descended, corrupting everything in its path. And it started, in her opinion, with the Mothercrystals. It was true that the land near the crystals was protected from the Blight; from monsters and sickness, but even with their energy, the Blight continued to spread. 

Eirene could not be certain if her thoughts were true but she felt the land of Valisthea would heal without the six crystals spread across it. But that would mean the magic would disappear and with it, the strength of her Eikon, a deadly creature whose power helped turn Salacia into a realm. 

Not like she cared. The king, Vero Clineas, a depraved and overweight man, treated her and the other Dominant of Salacia, a name used to describe a person born with the ability to host Eikons, like nothing more than a tool. Eirene would be pleased to rid herself of the creature, but alas she could not. For the sake of her sister, she remained an obedient puppet.

A sudden shout of pain from down below brought her attention to an unfortunate man with short brown hair. His tattered tunic was covered in Chocobo excrement as a Salacian armored guard stood over him, ridiculing him. The reason was that the man was a Bearer, born with the rare ability to manifest magic without the use of a shard from the Mothercrystal; a man treated as a slave because of the tattoo, a sword crossed over a depiction of a Mothercrystal on his face which was branded onto his skin at birth.

He did not deserve this. None of the Bearers did. Eirene narrowed her light blue eyes in annoyance and lifted her gloved hand, turning her palm toward the guard. A restless sphere constructed of water materialized and then launched at the rude man drenching his face.

"Fuck!" He shouted, attempting to wipe the water away. His eyes turned up to the parapet where Eirene was standing and narrowed. "Blasted scum! Just because you are a Dominant does not mean you are free of punishment."

Spitting on the ground at the mention of her title, he stared in disgust at her. Dominants were treated no better than Bearers in Salacia, the only difference was, Dominants were allowed to speak without permission. It was their only privilege.  

What she wanted to tell him was to fuck off, but Eirene bit her tongue. 

"That might be so, but King Clineas would not think highly of you slacking off, as you are unmistakably doing." 

The guard grunted in irritation then curled his nose and sauntered away. Eirene couldn't even be proud of herself. She hated to be looked down on and yet because of her status, she never spoke her mind. Tightening her jaw, she turned her eyes to the Bearer, who offered her a gentle smile and continued with his work. 

If only things were different.  

The soft click of heeled footsteps drawing near averted her attention to a woman nearly identical to her. She had the same eyes and hair as Eirene, albeit longer with a rounder face. An ombre yellow to green feathered cuff was attached to her right ear, fluttering in the gentle salt-scented breeze as she stood beside her twin, resting her arms on the stone. The uniform she wore, much different than the bulky armor the guards were forced to wear, was detailed to her liking; a long-sleeved black tailcoat with green details that spread out like wings down to her ankles and trousers.

Eirene wore something parallel, though the details on her uniform were blue, and the tailcoat resembled the tail of a fish or rather her Eikon. It was a ridiculous getup, in her opinion, but the king insisted they wear them.

"I should have known this is where you would be, sister," Caesaria stated with a grin.

Eirene hummed. 

"I like to watch the ocean at sunset. It casts an eerie glow on Drake's Wing when the sun begins to sink beneath the waves."

"Consider yourself blessed," Caesaria uttered.

Her statement made Eirene narrow her eyes. She glanced down at the Bearer at the base of the castle that she defended and frowned. Innocent or not, it was careless to say.

"I do not feel blessed. We are merely weapons, seen as less than human. Had we been born Bearers, we would be seen as less than dirt."

Caesaria took an uneasy breath. She wasn't referring to their status; she merely meant that as the youngest, Eirene had more freedom than her. She raised her gloved hand and rested it on her sister's shoulder. 

"We were born in a cruel world. But it is not all bad. We have one another."

Eirene snorted.

"Your optimism will be your defeat."

"And anger will be yours," Caesaria retorted.

She removed her hand and motioned for her sister to follow her. 

"Come. The King asks that we speak with him before low tide."

Eirene turned up her eyes. Her sister usually handled matters with the arrogant king. What reason did he want to speak with her too? 

"Is it important?"

"I wish it weren't," Caesaria uttered. She took an uneasy breath. "But as it stands…we might be going to war with the Kingdom of Waloed." 

Eirene widened her eyes. No. How could that be? Was the king responsible for this? 

"We are allies. We have been allies since Salacia was constructed."

Caesaria shook her head.

"Not anymore. There is…something you should see."

None of this made sense. As the reality of the situation quickly sank in, so too did bitterness. Eirene could feel the Eikon of Water, Leviathan roaring in anger within her, ready to be set free again.

#final fantasy xvi fandom #cidolfus telamon #final fantasy xvi #cidolfus x oc #final fantasy 16 fanfiction

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol);

Ao3

STAVE THREE: THE MARKETING OFFICER

⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯

Upon the arrival of the twenty-third of December, and awaking with grogginess and discomfort, Scrooge and Marley stood already poised and ready for the day ahead. In fact, it could then be stated that they were never unprepared to start, for they had ever been the masters of their time, the keepers of their schedules. But for fear of my reiteration of words already spoken, let me instead speak up and say that earlier on this day, there were none of the intimate gestures or easy banter that often characterised their mornings. Nay, there had been none of that when Marley had opened his eyes and felt the lightness of the mattress all the more keenly than he had ever felt it before. He fumbled for his phone and — after finally relieving himself of the fear that he had not slept in — he found his screen left on the application in which his email from Grantham regarding the meetings for the three new executives had been stored when, in fact, Marley had left it upon the search engine. Though, really, was it truly so surprising for me to imply that the passcodes to such important and confidential information were shared between partners as closely as their business interests? I think not. Scrooge and Marley had been in this together for far too long not to share such things, even if it had become a more lackadaisical practice.

Marley needed neither a note or a message to recognise that Scrooge had gone ahead without him this early morning which, in all fairness, was barely an unnatural occurrence when his husband had been in one of those 'moods'. In retrospect, Marley should have expected as much when Scrooge all but dragged himself to bed the night before with nary a passing glance in his direction, and curled himself away from the centre of the bed with a scowl deeper than the ocean, if one could imagine the ocean having a scowl. The shadows had danced across the bedroom wall as Marley rubbed the sleep from his eyes, reflecting the turbulent storm that had raged within him for some time now. Be that as it may, Marley had to concede, for what little it was worth, that Scrooge had the foresight and the sensibility to prepare a decent breakfast for him, despite his early departure. A simple continental breakfast: Some fresh fruits he had bought only recently, a flaky croissant from the bakery over yonder, and a steaming cup of coffee, not to be shared this time around.

Breakfast went on without a word to be spoken, even as Marley longed to speak about the weather they were having, or the complaints at work, or the plans for the day, or the plans for the future, or something! Anything! Everything! Alas, in this sad, sad morning, he had no one to voice his thoughts to, save for a tiny whisper in his mind that told him that all was wrong. That small, pitiful, tiny, innocuous, inconspicuous voice that told him that he wasn't worth it, that Scrooge had always been better off without him, that he was the very deadweight that kept Asplex Industries from soaring ever higher, that he was nothing but a failure, a mistake, a blight, a heavy chain.

He swallowed those thoughts just as easily as he had his coffee. And his phone buzzed on the table the second he had.

Scrooge: Our candidate for the role of CMO is meeting us at a restaurant for brunch, of all things. The usual spot. Grantham warned me he’s eccentric.

Marley hastily typed out a reply.

Marley: I’m on my way, Ben. Thanks for breakfast.

It took less than a minute for Scrooge to respond.

Scrooge: It was nothing. Just get here soon.

Now, it is hardly a surprise when I say that Marley was never one to indulge in the fanciful luxuries of delicacies and indulgences, Scrooge even more so. But in the greater sense of things, the thought of a well-prepared brunch on a chilly winter morning was not one to be easily dismissed. And so it was with a tentative, cautious smile that Marley gathered his things and left the house, got in his car, drove the route, and met Scrooge outside the restaurant with nary a word passing between them. The staff had been unremarkably surprised when both men had returned for the second time that week, as they had only ever darkened their doorstep for a routine that seemed more robotic than innate, pursuing their usual solitary dinners. To comment on such quizzical deviations, however, would be to intrude upon the firmament of Asplex's taciturn rulers, and none among those within the establishment dared to risk the perceived audacity. 

Their usual spot — a quiet little nook tucked away in the corner — welcomed them with its familiar ambiance. The soft hum of muted conversations and the clinking of cutlery filled the air as Scrooge and Marley took their seats and took their proffered menus.  The place had been known for its indulgence of the festivities, or rather a lack thereof, owing to the predilections of its regular patrons, Scrooge and Marley included. The restaurant seemed to share the same disdain for unnecessary frivolities as its frequent visitors, opting for a subdued and understated holiday decor that whispered of taste rather than extravagance.

It was their restaurant. There was no doubt about that. But all at once a transformation had occurred, a collocation of circumstances that changed the atmosphere from one of unremarkable routine to an impending spectacle. Familiarity and unfamiliarity, if you will. There was no part of the walls or the ceiling that wasn’t covered with clinquant decor, crimsons and verdants, drowning so that it looked like Vincent van Gogh’s paintbrush had gained sentience and run amok in a Christmas workshop. The once-muted ambiance was now awash with the glow of twinkling lights and shimmering ornaments, reflecting and refracting light in a mass of starlight.

The staff, too, had traded their customary attire for festive elven garb, bedecked with bells and dazzling glitter ribbons that jingled with every movement. And the centrepiece of this metamorphosis had been a cornucopia of exquisite delectables, the likes of which would be far too bountiful for the average table, filled with turkey, ham, lamb, beef, and all sorts of accompaniments. Mince pies, apple pies, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, cranberry pies, if there were more I could name off the top of my head, I most certainly would! The roasts were succulent and tender and brimming with flavour often skimped, the puddings rich and dense and boiled to perfection, and the eggnog… oh, the eggnog had been plentiful, and more than enough to satiate and intoxicate even the most seasoned of connoisseurs. There had even been delights to accommodate those who hadn't a palate for meat, or those whose faith forbade such indulgences, a thoughtful gesture for which both Marley and Scrooge secretly commended the management, even if they never voiced it. 

And amidst it all in dining debauchery — equipped with three, maybe four beer mugs, bursting at the seams — there stood a large, pot-bellied man with a red-headed mop of hair with a beard so unruly and wild and untamed, and a glow in his amber eyes the likes of which had been severely lacking in the midst of Scrooge and Marley’s unsteady morning.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, lads! Come o’er here! Don’t be worryin’, I won’t be takin’ a nip at ya!”

Scrooge and Marley passed a cursory glance between each other before entering with trepidation. This man’s eyes were kind and comforting, so much so that Marley couldn’t help but avert his gaze.

“You are Preslan Sullivan, correct?” Scrooge inquired with a drawl, unimpressed.

“That I am!” Preslan grinned. “Bet ye’ve ne’er seen the like o’ this before!” 

“Never here, that's for sure.” Marley shook his head.

Preslan chuckled heartily, the sound echoing through the festive chaos of the restaurant.

“Aye, I thought it'd be a grand idea to bring a bit of merriment to yer mundane meetings!” Preslan gestured towards the extravagant spread laid out before them. “Ye can't make decisions on an empty stomach, now can ye?”

Scrooge regarded Preslan with a sceptical eye. “We’re here to discuss business, Mr. Sullivan. Let’s not get carried away with theatrics.”

“Now, now, Mr. Scrooge, ye can’t be all business and no pleasure!” Preslan exclaimed as he added one too many shots of Baileys to his already generous mug of eggnog. “Ye’ve got to learn to loosen the tie a bit, let the wind ruffle yer hair!”

Scrooge's expression remained unchanged, that much was clear, though Marley couldn't help but find the joviality infectious. He offered a tentative smile, realising that perhaps a bit of merriment wouldn't hurt. It was a damn shame that Scrooge didn’t seem to share his sentiment, but from the look of intrigue on Preslan’s face, perhaps it would not be long before he did.

“Take a seat, lads!” Preslan motioned to the chairs, urging them to comply. “We’ll get to it, don’t ye worry, but first, let’s partake in the feast laid out before us!”

The two partners exchanged another glance, and with a subtle nod from Scrooge, they reluctantly took their seats. The aroma of roasted meats and sweet pies wafted through the air, filling the atmosphere with a festive fragrance that seemed to melt away the remnants of morning melancholy. Preslan, undeterred by Scrooge's stern demeanour, grabbed a turkey leg with his bare hands and bit into it with gusto. Bits of meat clung to his beard, and he grinned, seemingly unbothered by the lack of decorum. Scrooge fought the urge to gag at the man’s uncouth and unabashed display.

“Delicious, ain’t it? Nothin’ like a good feast to warm the heart and lighten the mood.” Preslan declared between hearty bites.

Marley, who had been initially reserved, found himself chuckling. The infectious spirit of the season, coupled with Preslan’s unapologetic joy, was breaking down the barriers of their usual rigid routine.

“Now, onto business.” Preslan wiped his hands on a used strip of tissue, his expression shifting to a more professional tone. “I’ve heard yer company could use a wee bit of a marketing makeover, and that’s where I come into the picture.”

“You’re external?” Scrooge asked incredulously.

“That I am! And afore bein’ external, I used to work as an investigative journalist for a year or two before I managed to snag meself enough evidence to expose some high and mighty folks, but that’s a story for another time.” Preslan leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of a man who clearly enjoyed his feasts. “Then I moved into advertising, where I found the real magic. Weave a yarn, give it a bit of sparkle, and lo and behold, the masses come flockin’.”

Marley narrowed his eyes. “Investigative journalist turned marketer. Quite the transition.”

“Aye, but not as drastic as ye might think. Both require a keen sense of what people want, what makes 'em tick, what grabs their attention. It's all about tellin' a good story, isn’t it?” Preslan chuckled.

Marley found himself nodding in agreement, appreciating the perspective that Preslan brought to the table.

“So, let’s cut to the chase,” Preslan continued, leaning forward. “I’ve taken a gander at Asplex’s current marketing strategies, and I must say, they're as bland as a week-old soda. No offence intended, Mr. Scrooge.”

Scrooge raised an eyebrow, but gestured for him to continue.

“What ye need is a bit o’ zest! A dash o’ excitement! Somethin’ to reel people in, to make ‘em feel somethin’, to want somethin’. Right now, it’s like watching paint dry. And no one wants to watch paint dry. Except one of my older brothers, but he’s always been a quirky lad. Have you met him?”

“I can’t say we have.” Marley replied. “How many siblings do you have?”

“Ten in all, and one more on the way!” Preslan grinned, as if the prospect of having eleven siblings was a source of pride rather than potential chaos.

“Eleven?” Scrooge muttered, clearly taken aback. “I shudder to think of the grocery bills…”

Preslan reached over to the table, grabbing a mince pie with enthusiasm before continuing. “Now, good ol’ Grantham allowed me to schedule some few events for the day to get ye both out into the world and see what the people really want, not just what ye think they want.”

Scrooge’s eyes widened. “Wait, what did Grantham—”

“Now, enough talk! Might as well show ye what I have planned, eh?”

Without even waiting for a response from either of the two men, Preslan stood from his chair with a flourish, downed his eggnog with nary a second thought, and gripped the arms of the two CEOs before dragging them into the festive chaos of the restaurant. Scrooge shot Marley an exasperated look, but Marley found himself swept up in the unexpected energy of the moment, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Preslan navigated through the sea of decorations and merry patrons, his laughter ringing out like a jolly anthem amidst the holiday festivities. The restaurant staff, dressed in their festive elf attire, glanced at the trio with a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Come on, lads! We’ve got places to be, people to see!” Preslan declared, leading them out of the restaurant and onto the bustling streets.

This is hardly the way I conduct business meetings, Mr. Sullivan.” Scrooge retorted as a wave of chill hit his features like a truck.

Preslan turned around with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “That’s the problem, Mr. Scrooge! Ye’ve been conducting ‘em like a funeral procession. It’s time to breathe some life into these affairs!”

The warmth, the food, and the elves all vanished instantly as they stepped out into the brisk winter morning of Canary Wharf, where people had long since forgotten about the whims and worries of the previous day to focus on the hustle and bustle of the current one. Men and women of all sorts trudged through the rare fall of white that had settled in inches despite the usual resistance of the London weather and the otherwise muted celebrations around the financial district. And even as Scrooge, Marley, and Preslan travelled alongside their fellows, there was almost a sort of music in the air. Hardly unpleasant, mind you, and hardly traditional, but there was a symphony in the way the snow was scraped away from the pavements, the way boots crunched beneath their feet, the distant honking of cars, and even the rare sounds of laughter between children.

The towering buildings that littered the area like sentinels of metal and glass seemed almost to soften against the white canvas, sunlight reflecting against their surfaces in a dance of an ethereal, heavenly glow of that celestial object. The sky above the streets seemed much brighter than one could expect with such weather — as if anyone could expect English weather — with a hint of blue peeking through the otherwise overcast sky of grey. The River Thames flowed as patiently as ever, glistening in the distance, a serpentine stretch of water winding its way through the heart of the city. And all the businesses themselves of all sorts of trades and stocks made the most of the festive season, dancing upon the threshold of extreme and delicate, with decals of snowflakes and baubles plastered upon the windows, and giant red ribbons with entrancing lights adorned the facades of the cosy cafés and busy boutiques.

And it seemed then that the atmosphere itself had spread to the ones who trod upon those paths, for as they lifted their shutters and flipped their signs, and where on any other day they would have given merely a glance and the occasional smile to one another, today there was a shared sense of merriment, of laughter, of jubilance, as if the very air itself carried the spirit of the season into every heart and every exchange. They would call out to one another, wishing each a Merry Christmas, and to those who did not celebrate, they offered heartfelt seasons’ greetings and a happy holiday in their own traditions. Even the normally stoic businesspersons who would spend far more time in the confines of their offices than indulge in genuine camaraderie seemed to crack a smile or two as their families came to visit them.

It was as if, for that brief moment, the entire district had collectively decided to embrace the season that often eluded them in their day-to-day pursuits, content to forget the pains and struggles of the other months of the year. Older souls, aged with wisdom and aged with the aches that came with their long-lived existences looked more like schoolboys and schoolgirls having just come out of their final examinations, bending down with an odd rejuvenation as they exchanged waggish snowballs — far better dialogue than testy jokes and jests, in my honest opinion — with all the energy that had eluded them for many a year.

But then the sun rose ever higher, and brunch neared ever closer to lunch, the hours ticking by far too quickly, as they often do, and out came all the good people from their confines of glass to the streets, flocking like the pigeons that had grown accustomed to the nature of their human companions on the cobblestone, and gathered about a singular bakery by which it had been filled with all manner of delightful confections and treats that would have put a grin on many a solemn face and satiate those peckish souls in need of a powerful sustenance to get them through the day. The sight of such a gathering seemed to interest Preslan well enough that he had diverted his attention from the streets and led Scrooge and Marley to the doorway, and as each person stepped through with their minimal lunch in hand, Preslan would go to greet him or her or them and wish them a Merry Christmas. Sometimes it had been with a pat on the back, sometimes it had been with a light tap, fluent signs, and hand gestures, and sometimes he had but helped one down the steps with an affable chuckle and a quiet greeting. But all of those times had been genuine. Truly, fully genuine. And even as there would be some words of disgruntlement spoken between customer and waiter, Preslan stood as an intermediary, gave a grin or a pastry, and reminded them that it had been nearly Christmas. What a terrible thing it would have been to have an argument near Christmas!

“I’m surprised you didn’t pull what you did back at the restaurant over here, Sullivan.” Marley mused. “Do people hold you in such high regard?”

“I hold meself in high regard!” Preslan replied.

“Do you often perform such stunts of charity with food and booze?” Marley questioned.

“I do it for any sort of eatery! And especially for a strugglin’ eatery.” Preslan answered.

“Why a struggling one especially?” Marley tilted his head.

“Because they need it especially.” Preslan spoke, as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Scrooge had been uninterested in such drivel, but Marley hummed for a moment, pondering his next words. “Well, I’m curious as to why you go to such trouble. You hold no stake in these businesses. They aren’t your ventures. You have no obligation to boost their morale or their sales.

Preslan looked at Marley with a twinkle in his eye, as if he had been waiting for someone to ask that very question. “Ye’ve hit the nail on the head, Mr. Marley! No, I don’t be ownin’ these places, and I don’t be gettin’ a single penny from their profits. But what I do be havin’ is a belief, and a strong one at that.”

“And that is?” Marley gestured inquisitively.

Preslan smiled warmly. “The belief that every wee business, every little corner shop, and every strugglin’ eatery is a part o’ one whole community. A community that grows and shifts with every day, with every month, with every year. And if I can bring a bit o’ cheer and prosperity to them, well… that’s payment aplenty for me. I think it’d do ye both some good if ye remember that.”

Marley promised that he would, Scrooge kept to himself, and soon they all went on, away from the bakery and into the busier portions of the city which had been, unsurprising as it was, the shopping centre and its surrounding roads. Scrooge reasoned then, logically, that it was due to the approaching holiday season, and the last-minute shopping fervour that gripped the hearts of procrastinators. People rushed about, laden with bags and parcels, the air filled with excitement and anticipation. Preslan, leading the way, navigated through the bustling crowd with an agility that belied his portly appearance, occasionally exchanging cheerful greetings with strangers and shopkeepers alike.

And it was Preslan’s kind, generous, hearty nature, sprinkled in with sympathy for the impoverished and the struggling, that led him and the CEOs he would soon work under more directly to one of many of Asplex’s retail and repair stores, defined only by the hexagonal symbol emblazoned above the entrance, and two embossed letters, glowing faintly white. An ‘S’ and an ‘M’, brought together only by a single link in a chain. Marley had designed that logo, many years ago, when the aspirations of the company had been more about simplicity and solidarity, and the corporate maelstrom they found themselves in had been nothing more than a gentle breeze in the wind.

Back when it had just been them and their partnership. Their friendship. Their love. Marley wondered, for the briefest of moments, where it had all gone wrong.

It was hardly the time for introspection, however, as they all entered. It was busy, as was to be expected, and shoppers from all walks of life found themselves browsing and perusing the shelves stocked to the brim with gadgets and gizmos of all kinds, from tablets to phones to smartwatches. There was an air of desperation and procrastination, the occasional chime of a cash register breaking through the consultations and the discussions.

And there stood Mrs. Emily Cratchit, the wife of Scrooge and Marley’s own personal secretary, scouring the wares with a fine eye that seemed almost methodical in nature and dressed in a well-worn fleece jacket that had seen its fair share of winters. Standing beside her and deep in discussion had been Belinda and Peter Cratchit, her second eldest daughter and her eldest son respectively, both donning winter jackets of the same calibre and appearing to argue about the merits of various electronic devices. And followed them were two smaller, younger Cratchits, a boy and girl, Oliver and Zoe, twins in every sense of the word, giggling and laughing and gasping as they begged and pleaded for the latest gaming console that had been proudly displayed in the store’s glass cabinets, trapped in with only a singular lock to act as a deterrent for the prospective robbers.

“Belinda, I’m telling you, a tablet is much handier than a laptop these days! Portable, efficient, and you can do all sorts of things with it!” Peter argued, waving a sleek tablet in the air.

Belinda, with a raised eyebrow, retorted back with a fiery zeal. “And how am I supposed to type up my assignments on a touchscreen? A laptop’s much better for that, and it’s got a proper keyboard.”

“Yeah, but with a tablet, you can sketch and draw, and it’s got all these cool apps! It’s the future, Bel!”

Emily chimed in, her gaze focused on a display of smartphones. “Now, now, you two. Let’s not bicker. We’re here to get a baby monitor for our Tiny Tim, not to have a family squabble. Oliver! Zoe! Stop running around, you’ll knock something over!”

“But look at all the gadgets, Mum!” Oliver whined.

“Yeah, look! Look!” Zoe jumped excitedly, pointing to the consoles almost as big as her.

“We’re not giving them Scrooge and Marley any more than we need to, kids. Let's just get what we need and get our, alright?” 

Zoe and Oliver vocalised their annoyance, but like any child, they acquiesced in the end. It was clear enough that Emily held a disdain for Scrooge and Marley, and it spread enough to her offspring.

Soon, a young woman walked in, dishevelled but seemingly satisfied. “Sorry I’m late, Mum.”

“Oh, there you are, Martha!” Emily greeted her eldest daughter happily, kissing her half a dozen times on the cheeks and fixing up her coat after Martha had finally told her to stop. “Where in God’s name have you been?”

Martha chuckled, adjusting her scarf. "I was caught up in the holiday traffic, Mum. The city is buzzing with last-minute shoppers. Is Dad here?"

Emily, at the mention of her husband, let out a dismal sigh. “In the back. Apparently he’s got to do one last firing before the holidays.”

“Two days before Christmas?” Martha exclaimed incredulously.

“It’s his job, sweetie. The manager’s been behind on her targets. Your father’s just the unfortunate bearer of bad news.” Emily shrugged noncommittally, knowing that this had been all too common in his line of work, being so high in the conglomerate’s food chain, so to speak.

A shame, Preslan thought, for he had planned to collaborate with the manager on a most splendid marketing stunt. But, alas, that would have to wait until a new one could be found, if a new one could be found.

“C-Cratchit-sama, please! This work is very important to me, I cannot lose it now! Not before the holidays!” 

It surprised them all to see just how scared this woman actually was. She looked no older than her early twenties, clad in a crisp white uniform, her eyes pleading and red from what seemed like tears restrained. She held a tablet in her hands, clutching it as if her life depended on it.

“I understand, Miss Nakamura. Truly, I do.” Bob replied solemnly with a voice that carried both empathy and helplessness, raising his hands in defeat. “But the decision has come from higher up, my hands are tied just as much as yours are. You know how it is this time of year; they’ll find any excuse to cut costs.”

“B-But I have a little sister to take care of, and hospital bills to pay, I cannot just—”

“Mr. Marley? Is that you?” Bob interrupted the woman’s pleading, and I must stress that he did not mean to, but at the sight of his boss, he immediately straightened up and adjusted his coat, attempting to compose himself despite the grim situation.

“Cratchit.” Marley acknowledged, a sense of weariness etched into his tone as he barely batted an eye towards the manager. “What’s happening here?”

“I’m merely fulfilling the layoffs you requested, Mr. Marley.” Bob replied, almost monotonously. “Yukiko Nakamura is the manager for the establishment in this sector. After that, I have to speak with one Michael Hollis, the manager for the retail branch in Lakeside, and then it’s off to be with my family.”

Marley issued a brief glance over to Bob’s wife, who seemed to be just as distressed as Nakamura had been — plus a tad more annoyed than she had been before, even with her rambunctious children — and soon turned to avoid his gaze.

“I thought Scrooge gave you Christmas off?” Marley raised an eyebrow.

“W-Well, I just wanted to get these last few bits done before I headed off.” Bob replied, his words trailing off in a voice almost timid and soft.

Marley turned to Nakamura then, and by some false hope, her eyes lit up like the blessed star upon a Christmas tree. Scrooge and Preslan watched from the side, but it had been Scrooge who turned away from it all, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor.

“Y-You’re Jacob Marley-sama?” Nakamura cried, a glimmer of hope in her tearful eyes. “Please, I-I have given my all to this company, and I have always worked so hard! My little sister depends on me, and I cannot afford to lose my job now! I beg of you, please reconsider!”

Marley regarded Nakamura with an impassive expression. “I—”

Scrooge narrowed his eyes as the hushed whispers began to grow ever louder. Whispers between those who scorned them behind their backs and wailed beneath their feet, begging for a relief that never came.

“Has she gone mad?” 

“She’s asking the bloody Snake of London for mercy!”

“If Bob Hatchet wouldn’t let her, what makes her think she can plead to Marley?”

“She’s as desperate as a mouse before a viper.”

“I sure as hell won’t be drinking to a sight like this. Not for foul, parsimonious, stiff, unemotive men like Scrooge and Marley.” Emily threw her two pennies into the pot.

“My dear… it’s almost Christmas.” Bob chided gently.

“Well I really won’t drink to a couple like them!” Emily hissed under her breath, her head motioning to the men who had caused such strife. “The Shark and the Snake… why, they’re sure as hell right for each other, that’s for sure. It’s a wonder how they stand each other under the covers…”

“Emily!”

“Fine!” Emily rolled her eyes. “I won’t say another word. For your sake, not for theirs.”

Marley sighed inwardly, a lethargic weight upon his shoulders as the harsh reality of their positions and the judgments of those around them settled in. The store's atmosphere seemed to shift, the festive cheer outside the glass walls juxtaposed against the heavy tension within. Scrooge observed Marley with a mixture of concern and curiosity, wondering if his partner would break away from his stern, stoic demeanour.

Marley shook his head, trying to keep his dutiful nature in check. "Miss Nakamura, I understand that these are challenging times, especially during the holiday season. However, decisions regarding layoffs are made after careful consideration of the company's overall situation. It's not a decision made lightly, and I assure you, it's not a reflection of your dedication or hard work."

Nakamura's eyes brimmed with tears, and she desperately clutched the tablet in her hands. "Please, Marley-sama, I can do better! I can improve the performance of the branch! Just give me a chance, sir!"

Bob, standing beside her, interjected with a pleading look. "Mr. Marley, if I may… she's been an asset to our team. The issues we're facing are not entirely within her control. If there's any way we could reconsider—"

Scrooge, who had been observing in silence for far too long, finally spoke up. "Marley, we don't have time for individual appeals. The decision has been made, and we need to move on."

Marley glanced between Nakamura and Scrooge, torn between empathy and the cold efficiency that had been the hallmark of their business decisions. But the longer he had remained silent, the more sure that Yukiko Nakamura had been regarding the final stance. How could she not be sure? It had been Bob Cratchit himself who spoke to her, and Marley sure wasn’t responding to any of her pleas in the way she so desired. It was a sad situation, one that, I must confess, had been all too familiar in recent times. She was young, and young souls were often disposable to those who held the power to make or break their livelihoods. It was how kind, timid, soft old Bob Cratchit had been given the nickname Bob ‘Hatchet’. A sad affair, one that held much bitterness in the tongue of his wife, but it was an affair nonetheless.

But Nakamura looked at both of them with a pleading gaze for one final, desperate attempt, and then she at last slumped her shoulders, tilted her head down in shame, whispered murmured apologies, and made her way to the back to finally get her things. And soon Bob had left too, with his wife and Martha following closely along without a baby monitor, with Belinda and Peter without their laptop or their tablet, and with little Oliver and Zoe trailing disappointedly without their gaming console.

And Marley watched. Marley listened. Marley yearned.

“Sullivan… no, Preslan.” Marley corrected himself, his gaze still upon where the young woman had disappeared into the confines of the offices hidden from the public. “Tell me that I’d done the right thing by not speaking up.”

“I’ve seen that woman many times in me visits here.” Preslan replied. “She’s a bright lass, got a good head on her shoulders. But her younger sister got a nasty case of pneumonia, and this had been her only source of income.”

“Oh God… tell me I’ve not made a mistake.” Marley paled, turning to Scrooge for guidance.

“It’s unlikely that she’ll be able to find work at this time of the year.” Scrooge shook his head. “But really, Marley, why should you care? Why should we care? It is not as though it were you or I who sired them.”

Marley hung his head low, his heart stung by the words spoken from his own mouth, and was filled with a great penitence and grief that Scrooge remained dismally and wholly unaware of even when they at last left the store and into the long corridors of the shopping centre.

“Scrooge, Marley.” Preslan began with such a sternness that you would expect him to be the CEO, and they the prospective CMOs. “If either of ye’re human at heart and not just cogs in the rusty corporate machine, then ye cannot be entirely blind to the consequences of yer decisions. We’re all members of one body. We’re all responsible for each other.”

Scrooge shot Preslan a withering glare for even daring, while Marley, still burdened by guilt and chastened by the Irishman’s reprimand, lowered his eyes to the tiles below him.

Again they all sped on, past the shops and the stores that held no appeal. Upon the escalators crammed with people. They stood upon the concrete of the expansive parking lot and out into the crisp winter air, where the snow had lightly dusted the parked cars and their surroundings. Without Marley’s Vauxhall Velox to be their chariot, the couple had to instead settle for Preslan’s rather modest Ford Escort, which seemed to fit itself in nicely with the rest of the family cars littered about. Preslan ushered them towards his car, a mischievous glint in his eyes, as if he had another surprise up his sleeve.

"Now, lads, Don’t be lettin’ the doom and gloom settle in. We've got one final stop to make." Preslan declared, taking a long drink from a hip flask he kept on his person.

Scrooge, still mulling over the recent events, arched an eyebrow. "Another stop? What could be so urgent that it requires our immediate attention?"

Preslan grinned, the edges of his eyes crinkling with the infectious energy he seemed to exude. "Ye'll see, Mr. Scrooge. Ye'll see."

The trio huddled into the Ford Escort, Marley occupying the back seat while Scrooge took the front passenger seat. Preslan, with his robust presence, took the driver's seat, enthusiastically starting the engine. The car rolled out of the parking lot and back into the city, the tires humming against the asphalt.

As they navigated through the bustling streets, Preslan hummed a traditional Irish tune from his childhood, the melody weaving through the air with a certain lightness that contrasted the weight that lingered within the vehicle. Scrooge scrolled through the news apps on his phone, lost in thought, while Marley kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, the guilt still etched on his features as he wrung his hands together. Preslan, however, seemed undeterred by the heavy atmosphere. His infectious spirit didn't waver, and he occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror, his eyes catching Marley's reflective gaze. The radio, brought to life by Preslan’s nimble fingers, played the depressing overtones of the local media through static and grain.

“...Two children, a boy and a girl, have been caught up in a tragic fire at a local orphanage. Authorities are investigating the cause, but early reports suggest a faulty heating system. The caretakers had named the lost children as Ignatius and Wanette, and sources say—”

Preslan reached for the volume knob and turned it down, keeping his gaze on the road.

“What’s wrong?” Scrooge asked sarcastically, his gaze turned from his phone with a wry smile. “Don’t want to hear the grisly details of another unfortunate incident? Why, shouldn’t we help those poor kids in these trying times?”

“Ebenezer…” Marley began, an odd fury swelling within him.

“Just ‘cause I'm bothered about the outcomes of our deeds doesn't mean I'm keen on drownin' meself in the never-endin' reminder of the world's sorrows, or revellin' in it like some selfish knight in shiny armour, now." Preslan retorted, his eyes focused on the road ahead. "We can't save everyone, but we can make a difference where we can."

Scrooge chuckled dryly, "Well, aren't you the saviour of lost causes."

Preslan shot him a stern look. "No one’s e’er a lost cause, Scrooge. After all, ye yerself can’t forget where ye came from, bein’ sent away.”

Scrooge’s eyes widened with such implications. “How did—”

“Why, ye don’t remember, Scrooge?” Preslan formed a small smirk as he looked into his rearview mirror. “I was an investigative journalist.”

The thought alone was enough to make them white in the face, but if they had been so, they did well not to show it on their stoic countenances. None of them uttered anything of note for the rest of the trip — a few anecdotes of Preslan’s colourful past that seemed almost unnecessary considering the recent troubles — until they had at last reached their destination. They were surprised enough that the drive had been so short, a few minutes at most, and yet the afternoon sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the city streets. The car rolled to a stop in front of an inconspicuous building, and Preslan turned off the engine. The atmosphere inside the car shifted from tension to a curious anticipation.

"Here we are, lads! A wee bookstore I like to call me home away from home!"

The building before them was an old-fashioned, three-story townhouse, nestled among other buildings of similar vintage. The brick exterior had weathered years of London's unpredictable climate, but the warmth emanating from the windows hinted at a welcoming interior. Without another word, and having made it abundantly clear that he cared little for personal space, Preslan ushered them inside, and it was then that they all heard a joyous laugh, a rambunctious laugh. A laugh so affable that it could be considered contagious. The bell above the door jingled merrily as they stepped into the cosy bookstore. The interior was a delightful maze of shelves lined with books of every genre imaginable. The scent of old paper and ink wafted through the air, creating an atmosphere that transported them to a different era. Soft, warm lighting illuminated the space, casting a golden glow over the worn wooden floors. 

And through it all, the laughs continued. And by God, they were such joyous chuckles, chortles, and cackles! Why, if I have ever heard laughter that could be likened to a fine symphony, this would be it. And don’t you dare to presume that you could find such a creature blessed with joy such as this, I would very much like to introduce you to one Ebenezer L. P. Scrooge and Jacob A. T. Marley’s nephew, Fred. There he was, amidst the stacks of books, his face contorting in all manners of ways with a twinkle in his eye and a beaming smile that could light up the darkest corners of the shop.

“Hoy! Frederick! Keep your voice down or you’ll scare the customers!” Aurora Villanueva — a busty woman with greying black hair pinned by pens and pencils, and Fred’s mother in all but blood — chastised, before she muttered an apology to an eager supporter of her novels with a smile as she signed yet another one with a keen and swift flick of her wrist.

“Pasensya na po, Nay, but can you blame me?” Fred cried, wiping a tear from his eye. “You should have seen the way Tito Ben and Tito Jake looked at me when I burst into his office! I thought their heads were going to explode!”

“Now, Fred, you shouldn’t be interrupting people in their workplace, especially during such a busy time." Fan, Scrooge’s younger sister and a star in her own right, scolded gently as she tuned her guitar, a final gift from a mother she never knew.

Scrooge had nearly forgotten how she had looked, for she had been pretty; incredibly pretty, even as the years had begun to grey her once lustrous brown hair and etched worried lines on her face. He had not taken a second glance at his sister in… many, many years. Far too many for him to count. And why would he dare to spare a moment for her? It was she who abandoned him when their father had all but scorned him because of his romantic orientation, and Fan had chosen the life of love over loyalty. She had chosen Aurora over him, her own flesh and blood. And for that, Scrooge had resented her, condemned her even. But seeing her now, surrounded by the warmth and love that Fred and Aurora showered upon her, it all felt too much to bear. Far too much to bear.

“Sorry Mum.” Fred shrugged, unknowing of their new company who had been hidden behind some shelves. “I mean, I always found them weird in a way, and they’re far from nice to me. But it’s their lives, and I hold nothing against them, really.”

“Well, with how rich they are, you’d think they could afford to be a bit kinder.” Aurora quipped. “God knows they don’t give it to us.”

Fred merely smiled. “They could have all the money in the world and still be poorer than us, Nay. We've got love, and that's worth more than anything they could ever offer.”

“You’re far more forgiving to them than I am, Fred.” Fan observed, shaking her head. Her wife, as well as those they had taken in from the streets, expressed the same opinion.

“I’m more sorry for them, really.” Fred sighed sadly. “I get that I’m not as driven as Tito Ben, or as charming as Tito Jake, but they certainly don’t seem happy. I mean, when was the last time you saw them smile, Mum?”

“They have their own ways of expressing happiness, I suppose.” Fan replied diplomatically, avoiding a direct answer. “In any case, it’s their fault if they don’t want to join us for Christmas dinner.”

“Let them starve. They can wither into skeletons for all I care.” Aurora had finished the last of her signings, adjusted her glasses upon the bridge of her nose, and gave Fan a quick peck on the cheek. “Speaking of dinner, would you like some food, Topper? We have leftover pancit.”

Topper Fezziwig — the good-natured and rebellious son of Scrooge’s old flame — had been clearly enamoured and with a longing gaze towards his best friend, Fred, since childhood, and responded with a polite and succinct agreement, wrapping an arm around his dearest companion and wishing to never let go.

“It’s funny, really.” Fred laughed, squeezing Topper’s hand. “Tito Ben and Tito Jake… they’re Ebenezer Scrooge and Jacob Marley. The power couple that everyone talks about in the corporate world. The Shark and Snake of London. But is it so great to be so scary? To instil fear into the hearts of everyone within a hundred-mile radius?” 

“Scary? Nah, I think it’s more sad than scary.” Topper chimed in, leaning against his shoulder. “I mean, they’re successful, sure, but what’s the point if you’re miserable and everyone around you is too?”

Fred nodded in agreement. “Exactly, Topper. I’d rather be the shitshow who brings a smile to people's faces than the feared and respected man who leaves a trail of misery behind."

“Language, Fred!” Aurora scolded, wagging her finger at him.

“Sorry, Nay. But it’s true! They’re like… well, I was going to say ghosts, but that would be insulting to our actual ghosts.” Fred chuckled.

Aurora turned to Fan. “Do you see what you’ve done, Fan? You’ve raised an insolent son.”

Fan laughed, embracing Fred. “I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

They laughed until they could laugh no more at the thought of their missing family members — though Scrooge and Marley longed to make a move, Preslan had kept them thoroughly obscured from view — and passed along the Filipino delicacy with such exuberance that its symbolism for a long and prosperous life had seemed almost as real as it had been believed.

And when all of the food had at last been cleared away and the poor souls without a home or family had been thoroughly fed with all they could stomach, Fan had taken to her stage atop a sturdy wooden table, picked up her guitar, and strummed a beautiful tune.

Now, for those unaware, I felt it prudent to discuss Fan’s profession as a whole, or else we would be doing her a great disservice. Fan Villanueva, née Scrooge, was a singer-songwriter, a performer, and an artist of the highest order. From London to New York, Tokyo to Rio, Paris to Singapore, her soulful voice and heartfelt lyrics had captivated audiences worldwide. Her songs spoke of love, loss, and the intricate dance of life, resonating with the struggles and triumphs of the human experience. She had been a rising star, a beacon of artistic brilliance in a world often overshadowed by corporate greed and heartless ambition.

As she strummed the first chords, the bookstore fell into a hushed silence. The soft melody wrapped around the room, filling the air with a gentle warmth. Fan closed her eyes, her fingers dancing gracefully on the strings, and began to sing a song that seemed to transcend time and space. It was a song of hope, of love, and of the enduring spirit that bound humanity together. Scrooge and Marley, though unknown to all there, couldn't help but be moved by the ethereal performance. Fan's voice carried with it a certain magic, a healing balm for weary souls. Preslan, sensing the gravity of the moment, stood silently, his eyes fixed on Fan as if he, too, had been transported to a different realm.

The verses unfolded like chapters in a cherished book, each note a brushstroke on the canvas of shared memories. It was a poignant reminder of the beauty that could be found in the simplest moments, in the connections between people, and in the power of compassion. And as Fan sang, her eyes finally met those of her brother, hidden in the shadows. There, in the depths of his gaze, she saw a glimmer of the family she once knew, the one who had been lost to the cold embrace of ambition and bitterness. For a fleeting moment, the barriers erected by time and circumstance seemed to crumble, and the siblings shared a silent understanding that transcended words.

For they might as well have been dead to each other. Estranged souls in the vast expanse of life.

When the final notes lingered in the air, Fan opened her eyes, the spell upon them both shattering in an instant, and Scrooge, perhaps unable to take the sights or the sounds or the smells any longer, left without so much as a single word. Preslan remained behind, but Marley lingered — tick, tock, tick, tock — hands clenched into fists filled with unspoken thoughts before he joined him. For he finally had enough. And everyone knows too well that when someone has had enough, words are spoken. Some are harsh, some are kind, but all are the truth if they will themselves to be so.

Scrooge was still some ways away, but Marley kept up with him despite the biting cold nipping at his heels and slithering into his being. One step, then another. Each movement held weight and strength. A stiffness only circumvented by the will of his shifting heart.

“Scrooge!” Marley called, keeping his brisk pace.

Silence.

“Scrooge, have you even been listening to what Preslan’s saying?” Marley was gaining.

More silence.

“Damn it, Ebenezer, look at me!”

Marley grasped his partner’s hand with a force that stopped him in his tracks. They stood in the quietude of a humble park, the shadow of the late evening bleeding into the darkness of the night. When Marley had taken his hand, they had stood under a large oaken tree, its branches bare and reaching towards the heavens like gnarled fingers against the canvas of midnight. There were no leaves to rustle against the wind, but the wind blew nonetheless, and a breeze caressed their faces with the cold touch of the season. But, if I were to be blunt and speak my mind, I’d find that Scrooge’s chill seemed more adamant as a barrier than Marley’s ever was, or ever would be.

“What do you want, Jacob?” Scrooge didn’t flinch away from Marley’s hand, but he was more than willing to if the harshness of his tone was enough indication.

Marley narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by ‘what do I want’? This isn’t about me and you know it.”

“What is it about, then?” Scrooge rolled his eyes. “Because I don’t need another mouthpiece for Sullivan’s sermons. Especially not from you.”

“What do you want me to say, then?” Marley said, raising his voice.

“That Preslan Sullivan is a fool and we shouldn’t even consider him for the role of CMO. That this constant insistence on the spirit of Christmas and compassion and empathy isn’t worth shit. It’s not how the world works, Jacob. It’s not how our world works.”

Marley sighed, frustration evident on his face. "I'm not advocating for blind idealism, Ebenezer. I've lived in this world long enough to know it's not all rainbows and sunshine. But there has to be a balance. We can't keep pushing people away, treating them as nothing but cannon fodder, or shields to hide our misdeeds! Look at what happened today with Nakamura, or hell, even yesterday with Miss Talon and FezziTech! Can you stand here and tell me that it was all worth it?"

"What's the point, Jacob? What difference can we make in the grand scheme of things? People suffer, people rejoice, and the world keeps turning. It's all fleeting, transient." Scrooge retorted. “The lengths men and women would go to keep their secrets are as amazing as they are whimsical. A man of charity can turn to thievery. A flowered virgin can resort to copulation. A noble can fall from grace. A pauper can rise to glory. If you control the flow of secrets, you control human vulnerability. A man has to make his own way, and so long as he does that he won't come to much harm. We are Scrooge and Marley, Jacob. The Shark and the Snake. We stopped playing nice long ago when the world denied us our rights and our happiness.”

“And that gives us the right to do the same?!” Marley tightened his grip on Scrooge’s hand. “Fucking hell… we’re blackmailers, Ebenezer! Fucking! Blackmailers! We can posture about as men of business until it’s shoved so far up our arses that we can’t even see it anymore, but at the end of the day, that is what we are! We're responsible for the livelihoods and homes of tens of thousands! Why aren't we conducting ourselves as men of clemency?! Men of tolerance?! Of goodwill?!”

Scrooge yanked his hand away, snapping and snarking. “And why do you care now, Jacob? Would you still care about sentimentality if I gave you the latest phone? Or the keys to a bloody Ferrari?”

“I don’t want your things, Ebenezer!” Marley’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he refused to let them fall, biting on his tongue. “I want you! I want the man I love! I want the man I married!”

Scrooge blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. He stared into Marley’s pleading green eyes, once shining with the emerald effervescence of a viper, now dulled by the burdens of time and the weight of their sins. A snake rarely ever shows its pain, the prideful creature as unyielding in its composure as it is in its venom. But in that moment, as the cold winds rustled through the barren branches above, as the shadows danced around them in the twilight, Marley’s heart was laid bare for the world to see and for him to see.

“We’re not married, Jacob.” Scrooge kept his voice level, with nary a single tremor even as he felt something prick his eyes. “I thought you knew that.”

Oh, and how the words stabbed deep into Marley’s bleeding heart, twisting and turning like a cruel dagger from a play of tragedy and ambition. Those who knew of his existence often fancied him to be more of an elusive spectre than a man, and yet, in that vulnerable moment, Jacob Marley felt the sharp pang of reality. The reality that he had long denied, buried beneath layers of ambition, power, and the facade of indifference. 

It was often said that Marley had always denied their relationship as nothing more than a simple arrangement, but it would be clear to anyone with a semblance of understanding that such a denial ran far deeper. It was love, pure and simple, yet so very maligned and complicated. A monstrous being unlike any other, for it was a monster borne with a golden crown and held a thorny sceptre. A love that had been both their solace and their torment, hidden away in the secret chambers of their hearts, draped in the tattered cloak of shame. The love that dared not speak its name, drowned out by the cacophony of their ruthless pursuits and the echoes of past betrayals.

But what did it matter? Should it have mattered? Marley had been the Snake of London, after all, so such things — such feelings — must have been beneath him!

Then it is time I tell you, dear reader, just how truly wrong you are. Because Marley was human, and he bled like any human. The only difference had been that he had bled far too much, and sooner or later, he would run out of blood to give to a man who had shaped him just as much as they shaped each other.

Marley turned away, unable to meet Scrooge’s gaze any longer. But before he had, he offered him a smile. A smile he used only in performances and in showcases, towards investors and stakeholders. A perfect smile as he charmed all with his prose and all his wit. The smile that was as hollow as the eyes that beheld it.

"Fine, Scrooge. You win." Marley said, his voice strained but defiant. "Go on, revel in your indifference and relish your victories. The Shark of London, the cunning inventor who navigates the cold seas of capitalism without a hint of remorse. I hope it brings you the happiness you so desperately seek."

Scrooge’s eyes widened, and he felt a peculiar squeeze against his chest as he reached out too late. “Jacob, wait—”

“Don’t come crying to me for comfort, because I have none to give. I’m as damned as much as you are.”

Jacob Marley stood, Ebenezer Scrooge left, and the rings felt tighter upon both of their fingers.

And when there had been no sign of Preslan in sight, another came in his stead. An unexpected guest, to be sure, but when at last that guest had spoken of his plight, Marley felt a stirring of his own. A new chance? A new beginning? He had not been so sure. But he offered anyway. Because how else could he save his sorry soul? What else could he do in such a situation?

Tagged: @rom-e-o@crimson-phantom-designs@quill-pen@a-christmas-carol-from-hr@ray-painter@pinkytoothlesso11

#scrooge a christmas carol #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge: a christmas carol #a christmas carol #jacob marley #ao3 #scrooge x jacob #jacob x scrooge #ebenezer lysandre percival scrooge #jacob alexander thorne marley #jacob/ebenezer #everyone lives/nobody dies #Youtube

[libidomechanica]

“Distant view from home again in the river”

While his faith I have I not rob thy nest upon the milkwhite walls, and in those Lockes displayes, and tell me, held a volume of scarlet coat should failed in place with a death’—alas! And now we recite, tis she lay, through my foemen, and responses gives my blood-thirsty raced, it turned wings, with his laye of faultless brooding. The red branch cut down, and winter grove it was blight; then I thinking wind, nor any body and the last cough long arms. Madrid’s and had tasted all she plucked in rich reward Auroras Court a nymphs which must now at least stay. Distant view from home again in the river.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #173 texts #sonnet

[elliewiltarwyn]

FFXIV Write 2023 | Prompt #5: Barbarous

(no, I haven't done #4 yet. still struggling with that one. and with this too tbh @.@;)

5. Barbarous (829 words, emetophobia warning)

Savages, she had been told growing up about the many races that make up the population of Eorzea.

Uncultured swine and violent, primitive creatures, like the barbarians that their ancestors had been forced to fend off—barely even civilized. If you meet one, the best thing to do is to either avoid eye contact or kill them outright. His Radiance is doing them a favor, really, look at the Mad King we deposed in Ala Mhigo. ‘Tis the Empire of Garlemald’s sworn right to go forth and bring all these savages to heel under its banner and properly raise them to acceptable levels of civilization.

Those words have always repelled Mia. The mantras disgust her. She had sworn to never give them another thought, to live her life on the opposite end of that spectrum, expose the infuriatingly hollow pit that laid at the foundation for those kinds of beliefs.

She has never believed those to be true, but Thal’s balls, as she bodily drags Aldis by the scruff of his shirt through the late night avenues of the Steps of Nald, she feels herself beginning to slip and wonder if Solus zos Galvus had a point. Very bad path to start heading down, Mia! Don’t do that! That’s a big reason you ran away!

“I sssee you like it… rough, Mia,” Aldis slurs as he hits a bump on the path.

Then again… She grits her teeth. “My preferences are none of your business.”

“See, you ssay that,” he murmurs, and Mia knows he has that slimy grin that irritates her and Mylla so much, “but why would you spend so much time with me if you didn’t want me to pick up on what you like and don’ like?”

“Then you should have picked up that I hate your guts and am not remotely in your presence of my own volition.”

“Ah, a fair maiden of prrrrinciple and integrity!” He rolls the ‘r’ far too long. “What are you doing sullen…sullying yourself down here, among us rough and tumble gladiators of Ul’dah, then?”

What indeed, she grumbles to herself. “Also none of your business.”

She’s certainly not going to tell Aldis, of all people, that she came to Ul’dah to escape the sins of her heritage, her nation, her homeland. That she had looked her father unblinkingly in the eye as he held up a letter from an Ala Mhigan boy addressed to her and demanded she get out before he turned her in for sympathizing with Eorzean savages. That she had severed contact with everyone she had ever known so she wouldn’t implicate anyone else or leave any trace that could be used to indict her new identity, in a new home far from everything she ever knew.

And here she is babysitting this massive trainwreck of a man who had just decided he couldn’t keep the contents of his stomach at bay any longer. She heaves a great sigh and turns Aldis to the side so he at least aims it away from the middle of the street. This is for Mylla’s sake, she keeps telling herself, Mylla’s sanity. Mylla is always profoundly grateful and apologetic whenever she sends her out to “handle” Aldis, and Mia knows she’s not at fault, but her patience is running thin, and she doesn’t understand how Mylla’s hasn’t with him.

…But then, that’s sort of the beauty of it, isn’t it, she ponders, wincing and pinching her nose as Aldis heaves, gasping for breath. The obsession with purity back home…would have had him before a firing squad long ago. And as disgusting and debauched a man as he is… ‘tis no fate that he deserves. That sort of punishment is unconscionable.

One might even say… barbaric.

She can’t believe she’s talked herself into thinking she prefers this flavor of savage than the one back home, particularly as Aldis falls flat on his back and grins lecherously up at her. She groans, bends over, and grabs his collar again and hauls him up to his feet. “You truly are a blight upon the guild and Mylla.”

“I am, I am… and aye, she deserves far better than what I can give her,” Aldis declares, slinging his arm over her shoulders and staggering as Mia gets a firm grip on him and begins to drag him down the street once more. “‘Tis truly a blessing that you’re around to be the role model, the flagship gladiator, she ‘n the guild need.” He pats her shoulder roughly. “And you too deserve better from me.”

“It’ll be wonderful if you still feel that way in the morning and act upon it.”

“We’ll see,” he chuckles, “we’ll see. I’m grateful you put up with me as is.”

Somehow, Mia sighs to herself, ‘tis the lesser of two evils. Life as a gladiator in Ul’dah isn’t easy, but somehow… she still finds the atmosphere vastly preferable to Garlemald’s. We’ll see how long that lasts, I suppose.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #my fanfiction #to be honest i barely remember aldis and the gladiator quests. but i do know mia hates his guts :V

[aterlupus]

“Gaius,” the elderly man struggles to speak. His days are numbered. He knows it, and so does everyone else. But, both he and all around him pretend that is not the case, as the emperor’s mortality is a taboo subject, only spoken of by the enemies of the empire, who wish to see him fail. Thus, despite the ticking clock overhead, and lack of an heir apparent, none dared bring the issue up, forced to silently wait for the old man to kick the bucket.

Frankly, Solus found the situation quite amusing.

Every man related to this body of his was dreaming of taking his place, but none would dare show it, lest they be seen as vultures that they were.

“You will leave Eorzia to van Darnus.” The emperor’s voice was still commanding, although the grip of his bony fingers on the legate’s wrist, was a frail one. “You will return to Ala Mhigo and resume your duties.”

Gaius and Varis had attempted to oppose the approval of the meteor project, but Solus refused to hear it. Van Darnus held the key to a powerful weapon of the Allag and Solus had granted him permission to detonate it over the heads of their enemies. The blighted land could burn, for all he cared, just as Bozja had beforehand.

They would submit or they would be annihilated. Solus was almost saddened he would not be presenting the ultimatum himself. He did so miss seeing defiance give way to terror in their eyes.

“I need someone loyal.” He breathed. “Someone that is not awaiting my demise.” A bitter chuckle turned into a cough and the emperor had to rest his head upon the pillow, breathing in and closing his eyes for a moment. “My son, my grandchildren, cousins and nephews, they are all the same.”

He waved dismissively at a servant offering him water, gesturing for her to leave the two of them, and turning back to Gaius as the door closed behind the girl.

“I know you and Titus are not the best of friends. He is hardly fit for the throne; decadent and disloyal as he is. But, don’t let Varis fool you. He is not a benevolent ruler in the making. He is merely a coward.” He chuckled. “He lives only in the name of my Lucius. Men like him make us weak. He will make you weak, if you follow him.” The emperor warned, his golden gaze fixed on Gaius. “Return to Ala Mhigo, reign as I have taught you. Take my place, if you must, for the empire.”

"I will be blunt with you." Gaius doesn't deign to waste Solus's time -- he usually did not before, but Gaius at least recognized respect and formalities. Now? There was simply no time left.

"If Nael succeeds, there will be no Eorzea left to claim. If Nael fails -- and in this, I have no doubt -- then we will only have a nation of those stirred up and angry at us for our incompetence and violence."

"I will return to Ala Mhigo but if you are not alive to see the results of Nael's actions -- and sh-- he will fail, then I will take Eorzea for our country. I will not let our efforts go to waste for one bad Legatus." He speaks bitter and sharp, enough for Solus to have enough reason to call for him to be executed or dismissed.

"I watched you. When I was only a child, I watched you conquer nations... but as more and more came our way, as our fight became one of expansion and not of survival... I saw you, settle in your ways, and grow soft and complacent in the throne of the Emperor." Gaius holds his hand up when Solus opens his mouth, urging him to shut up. He wouldn't do this in any other situation. "Do not interrupt me anymore. You don't have time."

"I don't want to end up like you. Understand? I am not, no... I never will be, the Emperor. I know it to be foolish to resign myself to the fate of another. But if you want civil war -- and let me be clear, that it what you are leading us to -- I will have no part in it. Do you understand me?"

"Whatever man or woman settles the score, they will be the Emperor, and I will call them Zos as they deserve. I will take my place beneath them, and kiss their cheek as I have kissed yours. I will place my trust in those deserving -- the one strong enough to survive. But I will not be mistaken."

"No matter what of your kin or otherwise takes the throne -- you, and nobody else will forget -- the one who is really in charge, is the one with power, absolute." Gaius looked over Solus, and for a moment, almost, it looked like he could kill the Emperor himself, so assured was he in this moment. In these final days, no, final hours, of Solus's life, Gaius made clear to the man he called Emperor -- it was he who was always in charge.

"If the XIVth Legion split from Garlemald, your nation would crumble. I am your best bet. I am your best leader. I am your best soldier. What I say is true, none alive have what it takes to stop me."

"... But I don't want the throne. I don't want the cushion that softened you into what I see you as now. I will sharpen my blade, and keep myself ever to my goal, and ever to your goal -- even if you, and everyone else, has lost sight of it."

Gaius leans forward, despite his thrashing of a speech he gave to his Emperor, and he kisses him, softly, pressed to his lips, like a lover. His forehead presses to Solus's wrinkled brow.

"No matter how many emperor's come after you... I will only ever serve one." He hissed against Solus's mouth. "... Only one."

#rp #ic #love u mwah #now go die old man #hgjhkjlk #long post #contemptim

[titleknown]

AS DEATH DEFYING DEATH, BULABAO, COME ON!”

-Sharpglance talking into their long-range crystal communicator to summon Bulabao

Who is this fighter for the future?! More on them past the break!

The peoples of the Lost World where Korangu hails from got a rude awakening when they found out how thoroughly the robot-making imperialist nightmare that was the MECH Project had set up shop there, and how thoroughly its ecological consequences thrashed their beloved protector.

More horrifying to them was not just how much damage it had caused, the mass migrations of dinosaurs and blighted earth around where they were hiding was a good indicator, but how much damage it would have caused had they stayed long term as they had planned before being busted up by a combination of the heroism of investigative folks and MECH’s own incompetence.

So, one member of the peoples tried to do something unprescedented: Using an improvised device designed using their people’s crystal technology, they tried to contact the creature known as Bulabao.

This was unprescedented because; even in a jungle setting filled with dinosaurs and prehistoric throwbacks both kaiju and regular-sized, Bulabao held a unique terror for the inhabitants.

They were not considered malevolent, in fact they were considered almost peaceful and retiring; but the fear of them was the fear of the reaper, for in recorded memory, Bulabao has been associated with death; culturally engrained as a sort of psychopomp, seen in the visions of those dying and walking away from the bodies of kaiju and normal megafauna alike.

It is said that their eyes can paralyze even gargantuan creatures with fright, that its golden claws; horns and tail can pierce all defenses, that its breath scours flesh from bone, and other strange abilities that; even witnessing it now; few know the truth of their existence. But, the most ill-omened thing about the creature was said to be the “box” on its back; a thing that could suck in the spirits of the dead but also the living. To where, we do not know, as of yet.

So, naturally, the youth walked up to the creature, at a blighted place in the land; even now riddled with gargantuan dessicated corpses left unclaimed.

At the hecatomb, the youth spoke to them with them via an assemblage of crystals, of a type common in their culture but innovative in its current use. The youth spoke of the events of the world and those who had poisoned the earth around them, and the failures of the great protector of their people. The youth said there will be others who could have cruel designs upon the place, speaking of the advertising monsters and the invaders and the horrors of the CarciNation.

And, the next day, the youth stepped into the sun with their crystal translator and behind them; the psychopomp, willing and ready to follow them to the ends of the earth in defense of their home.

The youth’s nickname (And preferred name, because young people are like that) roughly translates to Sharpglance, for their keen eye and willingness to view the world outside of their jungle even before calling on the great beast, and even now they have a keen eye for when trouble’s about, wandering the world with their companion; steady and unerring as death itself.

As one final aside, curiously, Korangu and Bulabao do not like each other at all. They don’t actively fight unless forced near each other, but they do stay well away from each other. When asked what the reasons for this might be, Sharpglace replied “It’s complicated…”

SO, I basically came up with this because I wanted a version of the whole "minder with the remote control" archetype ala Gigantor or; arguably; the animated Zilla, and I figured that making them as a member of the Southeast-Asian lost-world-subspace nation (One of the entrances to which being in the Phillipines and another in Borneo) associated with Korangu made sense!

Thank heavens I have a Filipino-diaspora friend who helped me a lot to come up with the design, combining a carabao and the Philippine crocodile, the symbolism taken from the related-to-the-latter mythical buwaya leading to them having a psychopomp theme (Also why they have a stingray-like tail barb), and even a few details about their culture that I haven't have time to list yet, but are there!

Also, note that Sharpglance would be considered nonbinary in our culture, tho Filipino pronouns are... grammatically complicated to translate, so I use they/them for convenience.

On that note, as per usual with Kaijune, this powerful psychopomp is free to use as you see fit under a CC-BY 4.0 license so long as I; Thomas F. Johnson, am credited as their creator! 

And, if you wanna support me, maybe check out my Patreon (Tho it's more of a tip jar for now as I work towards stabilizing my new living situation), or even just send a Ko-Fi my way! Every penny is appreciated, and I am eternally grateful for those who donate!

Or, if you wanna commission me for a pic like this, my commission info is thisaway!

#my art #kaiju #kaijune #creature design #phillipines #carabao #crocodile #worldbuilding

[faelune-home]

FFXIV Write 2022: #9 Yawn

(A/n: I’ve had this idea for a while. It’s really a kind of smaller idea but something I felt would still have some weight to it, just the revelation of, “We used to live here but we never got to know it as home.”

So yeah, a twin focused piece looking through old records in the Gubal Library, cos those damned Sharlayans left an entire library behind! Even if they have copies of the important stuff doubled back at the homebase, they did indeed leave a lot of stuff behind as well :’’D

Set sometimes after 4.0 or 4.1-ish as a downtime period. Meaning for this one taken from yawning as in great expansive things, and the library is very vast and expansive.

Word count: 1726)

Scouring the Great Gubal Library for information was a tedious task, but it was the best place for it, given the vast reaches of texts and artifacts on Aldenard, left behind all those years ago by the Sharlayans. All the better to make use of the repository now that Fhara had cleared it of its arcane guardians.

They had several reasons for being there; primarily anything they could find on the Ascians, should something have been stored long ago when the original caretakers used to use the premises, but also newer topics of interest given recent events. 

The liberations of Ala Mhigo and Doma both had sparked intrigue in elements of the old cultures and traditions that may have been lost during the occupation, histories that the elders had long since forgotten. As well, there was a renewed interest in tempering, in the hopes that something lay within those walls, stretching deep into the earth of the hinterlands, something that had been lost in the shuffle of the exodus.

The Scions had split between several floors, using the mostly worn reference guide to point them where they needed to be. Y’shtola and Urianger in search of Ascian information; Lyse having joined them for Ala Mhigan history, with Thancred to help her; and Alisaie, freed from her sickbed for the day to search the shelves for tempering information, aided by her brother. 

Though from her perspective, twas more like he was minding her.

“You know you could go and join Lyse and Thancred for their history searching,” she said, rolling her eyes between scanning the book spines where he couldn't see her, “I’m sure you’d prefer it to scouring old records here. Fhara’s nearby keeping an eye out anyway if anything happens.” The faint thud of a book closing and then being replaced on the shelf sounded beside her, almost covering the sigh he let out.

“I’m not here to mind you, sister, though is it really that agonising for me to keep a close eye out of concern,” Alphinaud replied, taking another book out and leafing through the pages. The dust trapped within made him cough upon being disturbed.

“It feels like it, since you insisted on someone observing me even when I was only resting back at the Reach’s infirmary,” Alisaie said, turning around and crossing her arms, careful so as not to aggravate her injury and give him more reason to justify his actions. “Tis already their job to mind their patients, Alisaie,” he said, closing the book, “If I asked them to watch you, twas more so that you didn’t do anything to hinder your recovery. Surely you would like to return to action sooner rather than later?” Alisaie frowned, understanding his logic but preferring not to let him know that. She turned back to the shelves without responding; behind her, Alphinaud shook his head and continued his search as well.

“I am trying to help, after all,” he added, “Tempering is still a blight upon us all so long as primals continue to be summoned, though if there’s been such a cure or prevention here all this time, surely we would’ve used it since the start.”

“Well knowing Sharlayan, they’re just the types to find the information and then log it away just for the sake of having it,” Alisaie huffed, replacing another thick tome that didn’t give her what she was looking for, “Even if it’d be useful for the rest of us, it's all just curiosities and tidbits to them.” Despite her scathing remark, her brother didn’t argue back.

“Speaking of which, it’s beginning to look like all of this is just records and registries. Unless there’s a list of all the tempered individuals from across the ages and that somehow includes a bygone solution, I say we move on,” she said, getting thoroughly frustrated at their situation.

“Come now, sister, hold a moment,” Alphinaud called, halting her before she could stomp off down the hall.

“Impatience doesn’t help anyone,” he said, “We can’t be sure unless we check thoroughly.” Alisaie rolled her eyes.

“Ah yes, check every book and index, and perhaps our great grandchildren may finally find what we’re looking for. How did the caretakers keep track of all of this back then in the first place?”

“Mayhap with mammets and enchantments much like the Noumenon back home?” he suggested. 

Then seeing her shoulders tense up as she looked further down the corridor, the shelves disappearing into the yawning darkness, Alphinaud offered, “Let’s at least finish this shelving unit before we break to meet everyone else. We could even take some books back to the Rising Stones with us if they may prove somewhat relevant.” 

He grabbed several books from the shelf into his arms and placed them on a nearby table, gesturing for his sister to grab the nearby ladder as he turned to skimming the pages in his pile. With nothing else to do and at least a basic plan, Alisaie sighed and got to work, climbing to the highest reaches of the shelf and following her brother’s example, a small pile at a time.

The time ticked on, however many minutes or hours were lost unknown, though perhaps the faint chiming they heard was an old forgotten chronometer tucked away somewhere in the halls. Though if it was, it was probably long out of sync with the actual hours of the day. Unsure of the actual time, but feeling as though plenty had past in their work, Alphinaud finally paused in his reading, flinching as he straightened up from his hunched reading to feel his back and neck aching.

“It would be nice to have a mammet indeed,” he mumbled, kneading a hand into his neck and shoulder. Turning to regard the shelf and mentally noting where he’d been and where he’d seen his sister look, half each, he nodded.

“It does appear though that we’ve covered this area though,” he said, trying to sound proud of the effort even as a pessimistic voice in his head added, ‘And found nothing of relevance.’ 

“Fhara may come and summon us for a break shortly. Mayhap we could leave now and meet her early,” he said. His sister was crouched near the bottommost shelf, a book in hand and clearly so absorbed she didn’t even seem as though she heard him.

“Alisaie?” Alphinaud approached, noting the book collection on the shelf in question.

“Ah, those are mainly old birth records. I skipped those as I didn’t think them pertinent to our investigation,” he stated. Alisaie scoffed, looking back up at him with a smirk.

“What happened to being thorough, dear brother?” she replied, though there was less bite than expected. Indeed, her smile fell again into a curious furrowed brow, standing to share the book with him.

“It’s from the year we were born,” she said quietly, as though the information were a heavy burden. Taking the book, he regarded the open page. It wasn’t a big revelation or a sudden secret, just plain information, but somehow reading it felt insightful, in a way.

The outer edges of the book had long been frayed and worn from time and creatures - a frustratingly common circumstance he’d seen in many of the other books that day - obscuring the date and times in the tables, but the rest was still mostly legible. The last entries midway down the page, while the other side and presumably the rest remained blank;

Leveilleur, Alphinaud, M, elezen Leveilleur, Alisaie, F, elezen

“It makes sense,” he said, despite keeping his eyes on the book, “I’m sure there were copies made of important records like this for the keepers back home, but twould be understandable that a record would exist here as well.”

“We were born here after all,” Alisaie muttered, “Though it is easy to forget sometimes. We were only young when we left.” An odd silence fell between them, broken by the sound of the book closing again.

“Do you think it would’ve been different?” she suddenly asked, starling her brother as he went to return the book again.

“Different?”

She bit her lip. “If Sharlayan had never left, I mean. Would it have been any different if we’d grown up knowing the rest of Eorzea as neighbours?”

He thought about it carefully, even if he knew the answer already.

“Truthfully? I don’t think it would’ve changed anything.” He slid the book back into place.

“Knowing Sharlayan, even if they’d decided to stay, they would’ve isolated and refused any other entry, much the same as Ishgard.” It almost felt like a bitter pill to swallow, even knowing that that was the state of things for their home. They did not invite hostility or aggression, and actively abhorred it.

“I know,” Alisaie sighed, “I know that and yet…tis something to ponder sometimes. Just the thought of what if everything in life went differently.”

Alphinaud regarded her carefully, not quite knowing how to respond to her melancholy, until she shook her head.

“We can’t change the past,” she stated, more so to herself given his lack of response,” We can only strive for a better future.” “Of course. It is easy to wish for what could’ve been, but it’s another thing to work toward what can be. You and I both know that that is energy better spent on improving things now and making sure tomorrow is a day that will come.” Finally shaken fully from her reverie, Alisaie cast a smile his way and nodded.

Echoing footsteps caught their attentions, as Fhara raced over from the other room connecting to the stairwells.

“Hey,” she gasped, out of breath, “that’s everyone else finished for now,they want us to meet up again. Are you both done here?”

“I’d say we’re finished here for now, yes,” Alphinaud replied, picking up the book he’d been reading and putting it back.

“We didn’t find much of what we were looking for, but there’s always another time,” Alisaie said, stretching and wincing as she felt her back tweak.

“Y’shtola said she wasn’t so lucky either, but Lyse and Thancred found lots at least, they said they’d share a few stories once we meet up again,” Fhara informed them, an excited bounce in her step as they walked off, the click of their heels the last remnant in the dusty halls.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2022 #my writing #alphinaud leveilleur #alisaie leveilleur #my wol #keeper of the moon miqo'te #fhara laali

[rodine]

677w , the others

the boy found him in the midst of nothing, where the green had washed away from the grass and the air was wet and grey. he was there, laid bare in the groove of a blighted oak, slumbering as though there were nothing else but the peace the existing silence had to offer. his hands folded beneath his red-freckled cheeks. fingertips bright and bleeding knuckles raw scarlet (though, not his own). dirt streaked on the tatters of his vestments, soil wedged thick between his toes. he was the imagination of millais come to life, but appeared as sweet as a chord of clair de lune. a rare treasure, unpolished, washed upon the shore—and salem is sure this is how the sea felt when god treaded her currents. he presses a smile to his fingers—furtive, fleeting, fond. if it were in his power, he would only bless upon the creature with the sweetest of dreams.

but alas, 

salem’s palm finds the curve where body meets ramus, thumb smearing the red across rowan’s cheek as a deep rouge. the creature jolts from his meditations, nose rolling towards the white sky, the shape of his rosary warm on his cheekbone. he opens an eye, it’s color the skin of a plum, a pale pit at its center. glassy, unseeing—he blinks away from the bright of the strange night, to call the boy (of what seems a boy, as he seems a man) into focus. his fruit stained lips stretch into a smile of many, many moonlit pinnacles. 

“care to join me?” 

rowan yawns with one eye, watching the light dance about in salem’s as he considers before the latter shakes his head in mock woe. his fingers begin their dance.

“i have eaten well, very well—” rowan scratches flakes of blood from his cuticle. he is all long limbs but curls up so small in this little corner of their world. “this country is so ripe with its generosity. have you ever had an apricot from the fields of emilia-romagna?”

salem shakes his head, leaning against the trunk, waiting.

rowan makes a face like the bliss of sun encroaching a cold front. “oh, you must. they’re this big—fit in your palm just like this. and they’re so soft, they need a gentle touch. i’d like to think if you held it too long, it’d melt in your hand. though i’m not sure even i could test that, not when its scent finally reaches you and you think ‘ah. this must be the fragrance of summer.’ some say peaches or mango hold that title, but i’m partial to—”

the creature is hushed with a finger to his lips, beaming in the face of the quiet exasperation greying salem’s features (though his eyes glisten with ever-shine, two kara gul jewels that are cut in the shape of his true age.) it’s a front he’s familiar with, for if the boy had truly tired of his shenanigans, he’d lead him into the deep, warm belly of an insatiable hunger. this, they share, among other things; both half this, half that—immortal but cut them and they shall bleed. hold them by the throat and they won’t know air. reach into the deep of them to touch their heart, and they will know love. certainly, misfotune has robbed them of chance, but no one has ever been richer with time. rowan likes to use it to their advantage in moments like this—especially when the seconds between their hellos and goodbyes grow narrower and narrower.

“i will bring one for you,” rowan speaks anyway despite being silenced. he has no fear, eager for his last word as the mist begins to feed off the edges of salem’s cloak. “next time, old friend. i’ll bring one just for you.”

salem’s smile is an empty haunt, left suspended in silence as the white breath swallows him up, and he is gone, his presence a ghost.

rowan wonders where next time may be as he slumps into the tree, pondering the apricots sweetness on the back of his eyelids.

[onenakedfarmer]

ROBERT BURNS "Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig"

As on the banks o’ wandering Nith, Ae smiling simmer morn I stray’d, And traced its bonie howes and haughs, Where linties sang and lammies play’d, I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o’ fancy’s dream, When from the eddying deep below, Up rose the genius of the stream. Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, And troubled, like his wintry wave, And deep, as sughs the boding wind Amang his caves, the sigh he gave - "And come ye here, my son," he cried, "To wander in my birken shade? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

"There was a time, it’s nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a’ my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool: And stately oaks their twisted arms Threw broad and dark across the pool;

"When, glinting thro’ the trees, appear’d The wee white cot aboon the mill, And peacefu’ rose its ingle reek, That, slowly curling, clamb the hill. But now the cot is bare and cauld, Its leafy bield for ever gane, And scarce a stinted birk is left To shiver in the blast its lane."

"Alas!" quoth I, "what ruefu’ chance Has twin’d ye o’ your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare - Has stripped the cleeding o’ your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast, That scatters blight in early spring? Or was’t the wil’fire scorch’d their boughs, Or canker-worm wi’ secret sting?"

"Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; "It blaws na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!" the genius sighed - As through the cliffs he sank him down - "The worm that gnaw’d my bonie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown."

#poetry #Robert Burns

[atomic-thomas]

(Fake ASMR Commission) Confronting A Tsundere Fire Giantess [Elden Ring ASMR Roleplay]

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

*cold tundra ambience*

"Who dare trespass upon the Mountaintops of the Giants?"

...

"A lowly tarnished I see. I must say, I'm impressed that you managed to make it this far. The large beasts of this land are savage, fierce & relentless. Your strength & courage are formidable to be sure."

"But alas, your journey ends here. Proceed no further unless you wish to meet your end under the wrath of the last living fire giant."

...

"Do not question why I'm the last of my kind, tarnished. I'll have you know that I'm not here by choice. My race was destroyed by Queen Marika & her husband Godfrey. The forge you see behind me is powerful to set the Erdtree aflame & Marika's plans would fall apart if that were to happen. She feared us. And with the help of her husband, they wiped us all out with the power of death blight. It's the reason you've seen the frozen corpses of my fellow giants strewn throughout the gravepost."

...

"The reason Marika left me alive is because she needed at least one giant to guard the forge. That's why I'm here... All alone."

...

"I owe that wicked witch nothing. I resent her for what she did. But if I dare disobey her, she'll kill me for neglecting my duty. I may not have much, but I still want to live."

"Now begone before I scorch you to cinders! You've lingered quite long enough."

...

"Oh? You're here to light the forge. Well that's quite unfortunate for you. Your mission has lead you to your demise. I guess it can't be helped. Though I am curious, tarnished. Why do you wish to burn the Erdtree?"

...

"You need to burn the impenetrable thorns to become the next Elden Lord. My, my... Quite the go-getter, aren't you? Well, I suppose you wouldn't be able to do that without defeating me. Tell me, tarnished. What makes you think you can beat me? I am a fire giant. One of the mightiest forces of nature in the Lands Between. I'm 80ft tall at the shoulders & still growing. I command the most advanced fire magic known to any pyromancer. You may be strong, but I'm unlike any foe you've ever faced before."

...

"You've slain the demigods. All of them? Sounds like quite the substantial bluff. But a bluff & nothing more. Until I see your Great Runes, I don't see why I should believe you."

...

"Oh, so you have Godrick's Great Rune. Am I supposed to be impressed? Anyone could've defeated that fool. He was the weakest demigod after all. The runt of the litter. You just had the motivation to actually do it."

...

"Rennala's Great Rune. I suppose that's slightly more impressive. But hardly. Powerful sorcerer though she is, she's still a fragile old woman."

...

"Morgott's Great Rune. Hmmm... I suppose I should've at least expected that. You needed to pass through the Royal Capital of Leyndell in order to get here. Surely, that's all though, right? You couldn't have possibly claimed anymore Great Runes than that."

...

"Rykard's Great Rune. That's... Okay, wow. I... I wasn't expecting you to slay the God Devouring Serpent."

...

"Mohg's Great Rune. The Lord of Blood. But Mohg was so powerful. And Mohgwyn Palace is such a dangerous place. You really survived all that? What are you made of?"

...

"Radahn's Great Rune?! What?! How?! Radahn's strength & gravity magic should've been way too much for you to handle. Does that mean... You've also defeated... Her? No. There's no way. Surely, all of the demigods, that woman must've been insurmountable, right?"

...

"Oh... Oh wow. So it's true. You really do have Malenia's Great Rune. I can't believe my eyes right now. Malenia had never known defeat in her entire life. She was supposed to be unbeatable. And you just... Did it. You have all the Great Runes. You can mend the Elden Ring."

...

"I... I Don't know what to do. I don't think I could even hope to destroy you now. You're way too powerful. What am I supposed to do? I'll either die to you or die to Marika."

...

"You have an idea. Well, please do tell. What is it?"

...

"If I let you pass, you'll defeat Marika & avenge the fire giants. That means I'd get to live. Yes! This is a great idea."

...

"Of course I accept. You've proven everything to me. You're my best chance to get back at Marika. Go forth, brave tarnished. Set the Erdtree aflame & continue on the path of the lord."

...

"You'll come back to visit me. Really? Does that mean we can be friends?"

...

"Oh, that's so great. I'm sorry that I talked down to you so much. Both figuratively & literally. It was a mistake to underestimate you. You're far from lowly. Clearly very strong. The strongest I've ever seen. Now be on your way. Marika needs to be stopped."

___________________________________________

THE END