#by the time scourge has wormed his way into their hearts and no one wants him to leave anymore they've probably just. forgotten

[fleetsonourgecentral]

Has Scourge ever hear about the fairy tales England has to offer?

Hmm good question. Maybe in passing? I imagine the most exposure he'd get to them at first consists of the freedom fighters occasionally slipping references to them into conversation, and him just going ????? bc no one is clarifying shit. If he got annoyed by it enough he might look them up in his own time, but no one is really going out of their way to introduce him to these kinda things bc to be honest they forget he didn't grow up in their dimension

#sonic the hedgehog #scourge the hedgehog #asks #headcanon #idk how long it takes until sonic and co find out scourge is from a different dimension #but honestly by the time they do they aren't really focused on getting him accustomed to their universe #sonic especially spends the beginning trying to find a way to kick scourge back to his own dimension #by the time scourge has wormed his way into their hearts and no one wants him to leave anymore they've probably just. forgotten #like it doesn't occur to them to show him these things bc he's been here for months now so he doesn't FEEL like a newcomer #also i imagine it probably doesn't occur to them that scourge's universe doesn't have all the things their universe has #there's a lot of YOU DON'T HAVE THIS IN YOUR DIMENSION????? #point is scourge is mostly on his own when it comes to minor things like this bc the freedom fighters just #forget to help

[johaerys-writes]

Blood Roses In The Snow

Fandom: Castlevania

Pairing: Hector/Lenore

My new Lenector fic is up! A deep dive into Hector's and Lenore's relationship from the beginning until the end of S03, and a prequel to my ongoing post-s03 Trephacard/Lenector fic Where Blood Roses Bloom (can be read as a stand-alone!)

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Your Dead Little Heart

"Move, worm."

Hector’s chain is gripped by a gauntleted hand; the words are accompanied by a sharp tug and a curse. Hector winces at the pain, but complies. It’s been days since he learned that resistance is futile. 

About a month, give or take.

Day after day he trudges through endless snow. Every muscle in his body aches, and he's sure a couple ribs are broken. He can't feel his toes anymore. The icy wind slithers through the many tears in his clothes, freezing him to the bone, but Hector is grateful, for now. As soon as he stops feeling the cold, it will be too late.

The night sky looms above him, the stars glittering in the dark. He doesn't remember the last time he saw the light of day. They march all night, and during the few hours left in the day he has trouble keeping his eyes open. His world is in shades of grey and white, of ash and snow; it has shrunk to the cage he sleeps in when they're resting, and the tether around his neck when they're moving.

There's no room for other thoughts, no use. Only putting one foot in front of the other, and breathing. For now.

Dracula's war has been lost. Everything is lost. His work, his forge, his creations: all of them gone, swept by the tide that rushed over Braila, obliterating everything in its path.

All of it, crushed under the heel of Carmilla's boot. 

Her snow white hair reflects the silver moonlight as she walks ahead. She is tired and weakened, but not broken. Oh, there's not much in this world that could break Carmilla. Like the scourges of this earth, she will be the last thing standing while everything else rots apart. 

Anger boils within Hector slowly, simmering, like hot tar. It clings to his throat and brings tears to his eyes, this fury. It's the only thing keeping him breathing, keeping going. He wants to see her crushed, he wants to see her dead, like he's sure Dracula and Isaac are because of her. Because of him, too.

He doesn't know how much longer he'll last, but he wants to last long enough to see this through. 

Another sharp tug reminds him that he's let his muddled, angry thoughts obscure his vision, and he almost trips over his own frozen, log-like feet. The vampire soldier Carmilla has handed his chain to lifts the rod he's holding, and brings it down hard upon Hector's back.

The pain blinds him, it cuts his air. He loses his balance and falls to his knees, and for once he does not know if he has the strength to pick himself back up. 

Terror grips him when the soldiers before him stop, then part to let Carmilla through. She is raging, features twisted in fury, eyes gleaming in the dark like a valkyrie's. She grabs at the chain and yanks him on his feet, ignoring the pressure on his throat that makes him wheeze and cough. 

"Listen to me, you sorry bag of shit," she hisses, bringing her face close to his own. "I am this close to reaching the castle, and I swear I will gut you right here if you don't pick up your legs and move." 

She lets him go and Hector sways. He gazes down at his feet, his heart beating a frantic rhythm in his chest with the sound of her voice ringing in his ear. As soon as she’s far enough, he looks up. 

The castle of Styria looms far above them, on the top of the snow-capped hill, cold and cruel and resplendent. His new home. 

His new prison. 

***

 The procession of the army can be seen from miles away. From the warmth of her study, standing behind the tall, arched windows, Lenore watches as they draw closer. 

Carmilla will be fuming by the time she arrives. That much Lenore knows. 

Her defeat was monumental. The bulk of their army has been lost, and by the way Striga has been mulling over it for days, Lenore has an inkling just how difficult those troops will be to replace. Striga has always looked after her armies like a mother goose, training them and rewarding them and toughening them up and tossing back ale with them. She is nothing without her soldiers— or at least, she’s very little. 

Lenore sighs. Striga is her sister, and she loves her. Carmilla is her sister, and she loves her, too. They’ve been together through thick and thin, and Lenore wouldn’t have it any other way, but it sometimes gets tiring hearing the same things several times over. But she knows that people who have lived for several hundreds of years are set in their ways, as she is set in hers, and she doesn’t begrudge them that much. It would have been worse for her, far worse, if she were on her own. She knows this too, all too well. 

She grabs her fox fur cloak and tosses it over her shoulders. The cold outside will be stinging, and there is a blizzard about to break out soon. In all her ill-luck, Carmilla is lucky in that, at least: had the disaster at Braila taken place a week later, she would have been snowed in somewhere off the west of Wallachia for a good part of the winter. 

Striga is watching the army through the wide windows of her room, her brow creased in a deep frown, while Morana is giving clipped orders to the servants that are coming and going through the quarters, preparing for the arrival of the troops, and that of Carmilla, of course. The poor servants are pale with dread; none of them want to be near when Carmilla’s temper explodes, as it is wont to do. 

“Striga, Lenore, you go meet the troops,” Morana tells them. “I have more work to do here.”

Read the rest on AO3!

#castlevania #castlevania netflix #hector #lenore #lenector #hector x lenore #blood roses in the snow #johaerys writes

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (61) || atz

"I just want to talk." Mingi grumbles under his breath as the three of you approach the starboard side of the ship, clearly not the least bit convinced by what Captain Kang has just said. "That's what they all say. 'Oh, I just want to talk! I totally don't want to put a bullet through your head… or poison you… or feed you worms…' Only an idiot would let him come up on board after all that he's done to us-"

"Would you call me an idiot, then?" Hongjoong smiles mildly from behind him and Mingi nearly jumps off the ship in shock, whirling around surprised only to see the three of you standing there, eyes flickering nervously between Wooyoung and his captain before his gaze settles on the head gunner. "Uhhh-"

Wooyoung cracks a tiny grin, not fully there but it's something, scuffs the toe of his boot on the deck. "I know, I know. I'm sorry for being an idiot." At Wooyoung's easy demeanor, Mingi's shoulders sag before he reaches over to punch his friend in the arm, hard.

"Ow!" Wooyoung yelps, cradling his arm to his chest dramatically, nursing the sore spot where Mingi hit him. You can see a bruise forming there already. "What was that for?" His voice rises into a whine high pitched from pain.

Mingi's eyes narrow sharply. "That's for beating up Captain." At his words, Hongjoong moves to hide his laughter behind his hand, but the only sound that escapes his mouth is a yelp as Mingi punches his captain hard in the shoulder too.

"Ow!" He complains, mimicking Wooyoung as he rubs his shoulder ruefully. "What did I do? I try to be a good captain and end up getting beat up three times in one day? I don't deserve this. Chin Hae, it hurts-" You stifle a polite snort.

"And that's for being beat up by Wooyoung, you dummy." Mingi talks over his captain, rolling his eyes before they find yours, and then he's raising his hand and you find yourself flinching back, because oh my god is he going to punch you as well-

"Thank you for looking after these two idiots for me." Mingi says softly, one large hand resting gently on your head and you stare up at him with wide eyes, there's a small curve at the side of his mouth and wow, because he's smiling at you.

"You're welcome." You reply brightly, ignoring Hongjoong's dismayed 'I am the captain, you can't just call me an idiot!' and Wooyoung's indignant cry of 'captain is the only idiot on this ship!'. Then suddenly, Mingi frowns and backpedals to an earlier part of the conversation as his hand falls back to his side. "Wait, wait, wait, Captain, did I hear you right earlier? Did you really just say you want to allow Captain Kang onto the ship again? After all he's done to us?"

There’s a pregnant pause for a moment.

"Oh, right." Hongjoong pauses, scratches at his chin. Mingi shoots him an incredulous stare at him. "Maybe I am an idiot after all."

"You idiot!" Mingi exclaims, grabbing his captain by the ear and you wince sympathetically as Mingi raps his knuckles across Hongjoong's forehead like he's trying to crack a very large egg. "Did Wooyoung beat the very last dregs of your sanity out of you along with your common sense?"

"Just a second here, it's not my fault if Captain's nuts, he's always been and it's not my doing-" Wooyoung hurriedly holds up both hands and Hongjoong hollers at the unintended bashing to both his pride and forehead before wriggling out of his quartermaster's grasp. Sucking in a deep breath, he stares indignantly at the three of you, one hand adjusting his eyepatch and the other desperately flattening his ruffled hair.

"I am the captain!" Is all he manages.

The three of you burst into a fit of laughter, he looks absolutely frazzled. But your laughter is soon stifled when Seonghwa moves over to the starboard to speak to Hongjoong.

"Captain Kang says he insists on speaking to you, Captain… and that he'll hand over the antidote to Yunho's poison if you allow him to bring Gunho's body back with him, and to speak to Yeosang for a few minutes." He jerks his thumb at the gangplank waiting to be lowered at the port side of the ship, where you know Captain Kang and the remainder of his men are gathered. "We're waiting on your orders."

You swallow the saliva that seems to have built up in your throat, nerves weighting heavily on you. After all these years, why would Kang Yongsun want to see the child that he left behind and abandoned for dead so long ago? Some sort of sadistic satisfaction of seeing how much his son has suffered over the years at the hands of the bloodthirsty pirates? Or something else?

At that, Hongjoong chews his lower lip thoughtfully, brow knitted as he weighs the pros and cons with care. On one hand, he doesn't ever want to see that filthy man's face ever again, let alone have to let Yeosang lay eyes on the father that gave him up so many years ago, and yet… and yet… the cure to Yunho's illness is right there, nearly in their grasp. After so much fighting and battling, they can finally save Yunho… but why does this seem too easy? Throat dry, he licks his lips, opens his mouth to speak without really knowing his answer.

"I-"

But before he can say anything, someone else interrupts him.

"Let him come aboard." You spin around, eyes widening with surprise to see Yeosang standing at the foot of the stairs of the quarterdeck, gazing quietly, even serenely at the gangplank, where the father who abandoned him awaits. "Let him come aboard." He repeats, a little louder this time, turning to face the five of you with a brave smile, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. "So that we can save Yunho and finally end all of this once and for all."

Your heart breaks. “Oh, Yeosang...”

Wooyoung's mouth pulls downwards into a frown, reaching out to tug on Yeosang's sleeve gently. "Hey. I don't want you to feel obliged to have to meet that bastard just so we can save Yunho, alright? I could always just shoot his head from here, and we could-" You smack his arm for talking about Yeosang's father like that in front of his own child. Yeosang might have been abandoned by his father, but the soft hearted navigator is far too gentle for his own good.

Yeosang shakes his head, letting out a soft breath. "It's alright. It's time for me to face my own demons too, after all, like what Seonghwa has done. I have questions of my own that I'd like to ask him too, things that I wasn't brave enough to ask back then. Why did you hate me so, father? What did I do to deserve your ire?" He trails off, lost in thought.

Hongjoong looks conflicted for a moment, before he sighs and nods. "In the end, it's your choice, Yeosang." Hongjoong says quietly, resting a hand on Yeosang's shoulder. The navigator looks up at him with troubled eyes. "But remember, no matter what you choose," his captain squeezes him lightly, before moving off to give the orders to lower the gangplank, "that you will always have a family in us."

Yeosang stands there silent for a second, stock still, you stare at him with eyes wide with concern, but then just as you’re about to approach him, ask him if he’s alright, he simply smiles lightly and shakes his head, following behind his captain's retreating back to meet his father. "I know that already, idiot captain."

"I heard that!"

"Chin Hae, do you want to hear what happens or go to the sickbay with San-" Seonghwa begins, but the second you hear your master's name, you wave your hand and its accompanying stump with a smile. You're really not ready to face your master again, especially after the awful things you'd said to him. "I'll go see what's going on. Got to find some way to satisfy this curiosity, after all."

The cook gives you a kind nod and guides you to the port side, where they're already lowering the gangplank, Wooyoung loading and priming his musket behind the two of you. Mingi and Jongho are already standing there, flanking the gangplank, the former brandishing his fearsome battle axe and the latter his club.

"Gangplank lowered!" One of the crewmen call and Jongho's fingers tighten on the handle tersely. You feel something cold run down your spine as the creaking of wood reaches your ears, and the footsteps draw ever closer… And finally, Captain Kang steps on board the Treasure.

"The antidote." Mingi demands instantly, and Captain Kang eyes him coldly.

"And lose the only bargaining chip keeping me and my men alive? Perish the thought. I shall not hand it over till I have seen and spoken to my son." He says stonily and Wooyoung bristles with anger, "why, you-"

"Shh." You say, laying your hand gently on Wooyoung's arm, he calms a little, but his lips are still tightly pressed together and his fingers play with the trigger of his gun. Hongjoong steps forward, expression neutral.

"I understand your point, but my battlemaster is dying, I would have you hand over the antidote immediately. I promise upon my honor that no harm will come to you or your crew."

"And what worth is the honor of a pirate?" One of Royal Navy officers spits, his hand brandishing his saber. Mingi growls, a noise deep in his throat as he squares up the shorter man, but the officer is broad shoulders and the deadly glint in his eyes show that he would be no pushover in battle either.

The two men are trapped in a battle of wills for a long second before another officer puts a hand on his comrades' shoulder, pulling him back with a forced grin on his face. "Now, now, Joohoney, this isn't really how you speak to someone you're trying to negotiate with! What would Lieutenant Shownu say?"

"Shut up, Minhyuk." 'Joohoney' snarls, fist clenching so tightly around the handle of his sabre that his knuckles go white. He's trembling with emotion, rage, not fear, you realise. "These damn pirates are the scourge of the seas, they're the reason why so many of our comrades are dead, and-"

"Enough!" Commander Kang snaps and 'Joohoney' reluctantly falls silent. "If you cannot keep your tongue still, I will carve it out for you. Understood?" His voice allows no room for argument in the least.

"Yes, commander." He submits grudgingly, but that doesn't stop him from glaring at every single one of you as if he wishes he could slit your throats this very second. But his words leave you reeling on the inside… how can these terrible, corrupted, bloodthirsty Royal Navy officers possibly think that your crewmates are the scum after all they've done?

But before you can retort, your captain is already speaking.

"I swear upon the sea goddess," Hongjoong says, and you hear a sharp intake of breath from both Royal Navy officers and your crewmates alike, "that under no circumstance will any member of my crew harm any member of your crew unless first blood is drawn."

"Captain! Swearing on the sea goddess, are you crazy?" Mingi hisses out of the corner of his mouth, but his captain does not reply, merely holding gazes with the Royal Navy commander. Eventually, Commander Kang lets his shoulders relax slightly, and pulls out a small vial filled with clear liquid, placing it in your captain's outstretched palm. Without breaking eye contact, Hongjoong passes it to Seonghwa, who dashes off the sickbay with it. Mingi scowls, hefting his battle axe threateningly. "Any tricks, Commander…"

"Bring me Gunho's body." Commander Kang demands and Hongjoong nods to another two crew members, who carry out a body wrapped with a clean linen sheet, setting it before the commander. Quietly, Commander Kang kneels before the corpse, tugging the sheet down with such gentle hands one would scarcely believe him to have ever held a sword, until Gunho's face is revealed to them once more, eyes still wide open staring at the sun he had died gazing upon.

For a second, such intense emotion flickers across Commander Kang's face you briefly wonder if you had imagined it, but then he composes himself and slides Gunho's eyes closed gently, pressing a soft kiss to his bloodied forehead.

"Rest in peace, my son."

Chaos erupts on deck.

"What?" Wooyoung gapes, too stunned to be angry and you find yourself mirroring his expression, mouth falling open in shock. My son? Does Yeosang have two illegitimate brothers who were gladiators in Vena Cruz that he didn't know of? But wait, Yunho once mentioned that his parents had sold him and his brother off, so how could Commander Kang possibly be Gunho's father?

Amidst the chaos, Commander Kang rises and gestures for his crew to take the body away, but Jongho stops him by standing stubbornly between the body and the commander. "You dare call a man of another's blood your son in front of the flesh and blood you abandoned?" He asks, deadly quiet.

Commander Kang meets his eyes coolly, though there is a small hint of guilt that flickers in his eyes when he glances over at Yeosang, wiping tears quietly at the side. Then he sighs, exhales a long breath, and looks directly at his son. "I suppose this is time to explain everything, Yeosang."

Yeosang's red rimmed eyes snap up in shock as his father addresses him by name, hands falling limp to the sides while his lips part slightly to say, "Father…?" Kang Yongsun manages a small, resigned curve of the lips that is barely there at all, but nods, gesturing at the dead body of Jeong Gunho.

"Gunho isn't your brother… I just… adopted him, in a way." Commander Kang says very softly. Then he pauses, shakes his head. "Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. All of my life, I've never listened to you, Yeosang. What do you want to know?"

"Eh?" Yeosang fumbles, clearly unused to being treated this way by his father in all his memories.

"I… I…" "He wants to know why you hate him." Wooyoung says loudly, glaring at the Commander before you smack his arm with a roll of the eyes. "What?"

"Well… where do I start?" Kang Yongsun murmurs to himself, although all of you hear him. You feel your breath catching in your throat as your anticipation only grows, waiting for his next words to come...

"The easiest explanation would be that… you killed your mother."

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

[vinatintasupernovita]

“Isn’t she darling?”

The voice broke War out of her trance, if only for a moment. Helen, Queen of Sparta, stood at her side. She chuckled at the look on her long-time lover’s face as she was busy staring down at the crib before them.

“Look,” She said, “She wants you to hold her.”

The she in question was Princess Hermione, Helen and Menelaus’s first daughter. Menelaus never wanted children, not really, only an heir to pass on his legacy. He felt Hermione was good enough, for now. They’d try for a prince once Hermione would be old enough to survive without constant need of attention from her mother- who said that she would not allow her one and only child to be raised by nannies.

Helen on the other hand loved children. She was the youngest of her family, and as such never had any smaller siblings to look out for. So the idea of a child fascinated her. She wouldn’t of picked Menelaus to be the father if she had a say, but by the gods’ will he brought her Hermione, so maybe he wasn’t a complete waste of marriage.

War never understood children- she didn’t need to. The only children she had ever observed were Cain and Abel, and well- we all know how that went. Nonetheless, she didn’t spend any time around children, much less a baby. Even much less the baby of her lover and her lover’s worthless husband.

Hermione looked so much like Helen, from her warm brown skin to her dark, loose curls. She had her father’s nose and eyes, but her mother’s smile. It was clear from the way she giggled and gurgled when she caught sight of War and Helen standing before her crib. She would laugh and make noises as she reached up at them.

War would just stare at the baby, unsure of what to do. She wouldn’t harm her, clearly. Hurting children was just gauche. Even then, when she looked at that baby she felt a deep clawing rawness at her very being. She couldn’t name it, but it wasn’t pleasant. It was definitely sprung from the fact that she knew what Helen and Menelaus had to do to have a child in the first place, and how it made her blood boil. But, whatever it was, War couldn’t bring herself to do much more than acknowledge little Hermione.

“C’mon now.” Helen urged her. “Pick her up, Scarlet. She adores you.” War was not someone that anyone should adore, but with her luck the most beautiful woman in the ancient world did- and now, so did her daughter.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” War asked. Helen nodded, and so she looked back down at Hermione, swallowed dryly, and took her in her arms.

Hermione wriggled like a worm as War tried to adjust her in her arms as to not drop her, cursing under her breath the entire time. Helen just watched, a smile on her face as War finally got the hang of holding her.

She held her small head and neck in one hand and her body in the other, cradling her closely in the same way she had seen Helen do for the last few weeks. Hermione made indistinguishable baby noises, but War could guess that she sounded happy.

“My two loves.” Helen smiled softly as she placed her hand on War’s cheek and stroked it softly. She couldn’t help but smile back.

Though, the tender moment would be interrupted by a handmaiden coming in to tell Helen that Menelaus requested her presence in the study. She tsked but nodded at the same and dismissed her.

“Scarlet, can you keep an eye on her for a moment?” Helen asked. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, love. Hurry back.”

And with that, it was only Hermione and War.

War pulled her from her body and looked down at the little princess. She was chewing on her own hair, reaching her stubby little fingers out to reach for War, gurgling as she did. War could almost chuckle, even she had to admit it was cute.

“You’re a funny child, aren’t you?” She said while going and sitting on one of the small chairs in the nursery.

War set Hermione down on her lap, just as she had watched Helen do earlier. Hermione made a loud ‘ah!’ sound, and it startled War- was she hurt?- but it was followed by a giggle and a squirm, so she assumed that she was fine.

“Your mother will be back shortly, so don’t worry. You won’t be stuck with me long.” She said as she waved a finger slowly in front of the infant’s face, to which Hermione was quick to grab it with all the strength in her tiny hands. “Oh, you’re a fighter huh?” War chuckled as she watched her pull on her finger. “I bet one day you’ll grow up and destroy anyone in your path if you’re already trying to fight me, little one.”

Hermione laughed, and War smiled. She then used her free hand to stroke her head softly, making sure to pull her hairs from her mouth.

“If only your good-for-nothing father was a better swordsman, then maybe you’d have a better mentor. But, don’t worry, I’ll teach you. Learn from the best, right?” She would make a bubble of agreement that War accepted. “Right..”

And though she tried to enjoy the baby’s company, she couldn’t help but feel that gnawing again. That same gnawing that had made her avoid Hermione in the first place. There was no avoiding her now, she thought, as she was actually starting to like her.

“It’s not your fault.” She said quietly. “You didn’t ask to be born. No one does. It’s just the fault of others that brings new life into this world.” Hermione only stared at her with huge brown eyes, but War continued. “I shouldn’t put that on you. Your father, sure. Your mother.. she only does what she feels she has to, even if there’s other ways. And then there’s you, caught in the middle. Suppose we’re not so different in that sense.”

War sighed heavily as she looked away from Hermione, feeling her ancient body heave for a second against the pull of time and space. She knew that she’d eventually outgrow the palace- whether it be through a scourge or through the quiet death of her first love, followed by a silent exit in the night as if she had never been there in the first place- but sometimes it was hard to picture the future, even for an eternal being.

Had you asked her two years before, she wouldn’t of been able to picture Helen ever having a child, much less with Menelaus. War knew the royal customs, she understood it, and she didn’t hold it against Helen- at least, she didn’t think she did. She couldn’t hold it against Hermione either. Because even that tiny little baby would be dead and gone one day, the grand palace of Sparta would crumble with the heavy sands of time, and all that would be left of its memory would be War, in both senses. And something about that? It cut deep, but she chose to ignore it.

“It’s never going to be easy, is it?” She muttered- not to Hermione, but to herself. She sighed through her nose and shook her head. “I’ll manage. I’ll have to.”

The baby babbles caught her attention again, and so she went back to entertaining Hermione with the jangle of her golden bracelets- they were presents from Helen, funny enough. War smiled tiredly as Hermione laughed.

She didn’t even notice the door open, or see Helen standing in the doorway, watching them with her heart full. If only it could stay like that forever, she wished. Peaceful, sweet..

But fate had different plans for them.

#puts another thing into the war x helen angst pile #good omens #war good omens #war x helen of troy #fresa’s fics

[gwiiyeoweo]

What Regis believes to be Noctis speaking for his imaginary friend, turns out to not be so imaginary after all.

Pairing: Noctis & Ardyn, Noctis & Regis, Regis & Ardyn Rating: G

"Daddy, can my friend sleep over?" 

Noctis peeks out from under the cover, eyes threatening to resort to his infamous puppy dog look. The boy already has his fingers toying with the top edge of his blanket, like they're little paws instead of hands, and his lower lip is ready for that little soft quiver. Even under the dim glow of his carbuncle-shaped night light, Regis can easily see the wet glassy look of his baby boy’s blue eyes. 

Cor really needs to stop teaching his son these tricks. Horrible influence. 

"Hm," Regis starts, rubbing a hand at his beard. "They can stay as long as they want, so long as they pay the rent. A prince's room does not come cheap, after all."

Immediately Noctis turns that woeful look into a bright pearly smile, his shining eyes no longer threatening tears but radiating genuine joy. He also scoots to the far end of his bed to turn half his body upside down, torso hanging over the edge as he peers into the darkness beneath. 

"Dad says you can stay!" Noctis excitedly whispers to the dust and crumbs under his bed. Or maybe to a stuffed toy. He hefts himself back up and returns to position, wiggling into a comfortable spot smack dab in the middle of bed. 

Regis should make it illegal for any child to be that adorable; it makes him want to clutch his heart and keel over, and Insomnia really can’t afford to have their king die from such unfortunate circumstances at the moment. 

But then Noctis hits him with some fancy wording. "He said he accepts your conditions and will provide proper compensation."

Regis lifts his brows a little at that. Has Noctis secretly been hanging outside his office, or did his governess decide on an accelerated vocabulary curriculum? Regis isn't sure if he should be impressed or concerned. 

Well, kids do tend to say the darndest things anyway. But Noctis doesn’t give him anymore surprises after that, just the usual demand for a goodnight kiss before getting tucked into bed. And Regis can’t quite say no to any of that.

“Hey, dad.”

“Yes?”

“My friend wants to know when he has to pay the rent. For staying in my room.”

Regis was putting away the last of Noctis’ toys into a chest when he looks up to see his boy clearing off the scraps of colored paper and crayons from the floor. With how brazen Niflheim’s become, the war just requires all the more attention and effort from the king; before long, he fears it may soon end up being days before he can even have a little short lunch with his own son. So now, whatever scant time he has, he pours it all upon Noctis, even if that means playing make-believe and acting along to a child’s nonsensical imagination and getting crayon shavings in his beard. 

It’s still adorable though. Especially how Noctis remembers the little “deal” they made with his imaginary friend. 

“Ah, let’s see…” Regis lifts his head up and stares at the ceiling, tapping a finger to his chin as he feigns deep thought trying to remember the week’s schedule. “I do believe I have a nine o’clock opening in my office. Would your friend like to drop off payment then?”

He’s only half serious, curious to see what form of payment Noctis will conjure up, if any. Another drawing to add to Regis’ precious collection, a snack or cookie baked up with the help of their many capable chefs, or maybe a shiny beetle found in their gardens. Hopefully nothing poisonous. Though Regis would accept it with all the same gratitude. 

“Umm, okay, I’ll tell him later,” Noctis answers back, eyes still drawn to his clean-up duty. 

Ah, probably “later” when Regis tucks him into bed. He wonders, briefly, what shape or form this friend comes in — probably Carbuncle-shaped, given his son’s affection for it.

“Noctis!”

“Hi, daddy!” Noctis swivels around, immediately dropping the soccer ball he’s been kicking against a tree and running up to his father. “Did you get the rent?”

Regis has his hands turning Noctis this way and that, searching for any and all signs of damage or wear or blood. His boy just giggles, thinking it’s a game of sorts with the way his father has him spinning around, but Regis is silently screaming inside with panic. 

“Ardyn said he left it on your desk.” Noctis says it with such a chip in his voice, that it’s almost comical.

When Regis had walked into his office this morning with his faithful cup of Joe — in a lumpy ceramic mug crafted by his dear son — it was with the innocent assumption of completing some paperwork and chatting with Clarus over a few pedantic details regarding a couple new bills. 

And not, say, approaching his desk to find a polished platter and cloche waiting for him. Regis had smiled into his mug at that, figuring it was the promised “rent” Noctis — rather, his imaginary friend, of course — mentioned. A little cake, or perhaps breakfast, he had thought.

Not the decapitated head of Iedolas Aldercapt, emperor of Niflheim who’s hellbent on conquering all of Lucis. 

Ex-emperor, now, actually. 

(The head had been surprisingly lacking the mess of blood, he’d later realize.)

But right now, he needs to make sure his son was safe. Granted, there had been no screams of panic or trails of blood, no emergency calls or messengers to rush secrets to him. Even Clarus or Cor, often the first and foremost to report anything awry to him, had been off doing whatever their regular Shield and Marshall duties entailed. Clarus would, of course, naturally gravitate toward Regis’s side once he discovered where his King actually went. And Cor would hunt him down to update him on the list of new Crownsguard recruits and who had actually passed the trials. 

As far as they both know, Regis is supposed to be finishing his cup of coffee in his office but! Strangely clean-cut head of Lucis’ enemy on his desk!

‘On my desk,’ Regis remembers, as he’s done patting down Noctis and the boy looks sick of his prodding now. It clicks, but he’s almost determined not to believe it. He gently places his hands on Noctis' shoulders, trying his best to not appear too grave as he looks into innocent eyes. ‘Where his friend’s rent is supposed to be.’

Well, shit.

“Noctis,” Regis barely manages without choking, “you said your… friend? Left his, ah, rent? On my desk. Do you know what it is?”

Noctis only shakes his head. “No, Ardyn just said it should help with all the fighting outside. He wouldn’t tell me.”

At least that’s something to feel relieved about. Despite knowing his son would have to one day take up the crown and all the world’s burdens surrounding it, he would like to shield his son from it all until he could no longer; a child at Noctis’ age had no business handling, let alone knowing about, a corpse’s head.

Regis sighs and lets his hands go slack, finally releasing Noctis to pinch at the bridge of his nose. There's a hundred and one questions swirling in his head, and each one just adds to the aching pressure in his skull. 

"Ardyn!" 

Regis whips his head up and around, eyes trailing after Noctis sprinting to some particularly shady trees where a tall man emerges. His boy wraps his arms around the stranger's waist, essentially latching onto him like a (freakin' adorable) leech, and the man humors him with a few gentle pats to the head. 

Regis almost mistakes him for a homeless man, mistaking his ornate clothing for rags. His attire is… Unique, to put it in kind terms. Still, odd fashion or not, Regis keeps his guard up, ready to strike at any moment should he feel any threat, magic thrumming just underneath his skin in anticipation. 

"Why, hullo there, Your Majesty." The fellow — Ardyn, according to Noctis — takes his hat off with a flourish and a deep bow at the waist, but the smirk he wears lacks the sincerity and reverence he pretends to hold. "Will my payment be sufficient for the month's rent?" 

Regis has so many questions he doesn't even know where to start. 

So naturally, the first thing that comes out of his mouth isn’t a question at all, though his tone could almost mistake it as one. “You’re not imaginary.”

Ardyn, with his ever-widening (and shit-eating) smile, knows. “I am very much real, Your Majesty.”

Noctis was sent off with hardly a fight, thanks to Ardyn’s bribery. 

“Alright, you little rascal, scamper off to your room now. I’ve left a shiny little present on your bed,” he had said. Noctis didn’t need to be told twice, dashing off and nearly running into a manservant. 

It earned Regis and Ardyn an hour to sit in the office, the silver platter hiding a lifeless head all that separated the two. And it’s a riveting hour: ninety percent of it being Ardyn fluttering his hands and speaking in a fanciful tongue about who he is, what he’s done, and what he will do; ten percent of it being Regis doubting all that he’s believed so far, including what his father and his father’s father has told him and what outlandish claims the Ardyn fellow spieled. 

Ardyn, as in Ardyn Lucis Caelum, by the way. Which only served to throw Regis into another absurd loop.

This great ancestor — the Scourge, Adagium, the Fellstar, whatever — reaches over the desk and helps himself to Regis’ cold mug of coffee, twisting his face into a grimace after a sip. “For a King, one would think he’d care for better beans.”

“One would think the King would not be sharing coffee with someone as you.”

“Ah, touché.” 

“You can’t truly entertain the idea that my trust is to be had so easily.”

“I don’t.” Ardyn shrugs his shoulders, the mug nearly sploshing cold coffee with how carelessly he holds it. “There’s really nothing, aside from myself, stopping you from trying to imprison me back in Angelgard. Or wondering if this is all some scheme of me attempting to worm my way into your good graces, to earn your faith only to trod upon it at the end, delivering darkness everlasting upon this good Star. And I really would prefer you to kindly not try to stick me back into that dusty old crypt.”

Regis only eyes him with suspicion, lips straightened into an unamused line. But despite Ardyn’s terrible personality and ill-timed humor, his gut tells him that Ardyn speaks at least some truth, that this dangerous embodiment of darkness and plague may very well prove to be an invaluable ally. Regis is loathe to admit it, but… he’s already trying to come up with some cover-up story to throw to the council on who Ardyn is and why some strangely-dressed fellow is suddenly leisurely strolling around the Citadel, inevitably with Noctis glued to his heels.

Ugh, that’s a strange image: Noctis clinging to his destined enemy like a curious puppy.  

But Ardyn continues his babbling, setting down Regis’ prized mug back on the desk so he has both hands free to do his dramatic gestures, flitting them in the air and making exaggerated motions. “You see, I’m a stubborn man of sorts. Very stubborn. When a god decrees I abide by his will, to make myself the world’s villain only to let myself die in the end, well — I must say, that sort of thing simply does not sound like a jolly good time. This is me, as the young ones like to say, sticking it to the man.”

Regis glances at the platter, the closed cloche hiding the ashen face of Aldercapt, when he shoots back a dry retort. "Or sticking it to the man's neck." 

"O-ho! So you do have a little humor. Glad to see some of Somnus' drab qualities were bred out." Ardyn claps his hands in joy before reaching his hand out, over the desk and above the platter. "I think we'll get along splendidly, dear nephew. "

Hm. Yeah. Ardyn is definitely not gonna call him nephew around these parts, or the best case scenario is a scandal regarding an ancestor’s infidelity. 

Regis eyes him warily, as if the hand could strike him as does a viper. "Upon your word, you will do no harm to my son or my kingdom. And you would wait upon Noctis' final days, when his hair grows white and his eyes weary, to take your last breath upon this world."

"Oh, must I have everything in writing for you? Shall I sign my name in blood while I'm at it? I'm sure there's some old magicks we can find to swear this oath on, if you're feeling so insistent." Ardyn gives a heavy eye roll. "Yes, Your Majesty, I do so swear. Besides, while I look forward to my day of rest, there is just much to do! Being locked up in a prison for so many centuries then becoming trapped in a perpetual winter steals so much of one's life pleasures. I really would like to visit that famous chocobo ranch Lucis speaks so fondly of. I once had a bird myself, a rare black beauty; and Niflheim, unfortunately, has no such feathery creatures."

Regis extends his hand, albeit just a tad begrudgingly, to shake on their agreement, but he hears a familiar pitter patter outside his door that only grows louder and heavier. 

Noctis bursts through the door, glimmering with a faint blue and smelling of magic; he must have warped his way to Regis' office, running in between each shot to save on stamina. 

The father in him wants to feel pride at how quickly his son has picked up their family tricks, but the other father in him zeroes in on the very large, very sharp thing in Noctis' hands. It's nearly as tall as the boy himself. 

It takes Regis a second too long to realize Noctis holds no ordinary sword. 

It's the Sword of the Mystic. The fucking Mystic. 

"Dad! Dad, look at the sword Ardyn got me!" Noctis nearly topples over trying to lug the thing around, barely avoiding chopping his little leg off. 

Sword who? Ardyn what? 

"How many does that make now?" Ardyn asks, looking as if everything is right as rain. He smiles — something like amusement, something like fondness — when Noctis screws his face up in concentration and a dim shimmer spreads from his hands to the entirety of the sword. 

And poof, the blade disappears in sparks of white and blue. 

"Uhhh. I have a bow, a shield, and a stick." Noctis counts them off on his hand, pulling one finger up for each weapon he lists.

"Scepter, little Noctis."

"Okay."

“Stop right there.” Regis butts in, standing from his seat and circling around the desk to Ardyn. It’s not much, but at least some of his anxiety disappeared when the sword did, the threat of his son slicing off a finger or a hand no longer an immediate threat. But he pauses to look at Noctis, breathing out a weary sigh, and shakes his head. “No, Noctis, not you. Not literally. You may move.”

Noctis unfreezes, who stood ramrod still with his arms in the air when Regis gave the order to ‘stop,’ and lets his hands fall back to his side. He looks ready to vibrate with excitement, no doubt ready to chuck out his newly-acquired sword and start swinging it around. And probably chase Gladiolus down with it, if his past week’s grumblings of “Gladio’s always picking on me!” and “One day I’m gonna beat him up!” are anything to go by. 

‘Oh Six, ’ Regis thinks, ‘how do I begin to explain this. ’

But before he thinks of a cover-up story, Regis has some very choice words to share with Ardyn, none of which are meant for little young ears. So he picks his old, forgotten mug of coffee and hands it off to Noctis, tasking him with a simple enough errand while he picks some bones with Ardyn. “Noctis dear, could you get your father a new warm cup of coffee?”

“Oh! Do bring me one too, little scamp,” Ardyn butts in, despite having complaints of the coffee earlier. 

Noctis totters off, kindly closing the door behind him before gunning it to the kitchens, and Regis hears the tell-tale stomping and the crackling chimes of their family magic.  

Regis hopes the chefs would do him the favor of distracting his son with some freshly baked cookies, because he’s going to crack open the book of scathing tongues and dip Ardyn in boiling words by the time that coffee is brewed.

It occurs to him after he tucks his son into bed, after Noctis asks if Ardyn can stay in his room again. 

“Please tell me that you have, in fact, not been living under my son’s bed this entire time.” Regis asks, though he almost doesn’t want to hear the answer to that. 

“Oh heavens no!” Ardyn looks aghast, splaying his hand across his chest like he’s been affronted. 

Regis wants to believe him, as the idea of a middle-aged man hiding underneath his boy’s bed makes for an uncomfortable image indeed. 

So of course, Ardyn has to ruin it when he opens his mouth again. “Not the entire time. Though your servants could put a little more care into tidying up his room; it is a bit dusty under there.”

#ffxv #ff15 #final fantasy xv #regis lucis caelum #ardyn izunia #noctis lucis caelum #i can type

[cassatine]

well that’s done. yesterday’s drunken game of thrones ramblings under cut. i had a lot of feels actually. 

book talk and where-was-the-magical-plot and problematique aspects aside -- it’s pacing and execution i have issues with. that and internal consistency; like i wouldn’t mind the whole distances-are-meaningless aspect if it’d been assumed from the first season, but it wasn’t so it’s just annoying. 

and everything could have gone better with more development. eve, just stretching seasons 7 & 8 to ten episodes would have been enough with better writing, but as it is season 7 already really felt like we were hitting fast forward(who am i kidding it started before that, and this season is even worse -- and this is another thing that would have worked if it’d been like that from the start, but it wasn’t. the show’s just sprinting to the end with barely any groundwork laid out, all to preserve The Twists

theon dying was pretty standard as far as redemption arcs go really -- tbh i expected more deaths during the battle for the dawn like jorah mormont dying was Sad but not that surprising i thought he was done for as soon as he relinquished longclaw because there wasn’t really anything left for him to do beyond die gloriously after that -- and lyanna mormont was lovely and all but she was like a tertiary character not even secondary and too cool to live perfect for an impactful but meaningless as far as plot goes kinda death -- and dolorous edd he was like jorah mormont a hanger-on, worst he was jon’s friend, and jon and dany’s friend must either die or leave (oh tormund) or break (oh grey worm) because they are too much too big too mythical they must be lonely they can’t share their burdens so edd dies and jorah dies and tormund leaves and grey worm breaks and there’s only the starks, hard as winter, and they care not for dragons and oh this could be so very heartbreaking, love and family and duty and destiny.  

jon not killing the night king and arya doing it instead could have done with more foreshadowing but it’s not like he wasn’t instrumental to the resistance against teh undead, and i can’t get behind all the but-what-about-his-lineage talk; as far as i’m concerned the whole point is it matters shit all, jon snow wouldn't care he wasn’t the one to kill the night king u guys, just let him disappear north of the wall let him be with ghost let him take a long long nap and heal, and don’t put his ass on the IT, if we gonna have fire and blood then burn the ugly chair along with king’s landing and the last tyrant, burn the corrupted old world let the new one be born from the ashes. daenery’s last child is the revolution and the terror all wrapped in one. the streets ran red with blood, only one more bloody birthing bed, one more dead mother.

missandei -- well for better but mostly for worst the essosi characters were never destined to be more than the background of dany’s arc and/or canon fodder and that sucks but there it is, missandei too was expendable, and too close to daenerys, too much of a tie to humanity. she had to go so dany could lose it because missandei was an anchor missandei was love missandei remembered when no one in westeros does, in westeros dany’s the daughter of the mad king not the breaker of chains, even though she sacrificed so much, she only led her people and her children to death in a strange strange land that doesn’t want her and how that must hurt how that must burn. missandei died so dany could lose it, so that everything would have turned to ashes in her mouth already, so that it would be oh so much easier to burn down.

everything jonerys is greek tragedy level bar the execution, or maybe it’s really emulating aristophanes idk, i mean let it be fear i almost have goosebumps. almost, cause i get it’s all about shock effect nowadays but daenerys’ fall could have done with a lot more character development (among a fuckload of other things). neither the scourging of the shire/war heroes too damaged to enjoy the fruits of their labor or the ‘hero too far gone’ motifs are anything new, and after all daenerys suffered, going all fire and blood is fucking understandable. but people can argue all they want about how it was foreshadowed, it still wasn’t developed. in season seven she went from breaking the wheel to mah birthright but it just. happened. and so did her fall, and any amount of ominous music and villainous framing doesn’t make up for actual character development gdi. it all deserved a lot more time. varys’ loss of faith in her deserved more time too, i mean dude was fine serving under aerys and *now* he gets the poison out? why varys why. his rejection of dany’s is westeros’ rejection of her, but it’s westeros’ refusal to let go of the game of thrones too. varys had to burn, because varys is the old world, for all his Good Ruler shtick he’s all about the game -- he is the game, the player who can’t stop playing. and so he burns.

and tyrion, well tyrion’s like jon really, torn between family and duty and what he wants, the human heart in conflict and all that jazz. and the tables have turned, once he was the one in a dungeon and jaime helped him flee and now he wants to return the favour (it’s like poetry it rhymes). he even wants to save his sister the things we do for love, and tyrion’s ready to do what his golden, kingslayer of a brother did too, put thousands of innocents before his own life, before his ruler, and this is the stuff of tragedy. he wants to believe in his leviathan, the last leviathan, but he’s also got to face one of the oldest questions in the world. the one about ends and means.  

jaime -- well jaime shoulda stayed with brienne, chillin’ in winterfell, but the show never really committed to him letting go of cersei, it’s just weird it all came down to a ceiling, but if i close my eyes and look sideways i can see it, for all her flaws he loves cersei and brienne, brienne’s everything he doesn’t deserve and she’s life, and jaime lannister has had a death wish for a while now. he saw redemption and he gave it the finger, and that’s a very jaime thing to do.

and cersei basically won the pr battle. unfuckinbelievable. she should have gone laughing about it. sandor got to kill ungregor with fire because fuck you, that’s why. euron i have nothing good to say about, i’m trying there’s just nothing he’s too much of a downgrade from the books and that’s the tea.

and arya -- arya deathkiller, arya dawnbringer, arya was everything this season. not today she said to death, and not today she said to vengeance, and that -- arya turning her back on vengeance could have been such a strong moment. one beautiful, shiny statement in the midst of so much bleakness. not today syrio forel told her long ago, and not today sandor tells her now, and this is it, she’s come full circle after clawing her way out of the dark, she’s arya stark and she’s going home. let me dream. only nymeria’s missing (let them find each other again).

tl;dr. the bones were good enough, but the execution was bleh, which is nothing new. also, some a+ dragon fire in ep 5. the pyromaniac in me appreciated. 

#got #spoilers #here be word vomit #in which i take what i want to take from the show and no more i guess

[helshades]

I always pronounced it "Her-my-own", despite being a native speaker, as I never came across it and was still a child at the time. It was only when Book Four came out, and - thankfully - Krum was a non-native speaker, that I learned the real pronunciation. English is stupid. It's like what Shaw used to say about how you could spell "fish" legitimately as "ghoti", as the whole language needs to be changed in its written form.

Like all truly great literary references, that one’s inappropriately attributed, as I’ve just been reliably informed that the first known occurrence of the ghoti joke was made one year before (George) Bernard Shaw was born—in 1855, in a letter Charles Ollier wrote to Leigh Hunt; on the third page, Ollier mentions that his son William ‘has hit upon a new method of spelling “fish”’. The word doesn’t appear in the writings of Shaw himself! It is a wee bit disappointing, yes.

Although… to be frank, the only real dissent between Bernard Shaw and I would be that ghoti business and the overall question of spelling reforms—which I shall oppose, as long as there is a brain cell left in me, for every language I’ll ever know. Spelling reforms are for quitters, ducky. FOR QUITTERS. Also: nobody ever pronounced diagram gh as f at the beginning of a word, it only happens the end of morphemes after diphthongs au and ou; women is an exception; and the only way ti can be pronounced like sh is when it precedes the phonems -al, -an and -on. The only logical way to pronounce ghoti would be, in the end, like ‘goatee’. FAKE NEWS!!!

Ahem. To quote Charivarius (1870-1946), a.k.a. the greatest troll in the English language, a.k.a. someone who really knew where things are at:

Dearest creature in creation,Study English pronunciation.I will teach you in my verseSounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.I will keep you, Suzy, busy,Make your head with heat grow dizzy.Tear in eye, your dress will tear.So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Just compare heart, beard, and heard,Dies and diet, lord and word,Sword and sward, retain and Britain.(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)Now I surely will not plague youWith such words as plaque and ague.But be careful how you speak:Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;Cloven, oven, how and low,Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,Exiles, similes, and reviles;Scholar, vicar, and cigar,Solar, mica, war and far;One, anemone, Balmoral,Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;Gertrude, German, wind and mind,Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.Blood and flood are not like food,Nor is mould like should and would.Viscous, viscount, load and broad,Toward, to forward, to reward.And your pronunciation’s OKWhen you correctly say croquet,Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamourAnd enamour rhyme with hammer.River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,Doll and roll and some and home.Stranger does not rhyme with anger,Neither does devour with clangour.Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,And then singer, ginger, linger,Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very,Nor does fury sound like bury.Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.Though the differences seem little,We say actual but victual.Refer does not rhyme with deafer.Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.Mint, pint, senate and sedate;Dull, bull, and George ate late.Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.We say hallowed, but allowed,People, leopard, towed, but vowed.Mark the differences, moreover,Between mover, cover, clover;Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,Chalice, but police and lice;Camel, constable, unstable,Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal,Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,Senator, spectator, mayor.Tour, but our and succour, four.Gas, alas, and Arkansas.Sea, idea, Korea, area,Psalm, Maria, but malaria.Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,Dandelion and battalion.Sally with ally, yea, ye,Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.Say aver, but ever, fever,Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.Heron, granary, canary.Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface.Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.Large, but target, gin, give, verging,Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.Ear, but earn and wear and tearDo not rhyme with here but ere.Seven is right, but so is even,Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation – think of Psyche!Is a paling stout and spikey?Won’t it make you lose your wits,Writing groats and saying grits?It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,Islington and Isle of Wight,Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough –Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?Hiccough has the sound of cup.My advice is to give up!!!

Unless we heed Mark Twain’s advice:

For example, in Year 1 that useless letter ‘c’ would be dropped to bereplased either by ‘k’ or ‘s’, and likewise ‘x’ would no longer be part ofthe alphabet.  The only kase in which ‘c’ would be retained would be the ‘ch’ formation, which will be dealt with later.

Year 2 might reform ‘w’ spelling, so that ‘which’ and ‘one’ would takethe same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish ‘y’ replasing it with ‘i’ and Iear 4 might fiks the ‘g/j’ anomali wonse and for all. Jenerally,then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doingawai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6–12 or so modifaiingvowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants.

Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandantletez ‘c’, ‘y’ and ‘x’—bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov oulddoderez—tu riplais ‘ch’, ‘sh’, and ‘th’ rispektivli. Fainali, xen, aaftesam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling inius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.

Another solution would be to start writing English phonetically, of course, but even then I’m not entirely sure any of us is mentally equipped for triphthongs. Better learn it the hard way and roll with it, you know.

#pretty sure that .gif is broken #the result is too terrifying to correct #answers #nonnies #grammar is fun #english language #la linguistique c'est chic

[rarhuk]

Damsel in distress?

A dead man has no hostage to give to fortune...

In my life, there were unspoken traditions, a set of standards that were gender based. The males were set on a path from birth of protecting and providing, the females were set in nurturing and maintaining stability for the next generations to come. Males held power, held wealth, held title and position in which would set a standard for a mated couple, within a mated couple’s union in which these balances of duty were achieved. The females provided a family the path in which oral, and unspoken traditions would be passed down, and therefore gave her mate and herself a taste of immortality,ensuring their continuation onward, in ill, or that of good. It was not questioned, it was the way of life, the typical life style commonality found throughout the nation. A mate and family, was the greatest blessing from the spirits that one of any rank could hope to achieve in their life time. There were of course exceptions to the general rule, great healers and menders, water binders, fire weavers, warriors, priests, prophets, head hunters, those of both genders that either lacked in, or exceeded all expectations of those unspoken rules to become beyond that of a commoner in goals. Those that became the old tales of legend, those that offered hope, and wisdom, defining who we were as an individual, and as a whole. Stories by fire light that spoke of salvation and redemption, those unattainable reaches to be captured within triumphant crescendo, that all could value regardless of status or worth, when times were tough.

I met a Sin’dorei man, marred by runes of demonic design. He had approached while I traversed the elven city during my off duty allotted time frame. He asked many questions of myself, the typical cordial inquiries. He was not as interested in what words I had to exchange than that of speaking of himself, the cordial seeming etiquette had been only a ruse as it is said to get a foot in the door. I have difficulties with emotions, the expressions, the motivations that go unspoken behind a mask, yet I can taste a lie. I can hear it within the coursing blood through living veins, smell it upon the quickened breath, see it in the adverting of gaze, see the sweat glistening upon the surface of the skin. I can taste a lie. On a verbal level, his words sounded as anyone that living being that is.... lonely, or bored. His expressions seemed earnest, he did not sweat, nor advert gaze, yet caution I used directing the conversation in his mannerism to speak only of himself as that seemed the interest. The lie was there but my mind questioned as to what it was that continued not to part his lips into words. I could feel it there as I watched his tongue worm about his mouth, as if it was serpent waiting patiently to ambush. For some time it did not occur to me that lie that remained hidden under a pulsing beat was not a lie but something else entirely that I had not considered. Here I was awaiting for some offer to buy cheap land, or slew of raptors at a too reasonable price.

I need help... please. Please, would you help me? Was all the man by this time I knew under a nickname of Kel, had asked of me.

Deceit can come in many forms that I am aware. However, this was unusual for me to try to decipher. I have had many, become, as this state, if there is an attraction towards myself, as it is not a social normality. Heart racing, breath quicken, attempts to hide the flush, and adverting gaze, sometimes they stare. Yet, I did not believe this was the lie of our interaction, I believed the individual was afraid to show any need that would bring attention to them. Although the words had become a tangled web, that I could not find the actual cause to single me out to approach me in such a manner. I found it entertaining as this may be a prospect to do a hit job, I am not a personal assassin. The longer my reflecting and introspecting thoughts wandered did the silence draw out between us, until it was broken by Kel.

Will you do it?

Of course I inquired about what I was expected to do. I did not expect to be asked to remove demonic runes from his person. However, the only solution I could think of at the time was to end his life, if that was what he was asking of me I had no qualms to do so. I am not a healer, or nurturer not in life, not now. I had always and will always be conformed into what was typical of my warrior rank. I clarified as much, and told him that I knew of another that may be able to purge the undesired corruption from his form. To hold patience, as it may take some days before I was contacted again. I had sent a letter to the priestess, informing her of what I was made aware of with this Sin’dorei’s affliction. Once contact was made, I explained further of what I knew.

I did this, of course not because of my own desire to help this man that reached out for one such as I to aid him. It was, because as I contemplated all that he had spoken, I believed she would want me to do so. I would rather draw out his suffering, I would rather he hide behind the cordial attitude than expose his hidden shame. The priestess would not approve of that, to keep company with those in discomfort. I have kept many things from her and others as to a part of the reason I keep company amongst the living as often in manner where there are many moving within the populace.

This individual held only my mild curiosity, as to why of all individuals in the city, he would come to me with this request. This curiosity was soon sated, and the conversation became... prattling. It solved nothing, nor did I care. He, himself elected to be bound to another individual a supposed master of the craft to become a tool. Kel speaking with spins on how I should be able to relate to my once tie to my own dark liege. The difference being, I did not have a choice in the matter. I held no desire to be ripped from my death to become a tool, whereas Kel’s greed for power caused him to seek out a taste beyond what is natural immortality. I do believe Kel, was attempting to find a sympathetic ear when he approached me in his desperation. He to his disappointment found none. His detailing of his acts under his owner did have my interest as they were most intriguing, yet with the same amount of mortal lust of power and self ambitious interest. He found me no matter what city I went to while I was awaiting the priestess’s response. He continued to speak in hushed tones, as if telling me a grave secret as if I have never encountered evil deeds, before as if in attempts to keep my intrigue on his condition. I finally broke down, just to have peace of silence on the topic to see a portion of these runes. Of course it was not of the kind I am accustom to seeing, yet I could recognize from that small exposed portion demonic influence. The surrounding tissue smelled of gangrene rot, festering fel boiling, I did not take a further breath around this Kel, as I did not trust my own urges not to be manipulated further.

Once the priestess Shayna had responded, she had done so in person. I had clarified about the condition, and that I would be present at all times if she was to be around this Kel, as I did not trust him. Introductions were made and so forth, she examined his condition and offered some treatment options. I was not concerned either way, both seemed pleased. I escorted Shayna some where that Kel would not be present. I spoke of my reservations, that this individual was altered not only in body, but in mind, that he did indeed wanted to be cured at this current time, but may in fact change his mind at a later date. She spoke at length to this individual when we did encounter him, he wished to speak outside the city limits as it was private matter. I held no outward objections as my presence was required to be there. I am aware of the dangers that would present a living individual, to take another outside viewing eyes can present many opportunity for an unsavory engagement, such as an ambush, or tactical advantage.

It was not to be so, he only wished to show his marked and sealed frame beyond what had been exposed to my view before. Again I held no objections, yet, Kel had asked repeatedly if I cared. She is a medical provider, I hold no care if she examined a patient. She examined him and spoke of not seeing a condition such as this before, but she may do some consultation with other healers for insight into the matter as to best treat this affliction. There were no wards, or charms of protection she could grant him at the time.  

It was some time later that I received word from Kel, he was in Uldum having believed he had a cure. He requested my presence and the priestess’s presence to aid him. I have been to Uldum, it was some time ago, if I recall correctly. Perhaps years, yet it seems but a moments breath away. I was uncomfortable in the position to guard the discovered artifacts and those on the team. While I was working for a expedition team whose focus was on archeology artifacts, through observation of the teams discoveries I learned much about the Tol’vir the slave race I formerly called Obsidian Destroyers, and the Aqir. I called the Aqir in my life time Qiraji, although, in my time amongst the Scourge, they were commonly referred to as Nerubian, a habit I hold to this day. I was not aware these stone sentinels of the north had a connection to those in the desert wastes until that point in time, they were simply an enslaved race to be used as fodder on the front lines. The artifacts I found fascinating, the history intriguing, yet, I did not care for the sun and sand, and the constant bickering of my charges. They were searching for something specific, with sour emotional moods that were unproductive. I worked with the company until their funding ceased. I was not given coin as I had been promised, the leader begged for my forgiveness in an emotional hysteria due to self inflicted fears of how I would respond. The individual offered me a token of gratitude instead, proclaiming that it’s worth was more than that of coin. Of course there was nothing to forgive I was not offended, nor did I hold a desire to remain in their company. I merely departed as my services were no longer required, nor funded.  It appeared to be nothing more than the paw of a small primate. A closer inspection showed that the hand has been dried by centuries of exposure to the sands. It was only when I departed the team, did the gifted item begin to curiously move and make sounds. I left it in the sands, uncertain if I had raised the appendage by proximity, or if some other sorcery was a foot. The disembodied hand followed me, therefore, I gave it a name as it seemed to hold an uncanny intelligence, That.  Yet, my past time in that place caused me to wonder currently, what did Titan technology, or assumed Aqir technology have to do with demonic runes. I was curious...

I arranged that Shayna would meet me in the location disclosed in the letter, to investigate it further on Kel’s request. She arrived a few moments after the appointed time, while I was speaking to Kel. He seemed interested on the hieroglyphs on a wall, they seemed to be speaking of a staff, and yet Kel was not relaying what I knew to be written correctly. I thought perhaps his interpretation was different than those of the company from long ago, and perhaps that was why they left empty handed. I also noticed he had robotic constructs patrolling the area while we spoke, I believe it was to ensure his safety as he had spoke often about what an important person he was that I had asked before as to why he had no physical guard to watch over him. He had merely explained he had other means of protection. I assumed this was it.

He and Shayna spoke at length, I merely observed. That had decided to make an appearance, in which Shayna voiced her delight towards seeing the being. I do believe she has a fondness for That, for every time she sees the disembodied hand her voice rises in pitch, and the hand responds with chitters and motions that indicate excitement. I hold no rule over this strangely enchanted thing. I have attempted to sell it. I have attempted to give it away, yet the hand always returns when it wills. I have merely accepted it’s on going presence and absence. Shayna began to speak of the techniques she had learned that may aid Kel relieve his affliction, that may sever the link from him and his master that it would take time. Kel believed light had an influence to null the corruption that here in the chamber of the stars there may be a way to undo what had been done to him. They began discussing it at length, I cared not for the conversation only that it seemed to have no correlation to what ailed Kel. He spoke of being in constant pain and discomfort, that the tools here may amplify what Shayna skills attended him with ten fold.

It grew dull, as if awaiting for anything beyond just idle words to occur. When Kel spoke of one of his robotic sentinels having not returned, and his request for me to see to it, I at first spoke of having no knowledge of these devices that perhaps That could see to it. The hand of course responded with a rude gesture before scurrying off, it was left to me to retrieve the device. I believed patrolling the area was beneath me, as it was my duty to protect the priestess. Yet, Shayna and Kel spoke of needing my absence when dealing with the light that this would be a good opportunity for me to depart, I was handed a communication device to keep in contact. I did not trust the individual to be alone with Shayna for even the shortest expanse of time. He had done nothing to cause an indication that he was a threat, he was weakened by his condition, yet the corruption on his form indicated there were more powers at work. I am not one to underestimate any being from becoming a potential foe.  Yet, I abided to the request taking my leave to patrol the area.

I kept frequent contact, although having to pause to dispatch the reason his robotic device was not responding. The equipment had disturbed a skeleton guardian amongst rubble of boulders, the animated corpse was dismantling the wires that made the thing function. I did not disturb it from doing so at first because I found it entertaining. It reminded me much of a ghoul beset upon prey. Yet each time the bone structured hand had hit upon the metallic flesh of the robot arching sparks ensued much to the skeleton’s increasing rage. I merely watched for a time, before I decided to end the cursed beings existence and return the ruined construct back to it’s rightful owner. As soon as it had been destroyed as where there was no sparking or indication that it would malfunction while I held it, in other words I allowed the skeleton to kill the construct dead, before I returned the favor to the animated bones. I find it peculiar, these beings that are much like myself are risen by other means. They seem to hold emotion easily, even ghouls have more... of what I lack. Is it because they remain dormant? How can mere bones, or a disembodied without a heart, without a soul, hold emotion, such as great rage, or delight? How do portions, pieces, reanimated objects retain such things? Is there a possibility if I discover the source of this I could breech those boundaries for myself? I had little time to investigate it further. As I had ended the skeleton, I called once more on the communication device to find no response. I inspected it, to ensure there was no malfunction, as perhaps my proximity to the malfunctioning construct had damaged it. I pressed the button again only to hear Shayna scream my name not through the device but through the echoing of the chamber.

I left the construct, making haste toward the two of them last known location. Perhaps, more of these cursed beings had risen, and my assistance was needed. Yet, as my approach around the square corner revealed there was but a portal, and Kel, Shayna was missing from my visual. Kel’s features were distorted, and before I made it fully to the area he had slipped into the portal with a laugh as it faded from view. I was left with my own devices, yet none could I use at the time or location to follow. I had been betrayed under false pretenses of requiring aid, that realization that I had brought the priestess to become kidnapped infuriated me. Kel would not have to concern himself over demonic runes when I was done with him.

Once I found them....

I had hoped That had followed Shayna, but that was not to be so. I instead contacted my uncle, the jin of the tribe I work for. He has many tribe members that could aid me, I needed a mage. One that could touch upon the source of the arcane, to follow where this particular portal had gone. Yet, to get to this skilled mage, I had to go through another to access to gain this skill set I now required. Ren’nari, my blood cousin....

The history there is thick... In my life I did not know Ren’nari had been my uncle’s son. A silver tongue lie presented by my father’s second mate, Mara’fi. As far as I had been aware, the child my father had used for his sport of pit fighting the amphitheater to gamble with. Ren’nari was merely an unwanted that Mara’fi had taken in, that my father had found a use for. That was all I had been aware of, I did not know the connection to my deceased uncle the child had, I did not recognize the youth as one my benefactors children as that had been hidden from me. I, personally in life had been disgusted by this use of slaves for gladiators in practice, as I believed it was beneath our ranks to do so, yet, I had my own life. I had my own duties, and ambitions. I could not allow that portion of my family’s lifestyle dominate my focus, I chose in majority to ignore it, yet, there had been moments I had spoke out about my disdain for such practices. Of course my father would not hear of such things from his sons, we were to continue to contribute to his misuse of our earnings as long as we held title amongst our regiments, or our mothers would suffer for it. There were many times I thought of killing my father, yet, that too I had been denied, as another had stuck him down.

Since my uncle brought me into the fold of his tribe, I have done tasks and duties for those within his ranks. I have had many charges, including that of Ren’nari’s mates. Regardless of the task, or my performance of duties, Ren’nari holds animosity in my direction as if I was the direct cause of any disruption of prosperity regardless of the circumstance. I allow it, as perhaps this anger in my direction is not the result of performance but that of past pains reflected upon my appearance, as I am my father’s son. The living tend to project that negativity upon those that they feel... safe to do so with. It irritates me, yet I will only tolerate the expressed behavior to a point. There will come a time, where my cousin will not feel, safe, around my presence to behave in such a manner. Convincing Ren’nari to use his female to locate Shayna caused a large disruption with the male, yet, he conceded her abilities under one condition that he too would allowed to be apart of seeking justice to this offense against the priestess, and the tribe. Many things are to be said about my cousin, yet, his mannerism of taking everything as personal insult, is baffling, entertaining, as well as to be used as a tool of manipulation to gain what one requires from him.

My uncle instructed me to go to his temple in the north to await orders from there. Later it would be granted as to how I would contribute in the search once they were established at the originating location as many of the members were investigating my folly. As Shayna may return to the temple, if she escaped.

It was then in the temple of my kin, I came to the realization that they perhaps kept me there in a means to pacify an emotional discord due to the event of the betrayal. Yet, I felt only one thing, rage. I had underestimated a potential foe, and had my generosity of service to those of horde taken advantage of. The offense I felt was not of my own. I cared not that another would use me, I cared not that I, myself was misled, it was the living’s well being at threat that angered me as this. I knew not what she would face at this individuals malice, I knew not what was wanted from her. I could not see past the pretense of desire to be healed. Shayna is not a weak, or delicate female, nor is she of a warrior’s mentality, she is a healer. It disturbs her to watch me feed, it bothers her to see others wounded as it is her nature to wish to heal those that are injured, to give solace and compassion. I admire those attributes greatly, as it makes the life of the living more productive in the time they have to live. Those I would turn from, she provides for, at times I have felt this as a needless act that can inflict as much needless emotional injury upon her person. Yet, I have found while in her company it is a needed pursuit for her to try to mend the wrongs and injustice the world has inflicted, in small and large ways. She contributes by the means in which she was blessed regardless of the outcome, because she does not have a choice. In a way she is just a slave to her design and purpose as I am to my own. Neither of us can stray too far from our confines, without returning to what we are.

I listened to the voices coming from the bijou communication devices, familiar voices, of those that are kin, and those were close enough to be considered brethren to the Jin. It could have been hours, or even a full day worth of speaking, yet no word as to where she could be found. My oversights had caused this, my attempts to justify it as something done because it was her influence did not excuse my faults in the matter. I would not have continued to speak to this Kel, yet I believed it would be something of interest for Shayna, to heal and mend someone that was requesting it. Did not excuse me from leaving her side, I had failed in my duty to protect her. The fact she was still missing proved as much.

A sound from the steps at the temple’s entrance had my attention drawn from the device I held. I was surprised I had not heard it sooner, and yet there she stood, a physical dishevelment, carrying Kel in her arms before she dropped him at the base. She was bleeding from cuts, bruised, her hair no longer a large crest, her outfit in tatters, no escort, or sign of arriving escort behind, it was if she was making an offering of that prone body on the ground. There was silence between us, before I merely said she was, late. It was too late in the day by the lighting outside to make an offering, and perhaps the jest was done in ill taste. I believe she was in distress, however, I am not a good judge of things. She began to explain she was not done with him, that she wanted one more attempt to correct this, to save Kel’s life. My only thought was to end him, as he was not only a threat to her, or myself but those citizens of the horde.

Shayna spoke of him pushing her through the portal but she would not be a willing victim, she fought at great length for what seemed like hours. That he suddenly had impossible strength for his appearance and she believed the magic that he was under the sway of contributed to this strength. Yet, light seemed to be his weakness, and that was the tool she had used to combat him. She also stated he had minions in this undisclosed location, and that she had traveled for again what seemed hours until she began to recognize the landscape. I believe I may be incorrect in some regard in my previous statement she may not have a warriors mentality, but she has a heart and spirit of one. She had made it home, without a valiant rescue, she had not been a damsel in distress, but a heroine. She could have been tortured, she could have been killed, but fought against odds that were against not only succeeding in rendering her foe unconscious but returning with him still intent to cure what remnants of his soul that remained in the shell of the body. Who was I to deny her continuing efforts? I believed she earned it.

I made a suggestion, to possible save Kel. If the ward was only corrupting the body and mind due to the fact he was alive, perhaps we should make an attempt to null the effects by killing him, temporary of course. If I killed him, she could remove the ward, then raise him from that small death to be completely healed. She wished to try once more without going to that extreme, that again I allowed it. Turning my back as she attempted to erase the ward while he was in that state unconsciousness. Apparently it did not succeed, for one moment Kel was unmoving and then the next he was launching himself at my person. I removed my weapon swiftly from it’s sheath as Shayna called out my name. In my swift turn I had impaled him under the chest, in which he sunk upon as if he was made of shadow. These sudden motions of action and violence had disturbed the priestess further, which irritated me immensely, as I desired to draw out his death slowly. I pulled my blade instead from his body quickly. She asked me not to let it end this way, just to allow her to heal him enough that he could be returned to the healing facilities in Dalaran. I am permissive to the priestess’s whims. If I was in her position from a tactical, and common sense stand point I would not allow him to live. Even as I was dispatching the barely living body to the medical providers in Dalaran I wanted him dead, yet I cannot refuse Shayna anything she wishes. It may not be out of pure passion or love, it may only be out of a sense of fealty to her. I cannot deny her wishes regardless if they make sense to me or not, I follow her demands unquestionably. Perhaps, my desire to fulfill her every wish to the precise nuance, is as powerful to her as a male that could give her true love, for she has yet to deny me my proposal.

I had returned to the temple to find her cleaned, drained of energy. She wished to speak on things, to spend time in my company as felt she could not sleep alone. She retold what had happened after I assured her I taken care of the matter, she should not concern herself over Kel. I apologized for my oversight of his deceitful behavior as well, and lack of service when it came to protecting her when it was needed. She spoke of needing closeness, and therefor I joined her in the furs to ease her mind of these thoughts that plagued her. I had fed on my return to the temple, to sate that urge to kill Kel, instead of doing it. I was aware she would not want me to kill him, and even though there had been an opportunity for me to do so on the flight I had not. I did not wish to displease her, even if she would not be aware if I lied. I had believed at the time there had been too much deceit to betray her in any degree this day, I had obeyed her regardless on my own desires. I wished to ease her mind of what caused this distress in her, and spent my focus on her what would please and ease her well being.

My focus had been so intent on erasing my failure to her, it did not resonate until later that evening that I had forgotten to speak of having Shayna at the temple. All I can assume was that she had spoke with the Jin and others for as I laid with her in the darkness lit only by pyre light within the temple did someone approach. My irrational, enraged cousin.... He held means to speak with me. I recall this clearly, his expressions, his vulgarity in words, his poise to do battle with me. To be frank, I was not going to tolerate the behavior any longer. Shayna had just found some peace, his arrival and presence was disturbing it. She was not content, therefore neither was I, if this altercation came to exchanging blows on her behalf so be it. He should not dishonor the priestess with such ill begotten terms. I prepared myself to take the oncoming impact to retaliate...

That was all... blackness, nothingness... The next moment I found myself in Shayna’s home, on her plush comforts of pillows and furs, confused and disorientated. Her face close to mine her tone but a question of my name “ Ra’rhuk? “

#Ra'rhuk's journal

[vixvitali]

⋱⋱ V : 01 ;; HEADCANONS.

⟶ 「 VERSE SHARED WITH @fallenusurper 」 ⟵

:: as scourge has stated multiple times, fiona is his queen — & while they may not be married, the two still hail the throne over alicia, the ANTI-SALLY, & monarch over MOEBIUS as they see fit. however, as much as it is a dustbowl of demolished civilization & wrecked havoc, fiona’s found some homage to help staple down scourge from all his rampant dimensional hopping ; she’s started to try & ressurect the deadbeat kingdom by stealing saplings from SONIC’s MOBIUS in an attempt to bring back the forestation that’s withered from all of the EX anti-sonic’s neglect.

:: even if fiona’s still a girl without much blown to the wind or love for others in her heart, she will still take to people thanks to scourge’s romantic beckon call ringing like a promenade in her mind. from her dark history stems a new leaf, less to be turned over & more to let her flourish in her criminal ways while still finding the chance to tender up to those she deems worth the effort. typically these select few are partners or regulars on her missions or relatives of the DESTRUCTIX or her MOEBIAN crew, but anyone farther than a friend’s immediate family is getting a cold shoulder.

:: physical affections come as far as the eye can see, from blown kisses to pecks on one’s cheek ; fiona can deliver them all. HOWEVER, it’s only the intimate acts that she saves for scourge. handholding, kisses on the lips, ear scratches, tail frisking, or even a stupid game of under-the-table footsie — it’s all for that shark-toothed idiot she calls her boyfriend & BEST friend. when it comes to love, fiona’s only got eyes for this crackerjack in a barrel, & she hopes it’s at least reciprocated.

:: both scourge & fiona have MAJOR trust issues, especially regarding letting down their guard or mental walls. occasionally they’ll hit one or another’s boundaries from time to time & immediately take to backing off as they never want to deliberately ride that edge of their fence. both seem proactively compliant with being set firm in their comfort zones, but at the very least promise to work towards shimmying out of those training wheels someday. on the other hand, the two can always been seen consoling one another when one of them goes into a breakdown, panic attack, or traumatic episode. there’s been times where fiona will accidentally roll an arm around scourge in her sleep & it’ll trigger him hairline instantly, rousing her from her light sleeping habits & activate her instant soft girl mode. ergo, when SHE goes into her moments, it’s always been scourge who gently holds her head steady & strokes those claws of his through her scalp. ( tldr ; it’s a token of motherly affection she took to in the mines, but affiliates with safety / security REGARDLESS of how much she detests her own kin & blood. )

:: fiona has a few scars of her own from her time under robotnik’s reign, hence why she wears her elbow-sleeved gloves & boots. there are multiple cuts from how taut the cuffs had been, let alone the jaunting around causing irritation & drys / thins the skin. she has such sensitive skin on her wrists that she’ll occasionally break out into a rash from simply wearing her garments, & on those days she refuses to leave home. fiona’s always feared being seen with her battle scars & scourge tries to urge her to wear them with pride. while he can’t sympathize with her enslavement, he certainly ( & cornily ) empathizes with the whole ‘being scarred’ thing — more literally than figuratively. though it makes her laugh, the fox still worms her way out of taking that intiative she needs to face her demons. ( & that’s something she & scourge share AS A PAIR. )

:: when one is seen without the other, that’s usually a sign of danger. as a duo, they’re less of a threat to their opponents due to them hailing some form of morality in front of the other, or rather some form of restraint so that their partner can hit harder or go bigger. scourge & fiona try to encourage ( or rather CHALLENGE ) each other in battle to take that next step & go for the gold — though on their own, they go for the throat since their better half isn’t around to accomplice their crime & possibly go down for it too. whether they like it or not, either party is ( almost! ) fully willing to get caught just to prevent the other from the NO ZONE.

#: : ​— ♡ 「 NOT THE VILLAIN I APPEAR TO BE ;; OOC. 」 #: : ​— ♡ 「 ALL MY PRIDE HAS DISAPPEARED ;; HEADCANONS. 」 #: : ​— ♡ 「 I’M THE BONNIE TO HIS CLYDE ;; FALLENUSURPER. 」 #: : ​— ♡ 「 CHESSBOARD’S QUEEN ;; VERSE 01. 」

[exspirarchived]

@magicwrought

                 o’!  how fruitlessly does the worm squirm under the grasp of a matron as grand  &  serene as lady proudmoore.  ( many mistake her for menethil. no, not her. she rips the heart out of one, controls that of the other. love is a weakness, she will never be weak. )  the daughter who foolishly bears her heart to a mother unwitting. a mother who would rip it from her chest, were it still beating. but o’!  some fortunate fools that still remain at-large have beaten proudmoore to that feat already.

                 “my child —-”  proudmoore coos in a way that is almost welcoming, like the sweet release of death after strenuous pain. even the knights of death had a flaw in their masterwork,  &  that was how terribly frail their physical forms were capable of being.  (especially when they wore leather coats &  had pups at their heels. )  

                 the necromancers hands have become more akin to animalistic claws after her resurrection, as if spear  &  blade weren’t sufficient enough. captors would have to rend proudmoores hands from her corpse if they were to assure their own safety.  ( fortunately, she never had any captors. )  

                 like a reaper ready to reap the soul of someone who has their time coming, the woman towers over her battered daughter, nothing more than a feeble wretch trying to make a martyr of themself. one index finger pokes at zoens collar bone, tapping once, twice, as she speaks.

                 “still, you fight.”  the third tap is much harsher this time, piercing into macabre skin with such ease that seems almost impossible for one of arthas’ own.  “still you refuse our humble hospitality?”  a question asked in utter rhetoric, no intents for answering, no room for pause. there are no more taps of that boney claw.

                  like digging through soil for the buried heirloom, proudmoores grasp digs deeper to the girls still beating heart. of course the knights would have no use for it, calia didn’t.doesn’t. the lich queen had ripped that one out herself,  &  that menethil is still fine.

                   for what is a knight to do with the useless weight of a battered, dead heart?  there is only one answer the mother can find sufficient enough for her heavens–high standards.

                   “tear it out –” she grasps the organ as if it was a toy, unwrapped  &  ready to be played with, “–  and devour it whole.”  there is a srrch of the queen plucking the entrail from where it uselessly sat for years on end. she would no longer need it, not now, not ever. so why hoard something so useless?  sentiment?  figuratively?  the answer is wholly irrelevant. with a simple  &  easy gesture. lady proudmoore plucks it from the girls chest like plucking feathers from a molting bird.

     The Wraith bares her teeth at the abomination wearing her mother’s face like a harlequin’s mask - a gruesome, grotesque parody of the woman Jaina Proudmoore, who had never known the fatal bite of Frostmourne, who had not (yet) experienced the all consuming possession of the Lich King. The wrath that blazes cold through her veins feels so similar to that inspired by the lord of the citadel, even tampered down by the same sort of wariness born from recognizing she faces a greater power. There’s only the slightest embers in the pyre, ashes she tries to ignore, that are vacant from the king’s flames. Pity, perhaps, were she capable. Arthas made his choices. Jaina didn’t.

     (SHE CHOSE HIM OVER YOU.       SHE ALWAYS CHOSE HIM OVER YOU.)

     And so like in the face of the Scourge’s Lord, her wrath is useless when thrown the Lady’s way. What concern has a goddess for a young wolf’s disdain? None, certainly, if her attitude is anything to go by. The Queen’s claws scrape along glacial skin, inciting something nearly pain and yet not. Zoen snarls, strains against icy chains, teeth clacking together as she snaps fruitlessly at her captor.

     “I’m not yours.”

     She hates her. (She loved her.) Oh, how she hates. (How she loves.)

     “You can’t - you can’t throw me away again and again and a-fucking-gain and then just - just claim me. It doesn’t work that way, Majesty -”

     Claw pierce skin, and her words stutter, cease. Her touch is so cold - ice, except Zoen is ice, so how can it be that a shiver wracks her spine? She follows Proudmoore’s progress via the burn of frost; can hear bones creak and snap as the Queen navigates through her ribcage -

     What is she...?

    - wraps her talons around Zoen’s heart and yanks.

     It does not - it should not hurt, veins snapping, arteries popping, aorta tearing apart shred by agonizing shred - Zoen gasps, chokes on pain and confusion, because this should not matter. It is but flesh, vestigial tissue, and she is - she is beyond this - she should be beyond this, why does it hurt so Light-damned much -

     “Māter, dēsine.”

     Death knights do not plea and yet she does, voice the cracking ice of a frozen lake caught in springtime heat. A child sobs beneath her skin, echoing through her marrow - there is a memory here somewhere but she doesn’t want, she doesn’t want, she doesn’t want -

     “Māter!”

#magicwrought #tw gore #tw idk what else but it's probably Bad #verse tag tba

[nervestatic]

losing my mind, losing my mind, losing control

read on AO3

It begins, as so many things in Mipha’s life seem to, with the Princess. She returns from the mountain, and Mipha can already see the heartbreak on Zelda’s face, even before Daruk asks.

 “Well?” Daruk asks, concern mingling with hope on his face. “Don’t keep us in suspense! How’d everything go up there on the mountain?” All of the Champions still hold hope in their eyes as they watch on, Urbosa leaning to put a comforting hand on Zelda’s shoulder.

 The princess takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. Everyone seems to deflate slightly, disappointment weighing on all of their shoulders. Even Urbosa’s words of encouragement can’t quite bring the princess to smile, and before she can stop herself, Mipha steps forwards.

 “If I may,” she begins quietly, and Zelda looks up at her with sad blue eyes. “I thought you… well, I’m not sure how to put this into words- I’m actually quite embarrassed to say it,” she continues, and it’s a confession that’s welling in the Zora princess’ throat, a declaration of her feelings that she can’t seem to quell. “But I was thinking about what I do when I’m healing, you know, what usually goes through my mind,” she says, and she wants to scream      it’s you    ,      it will always be you    , to hold Zelda until she’s no longer so heartbroken, and she continues, “But it helps when I think- when I think about-” and the word      you    is on the tip of her tongue when the end begins.

 The ground shakes beneath her feet, and Revali flies up to confirm it- the Calamity Ganon is upon them, and one last fleeting look at Zelda is all Mipha gets before she must go.

 Upon reaching her home, she readies herself with the Lightscale Trident and presses a quick kiss to Sidon’s forehead, praying to Hylia that above all, he remains safe- he’s still a child, can barely lift a spear, and before she goes, she takes off the blue scarf- what marks her as a champion- and wraps it around his shoulders.

 “Always be brave, little brother,” she whispers, and then she’s rushing away again.

 Vah Ruta moves under Mipha’s touch like she always has at first, and she’s making her way to where she’ll be able to fight when it happens. A spark flickers across the control panel, multiplying and burrowing into the stone, turning it the same dangerous red she saw on the Calamity. She pulls back, reaching for her trident, but her bracer catches on the stone, and the sparks leap to her skin.

They burn, and she tries her hardest to bat them away, but they worm under her skin and her vision goes hazy and red, malice creeping through her veins and pulling at her mind.      ragemalicekillhate    rips through her body, twisting and contorting her into something unrecognizable. She can feel the others, and what’s left of Mipha underneath the      malicekillragehateb̖̣u̮̜̙ͯr͕̍ͮ̾́ͨn̊    clings to the rest of the champions, clear blue in a sea of red.

 When the rain of Vah Ruta begins, all who try to calm the beast see the scourge, the black and red hulking offspring of      burnragehatekillmalice    that haunts the divine beast, and they see the choker around it’s throat, the remains of a shark-fin head.

 They call her the the Waterblight Mipha, Scourge of Vah Ruta, and they fear her.

 oOo

 When Mipha falls to the Malice, Urbosa can feel it in the back of her mind, like a static shock that runs down her spine. She yanks her hands away from Vah Naboris’ control panel, watching as the sparks congeal and shift, trying to reach towards her. She is what stands between her people and the Calamity Ganon, and she will not fail them.

 Her helm is with her daughter, Oteka, who she left with a promise of safety, and her Champion’s scarf is with her wife, Imami, who she left with an embrace and a fierce smile.

 “You come back to me, Urbosa,” Imami had said, hand clenched tight around her wife’s arm, and Urbosa had smiled, kissing her softly.

 “Don’t I always?” Urbosa had replied, and that is what she thinks of as she draws the Scimitar of Seven and Daybreaker, a snarl forming on her face. She thinks of her wife, her daughter, her people, and she steps into a fighting stance, facing the form of the malice.

 “Come and get me,” she snarls, and it charges.

 She fights until she can’t fight any longer, Daybreaker and her scimitar falling from her hands as the      killragehate    infects her. She can hear Mipha screaming, fighting and cursing through the fog, and what’s left of Urbosa reaches out and they cling to each other with all they’ve got as the storm begins around Vah Naboris. Lightning crackles under her fingertips, her body shifting and twisting until it’s moving like her lightning does, too fast to even see.

     ha̳̬̦ͭ̋͒ͦẗ͔͓̦̣̹̝̥e̱̙̥killmaliceang̍͌͏̹e͐͑̓̆ͤ͡r̸̯̭̂    pulses through her as she lays siege to the desert, lightning striking all who dare come near as she rages. Urbosa, from underneath all of the      ragepainhate    , sees the approach of Imami, armed with the Thunder Helm, and she screams for her wife to run, to leave, tearing at the Malice around her.

 When Imami returns to Gerudo Town, she tells tale of Vah Naboris’ rage, and she tells her people of the scourge that howls inside of the Divine Beast. She takes the seat of the Chieftess with a stony face, Thunder Helm in her hands, and she tells her people that any who can kill the beast will be rewarded greatly. She warns of the scourge, with it’s green and gold armor, with it’s broken Chieftess circlet, with the remains of Daybreaker strapped to it’s arm.

 They call her Thunderblight Urbosa, and they pray for her peace.

 oOo

 Daruk doesn’t believe in ‘lost causes’, so even after Mipha and Urbosa fall, he continues up the mountain. He leaves his daughter, Konili, with his scarf and the chain that holds the Goron symbol, and even though he feels bare without them, he holds his head and Boulder Breaker high as he approaches the Divine Beast.

 He’s never been the best at piloting, but he boards Vah Rudania with ease, and he does not hesitate to slam Boulder Breaker into the Malice with everything he has. Even after the infection starts creeping through his veins, he slams his sword into the Malice, Rudania’s control panel, anything he can do to stop the beast.

SLAM. A hit for his daughter.

CRACK. A hit for his husband, at rest with the goddess.

POUND. A slower hit, but still powerful, for the princess.

CRASH. A final hit, sluggish as his body surrenders to the corruption, for the Champion.

 “Go get him, little guy,” is the last thing he manages to say as himself.

 As the      ragekillangerpain    takes over, the part of him that is still Daruk welcomes what remains of Mipha and Urbosa into his arms, holding them close at the back of his mind as his body contorts and shifts into the      thing    that shakes Vah Rudania, that shakes Death Mountain, to it’s core. It’s      malicemalicem̨ͪa͏l̍̏iͩ̏cͩë́̈    that erupts Death Mountain, that wreaks havocs on the mines his people are so proud of, that endangers his family. His mind is being pulled apart, aching as he sees his daughter retreat into the depths of Goron City, fear deep in her eyes.

 When no one comes to look for him on Bludo’s orders, he understands.

 They call him Fireblight Daruk, and while they do not forget him, they never quite forgive his failure, either.

 oOo

 It ends with Revali. He was the first to see the Calamity Ganon, and he was the last to succumb to the Malice. He gives Link a hard look before they part, a million unsaid things on his end, but all he can bring himself to say is “Goodluck,      hero    . Here’s hoping you won’t need it,” before launching himself into the air. His heart aches with everything he hasn’t said, but he doesn’t have time to mourn what could have been- Revali has a job to do, and he has no intention of failing.

 Vah Medoh is waiting for him, but by the time he gets there, it’s already too late- He can hear Mipha’s screaming, Urbosa’s howling, Daruk’s cursing, he can feel them pulling and twisting and begging him to stay back as he approaches Vah Medoh.

 The Malice is waiting for him, curled around the control panel of      his    Divine Beast, and it’s infuriating- first he’s reduced to a supporting fighter, then this      thing    tries to take over his Beast? It’s insulting. He draws the Great Eagle Bow and looses a volley of bomb arrows, and he grins when the beast      screeches     in pain.

 He doesn’t see the black and red sparks on his wings until it’s too late.

     hateragekillburn    crawls up his throat, choking him, and he falls to his knees as his body convulses, his Gale turning to hurricane winds around him as the Malice pulls him apart at the seams and stitches him back together again. The other Champions pull what’s left of him towards them, and they form a symphony of pain as they watch what used to be Revali, their final line of defense, turn Vah Medoh on the Rito. Revali can feel nothing but      hatemali͠c̨e̡̊killrage    as he watches the hero fall, watches the Princess rise up in a flash of light so pure it stops them all in their tracks.

 When Revali slips away, so do the rest of them- there is nothing but a glimmer of the Champions left, underneath the      ragepainhatekill    of the Malice.

 Even after the Divine Beasts and their scourges slip into slumber, the Rito people pass warnings of the scourge down to their children- of the blue scarf still worn around it’s neck, of the feathers it sports and the braids you can see if you’re brave enough to get close.

 The Rito call him Windblight Revali, and they call themselves thankful that his beginning marked the apparent end of the Divine Beast’s terrors- Vah Ruta’s rain stopped, the sandstorm of Vah Naboris settled, Vah Rudania’s tormenting of Death Mountain ended.

 oOo

 A month before the day that marks the hundredth anniversary of the loss of the Champions, Vah Ruta rises with a shudder, and the rains begin to plague the Zora people once more. The Waterblight rages around the inside of the beast, sending waves towards any who dare approach, and Mipha’s sorrow sings out through the malice as she watches her brother try again and again to get close enough to do something.

 A week later, Vah Naboris rises again, sand pouring off the beast and lightning beginning to crackle around it once more, making the desert unreachable for the Gerudo. Thunderblight howls inside the beast, a noise that echoes throughout the desert, and lightning rains down on all who come too close. Urbosa’s rage thunders out as she sees the theft of her helm from a girl no older than fourteen, and her pride is even stronger as she watches her descendant plan to take it back.

 It’s two weeks to the anniversary when Vah Rudania shakes itself to life once more, raining fire on Death Mountain and ruining the mines of the Gorons. The Fireblight pounds and shakes the Divine Beast from side to side, so powerful that it shakes the mountain itself, but Daruk’s joy cannot be quelled when he sees his grandson alive and well, his scarf secured around his neck and his protection at the boy’s disposal.

 It’s a week away from being one hundred years since the Calamity struck, and Vah Medoh rears it’s head, never attacking, but striking fear into the Rito once more, keeping them landlocked until they are far enough away from the beast to dare try flying. Windblight howls like a poorly-contained hurricane inside of the Divine Beast, and Revali, even after almost one hundred years, stays lost in the rage. A warrior in the Rito Village strings his bow and takes to the skies.

 On the hundredth anniversary of the Calamity, a pool drains inside of the Shrine of Resurrection, revealing the Hero’s body, finally healed and stripped of his memories.

Open your eyes, a voice urges the Hero, quiet. Open your eyes, the voice tries again, open your eyes!

Wake up, Link, the voice pleads, and, one hundred years after the strike of the calamity, the Hero opens his eyes.

#the legend of zelda #tloz #breath of the wild #botw #revalink #miphazel #link #zelda #mipha #daruk #revali #urbosa #zack writes #fic: corruption au

[newstfionline]

The World Wide Web’s inventor warns it’s in peril on 28th anniversary

Jon Swartz, USA TODAY, March 11, 2017

Tim Berners-Lee, who invented the World Wide Web, now wants to save it.

The computer scientist who wrote the blueprint for what would become the World Wide Web 28 years ago today is alarmed at what has happened to it in the past year.

“Over the past 12 months, I’ve become increasingly worried about three new trends, which I believe we must tackle in order for the web to fulfill its true potential as a tool which serves all of humanity,” he said in a statement issued from London. He cited compromised personal data; fake news that he says has “spread like wildfire”; and the lack of regulation in political advertising, which he says threatens democracy.

“Even in countries where we believe governments have citizens’ best interests at heart, watching everyone, all the time is simply going too far,” he said, in an allusion to WikiLeaks’ disclosure of what documents claim is a vast CIA surveillance operation. “It creates a chilling effect on free speech and stops the web from being used as a space to explore important topics, like sensitive health issues, sexuality or religion.”

Berners-Lee, 61, who was knighted, founded Web Foundation in 2009 to improve the web as part of a five-year plan.

When Berners-Lee submitted his original proposal for the Web, he imagined it as an open platform that would allow everyone, everywhere to share information, access opportunities and collaborate across geographic and cultural boundaries.

But his faith, and those of privacy advocates and cybersecurity experts, has been badly shaken by a series of high-profile hacks and the dissemination of fake news through the use of data science and armies of bots.

Front and center: The WikiLeaks bombshell. The treasure trove of more than 8,000 pages reads like a John Le Carre spy novel overrun with Edward Snowden-like protagonists. The CIA, with sophisticated hacking tools, has been angling to turn popular consumer devices such as iPhones, Samsung TVs and Android smartphones into surveillance devices, the documents indicate.

Imagine that Big Brother scenario extended to the millions of smart devices such as digital thermostats and fire alarms feeding the Internet of Things ecosystem, and you have a problem that could eviscerate the privacy of billions of people, say security experts.

Berners-Lee is just the latest high-profile technologist to share concerns over what former Cisco Systems executive Monique Morrow calls a fundamental assault on privacy and cybersecurity, with critical infrastructure--banking systems, the grid--hanging in the balance. “How do we use technology responsibly?” she asked at a SXSW talk in Austin Saturday.

The scourge of fake news, a topic of several panels here, has prompted plenty of tech types to brainstorm on solutions. One idea is to apply a simple rating system to stories based on their news value and accuracy, says Amar Lalvani, CEO of hotel chain Standard International. “We could apply the same model to stories as we do to travel sites,” he said here Sunday.

Proliferation of cyberweapons pose a significantly greater threat--especially smartphones in the hands of unwitting consumers, and eavesdropping TVs in their living rooms--because they spread at a faster rate than physical weapons, says Phil Reitinger, CEO of the Global Cyber Alliance and a former director of the National Cyber Security Center.

“It’s already happening,” says Sean Smith, a professor of computer science at Dartmouth College and author of The Internet of Risky Things. He says many of the same security vulnerabilities exploited in phones, TVs and computers outlined by WikiLeaks apply to IoT devices.

“If the CIA is working on breaking into phones like other hackers, you can bet it’s working on other devices, just like hackers,” Smith says, pointing to malware that was wormed its way into some medical devices at major healthcare providers across the globe. The security breach put tens of thousands of patients records at risk, says TrapX Security.

The same flaws can apply to cars, as proved by a Wired report on how hackers remotely hijacked a Jeep Cherokee’s digital system over the Internet and disabled its brakes at low speeds in 2015, Smith says.

“What WikiLeaks said is Shakespearean when you think about it: It’s much ado about nothing,” says Vince Steckler, CEO of computer-security firm Avast Software, “What was revealed has been an open secret for years in the security community. If anything, (the disclosure) informs the general public how exposed infrastructure really is. And that might be a good thing.”

#Tim Berners-Lee #World Wide Web #Internet privacy #digital surveillance #cyberweapons

[cursedcomics]

Wanderers pitch

In response to Bill Tucker’s challenge...”Name 7 characters from the 21st century DCU that you would like to see far flung into the 31st century and become a roving team of heroes - as a proposed new Wanderers book.”

I don’t like displacing The Wanderers on the 31st century but if I could call the book something else...The Trapped? The Unlucky? The Cursed? This is what I would go with.

Lady Quark, Captain Comet, Maxima, Booster Gold, Adam Strange, Vril Dox, Big Barda. I'm thinking of something that parallels Marvel's exiles. This group would be trapped in time ----- who would do such a thing? :)

Trapped 1000 years in the future, they decide fairly early on that they're going to break into a facility and steal a time machine. But keep in mind everyone on this group is technologically a thousand years in the past. 

The only person who can even pick a lock in the future is Vril. Things get a little hairy and Vril steals the time machine, abandoning the entire team in the facility. As soon as he gets to the past to renew ties with his newfound love interest, she vanishes into the future to where he was. 

She can't open the locks and ends up getting killed in The Cursed’s escape. Then time corrects and Dox pops back to the future and has to deal with the fallout.

I'd have a lot of fun with these characters. Captain Comet was supposedly the man born a thousand years before his time. I would drop him a thousand and FIFTY years into the future. 

I would effectively make him "future autistic". (Not the same thing as Autism today!!! I don't want to ruin him like they did with Captain Atom in that Multiverse thing.) I don't want to shit on the character development that they've had for Captain Comet over the years. 

I just want to drop him into a situation where organically new behavioral quirks are revealed. 

I hear that people who are fairly high in the autism spectrum will sometimes describe the way their mind works as taking a series of high def photographs that they have difficulty processing. Their mind is pulling in data at a much higher rate. When I think of Captain Comet, I think of somebody whose mind works far more efficiently than ours.  This tracks.  He would do the same but actually processes the data. 

When I thought of him on this team I thought, "well yeah, he processes this data in 1950 or the 1970s but how would he process the data 1000 years into the future, when all of his context is stripped away?" I'd want to drop him into the future where his already developed mind just can't handle basic concepts that almost all of the future's technology is based upon. So he becomes effectively technologically dysfunctional. Dox would have to design him a ship with a joystick so he could fly it. :)

He also can't really get a grasp on interlac. He would find that his talents were overshadowed by people right and left in the future because of evolution and applied technology. He would feel like more of a failure in the future than any of the other Heroes but time after time the greatness of Captain Comet, his pure heroic heart, would carry him through. Lady Quark would be the only member of the team with no desire to escape the future. She would realize that she was trapped in the future by someone who could pluck anyone out of time. Quark would fear that if she escape the future their jailer would pluck one of her children from the past and she would have to watch them experience death again. When challenged by Dox she would reply "Dox, you putrid festering worm, you don't understand. I've always been trapped a universe away from my life." 

Not to say she would be directionless. I think she would be a being of immense power with absolutely nothing to lose. I think she would be utterly unflappable. I am thinking Helen Mirren. I could totally see her conquering a planet because it makes sense for her new life in the future --- to hell with how it effects everyone else in trying to escape the future! Maxima, I think would be just the opposite....which makes this fun. 

Maxima has no one she gives a crap about in the past so she would regularly escape the future. The Wanderers adventures would be filled with people from Maxima's planet who are dropped into situations where Maxima would easily triumph and they just get demolished. 

Bodies everywhere. 

Eventually I'd have this big reveal where it turns out all these dead bodies turn out to be biologically very similar to Maxima. They are Maxima's family. 

...And this is why Maxima grew up from infancy without a family. Dox would be Dox. He would be how I would tie the team to the Legion of Superheroes. 

Brainy has always been soft hearted under his emotionally clumsy exterior. I could totally see him feeling sorry for Vril after Vril's love dies and bending over right and left to help him... lending him technology, explaining future concepts, Etc. 

....Obviously you can't do this with Vril....

He would end up being like the prototype drunk dad / uncle who shows up at your house and steals things from you and your friends who you then have to explain later...." Brainy! Why does Vril have a miracle machine??!" Adam Strange would be the Adam Strange from that miniseries a few years ago that was so Kick-Ass. He's a smart guy who would quickly figure out a lot of future technology. He'd be pretty sure that he could modify the Zeta beam technology to return himself to the past without implications due to his long exposure to Zeta beams but does not want to abandon everyone else in the future. 

He feels a lot of loyalty towards Booster Gold, and would be the only person on the group who would pretty much know there's more going on there than Booster’s letting on. He would effectively be the guy who convinces everyone to go along with whatever they try. The “talk them into doing things” guy. Booster Gold would be the Booster Gold that emerged from the 52 weekly mini series ---the secret Doctor Who of the DC Universe. Booster would have effectively brought this load of shit on to everyone else in the group. 

At some point in the past he would have tricked each of these people into thwarting the Time Trapper's plans. This would allow me to really put him through the ringer emotionally. Booster would not be trapped in the future at all. He would be free to go. That's the Time Trappers trap for him. 

Booster would still do his time traveling stuff on the side but would be very sneaky about it and would not let anyone else in the cursed in on that. He would realize with Adam Strange and Dox on the team, that his origin could quickly be discovered and become public knowledge if they realized just how much he knew about time travel. 

To save all the people that he had saved in his life, he would have to live a lie. It would be interesting to see how a pro football quarterback turned superhero would handle this much drama.

Finally Big Barda is a character that I have loved forever. This would give me the opportunity to differentiate her from Wonder Woman. To me Barda has always been a force of immense destruction only kept in check by her perfect love for Scott Free. 

So what happens when you remove her from Scott Free? 

I think there would be some thought in her head of escaping to the past with the idea that Scott Free would be sent to the future --- and no one escapes traps more easily than Mr. Miracle, however the second thought would be she might go to the past and they would send Oberon to the Future....so she stays in the future. 

I could totally see an untethered Barda becoming a scourge of the future.... becoming Dox's "Lobo" ( Enforcer). I have this image of her ripping one of Mano's arms off....

[ar3volut1on]

Nibiru, Planet X, The Great Red Dragon – I’ll pick them back up next week, but now I feel led to discuss something more relevant, more important, – Jesus Christ.

Our Lord and Savior was crucified today nearly 2,000 years ago.  I know most folks will say what?  Haven’t you heard of Good Friday?  What kinda christian are you?  Well, I’m the kind that loves Christ with all her heart and soul.  The kind that cries with shame and remorse every time I read the accounts of my Savior’s last day before He died for me.  The kind that is anguished watching movies or programs depicting the agony of my sweet Lord as he suffered for me, for my sins, my vileness.  It was me who held those nails, that swung the hammer, in my soul I feel every blow of my responsibility for Him being on that cross.  Today my heart breaks under the weight of what I did to hold Him there.  I recall the times I denied him like Peter, the decisions I regret just as Judas did, the things I did that rejected and pushed my Savior away for so very long.  That are why he had to die that horrible death that Wednesday so long ago.  For you see he didn’t die on Friday, he couldn’t have if he was in the grave for 3 nights and 3 days as he said he would be.  If he died around 3pm as  the Bible tells us on Friday as the common tradition is and rose before sunrise on Sunday morning well that’s a day and a half at best he was in the grave, definitely not the three days and nights He mentions in the passage below.

For just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish, so will the Son of Man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.  Matthew 12:40

We know He rose on Sunday morning, scripture is clear on that.

Now after the Sabbath, toward the dawn of the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb.  Matthew 28:1

The first day of the week is Sunday.  So let’s look at what the Gospels say about this most important week, this week that literally changed the world.  That changed BC to AD, that conquered death and the grave once and for all, that gave hope to the lost and dying world groaning under the weight and wages of sin.

Now on the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Where will you have us prepare for you to eat the Passover?” He said, “Go into the city to a certain man and say to him, ‘The Teacher says, My time is at hand. I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.’” And the disciples did as Jesus had directed them, and they prepared the Passover.  Matthew 26:17-19

And on the first day of Unleavened Bread, when they sacrificed the Passover lamb, his disciples said to him, “Where will you have us go and prepare for you to eat the Passover?”  Mark 14:12

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed.  Luke 22:7

Now before the Feast of the Passover, when Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart out of this world to the Father, having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.  John 13:1

In all four Gospels we see that the Last Supper was the Passover meal eaten that Tuesday evening after sunset (actually Wednesday according to Jewish time) and the first day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread or Passover was that Wednesday.  After eating the Passover meal, he traveled to the Garden of Gethsemane to pray, seeking God’s will and not his own but knowing full well what he would endure in the coming hours.  The weight he would bear for the world that had and would largely reject and deny him.  The cup he would be willingly drank more bitter than gall, more loathsome than the most vile poison, yet Christ obeyed his Father and drank willingly of it for all.  He was so anguished in His soul not over the physically pain he would suffer but the spiritual pain he knew he would endure that he actually sweat blood, that’s love people.  It was while they were in the Garden that Judas betrays Him with a kiss and he is taken, taken by those who would mock, beat, and torture him before turning him over to the Romans who would then scourge him, ripping the flesh from his bones, crowning him with thorns, mocking the King with a purple robe.  A royal purple robe that became scarlet with the blood he was shedding for the sins of the world.  Then when he was beaten to what should have been beyond the point of death Pilate offered to set him free and crucify the vile murderer Barabas instead.  But it wasn’t the will of the Jewish leaders, the people or the Father.  All this has taken place in the early morning hours of that fateful Wednesday for before 9am our Lord was staggering in a horrific parade through the streets of Jerusalem on his way to his death at the Place of the Skull, Golgotha, to Calvary Hill!  At 9am that Wednesday they nailed him to the cross, they hung a sign saying King of the Jews over him and cast lots for his raiment.  For you see they added one final humiliation to his lot, the attending Roman soldiers took his clothes and gambled over them as he hung there above suffering, dying.  Psalm 22 gives us a haunting foretelling of Christ’s suffering, so accurate in it’s detail, well, just read it for yourself.

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring? O my God, I cry in the day-time, but thou answerest not; and in the night season, and am not silent. But thou art holy, O thou that inhabitest the praises of Israel. Our fathers trusted in thee: they trusted, and thou didst deliver them. They cried unto thee, and were delivered: they trusted in thee, and were not ashamed. But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying, Commit thyself unto the LORD; let him deliver him: let him deliver him, seeing he delighteth in him. But thou art he that took me out the womb: thou didst make me trust when I was upon my mother’s breasts. I was cast upon thee from the womb: thou art my God from my mother’s belly. Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. Many bulls have compassed me: strong bulls of Bashan have beset me round. They gape upon me with their mouth, as a ravening and a roaring lion. I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My Strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death. For dogs have compassed me: the assembly of evil-doers have enclosed me; they pierced my hands and my feet. I may tell all my bones; they look and stare upon me: They part my garments among them, and upon my vesture do they cast lots.  Psalms 22:1-18

And then we have the Gospel accounts of the last three long, brutal hours of suffering that Wednesday.

Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land until the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? And some of them that stood there, when they heard it, said, This man calleth Elijah. And straightway one of them ran, and took a sponge, and filled it with vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink. And the rest said, Let be; let us see whether Elijah cometh to save him. And Jesus cried again with a loud voice, and yielded up his spirit.  Matthew 27:45-50

And when the sixth hour was come, there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? which is, being interpreted, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? And some of them that stood by, when they heard it, said, Behold, he calleth Elijah. And one ran, and filling a sponge full of vinegar, put it on a reed, and gave him to drink, saying, Let be; let us see whether Elijah cometh to take him down. And Jesus uttered a loud voice, and gave up the ghost.  Mark 15:33-37

And it was now about the sixth hour, and a darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour, the sun’s light failing: and the veil of the temple was rent in the midst. And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit: and having said this, he gave up the ghost.  Luke 23:44-46

But there were standing by the cross of Jesus his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold, thy son! Then saith he to the disciple, Behold, thy mother! And from that hour the disciple took her unto his own home. After this Jesus, knowing that all things are now finished, that the scripture might be accomplished, saith, I thirst. There was set there a vessel full of vinegar: so they put a sponge full of the vinegar upon hyssop, and brought it to his mouth. When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished: and he bowed his head, and gave up his spirit.  John 19:25-30

John’s account always gets me, maybe it’s the momma in me but it gives us such a clear picture of the love our Savior has for each of us.  As he was suffering, dying a most torturous death he is worried about his mom, wanting to ensure that she will be taken care of.  I love that image we are given of the love of a son for the woman who bore him, I always think it shows that Christ was human just like us, even though he was God just like his Father.

At about 3pm Christ gave up the ghost, having declared “It is finished.”  I will be talking more about different aspects of the day our Lord died over the next few days.  We will study the different parts of it in depth, such as the thief who was saved right there on the cross, and the centurion who declared that Christ truly was the Son of God.  And of course we will talk about what happened immediately after the moments described above.  How Jesus shed every drop of his blood for you and I, he poured out water when his side was pierced, how there was a worldwide earthquake and the veil was torn in two, this will again bring us back to Nibiru, and point us once again to the coming of the Son of Man once more.  And ultimately it points us to our glorious hope, our only hope, an empty tomb.  A tomb which  our Savior was placed in just before sundown that Wednesday, a tomb sealed tight and guarded.  A tomb foretold by the prophets of old.

??????????????

We will leave off there tonight with Christ dead, with the Savior in the dark, fulfilling his Father’s will but leaving us feeling raw, hollow, despairing.  Much as I imagine his disciples felt that day.  How many questions they must have had.  Some must have felt guilt and remorse, others confusion, some reflection, realizing that he had told them what would happen, their scriptures had told them as well, and that maybe, just maybe all hope wasn’t lost.  Maybe they just couldn’t see the big picture in the dark, maybe the sign he gave about Jonah would shed some light on things.  We’ll find out in three days and nights.  For now it is finished.

For now may God bless and keep you Brothers and Sisters in Christ.

  It Is Finished Nibiru, Planet X, The Great Red Dragon - I'll pick them back up next week, but now I feel led to discuss something more relevant, more important, - Jesus Christ.

#crucifiction #death #faith #God #grave #jesus #john #Jonah #love #Luke #Mark #Matthew #Passion week #peace #prayer #Psalm 22 #sin #truth