#echo solar ash

[ell-dordo]

CROSSOVER EPISOOODDDE part 2!! I do these crossover episodes with protagonists of games I've beaten! Really, just ones on the xbox

Guess who played and beat hyper light drifter

#HLD #jsab #just shapes and beats #chicory a colorful tale #chicory #echo solar ash #solarash #solar ash #ori #ori art #ori and the blind forest #ori and the will of the wisps #pikuniku #pikuniku fanart #FE #fe ea #hyper light drifter fanart #hyper light drifter

[nixii-sabre]

SO PISSED OFF to find there was NO solar ash playlists on youtube. So I made my own!

| "ᵀʰᵉ ᶜˡᵒᵘᵈˢ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵃⁿᶜᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵃʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʳᵉᵐᵃⁱⁿˢ ᵒᶠ ᵒᵘʳ ʰᵒᵐᵉ." - Solar Ash Playlist | (youtube.com)

Hope everyone who listens in enjoys <3

#music #playlist #music playlist #solar ash #cavetown #liana flores #the living tombstone #miracle musical #youtube #youtube playlist #youtube music playlist #solar ash playlist #solar ash rei #solar ash cyd #cyd solar ash #rei solar ash #echo solar ash #solar ash echo #Them <3 #Gays!!! #Lol i couldnt find any other picture for it #Art #Previous artwork #My art #Fanart #Solar Ash fanart

[silvervictory]

Absolution.

#silvervictory #solar ash #heart machine #hyper light drifter #wretched rei #echo #my art #silv art #doodle #traditional art #no k!nnie interaction #looks cooler irl but what can you do

[fallenvoidhere]

Decided to make one of those memes that's all over twitter rn. Was pretty fun ngl, though I couldn't choose between two characters so I just did both.

Last post of the year woooo. Anw haven't posted here for a while and ig cropping suck ass soooo have whatever this is

#solar ash #slime rancher #the amazing digital circus #puddle slime #tadc kinger #Echo #meme #art #fallenvoidhere

[foone]

There exist another dimension called The Empty World. It's very much like ours, in fact it seems to have been identical up until a few weeks ago, but it always seems that way. If you go there today, it was identical in late february, and if you go there this october, it'll have been identical until september.

It's empty, as you might guess. There's no humans, and no animals bigger than a cockroach. The sky is grey, and it slowly rains ash. It's colder than our world by a bit, enough to require a jacket even in summer. The streets are empty, the cars parked neatly in their garages or in lots, but they're all empty and abandoned, their doors locked like they expect their owners to return any minute now.

The newspapers left on stands don't mention any oncoming disaster. We have no idea what the TV or internet would have said: the power is out. The power is very, very out. Not just the grid, but batteries are drained. The cars won't start, the emergency lights are out, and anything with solar panels seems to be getting less energy than you'd expect, even with the perpetually overcast sky.

It's a very silent world, like the calm after a snowstorm. Sounds don't seem to echo as much as they should, nor does sound seem to travel as far. The radio spectrum is empty except for static, there's no one transmitting on any frequency.

There's fewer fires than you'd expect. Even places you'd expect to soon catch fire without human intervention are still standing, undamaged. Campfires can be lit but with difficulty: something is keeping them from burning as they should. Even if you pour kerosene on a campfire it'll barely grow, it's like something sucked the energy out of everything.

All the locked buildings are still locked. Alarms don't sound if you break in (understandable, given the power situation), and of course no one comes to investigate. So The Empty World is your oyster: you can break in wherever you want (provided you can physically do it: some doors are pretty hard to pry open even with tools), take whatever you want, and bring it back here.

Everything resets when you leave. You always enter The Empty World like it's your first time there, like this just happened and you're late to the party... but the party keeps getting rescheduled. You can even take something multiple times if you want.

When you enter The Empty World you get there at the same relative position as you are on this world. If you're in New York, you show up in the empty New York. If you're in Topeka, you show up in empty Topeka. So you have to travel around this world to get to where you want, and you can't just appear in the middle of a bank vault... unless you break into the vault from this world. (So it's great if you work at a bank and want to steal from your employer without repercussions, but not so useful otherwise).

You don't just have to take things, you know. You can take computers and files and books and diaries. You will have to deal with recharging laptops and breaking through any security when you get back, but it's doable.

So, imagine you've just gotten access to The Empty World. What are you going to do with it? What will you take, and where will you go?

#my writing #the empty world

[firefirefruit]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Eighteen

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Eighteen: Burn, Demon, Burn

The cavern shudders in the entrance of its mouth. Debris is kicked up into the air like the soot to your smithing; the ashes of what you could only describe as rebirth hangs thickly and desolately in the air.

You struggle to blink through the amount of dust, the dry particles of sand sticking stubbornly to your vision - yet your eyes never look away from his bare back.

He stands in front of you, acting as a barrier of scarred skin and muscle, silently drinking in the enemy before him. Like a predator, he thinks, he watches, his shoulders thrusting forwards…

“Roronoa,” you whisper lowly. You stare at the nape of his neck, focussing on the subtle sweat that baubles there. “Let me talk to them.”

His head twitches to you, and you see the incredulous look that’s sported across his brow.

“You gonna share some tea and biscuits, too?”

“I like tea parties,” you sarcastically mutter. “Do you really want to start a fight against an army of wizards?”

“I like sword fights,” he counters. His back, still unyielding, divides you from the fourty more lackeys that continue filing in, their power-wielding hands threateningly raised in front of their solar plexus’.

Another typhoon of debris coats the cavern’s climate, sweeping into the rhythm of their clambering footsteps; Zoro, unflinching, readies his sword, shoulders squared, a feral glint in his eye.

They all stand in line, stacking themselves into a wall with their scrawny bodies and long-pointed wizard hats. No words are uttered; remaining tight-lipped and hard-eyed, they all wait with baited breaths for the main entertainment to begin.

Oh, and absolutely, it begins.

"Well, well…” A powerful voice heaves thickly in the contained air, the rumble of his graceful footsteps echoing deep into the cavern's marrow.

The wall of wizards divides in half, searing a perfectly straight angle to the landscape beyond the cavern. A silhouette towers over what would’ve been a beautiful view, an ostentatious wizard hat poking through the sky like a sharp-beaked crow.

The Shaman grins.

He advances through the divide, his footsteps almost imprinting the ground that they trace across, and with a yellowed-out smile, his face comes into your and Zoro’s view.

"It’s the demon and her protector. How delightful," he trills.

Your gaze shifts from Zoro to the shaman, apprehensively observing both of their movements. The wrinkled shaman’s eyes blaze with fervour, fuelled by the apparent thirst for your blood, and even the shadows cast by the cave walls seem to writhe in response to his undeniable want.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward. Immediately, the minions raise their arms up higher to their chests, and the shaman’s resentful eyes burns deeper into yours.

“I’m Raya…I’m a blacksmith,” you slowly say, raising a hand up in peace, the other resting on your dagger. “This is entirely a misunderstanding. I’m willing to resolve this peacefully if you are too.”

The shaman sneers, a twisted grin contorting his features. "Peace? The only peace that awaits you is in death."

“No.” You shake your head, maintaining a neutral expression across your face. "We can leave this place and never return. No more trouble for you or your people."

The shaman's laughter echoes through the cavern, his bright earthy eyes sharpening with each passing second.

"Your kind has caused chaos for far too long,” he spits at you, his fumbling fingers spinning in arcane energy. “Your kind is an abomination.”

The lackeys inch closer, their hands glowing with a tinge of ochre oranges and golds. Zoro, with a bitten back growl, tightens his grip on his sword, advancing a step closer to them.

"She’s giving you a chance to leave," Zoro warns, his voice cutting through the tension. "Take it."

The shaman's expression twists into curiosity, his eyes flickering to the swordsman in front of you. "No, foolish samurai, it all ends now."

And everything, all at once, becomes undone.

The lackeys surge forward, their hands emitting a wave of teeth-gritting power in your direction. Zoro charges into the fray, swords slicing through the arcane energies, as you, too, move with agility, the dagger in your hand deflecting their blinding light.

The shaman's raises his arms in revelation, his voice dripping with drunken pleasure.

"It all ends now. It all ends now."

As if a dam has burst, the enemy surges forward, balls of energy glowing golder and brighter within the centre of their chests.

Zoro charges into the fray with primal determination, the sword in his hand splitting through the ethereal onslaught with a hiss to his metal. In tandem, you move with an agility born from blood, the dagger in your hand slicing the energy with a dance of fury.

"This doesn't have to end in bloodshed!” You scream out, thrusting your dagger against an attacking hand.  “Let us leave, and we swear to you we’ll never come back."

“Denied,” the shaman grins widely, a typhoon of dark energy convulsing within his fingers.

And in a single, swift motion, he aims his finger at you.

It all happens so quickly – neither you nor Zoro have the time to react.

The energy leaves his towering body, zapping into your blackened arm like the massive jaws of a convulsing animal. Your head snaps down, the blood rushing into your ears, your eyes widening in shock, and your breath lodging in your throat.

Although the adrenaline within you blocks any idea of pain, there’s an undeniable feeling of warm wetness that lingers across your skin. From your shoulder, down to your forearm, all the way down to the end of your wrist, a large slash slowly unsews from your skin, your body so easily unravelling under the shaman's fingers. The air hisses as your blood meets the atmosphere. And it sizzles.

Your blood sizzles on your skin, loud and heavy and metallic. And it burns within your bones like poison.

The shaman guffaws heavily, maddened eyes drinking in your frozen frame.

"Burn, demon, burn!" He yells, already pointing his fingers again at you, a ball of darkness growing within their tips.

Zoro immediately advances towards the shaman, a forceful slash thrown at his back. His grey eye, uncontrolled and drunk on rage, is widened beyond belief, the sword shaking in his hand as he shoves him away from your line of sight.

"Lay another finger on her, and I'll cut all your limbs off," Zoro bellows furiously, hissing and spitting in a voice that you've never heard come from him, dark and uncontrolled and incredibly not calm.

And although the wound in your arm continues to untether and de-skin itself, you keep on fighting. With the last remaining shreds of your energy, you fight through the unbreathable pain; the very air pulses with palpable tension as you attack and deflect, spin and thrust, until the edges of your vision finally blur into a ragged darkness.

Blood, the essence of life turned macabre, begins to spurt from your mouth in a crimson cascade. As the vitae meets the cool cavern air, it sizzles and burns, leaving third-degree kisses of pain across your skin. Almost instantly, your steps falter, teetering on the precipice of collapse.

"Hey!" Zoro's voice reverberates through the cavern, his terrified eye fixated on you from a distance. But before you can muster the words to tell him to stop, to turn around and leave you there, another gush of blood escapes your lips, and you choke, your eyes locked on his.

The world swirls in disorienting patterns, pain in your arm and the burning sensation in your mouth blending into a symphony of agony. Despite your struggle, Zoro charges in your direction, his voice laced with urgency and concern.

"Hold on. I've got you," he urgently hisses, strong fingers gripping your shoulders, a palm pressing firmly against your bleeding wound.

"Your blood betrays you, demon. Burn, demon, burn," the shaman taunts, his words a haunting echo in the cavern's twisted symphony.

Zoro, with every stroke of his swords, fights not just against flesh and magic but against the encroaching darkness threatening to consume you both. Your vision dims further, the edges of consciousness slipping away like sand through grasping fingers.

But before darkness consumes your vision, your body throbs aggressively within Zoro’s grasp.

BA-DUM.

The green-haired samurai snaps his head down at you, feeling the chaotic vibration within his palms.

BA-DUM.

With a heavy, pulsating beat, you scream out loud, piercing the cavern with your awful shrill.

BA-DUM.

The blood stings. Everything stings. Your arm feels untethered - your body, a bouncing ball.

BA-DUM.

And with one last howl, your body contracts, expands, and… explodes.

BA-DUM.

No. You dizzily look down to your body, seeing that everything’s still intact. You didn’t explode, no.

“What the fuck just happened?” Zoro yells out, gaping at the landscape above you. You tilt your head up, realising that none of the lackeys are there. The Shaman, too.

BA-DUM

But wait. They’re there. Outside the cavern, teetering off the edge of the mountain. Airborne but colliding aggressively with eachother.

BA-DUM

Colliding against each other within an invisible sphere of wind. A bitingly ferocious, yet perfectly controlled tempest ensures within the invisible borders of their ragged bodies, swirling in a way you could only describe as animalistic.

BA-DUM

Hah. You laugh a little to yourself, drunken from the sampled taste of death. They look like flying confetti strings, all tangled within each other. Absorbed by such a gluttonous typhoon.

Zoro shakes your shoulders, and your eyes blurrily graze across his face. He’s saying something – his mouth’s open, a helpless look on his face, the vibrations of his voice running through your body… but you can’t hear him.

You look back to the typhoon, the energy of growling wind ingraining itself so perfectly within the mountainous landscape.

BA-DUM.

It looks exactly like something your old man could wield.

#one piece #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro #one piece luffy #luffy #monkey d luffy #one piece ace #straw hat pirates #usopp #sanji #tony tony chopper #nico robin #straw hat luffy #one piece fanfiction #one piece fic #one piece fanfic #op fanfic #op fandom #female reader x zoro #zoro x female reader #zoro x fem reader #three sword style #zoro roronoa #zoro rorono x you #zoro roronoa x y/n #straw hats

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 29: Complete

MASTERLIST

Summary: Aemond's desires come to truth as Daemon and Naera wed in the way of old Valyria.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: NSFW Content! It's not THAT explicit, only vague kissing and fondling, heavy implications, suggestive themes, breeding kink, etc.

Aemond knocked tentatively on the ebony door, feet shuffling as he turned to his back, then each side, not at all calmed by the endless echoing corridors of the Keep. In his hand he held an ornate box that lay carved with ancient Valyrian runes—the result of his escapades in the King’s Stores, that he had taken it upon himself to deliver to his uncle and half-sister as a marital gift.

And then some. He had a question to ask, assistance to seek from the person he had grown to trust may understand. His half-sister was as selfish as he felt, he knew, and his uncle her husband even graver in his deeds. They were the perfect match, in a way—blood and fire, the epitome of what it meant to be Targaryen. The world would know no peace.

“Come!” He heard Naera scream from within, and he turned the heavy door on its hinges, silent. And entered the solar. It was strewn adrift with papers and letters, books and fresh parchment. Pots of ink sat beside collections of quills, ornate and rough-spun huddled alike, beside bottles of Dornish Red and some strange concoctions in twinkling glass bottles that ranged from the looks of curdled milk to liquid jade. He could smell ginger, at his first step, lemon at his second, and ash and embers when he sat.

Naera sat on her chair, eyes trained on a letter. She read it, expression bearing a soft frown that he realised was the natural way her lips fell, until she smiled, crumpled the pages in her hands and tossed it into the fireplace.

“Good morrow, Aemond.” Aemond turned to the window, one good eye watching the sun make its descent into the waters.

“It is to be evening soon, sister.” Naera followed his gaze to the window, to the haze that would soon be ushered with twilight. Her face glowed differently, he saw. Much had changed since they last met, even if only a moon had turned. As for him.

He’d made his moves carefully, spent stollen moments with the object of his every desire. He’d plucked her flowers she had never held before, told her tales of truth and sometimes even of valour, stollen kisses under the cover of shadowy night, and held to his stealth for protection. It wasn’t enough.

“Ah.” She turned to the door to her chambers, and said, aloud, “The sun sets soon, make some haste, dear groom.” He saw that she still wore a gown of black silk, not the garments of their tradition. He heard laughter from the other side, slurred words in their mother tongue that Aemond couldn’t quite decipher, but he recognised that Naera sat blushing and silent afterwards.

Blushing, for all her warrior-like ways. It was rather different from his sweet true sister’s blushes. Naera seemed scandalised, mischievous, a light flush of red on her cheeks, an embarrassed smile on her lips, but Helaena, Helaena blushed so red he feared he’d have to fetch a maester, turned so high and brilliant, eyes sparkling, lips chapped together that he--right.

He set the box down on the table, “A gift to commemorate your union.”

Naera smiled, inching the box closer to herself for a look. “Thank you—” but the door opened with a shudder.

Aemond’s uncle walked in, scuttered, rather—his steps were hasty. He was dressed in traditional garbs—red and cream, his silver-white hair left free to hang an inch above his shoulders, Dark Sister in her scabbard in his hand.

“No,” Naera covered her eyes, “A Tyroshi priestess once told me that gazing upon your betrothed on your day of marriage is considered ill-luck.” A burst of laughter left her lips.

“And a Valyrian book once told me that I may gaze at my wife as often as I wish.” Daemon left his sword on the table, snatched his wife’s hands away from her face and kissed her lips, with lust and haste, then kissed her forehead, and ran out the door. Aemond watched his back as he left, baffled as to when he had retaken the sword.

“I closed my eyes!” Naera screamed after him. Still laughing, she turned back to Aemond, “What can I do for you, brother?” Brother. He smiled back at her, unable to stop himself.

“Tell me, sister,” he breathed, licked his lips, hesitant. That is why he’d come, he knew. Sure, pay respects to his favourite family members after Helaena, congratulate them on their union, but there was always the other cause. “How can I take her?” Her, her, her; his Helaena, splendid, ethereal beauty wrapped in a promise of treason.

Naera sighed, and he was glad that she’d understood without him having to spend more words.

Naera poured him a cup of wine, water the colour of blood settling into a silver cask, like rubies spilling from a dark slate. Naera froze as she filled it, eyes distant, lost. Then, she asked, voice betraying her dreamy loss of the moment, “Does the Trident have Green Waters?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, handed him the cup and returned to her chair.

Aemond swallowed the wine in a breath, eye not leaving his sister’s face. She had paled, that sickly palour returning to her face. She blinked frantically, sipped a cup of water.

“You cannot take her, Aemond,” Take what you want, she had told him some moons ago—and he realised his folly. It was akin to a jerk to wake him from a long sleep.

Gods, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t take her, how could he? Where would they go? What would they do when men came seeking them? Had he been so blinded by his love, that he’d forgone all practicality? He’d hoped that she’d have an answer but—“You can maybe ask her.” He furrowed his eyebrows, a ghostly pain returning from under his eyepatch.

Naera sighed, “A maiden’s word must be your shield if you intend to have her.” Rapers went to the Wall at best, to the headsman at worst. Disgraceful.

“I do not mean to defile her,” Aemond defended, “I wish to wed her—to—” to see her wear the garbs Naera would at dusk, to drink her blood and hold her hand and vow to protect her for all their lives. That was what he wanted.

Naera refilled his cup, “I know, and she knows. The world does not.”

“You could—”

“What?” His sister’s eyes grew cold and cruel, her voice tuned to injure, to pick at his folly and tear him a regretful wound, “Tell the world that you love her? It isn’t so simple.” Aemond looked down, unable to meet those crystal eyes. Every word she spoke was true, and that hurt. Leave the world, he thought, Mother is the one we need convince.

“You can only love for so long without being loved, brother,” Naera sighed, chin dropping to her palm, elbow banging against the table, “You can only run if she wishes it also.” Run with me, Helaena. We’ll wed in the faith of the Seven or that of the Valyrians. We’d be one heart, one soul—just say the word.

“She wants me, I am certain of it.” She hates Aegon, and knows well that their days near quickly. If only mother saw through her schemes.

“It is only mother, even the King—”

Naera shook her head, “Fuck the King,” he smiled at her brashness, “fuck your mother and your cock of a grandsire,” he felt a pang of shame after the moment passed. He hadn’t defended them, he realised. He agreed with his sister. His mother, fuck Alicent, who wouldn’t see past the grey shroud of duty to gaze at the world in all its colour. Love, was the colour he wished to see, he reminded himself. He had caught a glimpse, now he wanted a full look. “Aemond,” she summoned his wits back to her, “Ask her, confide in her, and run, together.”

Dusk hung heavy in the isle of Dragonstone, a curtain of fog descending on the shores as fires were lit and the Blood of the Dragon gathered near the volcanic crypts. It was a cacophony of red and black, the colours of their heritage—silver hair and purple eyes, fire in their veins, all gathered in respect or obligation.

The priest fanned the coal and flames, ornate chalices and candles gathered by Rhaenyra arranged on a block of rock marbled with red and yellow—it was slab of frozen fire mined from the haunted crypts of the Dragons.

Daemon could hear them murmuring through the fog from where he stood on the sandy beach. He could make out the Hightower cunt’s voice, could see her black gown flapping in the breeze even through the fog, and it only irritated him. The Blood of the Dragon had gathered, so why, pray why had the stupid lanterns joined in? His robes were scratchy and cold, the calm breezes did nothing to allay his urgency. The sun was falling into the sea, a streak of gold and saffron following it, and the mists grew pink and red as though the sky itself bled. It was time

The waves rustled the sands calmly as she took his side. Wrapped in a robe nearly identical to his—cream and ruby, adorned with gold, an ornate headdress laid between her braided silver locks. Beautiful. The curve of her nose, the pink flesh of her lips, her eyes—crystals clearer than diamonds painted blue and red, gods.

His ire vapourized, that familiar panging of his heart returning, thud, thud, his heart now beat only for her, it seemed.

He took her hand wordlessly, her chilled touch sending shivers through him, and in his mind, he spoke a prayer.

Let me hold this hand forever.

The rocky shores bristled against her bare feet, reminding Naera of the time she had scaled the ports of Asshai from the rocky ends. It hurt, but it was worth it. Daemon’s hand was warm in hers, his grasp tight and binding, as they crossed the threshold to where their family waited.

The fires flared when they made it to the clearing, the sky reddened like a maiden’s blush—if the Gods could betray more of their intentions, she did not know how. With the cold of the fog, and the warmth of his hand, the serene calmness of this event came a gradual understanding that this was right. She was meant for this—to be his, to hold his hand, to wield her sword for them, to sleep and wake and live beside him. Her uncle who had never cared for her, but now he cared not what the world said as long as he could have her.

Her family stood around the flames; the two branches of the house split over the priest. Viserys stumbled close, wilting hair and face, though he had a guilty smile on. He’d done this in some hope of companionship, but it had grown into a sickly sort of love, he knew.

He took her hand, clasped it in his cold damp one, and pressed a shuddering kiss to her forehead. Naera smiled at him, watched him return to Rhaenyra’s side—Rhaenyra, who smiled in a way most disillusioned, who stood with her husband, her sworn guards, her children, her court, choosing war even in that moment. Across the priest was Alicent, face contorted in distaste for such old ways, her children at her side, all in red and black, a treaty of peace. Aemond gave her a curt nod when she met his eye, a tingling smile on her lips.

The priest—one of the old Keepers of the Dragonpit who still followed those old doomed gods—began his droning, hymns sung to Meleys, the goddess of love and fertility, to Teraxes, to Balerion—to nearly every god, but Naera cared not. This had been the scene, she knew—Daemon shrouded in fog, silent and still, calmness in his eyes.

The priest handed him a blade of obsidian, a shard of glass as black as night that glowed in its shadowy beauty. He ran it down her lower lip, skin splitting instantly, blood pooling. He dabbed his thumb on that red, red, red beauty, and smeared a straight line on her forehead.

I name you woman, fire in your veins, it meant.

She took the blade, and did the same for him, his blood warm against her thumb as she drew three bent lines on his forehead.

I name you man, blood in your nature.

He traced the dagger over his palm, striking a wound deep and true to stand out amongst all thousands scars that he brandished. A line of red dripped down his skin. Naera traced the same wound on her own palm—Of my own will, I thus give you myself, and their hands joined in a flash of pain and flame.

The priest began, “Hen lantoti ānograr va syndroti vāedroma,” Blood of two joined as one, lifeblood dripping to mingle and mix, tethering them to each other.

The priest wrapped a ribbon the colour of night and light over their held hands, blood dripping down through the binds.

“Mēro perzot gīhoti elēdroma iārza sīr,” Ghostly flame and song of shadows.

He handed Naera a chalice of stone and glass, as dark as night, and she tilted the vessel till salt and iron flooded her tongue. Our blood to bind.

“Izulī ampā perzī prumī lanti sēteski,” Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires.

Daemon mirrored her acts, his face twisting as their blood laced his tongue. He swallowed it bravely, and watched Naera’s eyes. Close, so close.

“Hen jeny māzilarion, qēlossa ozūndesi,” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

Naera breathed, breaking into a delicate smile again, “I shall be your side forever.”

He took her other hand, eyes never leaving—lilac and lilac, crystal clear and shallow pools of glass. “I shall hold your hand forever.”

“Synroro ōñō jēdo ry kīvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time of Darkness and Light.

She inhaled, cold, wet air flooding her nose in a rush, and she gazed, gazed, gazed at him, his eyes that refused to leave hers, the wealth of his wisdom yet to be cultivated, the gift of his existence forever claimed by her. She said, “I will defend you.” Against the night, against the light, against whatever was to come. Against every wish to exile, every spat with the greens, every ill word with the King, she will stand by him, she will protect his honour as though it was her own.

He smiled, though both love and mischief twinkled in his eye, “I will warm you.” When the night was dark and full of terrors, when the end came and her will faltered, he shall be with her, he shall give her fire and light. He will warm her bed and hers alone, warm her body when the cold came, warm her spirits over every loss and share her joy over every victory.

Naera said, “I will give it all up for you.” Dorne, Volantis, Pentos, the Dothraki Seas, Asshai, and her dreams—Yi Ti, the Jade Sea, whatever lays east of the Shadow, the very wonders of the world could be laid abandon. She loved too easily, but even the gods had proclaimed this union as perfection.

“I will never hurt you.” Not as he once had, no, never. He will never disappoint her, never let her down, never leave her behind, never let her think that he could survive without her.

“I will love you.” Daemon’s heart lost a weight he did not know he bore, a delightful, fiery blaze in his chest, a joy uncontainable. His, his, his. She was his, every flicker on her eyes belonged to him, every mocking word his, every act of bravery, every witted word. He loved already, but he could love better, now that she loved him also.

His hand flew to her face, thumb smearing the blood at her lip, red, red, red, and to show that he cared, that he loved, that he was willing to understand, he said, “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

She leaned on her toes and kissed his lips.

His laughter would be her lifeblood, she realised as his heaving breaths reverberated through her chest, made her feel warm, made her feel him, his spirit and not just his body.

“D’you know what they’ll all say,” he spoke into her neck, his nose breathing cool air over the red mark of his bite, “When you grow round and great with my child, again and again?”

She laughed, a fleeting giggle morphing into a ridiculed laugh, “What?” He pulled her into a different corridor, away from their chambers.

“The Princess must really love her uncle’s cock,” the vulgarity made her roll her eyes.

“Maybe they’ll think that the prince has no control over himself,” Naera challenged, “Keeps getting his sweet niece with child, the poor woman.” He pushed her against a wall, cold stone of the corridors of the Keep making her flush and hum, and his hands roamed her flesh like a man starved.

Their lips met, tongues melding, breaths fading until the newly wedded couple panted for breath.

“Poor woman?” His eyes twinkled with the sort of courage that came with deeds best not committed.

“They needn’t know,” she kissed his cheek, arms winding around his neck. “They needn’t know that the idea of bearing her uncle’s seed fills the niece with a selfish joy that she cannot account for.” With a deft flick of his hand, her robes parted, rough linen tearing aloud.

“Oh, but the uncle knows,” he descended on her neck again, “He knows very well how much his niece loves having his spend in her womb.” He hoisted her legs up, lips falling to her breasts.

“Yes, oh, yes he does,” she moaned, wits departing her, fingers tugging at his hair, leading him to the other breast. He complied greedily, nipping, licking, kissing the flesh, leaving red and purple marks on every patch of free skin.

Her garbs were torn and ruined; her headdress abandoned in the hands of Laenor before they had scurried to the corridors in some mad bout of lust. Gods, lust was only one word for what she felt. She felt charged, as though lightning had struck her very soul. She felt fiery, as she often did when he stood beside her.

One kiss to his lips and the sentiment had caught on as a candle-flame blazes into an arsonist’s dream.

Now her swelling flesh was in his hands. She had lapped away the drying blood of his lip, sucked at the tear in his skin till the wound was raw, and now, she was at his mercy once again.

“Daemon,” she called, making him stare into her eyes with his own, lilac flowers and bloody amethysts. Beautiful. His hair was tousled, red streaking his forehead, but his eyes, those eyes that were over a decade older than her own yet were livelier than she had been just moons ago.

“Naera,” he called back, as had become their ritual, and she recalled the sweet bliss of hearing her name from his lips again. Completion, he made her sound complete, made her believe that she could conquer this new land that was marriage and slay this new demon that was mistrust.

Footsteps.

And the moment broke, but he was smiling as he leaned his face close to hers, covering her form from view.

“Fuck off,” he chastised behind himself, swaying his wife slowly. “Can’t you see—” but Naera put a finger to his lips, her eyes trained over his shoulder. Daemon turned tentatively, half-expecting his brother or the Hightower cunt or the cunt lord of hands but no.

He hugged his sweet wife tighter as she gave a subtle nod to Aemond, her half-brother—his sister Helaena’s hand in his, her face caught blushing a bright red, as they rushed through corridors and passageways, hastened and cautious. When their footsteps echoed away, Naera laughed.

“The Hightowers fall on our wedding after all.”

To be, or not to be…

…continued

MASTERLIST

#daemon targeryan #original female character #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon x oc #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #team black #house martell #dance of dragons #melisandre of asshai #melisandre #daemon x y/n #daenerys targeryan #azor ahai #dreams #fanfiction #archive of our own #old valyria #high valyrian #valyrian wedding

[silkysong]

I don't have any video game bosses offhand that are held down by giant chains BUT.... Have you played Solar Ash? It's another game by the hyper light drifter dev, and it has a giant lady speared through the chest eternally

do NOT mention echo to me i will actually cry

#ask #painfully looks her. my wife #shes so relatable it physically hurts #i love her very very much

[theeye2000]

The Hubs of Humanity 1

Prologue:

Back in the early 23rd century, as humanity began spreading its wings into the cosmos, the European Space Convention envisioned a groundbreaking project. They named it HUSB – Harmony of Urbanity and Space Bridges or as the public called it “The Hubs of Humanity”. At the projects core stood the idea to create a network of space stations and infrastructure pieces, each intricately designed to reflect Europe’s intricate designs and reflecting the architectural wonders of a wide range of European cities. It was like taking a slice of Paris, a bit of Barcelona, small snippets of Amsterdam and tiny amounts of Vienna and sprinkling their iconic look´s into the seemingly infinite abyss of interstellar space. The cities in the sky fostered significant cultural exchange, scientific collaboration, and good old human connection. Picture space stations modeled after the elegance of avant-garde designs of Berlin, the timeless charm of Rome or the sophistication of the medieval center of Prague.

Construction kicked of on a massive scale and for a while the project was the talk of the galaxy. The stations became marvels of their own right, embodying the spirit of humanity and its creativity. But as fate would have it, the early days of the 24th century brought a devastating cosmic cataclysm. An insidious computer virus, born from the depths of the digital unknown, infiltrated the project´s communication networks and databases. It spread like a raging wildfire, leaving chaos in its wake, and toppling the human economy and causing the once-thriving interconnected system into disarray. The fallout left a haunting legacy for the project, as the collapse progressed and databases where wiped clean many station dwellers decided to abandon their ships, leaving them adrift and causing them to vanish into the vast expanse of space without any trace left. They became cosmic ghosts, silently orbiting in the darkness, their stories and beauty lost to the void.  Quickly forgotten by the rebuilding civilization that emerged from the ashes. Their memory fading into obscurity becoming fragments of an era long gone by. The civilization moved continually forward, leaving behind the mysterious past.

Many generations passed, and with the shift of cosmic currents, some of the long-forgotten stations reemerged from the cosmic background, having become new, beautiful obscure or even haunting shells of their former selves. Slowly many of them revealed new and diverse tapestries of fates. Some not just remnants but thriving hubs of life, sustained by reformed ecosystems and their resourceful inhabitants which had found a way to adapt to the sudden challenges of having to find ways to sustain their ways of living in space. Others had undergone large alterations, their original purposes re-imagined by advanced AI and machinery which was once designed to keep the stations operational. These technological custodians ensured the continued existence and advancement of these magnificent stations, evolving them into marvels of automated efficiency and sustainability.

The Hubs of Humanity: Aetherian Arboretum

Now after many of them had been long forgotten and become legends of a marvelous past the first of these celestial relics appeared at the edge of Humanities capital solar system. As it floated trough the vast reaches of the cosmos by pure chance it passed the outermost surveillance satellites of the Human system SOL1. There it was a space station which echoes the grandeur of an age long gone. A picturesque and mesmerizing blend of elegance and the neon glow of a bygone era. Tall ornate structures with their sinuous curves and intricate floral motifs rise from the main ring like structure and into the star lit fabric of space. Facades adorned with dim luminescent neon colors cast a surreal picture upon any eyes there to observe it. As it silently orbited throughout the cosmic ballet of space rocks of a region referred to as the Oort cloud it was greeted by a group of space vessels. Drawn towards it they cautiously approach the abandoned celestial haven.

As a group of explorers set foot onto it for the first time again, they marvel at the fusion of design and cosmic functionality. As they wander the deserted streets, the air is filled with an eerie silence, only broken by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hum of nature overtaking the space. Vines gracefully cascade town the sides of once bustling structures as they intertwine wit the fading light of neon signs that once proclaimed the names of businesses now long forgotten. The corridors and walkways once trodden by station dwellers, now play host to a delicate tapestry of nature. Moss covering lower grounds and growing through cracks in the flooring and resilient ferns and flowers also pushing their way through the seams. Tables, doors, and windows adorned with wrought-iron designs being claimed by encroaching vines. The almost ghostly neon glow flickering and casting a dreamlike scene into the explorers´ eyes. The grand arches and domes of the once famous trading hub now softened by the embrace of ivy and climbing roses.

Amid this fantastic scene of haunting beauty, unexpected inhabitants had found their niche – flocks of chickens, descendants of once domesticated birds, had adapted to the continuous darkness of the abandoned space station. Their plumage had taken on otherworldly beauty as it reflected the surrounding hues of dim neon lights. Their feathers colored in ethereal blends of deep purples, electric blues, and luminous greens they created a mesmerizing spectacle of shimmers and shadows as they moved through the silent station. These avian inhabitants adapted to the perpetual darkness of the station developing nocturnal rhythms and clucking that harmonized with the faint hum of the station´s former vibrancy. They had become the unexpected guardians of this rediscovered neon-lit legacy.

As the explorers reluctantly tore themselves away from these mesmerizing scenes, they delved deeper into the bowels of the ship, where they uncovered relics and objects of the once flourishing and passionate inhabitants. It also became evident that the station had undergone its profound metamorphosis, triggered by the exhaustion of its fusion systems and batteries several generations ago. The once state-of-the-art machinery had gracefully transitioned into a state of energy conservation. Basic life support systems hummed softly, maintaining the atmospheres delicately balanced atmosphere as the surroundings were bathed in the perpetual dim glow of neon lights, nurturing the lush flora overtaking the stations interiors. The artificial gravity modifier, a relic of advanced technology, continued to function on a minimal level. Its low persistent hum serving as an unseen orchestrator, allowing the abundance of plants and neon-feathered chickens to thrive in their cosmic sanctuary.

As the explorers continued their way through the corridors, they marveled at the ingenious processes that had sustained the stations delicate balance over the years. In this cosmic tapestry, the explorers sensed a quiet resilience. An enduring legacy left by a bygone era that unwittingly had given rise to this flourishing microcosm. The space station, now reemerged as a living testament to adaption, whispering its story of metamorphosis through the hushing echoes of its few still operational automated systems, the soft neon-glow of plant lights, and the vibrant clucks of chickens against the backdrop of the celestial stage.

With high anticipation, the explorers access the ship´s extensive database, eager to unveil the secrets hidden within the almost dreamlike structure they had been navigating. As the displays flickered to life, they revealed intricate schematics and blueprints of the station. The designation “Aetherian Arboretum” adorned the digital representations of the mighty station´s architecture. The name resonated with an ethereal quality, capturing the essence of this celestial haven. Armed with the new knowledge of the station´s identity, the explorers felt a deeper connection to it. As it stood as a testament to human ingenuity and the enduring spirit of exploration as it transcended its initial purpose as a hub of exploration and trade, evolving into a beacon of life amid the cosmic abyss. The name now etched into humanity’s records once again it was soon to become a thriving celestial haven again.

The news of the Arboretum´s rediscovery and its unique transformation captured the imagination of Earthlings in a wildfire. Recognizing its unique historical and ecological significance, authorities and swiftly declared it a protected zone and placed it under historic and natural preservation. The once-abandoned station a testament to the harmonious coexistence of nature and technology, underwent careful restoration with the goal of preserving its unique atmosphere while allowing eager tourists to experience the surreal beauty of the station in a small selected section. During the beginning of its restoration, the celestial sanctuary was moved in a stable orbit around Saturn, creating a celestial backdrop that added to the mystique of the cosmic destination. As visitors disembarked onto the transformed space station, they marveled at the now again neon-lit arches, domes and towers, the vibrant flora and the more than enthusiastic clucking of the specially adapted chickens. Educational Programs were established quite quickly to inform about the Arboretum´s rich history, its transformation and the unique ecosystem within it. Conservationists closely monitoring the neon-feathered chickens, ensuring their well-being and natural behavior are not disturbed in any significant way. As the space station orbited Saturn, the "Aetherian Arboretum" stood not only as a destination for eager earthlings but as a symbol of the boundless potential for exploration, preservation, and the celebration of the cosmic wonders that unfolded beyond the confines of Earth.

#humans are weird #humans are odd #scifi #sci fi #science fiction #scifiseries #futurism #scifi worldbuilding

[silverslipstream]

An Acquired Taste

It was an uncommonly hot autumn day when Yulia Lebedeva first tasted fruit.

By the standards of New Seoul, the phrase ‘uncommonly hot’ seemed naive. From the great hydro-powered pumps and dams working around the clock to keep the Yellow Sea at bay, to the multicoloured throng of fans whirring from roadside bazaars, the city of twenty-six million was shaped, moulded, created by heat. It may not have been Hell, but there was no denying both places had a connection to the same feverish warmth.

The teeming thoroughfare of Sambong-ro yawned before her. Rickshaws shot past lumbering solar landbarges, the cacophony of pedalling legs and hydraulic whines drowned out by the background hum of sheer humanity. The pavements and main roads were supposed to be a pristine, reflective white: years of wear underfoot had turned them into a dirty ochre. It reminded Yulia of videos she’d seen about the Amazonian savannah, and the humans crawling across it of the late wildebeest; flowing like sand through fingers. Despite each individual destination, the masses kept an unconscious, graceful totality quite unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Nevertheless, it was a little overwhelming. Shuffling left past a haggling seaweed-seller and kicking aside a discarded plastic bag, Yulia eased her way into a claustrophobic canyon. Her first thought was that the sun had been inexplicably cut off; the staggering heights of the surrounding buildings had plunged this narrow alleyway into a strange twilight. Whereas before she had been sweating in the stagnant humidity, now an artificially funnelled breeze was at her back. 

The light was bluer here, relying more on artificial lighting than the meagre strip of sky daubed overhead. Faded, mottled walls, a pervading sickly stench and a collection of ramshackle vendor’s huts conveyed the area’s poverty. A window-mounted softscreen overhead flickered and buzzed, sending a trail of boron-green sparks skittering down like ash from a cigarette’s tip. Music quietened as she walked further; the clang of metal gantries echoed above as inquisitive inhabitants rushed out, peering closely at the presumably lost foreigner.

The stench grew stronger as she reached the vendors and their wares; the faint, leafy scent of algae vats, the spicy, cloyingly sweet tang of soy-beef and the metallic stink of blood and assorted bodily fluids. An old lady, perched behind what looked to be a fruit stall, yelled a few words in what sounded like Mandarin. Yulia smiled back in what she hoped was an encouraging way and pointed to the translator device looped around her left ear. A moment later, the fruit seller’s words were whispered in perfect, monotone English, directly into her ear.

“Hey! Lost lady! Want to try some fruit? Real fruit, from Hokkaido, not vat-grown, no soy-fruit! 60 Sphere-yuan each!”

Real fruit? From a real tree? I’ll believe it when I see it, thought Yulia. The few remaining fruit plantations were guarded and tended to by corporations or the ultra-rich; not piled in front of a stall in some backwater New Seoul alley. She peered closer; the fruits were pear-shaped and a deep ruby red, with small green seeds rippling their skin. It was probably just another vat-grown scammer, she rationalised to herself.

Yet, her curiosity was piqued.

“Can I…” Yulia said slowly in English, pointing to herself, “...try one first?” she asked, pointing to the fruit and miming a bite. The woman nodded, and held out her right index finger to transfer the funds. Yulia’s fingerpad pressed against the old woman’s for a moment, then down, grabbing a fruit from the topmost row. A sharp word was uttered by the seller as Yulia brought the fruit to her lips.

“Enjoy!” said the translator as she bit down.

Her first thought was confusion. The flesh of the fruit was moist but not juicy, and had a surprising amount of thickness to it. It was almost…chewy? Crisp sweetness rolled around her mouth, a sugary taste so unlike the food tubes she was used to back home at the Institute. The seeds stuck to her teeth and cracked: they filled her mouth with a tart, sour tang. It seemed similar to the flavour pouches she’d once eaten marked ‘passionfruit’ yet a world away in execution. Delicious had never before seemed so ordinary a word.

“What…” Yulia asked, pointing at the fruit in an almost reverent way, “is this called?” 

The fruit seller smiled, straightening her apron as she talked. The grin splitting her face made it seem as if she was chatting to an old friend.

The translation device filled in the gaps: her son was a genesplicer in Hokkaido North, and had sent his mother a bag of his corporation’s newest crop. Bad reviews had sunk the fruit’s commercial rating while thousands were still to be harvested; therefore, her son could send these discarded fruits to New Seoul for a very low price.

Yulia nodded. “How much for the rest?” she said, pointing at several fruits and then at her index finger.

“If you want a dozen, I'll charge 550 Sphere-yuan. Save you some money.”

Yulia shook her head and swept her arm in a wide arc, over all of the fruit. The old woman’s eyes widened and she ducked below the booth, muttering too faintly for the translator to hear. A moment later, she resurfaced with a fabric bag clutched tightly in her gnarled right hand.

“3,000 Sphere-yuan for the lot. You sure? I’ll tell my son: his fruit may not be successful in Hokkaido, but it certainly is here!”

Yulia nodded. Taking the proffered bag and briefly touching fingers again, she placed each fruit into the plastic bag, taking meticulous care not to bruise it. If she could return to the Institute with some of this… reverse-engineer it in the genetics lab… why, the fruits would be worth their weight in gold. No flavour pouch, no algae, no soy-meat would ever come close to the taste she had just experienced.

Smiling, she bowed to bid the fruit seller farewell, and continued further into the artificial canyon she found herself in. As the stall receded, the translator picked up one last, garbled whisper from the old woman’s direction.

“Tourist,” it said. Yulia thought she could feel the contempt, hidden somewhere in its impersonal tone.

#writeblr #writeblr community #my writing #short story #science fiction #cyberpunk #solarpunk #kinda between cyberpunk and solarpunk I guess #idk I wrote this over a year ago enjoy

[ell-dordo]

Two fixations squashed together, have a JSAB x Solar Ash crossover for tonight! God, I love my wife❤️❤️

I've been trying to get out of the Jsab fandom for a while, and barely draw anything related to it besides the asks, so this was a nice refresher

#jsab #just shapes and beats #solar ash #crossover art #crossovers #jsab au #rei solar ash #cyd solar ash #echo solar ash #solarash #I think i did good #especially with the rendering

[far-side-skies]

Quick wip of Daystalker. I am yeeting this at y'all at the speed of sound.

Unfortunately work has kicked my ass not even a day after my holiday but I at least wanted to get this guy's colours down before the deadline.

Once again, introducing Daystalker! An ancient demigod Champion of the hunt, he is a mythical figure among his kind and currently resides on the Far Side with his partner Honeytongue and the pride of mostly adopted kids they share.

It's been so much fun incorporating more of @ashe-alter's dawnrunner lore into this guy as it's developed, and I'm so pleased with how this guy has turned out. He went from an egotistical trophy-hunting antagonist to a fluffy old Dad who, to quote Grimm, is akin to a 'grumpy Mufasa'. XD

More story under the cut because this got a bit long.

Daystalker is ancient. Thousands of years old thanks to the immortality granted to him by the giants who ascended him into a Champion. He's fiercely protective of his children and absolutely adores his partner to pieces. As a demigod though, he's also taken up the duty of protecting the rest of his kind, going so far as to commit the ultimate taboo among Dawnrunners: killing other dawnrunners. It's never without cause though; he only targets those who kill their own kind without care for the consequence, doing it to protect the rest. On rare occasions, it is a genuine act of mercy. For each kill, he carves a notch into his horns and makes sure to remember the name of each one. He takes no joy in this part of his life.

As a demigod, he's gained a number of supernatural abilities that aid him in his duties, including the following:

Invisibility - what it says on the tin

Silent Step - should he choose, Daystalker can move in total silence. This combined with his camouflage abilities have lead to playing numerous tricks on people

Thunderthroat - a common ability for Champions, Daystalker has a roar that can echo between Terras and bolster his fellow hunters. He also has a banshee screech that instills fear in prey and enemies

Shapeshifting - Daystalker can transform into a beastly chimera, an animalistic form of the Dawnrunner species

Keen Senses - Daystalker has night vision, a sense of hearing that can pick up sounds across Terras, a sense of smell that can track something even if it flies, and can sense vibrations.

Synthesia - Smells register as colour tracks in Daystalker’s sight should he so choose

Walking on Sunshine - (sue me) most Champions get wings to help them travel between terras, however Daystalker is able to create platforms of solid sunlight that he can use to walk from Terra to Terra. If he makes them big enough, he can also transport other people on them.

Endless Stamina - This man can run for days without tiring. The ultimate pursuit predator.

Strength of Many - Proportionately, Dawnrunners are already incredibly strong compared to most other races. Daystalker has that strength multiplied by ten

Power of the Sun - Is at his strongest during daylight hours. He’s solar-powered. Certain celestial events such as eclipses though, sap his strength

#op #storm hawks #storm hawks oc challenge #oc challenge #storm hawks oc contest #bird oc challenge #storm hawks bird oc challenge #storm hawks oc #my art #art #digital art #artists on tumblr #artist #original art #daystalker #dawnrunner #champion

[satoshi-mochida]

Solar Ash coming to Xbox Series, Xbox One, and Switch on September 14

Gematsu Source

Publisher Annapurna Interactive and developer Heart Machine will release Solar Ash for Xbox Series, Xbox One, and Switch on September 14, the companies announced. It will also be available via Xbox Game Pass.

Solar Ash first launched for PlayStation 5, PlayStation 4, and PC via Epic Games Store on December 2, 2021, followed by PC via Steam on December 6, 2022.

Here is an overview of the game, via Annapurna Interactive:

From the creators of the award-winning Hyper Light Drifter comes the high-speed and gravity-bending world of Solar Ash. Set amidst a surreal dreamscape filled with long-abandoned ruins of great civilizations past, you play as Rei, a Voidrunner determined to stop at nothing to save her planet from falling prey to the Ultravoid’s path of eternal hunger. Fight through mobs of grotesque creatures, grind rails with sheer delight, grapple to wild heights, take down enormous bosses, and surf the ashen clouds of shattered, bygone worlds swallowed by the void. In this highly stylized action adventure unlike no other, will Rei persevere and make her way through the deadly encounters of this ravenous void in order to save her home? Will she learn the truth about these massive beasts that roam this strange land and uncover the mysteries of the Starseed and Echo? The answer to these questions, and more, awaits you in the Ultravoid.

Watch a new trailer below.

Xbox And Switch Release Date Trailer

#Solar Ash #Annapurna Interactive #Heart Machine #Xbox Series #Xbox One #Nintendo Switch #Gematsu #Youtube

[rignac]

Wild Drift Vegeinz; Crosmos.

I.

The ground is widely accessible by those who walgreens fluorescent with (@ZB1)the inaugural shot showing up as the dimensions that extend from the wristwatch the celestial realm to the the distinguished milliseconds are brimming with the rhythmic wildflowers as leisure time goes onward as tranquility deviates regarding the village’s endless summer. Solar Beams as the meticulously winged avian; given that this echoes liberty, I provided my assumptions about the moniker \ Rignac Ash-Fhaldi \. My sacred cluster picked /Kim Jiwoong/ to be in line with the ground’s medieval heavenly bodies, basing its origins from the sanctuary of /Kim Jiwoong/. The languid light of these imagined hollows makes the splendor of the cannons just brilliantly shimmer as its lavish necessities are showcased opted for acting In-Character as the role-playing scheme; thus, the rising of daylight like a drifting Soul of Dandelions perfectly measures my eagerness for my muse’s arrival. This means that in order to get more fig-blue damp earth outputs, all published entries must use universal language. This ensures that the upgrades are completely integrated and understandable to the broader audience.

II.

Doodle to a measure with the genuine methods of my professions, therefore this piece will likely be vague from in reality owing to playing with the fictional ones that adhere to the outside parameters (ZB1). The keyboardist’s willingness to attempt to replicate the actual details of the artist’s main arrangements while adhering to its propagated point of view is assumed. In order to do this, a formal assembly noting my limned changes and an oath for a wholly new universe must be produced in designated outlines at the spot you opt for. Jennifer sees its route too soon, so it grasps that glass tiara wildly and softly as it looks on with countless millions of happy tears. Memphis’ enthronement transforms into a joyful yet elegant blend. Raiding under the rock, soaring lavender gauge is gasping from the arpeggio and seraphic melodies trilling in unison. Together they come and ride to an entirely novel Boy Starz ASH-FHALDI, establishing in a new earth-based creek, I informally pledge ensuring the veracity and brilliance of each of the off lobby, resulting in are complemented by real-life situations shows of my opted for muse. On top of that, the linked renderings have been sourced from numerous digital mediums, which at first ought to be linked adequately. Despite lofty goals for acquiring our metaphysical agleam, I shall begin the warm embrace of an all-over rebirth /meadow valley evaluates an avenue for association. In light flame with top tier on the Ground. /“Cosmos 1”/.

#Spotify

[foone]

one thing I like about Outer Wilds: Echoes of the Eye is how it relates to (some) player's perception of the main game's ending. (spoilers)

So the ending of the main game is about the end of all things. You can't stop the end coming, but you can help make what comes next. It's about accepting that the end is inevitable, and that fighting against that end is pointless. The player goes through the whole game hoping they'll find a way to save Timber Hearth, to save themselves and all their friends, and slowly realizes that it's not possible. The end cannot be stopped: I'm sorry, but the universe is winding down. All that's left is to let the next world grow from the ashes of this one.

Naturally, not everyone was happy with that concept. They wanted some way to save the world, to have a "good ending", to not have to deal with the sadness of the ending. They were upset with the game.

And then Echoes of the Eye comes along, and maybe some of those gamers thought this was like the DLCs for Mass Effect 3 and Fallout 3: Maybe this'll retcon the ending, and let us finally win, and let the Hearthians live?

And then... nope. The DLC is about a race who came to the solar system and the eye told them "THE UNIVERSE IS ABOUT TO DIE: LET'S CLOSE IT DOWN AND BUILD A NEW ONE!". And they were terrified and pissed. They shut off the message the eye was sending, they tried their best to forget that that was ever the situation they were in. They retreated into a fantasy world, ignoring the world burning around them. They nearly destroyed the multiverse by preventing the next big bang, because they didn't want their story to end.

It's only because of The Prisoner and The Hatchling's combined efforts that the Nomai came searching for The Eye, and The Hatchling was able to enter The Eye, and restart the universe.

The inhabitants of The Stranger had buried their heads in the sand up until the end of the universe, trying to ignore the reality of the coming end. The game makes it clear how foolish they were, and how close they came to destroying everything in their futile attempt to save themselves.

The DLC feels like it's in dialogue with those players who hated the main game's ending, and how there was no way to stop it. The DLC shows them a bunch of monsters in the dark, terrified of the first new thing to happen in 300,000 years, about to die as their spaceship falls apart under the strain as it attempts to avoid the supernova. They could have been the ones to usher in the new world, in their image. Instead they hid, and pretended nothing was happening. One of them tried to right this wrong by letting their story come to its natural conclusion, and they trapped that individual in a casket at the bottom of a lake, immortal but trapped in solitary confinement. They were just that scared of the story ending.

You meet The Prisoner and tell them of all that happened since their confinement. You tell them that their actions are the only reason you're there, why the Nomai came and tried to find The Eye, why you will be able to find The Eye. You bring that memory of The Prisoner into The Eye, and even as a memory they must apologize for their whole race, no matter how this turned out in the end. You reassure them that they did the right thing, and you step together into a new dawn.

The story of the DLC just feels like they had those who didn't like the main game's ending in mind when it was written.

#outer wilds #outer wilds echoes of the eye #echoes of the eye #outer wilds spoilers

[ver-s-m-l-tude]

June Prompts from Nosebleed Club:

Here

1. My life splayed open before me // fresh dead // car crash dead // the sun glares operating room florescence // and lowers it’s Maui Jim’s to tell me I’m theirs now // all supernova spitfire // crystalpunk in a crimson // pantskirt clinging with sweat and fishnets crawling with whalefall // I want to feel like // a silent film walking into a bar // a score marked by ill omen // and a burn hole. New. New. New. // I store the light behind my eyes // basking, open chested.

2. What of it? What of the stagnant pearlescent water standing trials of would-be-fire and mosquito larvae? What of dumpster leakage and stale pizza crust, sog of bread and blank? What of ‘my name is’ sharpie smear a squid ink bagel crimson lined? What of burnt rubber? What of exhaust fumes, acid rain, potholes and spare change? What of the pigeons, there? Do they feel their lack? Some neutered thing, gene naked and twisted two turns past just ‘helix’ and three skips of a rock past ‘dove.’ Do they know what has been taken, what we take? Bastard children left to burn down with the house, packed like sardines in the attic.

3. Occhiolistic minds starstruck with void, the realization of matterlessness as hot ash rains from a red sky and caresses the hood of your car. Lovers: forest fires and gasoline engines. They fuck like exhaust fumes gasping. You, ever the voyeur, watch the procession of images through windshield polaroids. It’s like this: the sky flirts with apocalypse, the aphrodisiac that is a strawberry moon coated in chocolate monoxide. They fuck like lovers dying, an ill fated marriage, arranged to look good draped in the red satin of this: the end. The ending which leaves the crowd gasping for air, stranded countryside amidst a forest of ash. Entropy the reverend minister blessing their cause, the beauty of a union of misbegotten gains, a procession, a momentum, of speeches and lovers using tablecloths as bedsheets at the rehearsal dinner. Everyone gasping, grasping for the substantial more to distract from that bloodshot eye, the strawberry moon, watching. Matroska doll voyeurs, karma within karma, a world hungry and feasting, picking clean the bones. In the end, the sun sets behind time. The moon, careless, exits stage right– a bride fleeing the altar. In the end, smoke is just carbon, more in common with us than any solar body.

4. Icy certainty, deterministic daydreams manifest. Singular pointed focus weaved in wire through a hag stone, vibrations the color of that tea they liked, all Antarctica melting, all steam and caffine and –

Loving you was the best thing I ever did, but not the best thing I’ll ever do. Highways of aortic determinism blood running back to you in the shade of roman roads, cobblestone wounds, scabs of citrine and –

I’m not bitter tonight. I’m human tonight. Floral and fruiting. Today scars grinned with teeth that had seeds in them. Magic was real again, like mud pies and stone soup and potions and sand in sunscreen and –

There’s that pine smell again. Knuckle sucking nostalgia punch drunk on fracas wine and need. I need. I need the wanting of it. Small body too big with ocean brine bloat, wrung dry. Wonderlust. Fill me. Glint machine painted –

5. Pretention as pretty as pomp in pink or ink smears between fingers. Peppered in pewter pipe dream shavings, pruned to fit without pinprick leakage of pellucid psalms of pleonexia. Reproduced, pirated, purple with pleading peroration on pride and the puritanical work ethic. But to pasture, to drink that pleasant pellucid pruno to a plump passionate drunk. But to pasture, to feel prized, protected. But to pasture, to hearth. A Shepherd’s love better for it’s echo in space unoccupied. To pasture, to be fed. To grow. To pasture but oh to leave. Prairie wide expanse of pewter pipe grass patronizing through plugged cheeks. Oh to leave pleading for pliant purpose bent to shape. Oh to leave pleading for parallel coupling like cosign waves pirouetting through near misses and tangential caresses. Oh to leave pleading for pangs like pinprick puncture wounds to stop bleeding. Oh to leave, praying.

6. Redacted.

7. 8. 9. Dilapidated, bunny, lash.

The dogs lie, tails low, limbs low, swaying grass. I understand. Hunger. Not for meat, no, for blood. They are different things, but the same, feeding in different ways. We’re all the same. For me it’s the ink, playing predator in black and white. We’re all the same. Writing is to life what dogs are to wolves. An oscillation of limbs lashing, harried, fur flitting with something like fun, something like fleeing. We’re all the same. Even the house, floor fetid with rot, fetid but blossoming. Rot is to flowers what time is to tempo. We’re all the same, the house, however, is longer. Carbon fixed in fiber, xylem long dry knows nothing of blood– not yet anyways. It knows tempo, though. Many a tune trembling between joists and trim, a faint memory of something like fun. The house knows many things but speaks none of them, except in late winter wheezing, the settling of old bones which never knew locomotion like the dogs there, but are learning. The house has learned many things, and it wears that learning on sleeves scarred. Chipped lacquer from family dinners, no blood yet, but pasta sauce perhaps, the wishing of blood perhaps, in echoes of screams ratting its bones alongside tempo and treble. Many things call the house walls home, mice and maggots, a family of rabbits– neighbors hunted. One falls from ceiling to foundation, rotting there against the water main. But no blood. Just holes punched in frantic search for the stench that was there long before anyone could smell it, and certainly long before the rabbits. Hyde glue and acetone. The dogs thunder overhead, the basement the tom drum of suburbia, lashed by foot and paw. We’re all the same. I listen like the rabbits, though before them, for the thundering foot above. Fingers on keys on tempo with the joists and studs, I creak too, I fall too, I know blood, I tasted it. But not the house, not yet. No, the house knows subtraction and addition. Minus two dogs, plus three dogs, it keeps score in the carpet, piss stains, vomit from the night he ate a bark of soap, and a bouquet of roses. The house knows slobber. It knows seven layers of paint, and three layers of plaster. It knows the mirror, silver nitrate peeling pockmarked as its gypsum riddled with pinpricks. It knows cedar wood warped and twisted like alpine juniper, and just as grey. It knows other grey things: cement, pavement, the darker spots of oil stains would be fire like the two dogs before. It knows graphite, and ink smears. It knows hair, black and grey. We’re all the same. It knows these things but It won’t learn of blood for many years. Not until its bones are made teeth bared and its joists rest on rot-carpet like rabbits on water mains. It learns of blood then, after five dogs, and a number of feet and paws. This is its final lecture, as the patchwork plywood door caves in to last foot, and teaches it of red. Though it tastes like gasoline, its blood. Though it stings like fire, its blood. We’re all the same, full of tempo, heart lashing red like sprays of treble. The rabbits watch, they’ve won. The dogs are gone. The feet are gone. The stains and tally marks gone. We’re all the same, dust to dust and ashes. We’re all the same. Type, run, fall, lash, laugh, gasp, scream, cry, live, li–

#living document #introduction #w