#herald is a lucky bastard

[sidesteppostinghours]

4 + 5 + 8 + 40 + 34 and I) G) F) for Cyrus Becker my beloved 🧡

afternoon idle!! oh my god questions galore *cracks knuckles* cyrus get your ass over here youre up

4. How easy is it to earn their trust?

Very difficult, and at the same time easier than youd think. he definitely doesnt entertain everybody, but hes not unreasonable. hell hear you out if you give him enough reason to (or if he thinks its beneficial to get to know you. do you see why he gets attached to people hes supposed to be manipulating so often). ortega and mortum required him to establish a relationship, which is how they got so close to eachother so quickly. herald got by because cyrus thought hed be a useful contact in the rangers. chen couldve earned his trust a long time ago, they had to work with eachother a lot back when he still ran with the rangers, but chen squandered it on his suspicions and its been too long for cyrus to have any interest in patching up their relationship. argent has largely flown under his radar, she hasnt piqued his interest more than the passing curiosity of why she wanted the regenerator.

5. How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

the default is mistrust. sorry yall, hes not taking any more chances than necessary. hes a telepath, he knows all too well what secrets other people hide, and hes not interested in giving people a chance to prove his suspicions wrong. but after hes grown to trust somebody? its... embarrassing how difficult it is to lose it. even though his trust is much shakier nowadays, you still need to have fucked up Majorly to get him back to mistrusting you. if you somehow manage to do that,,, uhhhh. what do you want on your tombstone? (ig its technically its possible to not die and even earn that trust back??? ortega managed, but thats ortega and hes statistically more likely to kill you or ruin your life. depends on how badly you fucked up. id say theres a good 5% chance youll survive the experience without the need for intense psychotherapy)

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child

listen. follow orders. be exactly who we need you to be. cyrus was a deeply rebellious regene, but he wasnt stupid about it. hed go against the mission in secret, and just enough that nobody wouldve been able to trace any problems back to him. that doesnt mean he was never caught, but he was too competent of a regene to be scrapped, which saved him multiple times before. those few times did cause handlers to keep a closer eye on him though, just in case. handlers would usually keep a harder grip on cyrus, hold him to stricter standards. it contributed a lot to his own self talk. SPEAKING OF WHICH:

40. How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

you must imagine me holding him and looking lovingly into his eyes while i dump a gallon of insecurity and perfectionism on him. hes a proud man, he thinks hes better than what other people are capable of, but that arguably makes things worse when he does make a mistake. he of all people shouldnt be like this. add the puppetmaster scar on him and its a hefty load of 'i need to make sure every single step of my plan goes exactly right Or Else." the worst thing about him is that a lot of the petty flaws he thinks apply to him arent correct. AND HE CANT EVEN NAME HIS ACTUAL FLAWS. cyrus you are so smart and walking around with zero self awareness, its the best. please consider stepping into acid.

34. How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt? 

hohohohoho. well. the first step is to get him to feel guilty in the first place. traditionally immoral actions arent going to get to him, obviously. the thing that springs up guilt for him most often is themmys death. he has. a Lot of survivors guilt about that. especially because hes convinced himself he couldve done something and *gestures to the ask above*. guilt will haunt him for life if it doesnt get resolved in a healthy way, but hes gotten good at burying his emotions a long time ago. even when he feels like that, he reserves a specific time to think about it, otherwise itll impede on his plans in the long run. that designated time is. usually when hes supposed to be sleeping. his sleep schedule is just a little bit messed.

I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?

oh dude i Love putting cyrus in aus. its so fun to poke him with a stick and see what happens. the first one i put him in was a band au, it helped me figure out how he would interact with herald. basically cyrus was a masked guitarist (for backstory reasons) for a band daniel happened to be a fan of, except the two of them managed to meet at just regular old work, with cyrus not realizing daniel was a fan and daniel not realizing cyrus was from one of his favourite bands. it led to fun, mlb-esque shenanigans between the two lmfao. the second one i put him in was the becker siblings au, which i still have thoughts and emotionsTM about. that au let me indulge in the 'cyrus is an older sibling' headcanon and i will forever be in debt to it for the amount of protective cyrus i got. third and current au im obsessing over is a 'cyrus survives hb' scenario, where ortega managed to stop him before he jumped out the window. i am getting! so much ortega x cyrus content out of that au! and so much survivors guilt cyrus. cyrus 'using' ortega to forget about heartbreak my beloveddddd. he also says 'i love you' to ortega in this au and canon ortega is SO jealous. also x2, hes an alcohol vice step in this au. heartbreak hit hard and the tequila hits different.

aaaand i still like his canon version better. its just so very much him. out of every step ive got, hes the one i get to stay closest to how i envision based on the choices the game offers. plus he caught me completely by surprise suckerpunching me with an obsession over him and i cant Not respect that.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

not sure whether this means on a character creation level or as a person, but ill answer for 'as a person' because im overall pretty satisfied with how he turned out! but like. god what is there to not be bothered about. my manipulative little shit of a son. ig the trait that frustrates me the most is his self destructive tendencies. like. Sir. are you at all aware of the fact that people care for you and want you safe? and that you can respond to that concern with something other than "i can use this", "sucks to be them", or, "no theyre not"? sir. sir answer the question. hes so empathetic and also literally a telepath but somehow cant compute genuine concern at him. as frustrating as it is though, i cannot deny that it is deeply funny to watch him fumble so badly.

F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?

normal. the ones where people look at me and think "wow, that is a person who is having (a) regular thought(s) about their character! very cool!" you will never see a person who is more normal about their guy than i am (i am grabbing him by the teeth and shaking him like a dog with a very strong kill instinct).

truly though, thinking of him gets me buzzing. hes like a puzzle, i keep breaking him apart and putting him back together again to see how everything works. i have this thing where ill often think about showing character analysis to the characters themeselves, just to see how they would react, and i undeniably do this the most with cyrus. i want to explain step by step (hah) why he is the way that he is now, like the whole timeline is plotted inside my head and its so!!!!! i am!!!!! chewing on him!!!!!

questions from here!

#herald is a lucky bastard #he messed up twice in a row (asking cyrus about his sidestep days+picking him up without consent) but asking for help training saved him #cyrus was straight up being sadistic about it he just wanted to fw herald after those two times and saw training as an opportunity #it wasnt supposed to lead somewhere #anathema vision wouldve fucked him and his guilty ass Up. good thing cyrus is a bastard and abandoned argentine before they crashed 🫶 #and because i have an excuse to talk about them again heres some things that ive been thinking about lately: #1. it is So fucking funny to me that all three of them are trans afabs in some way #scientists at the farm in charge of the becker sibling batch: wow look at these three new girl regenes! #cyrus (trans man)/fawn (nb)/river (trans man): . well- #2. brother-madds buckley. just the whole thing. im going to start screaming and punching the floor here #3. WHO WAS THE HG SIBLING THE ORTEGAS SAW IN THE PHOTO. was it just somebody that looked enough like the three to assume it was a sibling #or did it happen to look exactly like one of the siblings. or did they find three photos with siblings that looked like each? I NEED ANSWER #cyrus' is very emotionally intelligent towards everybody but himself #when it comes to himself hes wearing a blindfold and earplugs and pretending nothings wrong #the whole time i was answering that last ask i was thinking about my post talking about how many posts of his were in my queue #god bless that man he never leaves my brain #thank you again for the ask idle :DD #cyrus becker #sidestep #fhr #pulp answers #ask game

[lavandulacosmos]

[ATEEZ X Six of Crows] Jung Wooyoung as Jesper Fahey

Jung Wooyoung was a household name in the Barrel, the lucky charm for every gambling hall thanks to his lousy relationship with Lady Luck. Wherever he went, his loud laugh heralded his arrival, along with the telltale sound of him parting with his money as he racked up thousands in debt.

That was the front, the jovial fool who could never stop.

It made others forget he was one of the top members of the Horizon crew, that as much as he lost at the tables, he gained it back tenfold in information and connections without their rivals even realising how lose their lips turned around a pretend fool.

They forgot he was dangerous.

Wooyoung was in his element when the stakes were high, but he felt best when people were shooting at him. That was when every distraction fell away, when every scattered thought disappeared, when his mind was pushed into the focused state of a fighter and the best sharpshooter Kerch has ever seen.

Not that he looked for death. No. It was the only definite drawback of not thinking about anything but survival. No, he just loved the swift sound of gunfire, the unique scent of gunpowder, the taste of adrenaline on his tongue and the way his guns grew hot in his hands, heating up like his blood when he found himself in a satisfying skirmish.

His weapons were his most prized possessions, a pair of Zemeni-made revolvers he loved more than he loved waiting for the last card to fall, for his number to be called at a stacked table. They were his greatest gift from the only person he first felt any loyalty to, even if he called him a reckless idiot more often than not.

It didn’t matter, he’s always been unable to walk away from a bad hand, be it the Makker’s Wheel or the Bastard of the Barrel. That just made Jung Wooyoung a rotten gambler, but an excellent friend.

(@applejongho 😉)

#art #myart #ateez #wooyoung #ateez x six of crows #atzsource #ateez fanart #six of crows #jesper fahey #witness my deep dive into this au #i'm still figuring out the joong scene but until then have woo #and i couldn't resist including the dregs' tattoo tho i renamed their crew to fit ateez more #symbolism-wise the crow is not a bad one to keep #jonghomies

[medicus-mortem]

@goreburdened asked: "hey, hey, big bro law? you look like shit!" dellinger cackles in glee, pupils dilated as he takes in the older male's ragged appearance. the half breed had been enticed by the smell of blood to this spot, but to think it was the family's long lost grumpy child all grown up instead of a random person. how wild! the blond could barely remember him, but his expression was virtually the same in hazy, barely there memories. broody & spiteful. dellinger excitedly clicks his shoes on the crackled pavement like a bull about to charge, dark heels already soaked in blood. "eek, you're lucky doffy wants to gut you himself!" he titters & giggles. "otherwise I'd do it!" Unprompted

Everything aches but that's nothing new to the Surgeon of Death. What really has him irritated is the heavy exhaustion weighing him down. Chained to the Heart Seat, that throne he never truly wanted but, by the way Doflamingo spoke, this very chair has been waiting for him. Kept empty in preparation of his return. Who knew Doffy could be so fucking obsessive. It might add to Law's ego if it wasn't so damn creepy.

Footsteps herald someone's approach and Law tenses, expecting the pink bastard to walk through those double doors once again. Preparing himself to be drawn back into that exhausting battle of words and wit that is talking to the manipulative bastard. Instead, he sees a vaguely unfamiliar face stroll in. Oh, yes, Law knows who Dellinger is. He did his research, but this kid has certainly grown since Law last saw him. He was just a baby when Law left, a poor defenceless child about to grow up in this fucked up family.

The doctor slouches and sighs in annoyance. This is not ideal but he does feel some sympathy for the kid. It's not his fault he's been turned into a feral monster by Doflamingo. Not his fault that bastard's strings wrap so tightly around his throat. He's nothing but a tool to be used and he doesn't know it.

"Ah, it's the feral fish. Excellent," Law drawls, features as grim as his current circumstances demand them to be. "This day can't get any better."

Part of him wishes he was talking to Baby 5 right now. He could manipulate her into turning on Doflamingo. Not likely to do that with this kid. He's too indoctrinated. Probably has some inferiority complex and a real need to please Doffy. Wonder if that has anything to do with Joker's disappointment with losing his preferred and chosen protege. Maybe Law can use that to manipulate the kid into accidentally setting him free.

"Sounds like you got a real poor grasp on what your beloved boss man wants to do with me," Law continues, deciding to poke at the kid.

#goreburdened #goreburdened || dellinger #boring question // answered ask #as planned // ic #[I was so excited when I got this ask! #i have many thoughts about Law and Dellinger #also putting this when Law is on the heart seat because it's the only moment that makes sense to me]

[dwestfieldblog]

HEXAGRAM 2023

‘With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence, the key of Joy is disobedience’.

The foul war crimes continue care of dwarf slaphead Vlad and his fat Nosferatu wannabe president Prigozhin of the despicable Wagner group. The latter have just legally registered themselves as a company concerned with ‘management consulting’. Yevgeny was a former petty violent criminal and is now a serious professional criminal, (the scum also rises.) Shame there is nothing possible in democracies as a slow public execution broadcast live. The Russian Chuckle brothers have a vast amount of truly innocent blood on their hands and their degrading end cannot come soon enough. 

The angry irrelevant like me still dream of the day when such bastards are righteously punished. Start at the top and work right down to culpable cretins like Trump, Boris and Matt Hancock. In-between Bolsanaro, Erdogan, above them Myanmar’s army, Kim Wrong ‘Un and Xi. Perhaps just the stocks and rotten cabbages for the Scottish leader and Farage. And castration for the execrable Tate brothers.

Expel Chang Frick from Sweden immediately and let him live in Russia.

Shock news…Brexit seems to be failing (the writer almost gloats…(but he is living inside the nightmare now, not observing from a safe distance) on every level other than the one where the rich keep their untaxable loot safe offshore and command poor hugely replaceable drones to do their bidding. And unless I am not careful/lucky, I will become one of the latter’s ranks very soon. ‘England awakes, England expectorates, all hope evaporates’. Land of hopeless stories…the untied kingdom with an abundance of food banks. This country is worse off than all the other G7 nations in terms of health care, work, pay, time off, culture…fill in the blanks with live ammunition.

A three-day weekend for the king’s coronation to show Britain ‘as it is today’. Diverse, multicultural, woke, vapid, amoral, racist and disintegrating? If the prison island is still floating after the nuclear tsunami from Putin’s submarines. And some cretins are proposing Boris ‘Let the bodies pile high’ Johnson as leader of NATO. Yes, that would be a GOOD idea, wouldn’t it?

And oh, get me OUT of this ridiculous country, a trigger warning has been placed on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge… a content warning of ‘animal death’, ie ‘I shot the albatross’.  For feck’s sake, really? Aside from the fact the poem is a classic masterpiece and the action heralds a long stream of disaster and bad luck for the sailor (and thus its own warning perhaps), this is the latest in a heart crippling list of utter cow manure ideas from MORONS for the new generation of the weak. Sooner or later…obituaries themselves will come with a trigger warning. Death is inevitable you lily livered wusses.

‘Religion is a business and in business you have to protect your copyright’

‘When trade stops, war starts’ Chinese saying. Indeed, and their recent pronouncements at Davos economic Forum indicate a desire to re-join and open up in the high holy name of business. Covid rampant, birth-rate falling there for the first time in sixty years but nothing good for all those murdered or ‘ re-educated’ for the sake of noble Communist ideas…and the unwilling donors of Falun Gong members who had their clean organs harvested for the rich. Winnie the Pooh is a pig, four legs good, two legs better,eh? All the blank paper protestors vanishing, forced to sign a blank arrest warrant. ‘Picking quarrels and provoking trouble’ is the charge against silent protests. 10 years max. Cant rule without being cruel eh? Fk the Chinese government. Good luck Cao Zhixin.

Elon Musk the saviour of Twitter and reinstating Trump, quoted ‘The people have spoken, vox populi, vox dei’…interesting to note the full version from which that Latin comes is ‘And those people should not be listened to who keep saying the voice of the people is the voice of God, since the riotousness of the crowd is always very close to madness’. Reminds me again of Churchill’s quote ‘the best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with an average voter’. The apparent all powering desire of Boris to be seen as a latter-day Winston rather than what he is, a pound shop Trump is somewhere between hilarious and terrifying. But aren’t most things?

Pronoun badges. An advert which proudly announces you are a tosser. Oh I am not in a good enough mood to follow my principles but in the safe space neophobes verses the it’s fun to explore neophiles, I despise both extreme left and right, the woke and anyone else dumb enough not to think for themselves. The Dalai Lama (goddess bless him) I am not. Be yourself, everyone else is taken. Explore, experiment, harm none but do what you Will.

‘For a Fuhrer to exist, there must be masses with a submissive imprint on that circuit’. Reality is What You Make It. R.A.W. Hail Victory, arf.

‘And since we’re all quantum systems, we’re in all possible states until we take our measurements, as it were’.Geddit? More Robert Anton Wilson.

San Francisco’s Open AI, backed by Q Onan’s favourite antichrist Bill Gates has unleashed ChatGPT…which, amongst other drear functions, has been set to task writing songs. A machine writing of emotions and images it will never experience might almost qualify as a type of psychopath with a good imagination (and there are a few such famous folk who have had their books published) but cold pure logic and random word play will never inspire any humans other than those most similar to machines. Poetry, fascination and longing expressed without a soul of light or a mind of lust, fire and loss. It does however make sense in these times of virtual Meta reality tv that certain types of primates might attain a numb thrill as their spirit slows to inertia. Souls in total stasis.

Oh God, ‘How art thou Nothing when thou art most of all?’  

Carer’s Breakdown Diary …Five weeks ago I came downstairs at 7 am to find my mother kneeling on the carpet with her head on the bed, leggings and pants down, surrounded by excrement and broken glass because of falling from the commode. I carried her over the mess, took her to the freezing kitchen, washed her feet and checked for cuts, washed her legs, got her dressed. Carried her back into the sitting room, brought her pills and a drink and spent two hours cleaning the carpet. The glass of water had been on her bedside table and I was an idiot to have left it there. Just luck there were no cuts. She hadn’t called for help. Just waited for me, could have been there for thirty mins.  After hospital, thirty eight days at the home she bought 33 years ago and still asking me ‘When can I go home?’

Mum goes walkabout at night, swears she is unaware of the care with which she removes obstacles which I later set up to hear if she left the room. Three months ago I woke at 5am to hear the landing creaking and stopped her just as she was stepping into the darkness of the top stair. Got a baby gate and was told it impinged on her civil liberties by a social worker. Moved her bed downstairs and woke early to hear her trying to come upstairs. I put Christmas lights around the commode and 4 sensor lights and this still didn’t help enough at night to remember. Maximum of four hours sleep every night, sleeping with one ear open for thumps. I have said exhausted angry things to mum that if I heard anyone saying to their ill, elderly mother, I would punch them into a hospital.  

Her phases of not knowing me at all are increasing. Two weeks of mum in a care home…respite they call it, or Carers Break, to give me a break. (She lost 3kg there and already looked emaciated before going.) I visited mum last week; she was sitting in the hall in pyjamas I did not know. Did not recognise her with head slumped, had to get on my knees to look carefully. Spent thirty mins with mum then went to her room to unpack some extra clothes I had brought. Returned ‘You can’t sit there, David will be back soon’.  

Today I spent an hour looking at all the photos mum saved of my life in Prague and for the first time since coming back in June, I felt the pang of missing Czech. Half of my life in Bohemia. I also found many photos I had never seen of mum at all stages of her life, actually smiling in many of them in our old garden or her on holiday in Guernsey and happy. A small but detailed diary she had kept of her two weeks there which I found in a box next to my childish diary of a holiday in the same place along with many many other memories. I spent over an hour howling with tears and making animal noises. Guilt and pain. Death cannot exist but decay seems to be bloody real. Fk cancer.

Was administering oral morphine at home in drops after having to call district nurses to come at 4am to inject. My mother is eating and drinking less and less, closing down. I will stop here for this one. February 3rd, mum in a hospice for four days, refusing all pills, so only morphine pump slow release. Visiting tomorrow and will be unlikely to want to re edit or revisit this piece. 

Stay well and Love more. Much more.

[wuxiaphoenix]

A Long Road Chapter 10 Ficbit - Old Wounds and New

:I have good news, bad news, and odd news.: Kellen flicked an ear, brushing across his hair.

:The good news is, I think he did heal from the war. Back then - my best guess is a shoulder-wound, along with that horrible brand. He was probably wearing his hair down because it hurt to reach up and back.:

Lan Wangji’s blood ran cold. If Wei Wuxian’s range of motion was impaired such that he could not do his own hair properly.... :He gave up the sword. He let us believe it was arrogance.:

:Likely not.: Kellen’s tone was ruthlessly honest. :I’d guess he could still use one - but any trained swordsman would have noticed the weakness.:

Meaning every cultivator. Lan Wangji considered that, and frowned. “Yet in Yiling-”

:And that would be the bad news. That was a different - newer - injury.: Kellen paused. :A much worse one. Wounds near the gut are bad enough when you have Healers right on the battlefield to cleanse the wound, stitch it, and make sure the body starts knitting back together. You say Wen Qing is a master herb-Healer?:

“Herbs, surgery, and cultivation,” Lan Wangji nodded.

:He’s damn lucky he had her, then. I hope he killed whatever bastard got that close.:

“He did not.” Lan Wangji swallowed, a thread of nausea snaking through his gut. “Rumor says, the Yiling Laozu dueled Jiang Wanyin, before Sect Leader Jiang declared him expelled from the Jiang.”

Kellen blew out a hot breath. :Tell you what, Chosen. You hold him down, I’ll stomp him.:

Lan Wangji shook his head. “He is the Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang-”

:Which means he’s more than good enough to duel someone to make a point and not come within a hairsbreadth of killing them, Chosen!: Kellen bared large, white teeth. :As you said, he’s the Sect Leader. All he had to do was declare Wei Wuxian was getting kicked out. Hells, if he needed a reason, all he had to say was the Yiling Laozu wouldn’t give up resentful energy and Lotus Pier wouldn’t shelter heretical cultivation that now that the war was over! Everyone would have scrambled over themselves to agree. Wouldn’t they?:

Wincing, Lan Wangji nodded.

:That brings us to the odd news.: Kellen nudged his head up. :Cultivation isn’t the same as magic here up North. From what Sayvil’s passed along about the Skybolt mages, they get mage-exhaustion the way Heralds can get Gift-exhaustion. Burn through your energy long enough, often enough, and it hurts you inside. Does that happen to cultivators?:

#wei wuxian #mdzs #the untamed #mdzs fanfiction #crossover #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #valdemar #a long road #in progress

[daitranscripts]

Blackwall Cutscene: The Threat Remains

Look At It

Blackwall Masterpost Related Quest: The Threat Remains

Blackwall is staring up at the rift when the PC approaches.

Blackwall: Maker, look at it. So much easier to ignore when it’s far away. And to actually walk out of it, to be that close…

Dialogue options:

General: I was lucky. [1]

General: You could get closer. [2]

General: It was nothing. [3]

1 - General: I was lucky. PC: If I hadn’t been saved by Inquisition soldiers, I don’t know what would have happened. Blackwall: Inquisition soldiers? That’s not what I’ve heard.

2 - General: You could get closer. PC: It’s right there. We could take a trip, if you’re that curious. Blackwall: I’m going to have to decline… at least until I learn more about it.

3 - General: It was nothing. PC: I survived. Nothing to crow about. Blackwall: Nothing to crow about? Do people normally fall out of the sky where you’re from?

Race specific dialogue:

Non-human PC [4]

Human PC [9]

4 - Non-human PC: Blackwall: I have to admit, I thought you’d be…

PC: Human?

Blackwall: Yes.

Dialogue options:

General: I don’t blame you. [5] + Blackwall slightly approves

General: At least you’re honest. [6] + Blackwall slightly approves

General: Is this a problem? [7]

5 - General: I don’t blame you. PC: That’s not surprising. Humans are everywhere. It’s expected. [8]

6 - General: At least you’re honest. Dalish PC: Being upfront is better than “knife-ear.” Qunari PC: Being upfront is better than “oxman.” Dwarf PC: At least you’re upfront. Better than “I thought you’d be taller.” Blackwall: It was a foolish thought. Should’ve known better than to say anything. [8]

7 - General: Is this a problem? PC: Do you object to my kind? Blackwall. Of course not. Didn’t mean to offend. [8]

8 - Scene continues.

Blackwall: It’s what you do, and how you do it, that’s important. [14]

9 - Human PC: Blackwall: The Breach, the Divine’s death, the Wardens… it doesn’t make sense. There’s so much we don’t know.

Dialogue options:

General: Your help will be invaluable. [11]

General: Is it “we” already? [12]

General: Just follow our lead. [13]

11 - General: Your help will be invaluable. PC: Your experience with the Wardens will certainly be useful. Blackwall: Mostly the treaties, I expect. Old parchments you’re welcome to. [14]

12 - General: Is it “we” already? PC: Already feeling like part of the team, I see. Blackwall: Too soon? I thought we were building a rapport. So… you already know something of me. What about you? How do you fit into all of this? [14]

13 - General: Just follow our lead. PC: Just be there when we need you, and don’t ask too many questions. Blackwall (female PC): I like a woman who takes charge. [14]

14 - Scene continues.

Blackwall: Just one question then. How do you fit in with all this?

Dialogue options:

General: I want peace. [15] + Blackwall approves

General: I’m not sure yet. [16] + Blackwall slightly approves

General: Some worship me. I like that. [17] - Blackwall disapproves

15 - General: I want peace. PC: I just want to help stop the war, try to put things back in order. Blackwall: A worthy goal, one I’m happy to support.

16 - General: I’m not sure yet. PC: It’s been a whirlwind. It’s hard to say where I fit. Blackwall: I guess we’ll have to figure that out.

17 - General: Some worship me. I like that. PC: A few of them worship me, and think I’m destined for greatness. I don’t disagree. Blackwall: I don’t think I’ve ever met someone quite so proud of who they are. It’s… refreshing. Suppose being called “Andraste’s Herald” must go to your head.

18 - Scene continues.

Blackwall: For me, I’ll be satisfied so long as we find the bastards that killed the Divine. They owe us some answers.

Scene ends.

#dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #dai transcripts #blackwall #haven #long post

[gazelessmenagerie]

There was something...                                                       Calming..                                                                                 about the way the grey clouds overhead blotting out the sun entirely. Light diffused to a stormy moodiness yet heralded no rain to fall from the heavens. The world itself seemed to glow with an ethereal light of its own, quiet and somber but not to a gloomy outlook. 

Rather.. it seemed more of a tranquil feeling rarely felt. The scent of rain hung at the edges, detected through a keen sense of smell but as for whether it would fall or not was up to the clouds themselves. Out among the desert wasteland of his home, the quietude was one to be enjoyed after a grueling set of months of near endless sunshine beating down harshly. The sweat of his brow evident, skin feeling seared during his long hunts in catching enough food to sustain himself for the day, all of it seemed almost alike to a faroff memory as the centers of darkened optics stared without thought towards the whispering grey skies.

Part of him wanted to hear the rumble of thunder, witness the powerful sparks of lightning that brought primal instincts collected down his spine and all the way to the tip of his tail. Built up static ushering the fine hairs to raise on end, ears attentive to the war happening in the heavens above resulting in ‘bloodshed’ falling to water the ground in primordial renewal. If he was lucky, maybe he could douse himself in that deluge. Let his eyes close and remain until he was soaked to the bone, the miasma of resplendent petrichor filling every breath he took. Inhaled, exhaled.. the chill clinging to his barren skin and hanging heavy against the thick locks of hair reaching over his eyes and down his back.

If only it would stay like that..

                                                           stay like this..

Then again. he’d become bored of the endless peacefulness, become blighted with no purpose to serve as a warrior of a once mighty race. It was in his blood to seek out or cause some sort of turmoil, start fights and win every single one due to the power held within the seams of his flesh. Well.. save for Kakarot..

He’ll rip that deplorable Kakarot’s spine out and beat whatever’s left in a fine splatter of pulverized organs and blood. The mere thought alone was enough to close his fingers into tightly balled fists, thoughts storming to a dark tempest of how exactly he’ll make that bastard scream out as he draws out the torture until death came. A low growl built within the inner confines of his throat, head shaking and for the moment.. the weather changed it’s mind as rips of sapphire tore apart the gloomy flesh and bled out rays of light. Mottled streaks of yellow and light pinks bruised against the once pristine monochrome hues, the angle of the sun’s descent signaling the near end of another day.

No rain yet..

                         The land was parched and thirsted for renewal.

                  He had hunting to do before the moon came as a full phase...

#|| Tag: Drabble #|| Tag: Gazing over the Abyss of Stars { Broly }

[aria-i-adagio]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Ship: Dorian x m!Trevelyan

Rating: T

read on A03 or below

(title from REM, 'Imitation of Life')

Meanwhile, in Haven.

Rhys has a list of sights he does not want to see as he’s dying. At the top (and a recent addition) are hurlocks - those are some ugly motherfuckers, and he suspects that they enjoy making death hurt. Most varieties of demons; although, perhaps a desire demon might not be too bad. Granted, he doesn’t know if the illusions they cast last up to the point of death, or if those are only good while being possessed. That might change the calculus a bit. One of the red lyrium crystal monsters the Templars were turning themselves into. A bear. He definitely does not want to see a bear while he’s dying.

As final sights go, the implosion of the Breach as the thing in his hand stitches the Veil back together isn’t a bad one. The outer edges turn magenta, then blue-violet. The cooler colors rush to the center, swirl together, drawing inward until there’s just a speck of black, more liquid than the darkest night. Then bright, morning sunlight pulses like a heartbeat from that center.

Rhys lets go of the breath he was holding. He thinks it worked, thinks the Breach is closed. It feels powerful enough - a wave of magic like fire and lightning pouring through him, in and out, like breathing in harsh, herbal smoke that messes with his head and makes the world swim, and at least, in his case, despite many promises to the contrary never makes him as sleepy as it just makes him keyed up and in want a good fuck.

The shockwave following the pulse of white light picks him up off his feet and sends him hurtling through the air and slamming him like a ragdoll into rocks and ice around Haven.

Still, the light is damned pretty. Until it fades.

He hears Dorian's voice through the ringing in his ears. “Rhys! Thank the Maker.”

Rhys hopes that he isn’t dead because if he is that implies that Dorian is dead too, and that would rather sad. The world needs Dorian smiling and making catty jokes. There’s been too much melancholy and death over the past few months. Rhys is getting tired of all the omens of doom and gloom.

There’s another little gap in time before his head recovers enough to remember how to open his eyes. When he does, Cassandra’s upside-down face greets him. Dorian's would have been a prettier sight, but there's something comfortingly familiar about seeing Cassie first thing after realizing that - despite there being every reason for him to be - he is not, in fact, dead.

Rhys's vision still spins, and his left arm feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Yes, he’s been here before. Best just to let go, disconnect from it, float a little bit. “Are you going to yell at me again?”

“What?” Cassie’s dark brows pull low over her eyes. “No!”

“Too bad. You’re kinda attractive when you look like you’re about to commit murder.”

“Herald!”

Cassie sounds scandalized. Rhys manages a grin. Not that scandalizing Cassie actually takes that much effort. Makes her easy to tease. Something to distract him from how much he’s hurting at the moment because pretending that the waves of pain radiating from his arm are the ocean doesn’t actually work very well. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been in the ocean since he was a small child. The memory of floating in warm waves until they send you tumbling into rough sand isn’t fresh enough.

“Keep talking like that, Lucky, and you might yet manage to die tonight.”

“Hey, Varric.” Rhys tries to lift his head and the bastard offspring of fire and electricity shoots from his shoulder to neck and then down his spine. The muscles in his back spasm and his head hits the ground beneath him, blacking out his vision for another moment and sending the ringing in his ears a pitch higher. “Did it work?” he asks groggily.

“You did good, kid.”

“So it -”

“The Breach is sealed, Rhys.” Solas’s calm voice is reassuring to hear. “Try not to move, this will hurt more before it hurts less.”

“That story -” He means to say ‘again,’ but Cassandra grabs his shoulders very firmly and maybe he shouldn't waste breath on quips.

“Dorian, be ready.” Solas does something, and that something rips the fire out of his left arm, which is - as promised - worse than just letting it settle in like some magical, fatal addition to the marrow.

“Motherfucking, son of a bitch, what in the name of Andraste's flaming arse -”

“Language.” Cassie lets go of his shoulders and reprimands him with a light cuff on the side of his head. “Oh let the kid blaspheme a bit, Seeker. He's earned it.”

Rhys sits up and rubs his hand. Above him, the sky is still marked by a line of bright green, but it’s a seam in the darkness, not a whirling, pulsating storm. His arm doesn't hurt now, but there's the same fuzzy numb wrongness in his wrist and palm that he's gotten used to over the past few months. That's on a good day.

Solas arches his eyebrows and looks amused. “You know I do very little in the name of Andraste's arse, flaming or not.”

“Whatever your reason -” Rhys experimentally stretches out his left arm and reaches across his chest to rub his shoulder. It’s still aching, but just the banal ache of falling a bit too hard. “Thank you."

Nearby Dorian finishes casting with an elegant - and probably unnecessary - flourish of his elegant hands. One of the trees beside the Chantry behind to glow with the green of a Veil Rift, then warming to a color closer to chartreuse.

“What is that?”

“You absorbed a lot of energy while closing the Breach. I siphoned off what I could at the time. But still, far more than a human body is supposed can contain and remain alive.”

“Right.” Movement of energy had been his theory for some time. Massive amounts of magic were required to open or close a rift in the Veil, and something had to serve as a conduit. Whatever happened at the Conclave had left him as that conduit, but each time he felt the power come closer to burning through the bonds that held him together, made him human. Which was precisely why there was a stack of farewell letters sitting on the desk in Rhys's quarters. He hadn’t expected to live through whatever it took to close the Breach.

“Dorian and I pulled off some of what remained and redirected it. It's a rather beautiful effect, albeit transient.”

The tree turns to a brilliant brilliant gold and then quivers and collapses into a pile of shimmering dust. Rhys swallows hard. Not expecting to live isn’t quite the same as getting a glimpse of how you would have died. Or maybe a human body was messier than a tree. Typically were less graceful than plants. “I see.”

“Right then. Let's get you freshened up and then get some liquor in you.” Dorian grabs his forearms and hauls him to his feet. Face to face with the other mage, Rhys feels transparent. Like a plane of glass that can't hide fears and flaws. It's terrifying. Electrifying. “Everyone else has already started the party.”

Even nearly nose to nose with Dorian, Rhys still can't tame the small voice in the back of his head that says he's reading Dorian all wrong, that the man is just friendly, that there's certainly no way someone so beautiful and refined would be interested in a mudlark.

He hopes that voice is just being stupid.

Dorian slips him a flask of brandy as they walk away. Rhys flips the cap off and sips gratefully from it. His legs feel loose, off-balance, like he’s drunk already, and he suspects he would be staggering but for Dorian’s arm around his waist. The linen undergarments beneath his leather coat and woolen sweater are soaked with sweat and chilly even beneath the layers; he’s content enough to let Dorian drag him to the small cabin he’d been given. Really, actually, it is too much for a single person, much bigger than the room he had at Ostwick. And frankly, far too cold with only a single person’s body heat in the space at night.

He stumbles past the partition to the room in the back, trying to decide if he’d rather fall face-first onto the bed, or dig out a new base layer and go enjoy the party he can hear the rest of the Inquisition beginning outside. Leliana and Josephine will probably show up if he chooses the latter and drag him back out with a lecture on keeping up appearances and rallying the people. They might even be right.

Maker, he hopes his part in all this is over. Let Cassandra and Leliana continue trying to remake all of Thedas. He just wants to go home. If he has a home to go to.

“Oh look at this!” Dorian exclaims from the front. “Antivan red. And a halfway decent vintage. You’ve been holding out on me, Rhys.”

“Talk to Josie.” Rhys undoes the buttons down the front of his coat. Too many buttons, especially with hands that are stiff from the cold and shaking from an overdose of magic. He tosses it over the foot of the bed and takes off his sweater. He’s rather fond of the sweater actually, it’s nice and warm and the good kind of scratchy. The kind that kept you in the present place and time. “She’s not lying about her family connections.”

“Not sure she likes me. Yet. She’ll come around.”

“I’m sure she will.” Rhys smiles a little and cautiously - sometimes he has to recalibrate just how much magic to use after closing a Rift - casts a spell to melt the ice on the pitcher of water. Closing the Breach hadn’t done anything to improve Haven’s climate. Maker, why do people choose to live here? He splashes still chilly water over his face and leans his hands against the table, trying not to yawn so hard that his jaw cracks off.

His linen shirt is soaked to his skin; he has to virtually peel it off. It gets tossed to the floor, something that can be dealt with later and by someone else. He soaks a bit of toweling at rubs it over his chest and shoulders, glancing behind him, at least somewhat hoping that Dorian is surreptitiously peering around the partition.

He isn't. He’s turned away from the opening in the partition - polite, Rhys supposes - holding the stack of letters in his hands and shuffling through them. “Rhys. What are these?”

“Just... I need to burn those. They were just in case, well, you know, this wasn't exactly the guaranteed outcome.” He didn’t even know if half the people he had addressed them to were still alive, much less where to find them, but he assumed that Leliana would be able to figure that out if she needed to.

“How late were you up writing them?”

All night. “A while.”

“You were sitting here last night, by yourself, writing these because you thought you might die - Rhys, why didn't you say anything? You didn't have to sit in here drinking and contemplating death alone.”

“I thought the chance closing the Breach would kill was generally understood.” Just the kind of thing that no one talks about in polite society. Rhys combs his fingers through his hair and tries to put it into something akin to order and not just hanging unattractively lank around his face. Kind. Dorian might have a vicious tongue in his head, but he’s also kind when he wants to be. “Open the bottle if you want. If I was saving it for a special occasion, I think this qualifies.”

Rhys sits on the edge of the bed and undoes the buckles down the sides of his boots, tugging them off and rolling down the first of three pairs of socks. The other two are tucked under his trousers. Clean socks will be nice. He gets his trousers off - tight leather is really annoying. Decent armor. A good look on him too - even he can recognize that. But annoying to get on and off.

He finishes washing up quickly and dresses again, listening as Dorian pops the cork out of the bottle and the sound of wine being poured. Hopefully, it’s a decent vintage. He’d hate to disappoint.

Dorian is sitting in one of the chairs with his feet propped up on the desk. Rhys does it all the time himself; it’s a bizarrely satisfying act of delayed rebellion against the librarians who scolded him for doing the same thing in the Circle. The letters have been set aside in a much tidier stack than the one in which he had left them. He pulls the second chair out from the desk, sits down, and picks up the wine glass that Dorian isn’t twirling in his elegant hands.

Dorian stops him as he raises the glass to his lips. “Don’t drink it yet, silly. A red needs to breathe.”

“Right. Yes. Anyway, thanks. For saving my life back there. What is that, like the fiftieth time.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows, smiling over the cup in his hand. “Bad form to let someone die. Especially someone you rather -”

Bells begin clanging outside, interrupting whatever Dorian was about to say. He swings his feet from the desk to the floor and sets the cup violently down on the table. “Oh, Andraste’s quaking quim, what now?”

Rhys grins. “You’re getting as bad as a Ferelden.” Even if the bells are unlikely to signify anything good, he can enjoy a little humor.

“Worse, I think.” Dorian throws back the cup of wine as he gets up from the table, and Rhys follows suit. Yes. It is a more than decent vintage even without enough time to breathe, and he grabs the bottle as Dorian pushes the door open because whatever is about to happen will probably merit alcohol. Cullen is standing outside, still in full armor and fur and with the grim expression that Haven seems to have frozen on his features.

“We’re under attack. Grab your staves. Meet me at the gate.”

“Void take it.” Dorian takes the bottle from him and drinks. “Come on, Rhys. Looks like fate hasn’t given up fucking with us yet.”

Well, fuck.

#dragon age inquisition #dorian x trevelyan #dorian pavus #dragon age fanfiction #trevelyan #pavelyan

[valancyjane]

Nowhere else to turn Chapter 76: Progression

“That wretched bastard is extremely lucky he still breathes,” Draco growls beneath his breath. “I know, I know, I shan’t harp on my fervent wish for his early demise.”

“Macdolas would draw and quarter the fell devil, and bathe in his blood! Use his guts for garters, grind his bones to dust, and– and– urinate on his scattered teeth!” he shrieks, hopping up onto his chair again. All it takes is one stern look from Ruibby for a chastened Mac to clamber back down.

“That’s definitely your last Red Rocket, you feral scamp,” Draco warns, flicking his wrist to magically pour the rest of the contents of the cordial jug down the kitchen sink. “Have you told Hermione the great news about your Hogwarts living arrangements?” he urges, grinning mischievously.

Mac blushes as he shyly reveals, “The Highly Heralded Headmistress McGonagall offers Macdolas and Ruibby a special [his voice drops to a whisper] conjugal suite; Macdolas wishes to formally ask his darlingest Ruibby to do him the greatest honour of living with him in socially-sanctioned domestic bliss, viz and to wit a one bedroom apartment complete with kitchenette, sunken bath and built-in linen closet,” he speaks in a rush.

Oh, heavens! For a moment there, I thought Mac was about to propose! Hermione gently rubs his quivering back as he awaits Ruibby’s response.

The beaming blonde fey maidservant squeaks, “Ruibby asks Macdolas to share her domain, as Headmistress McGonagall advises Ruibby she may decorate the allotted quarters as she wishes… would Macdolas care to help Ruibby select curtains and towels, and further decorate our sweet love shack?”.

With a jubilant snap of his fingers, Mac Apparates to stand beside his beloved, hugging her tightly as Draco is startled into knocking over the basket of fresh, fragrant garlic bread. “For the love of Snakes, Macdolas – give a man some warning!”. He waggles his eyebrows meaningfully at the petite pair as Hermione claps for joy.

“You just screamed a little, Draco – you can’t blame Mac for your skittish nature,” she hoots. “What are you trying to say, my love? I don’t speak Haughty Eyebrow, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t you have a something you wish to discuss with Ruibby and Macdolas, Hermione? An important, timely issue… that rhymes with inception, perhaps?” Draco prods. He admonishes the embracing little lovers: “Look, the both of you don’t fit properly in that chair, and I’d rather you didn’t paw at each other right beside me, thanks.”

Coming up for air, Mac merely smiles beatifically. “’MacRu’ are listening, Your Grace Lady Granger.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994118/chapters/70494477

#dramione #draco x hermione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #harry potter #pansy parkinson #hansy #harry x pansy #post-hogwarts #azkaban #house elves #MacRu #love #romance #drama #angst #dark themes #happy ending #WiP #AO3 #slytherdornet #slytherdor relationships #harry needs a holiday #domestic dramione

[viviae]

can you like. tell me a little about dragon age. seeing your posts about it has got me interested in playing but i have little to no clue what it actually is

Boy can I explain nonny <3 This is a bit long so strap in and im sorry

Dragon Age is (currently) a three game series composed of Dragon Age: Origins (PS3, Xbox 360/Xbox One, PC), Dragon Age: II (PS3, Xbox 360/Xbox One, PC), and Dragon Age: Inquisition (PS4, Xbox One, PC) and its really unique because of its selling point that your actions impact the games as you progress. Like if you kill one character in one game they’ll stay dead through the rest of the series which makes you feel lived in the story and that your actions matter. Dragon Age is also an RPG so a roleplaying game kind of along the same lines of DnD where you get to make and play your own character. And yes there are romances and you can be gay.

The First Game of the series is Dragon Age: Origins where you choose from a selection of six unique (technically seven) origins or backgrounds for your character. You can be anywhere from a human noble or a Dalish elf, the unique elven culture in Dragon Age of nomadic clans dedicating to reclaiming their past. But eventually, from the events in your origin, you wind up a member of a secretive and elite order known as the Grey Wardens whose duty is to protect the world from the Blight.

The Blight is this spread of a horrible disease known as the Taint but is characterized by the presence of Darkspawn, a kind of zombie like creature who exists only to destroy the world. Grey Wardens take the heavy duty of protecting the world from the Blight, which have nearly wiped all of humanity multiple times, at all costs. And currently the country of Ferelden is under going a blight and due to events you wind up the only Grey Warden with your companion Alistair to save the world and reunite Ferelden which had fallen under a civil war.

Along Origins you meet many interesting characters. Alistair is your friendly co-warden who has a mysterious parentage that he hides under his happy go lucky attitude. In contrast to Alistair is the witch Morrigan who is your favorite goth swamp queen who would insult you and you thank her. In addition you meet your chaotic bi rogues Zevran and Leliana. Leliana is a nun who is on the run and hiding from a dark past and she is suspiciously good at murder. And Zevran is not at all hiding his aptitude for murder as an Assassin for hire who tried and failed to kill you but who can ignore that charming bastard?

Dragon Age II follows a much smaller story of a Ferelden refuge who had escaped from the Blight to the city of Kirkwall named Hawke. Unlike in origins where you get to pick your background 2 limits you to Hawke but fear not, Hawke is a loveable bastard and you can still customize them. Throughout DA2 you get to experience all the delights Kirkwall has to offer: Demons, crime, corrupt cops, and fighting your way to survive in this city and make a name for yourself.

Where Origins sets the stage for the world DA2 you are the actor in that play - literally the game is divided into 3 acts that take place over a span of 7 years. DA2′s main conflict is the argument of Mages vs Templars, as in DA’s lore while there are those who are born with magic they are forced to live in prisons policed by the Templar order and the church. You explore the more political arguments of; are the Templars right in their fears of magic as Kirkwall is filled to the brim with corrupt mages or do Mages deserve the chance to live and prove themselves freely from their prisons.

Your romancable companions in DA2 are all bisexuals as the true theme of DA2 is: be gay do crime. You have the foils of Anders: the runaway mage who fled from the prisons the mages are housed in and is determined to bring mages to freedom, and Fenris: the runaway escaped slave who curses magic for only inflicting pain and suffering in his life and wants his warnings to be heard about the dangers magic bring. In addition you also have Merrill, your cute but terrifying Dalish mage who would probably murder you with a cute smile and then go oops. And of course, my pirate wife Isabela, who lives a life free from commitment and is dedicated to the idea everyone should have a good time no matter the cost. Also while not romancable Hawke’s bff Varric deserves every ounce of praise he gets as never before has the energy of “two idiots sharing a braincell” ever been so well adapted.

Then finally we reach Inquisition. After the events of DA2 it triggers a full on war between the Mages and Templars that is destroying the land and causing severe damage that neither side can handle anymore. Desperate for an end to the conflict the Divine (err... fantasy pope) calls for a meeting on both sides... only for the entire thing to literally explode. Killing everyone present and causing a hole in the sky which now means demons are raining like cats and dogs you are the only one to survive. In Inquisition you can once again return to pick between unique backgrounds like in Origins but you don’t get to play through those backgrounds sadly.

You now possess something on your left hand which gives you the ability to patch up the hole in the sky that is pissing demons and due to being the only survivor everyone is incredibly confused about you. Eventually the Inquisition is formed around you, the character they are calling the Herald of Andraste (Andraste is fantasy Jesus) due to your ability to seal the holes. The mystery unfolds as over the course of the game you learn what caused the explosion, how you are connected, and what exactly the mark on your hand is.

DAI has the largest numbers of romance options so I’m gonna give a quick bullet point list for them all

Iron Bull (Pansexual, All Races): A Qunari (think Tiefling but big and beefy) mercenary who is far more clever than he lets on, as well as being the rope top dom of your dreams. Literally! Bull’s romance is a really healthy bdsm relationship if you are interested its very well done

Josephine (Bisexual, All Races): Your loveable ambassador and advisor for the inquisition. She is a workaholic noble who is a tried and true classic romance. Sweep her off her feet and duel for her hand all while navigating the nobility

Dorian (Gay, All Races): The flamboyant pariah rock star mage, he demands attention whenever he walks into the room. Although he wants to be all talk and no emotions make no mistake he is making puppy eyes at you the entire time and gets deeply offended if you say he is. Also not going to lie Dorian is the best piece of gay male rep in gaming history.

Cassandra (Male-only, all Races): Your stern warrior wife who is all serious no funny business... expect she is a bleeding heart romantic who reads horrible smut for fun. You wish to COURT HER?? I mean... if you want 👉👈 she won’t say no...

Blackwall (Female-only, All Races): Your weird dilf who wants desperately to prove himself every step of the way and help people. He is a constable for the Grey Wardens, but all the details on him seem murky... Ah well I’m sure its nothing, the Grey Wardens are a secretive order after all.

Sera (Lesbian, All Races): My wild child, monster chugging, beer guzzling, arrow shooting lesbian. Sera is here for a fun time and not a serious one, she’ll always make sure to keep you humble and ensure you aren’t getting to big for your breeches. 

Cullen (Female-Only, Human and Elf only): Cullen’s the Inquisition’s commander who oohh boy is steeped in a lot of trauma. Cullen’s actually a character you get to know through out the series and see just all the horrible nonsense he’s been through. But he is your tragic self loathing... he isn’t princely but he is your adorkable charming

Solas (Female-Only, Elf Only): The humble apostate who joins the Inquisition out of curiosity of the breech, he is an expert on what the hell is going on with that hole in the sky. However, he holds a wisdom that goes far deeper than your typical apostate. Smooth talking and refined he carries a heavy cloud over him.

I left out a lot and all the nonsense with books and what have you but this is the easiest overview of the series I can offer. It’s main selling points is the deep story and characters throughout the games. And of course who doesn’t love the ability to make and roleplay your own character as a bonus? The games are bit of a flawed gem and Origins in my ugly child but they are truly a delight if you are interested

#eren.txt #eren.asks #anonymous #long post #not putting this under a readmore im sorry #im just lazy #i can answer more questions if you have them #Anonymous

[otome-on-the-side]

Pearly Golden Whites

Characters: Mammon, Lucifer, Diavolo, Barbatos 

Angst (ish) 

Word Count: 1, 497

Mammon was far too pleased with himself.

Getting dragged to the human realm wasn’t supposed to be a treat, it was supposed to be business; the trade route humanity called ‘the silk road’, was booming with new and rare trade goods. The new spices, teas, and weaving patterns had caught the prince’s attention and had asked Lucifer to look into it. There had been mischievous gleam in the wink Diavolo had given Lucifer when he’d suggested he bring Mammon along on the trip, maybe to help carry the new goods as penance for another attempted artifact theft. Lucifer had been more than happy for the excuse to use him as a pack mule.

Unfortunately, on the last day of the trip, business, to Mammon, included stashing his burdens in a tree, in the middle of nowhere, and making off with an allowance he’d pilfered from Lucifer.

The eldest was livid by the time he had tracked mammon down again; dragging him from the crowded dice game he’d been entertaining himself with, and dragging him and their purchases straight back to the Devildom. He was extremely lucky he’d only taken an initial five grimm and gambled until he had earned an extreme pot. If Mammon had stolen as much gold as what capped every fang and molar in his mouth, Lucifer would have tied him to the tree he’d found his purchases in and ripped the pilfered gold from his mouth with interest himself. Mammon, obnoxiously, had the gall to pat himself on the back for this.

“We only came back half a day early.”

Every time he spoke, he flashed a tacky grin.

“My haggling skills were so great, we got everything Lord Diavolo wanted and more, with change to spare!”

Ignoring the fact that he’d pilfered from said change. “Aw, c’mon Lucifer, it was five Grimm. I’m supposed to be the greedy bastard.”

Mammon had stuck it out for the majority of his ‘punishment’ in the first place. And he’d suffered the consequences of hanging from the ceiling for a week well enough. His younger brother had earned what crowned his teeth in the first place- even if only in the barest sense of the word. With a huff, the eldest let it go. His little brother already had such bad luck with money; it might do him some good to have a stash no one would dare touch. It only took so long to prove this assumption foolish.

One night, Mammon had come home late enough that Lucifer assumed he was spending the night somewhere else. The angry slam of the front door heralded that one of his brothers was indeed home. Neither Lord Diavolo or Barbatos were rude enough to enter in such a manner, nor would any other demon alive dare approach, let alone slam doors. It was enough of a ruckus that the eldest put his paperwork down and left his office, curious.

It hadn’t been just Mammon out that night. Asmodeus had left for one of his clubs when the night was still young. A book release of a theatrical production had caught both Leviathan and Satan’s interest, thus the two were supposedly in line for its limited run. And the twins… well. It would take more than the front door slamming to wake up Belphegor on any night, or Beelzebub when he was glutted on a post fridge raid. Especially on a night when he was home.

Lucifer found Mammon in the kitchen; his wings were tucked behind his back, but still very much present.

The smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. Runes pockmarked the skin around his neck, down his arms, and around his waist. If Lucifer recognized them correctly (and he did), the burns were very likely to be on his thighs and ankles as well.

An extremely nasty mortal spell; but one of the rare few that could hold the avatar of greed.

Mammon either hadn’t noticed him looming in the doorway, or was ignoring him. Based on the set of his shoulders and how his jaw clenched as he stirred salt into a glass of tap water, it was easy for Lucifer to know it was the latter.

The eldest let his brother have his drink. Letting mammon meander as he dutifully refused to make eye contact, wincing a little as he leaned towards the kitchen’s faucet. Then, Lucifer decided he’d had enough.

“Just what were you expecting?” He asked, breaking the tense silence.

“I dunno,” Mammon spat the words out along with bloody salt water into the kitchen sink. “Those stupid witches to let me have something for once?!”

From the twist of Mammon’s mouth and lack of any lisping, lucifer could already tell that his younger brother’s fangs were growing back; though not enough for him to be spared his other brothers’ mockery if any returned soon. Mammon likely hadn’t wanted Lucifer to see him like this either, but the eldest held little sympathy for him there. If he didn’t want to be seen, he shouldn’t have slammed the door.

Knowing this, he continued to avoid eye contact with Lucifer as he grabbed his glass of salt water and stormed out of the kitchen, most likely to tend to his wounds in peace.

For the most part, Lucifer let it be. He refrained from commenting when Leviathan and Asmodeus mocked him for his financial loss, but forcefully changed the subject before it could get far enough for the others to join in.

Not for Mammon’s sake, of course; he had a meeting with Lord Diavolo tonight and needed to be sure that there would be a home to return to.

Lucifer departed with the usual amount of bickering and cutting comments as could be expected from his brothers, but left knowing everyone would be home. For better or for worse, they would be together while he was away.

Lucifer was welcomed with the usual grace and cheer as was befitting the prince of the Devildom and his butler. It was… almost relaxing, discussing things with them both over a glass of demonus. After a few glasses, the rigidity in the set of his shoulders was long gone.

Diavolo cringed in sympathy as Lucifer spoke of the state Mammon returned home in- not in any detail, but enough to speak of his brother’s loss of crowns. If Mammon hadn’t been so miserable in memory, either in their drunken state might have been tempted to make a pun.

Instead, there was a heavy weight in the room as Barbatos weighed in, collecting a few of the discarded bottles with ease as he looked to Lucifer. “You mentioned Mammon had spell burns from a mortal spell?”

Lucifer hummed an affirmation as he took another sip from his glass. “Likely from the witches that have him leashed.”

“Is it truly a wise idea for mortal witches to have the very avatar of greed’s teeth?”

Diavolo blinked at the suggestion made realization dawn on him. “If they thought to use it for magic, either for spell ingredients or for channeling… That’s a very good point, Barbatos.”

The butler inclined his head, closing his eyes in a graceful response.

Diavolo turned his sights on Lucifer, straightening with a command.

Lucifer wanted to give a weary sigh, but refrained. His lord was right; even if he hadn’t spoken yet. He maintained his drunken almost slouch.

“Do you think you can retrieve Mammon’s teeth from his witches? You know we can’t let mortals free reign with demonic power.” His eyes looked pleading, almost as if this truly was a request.

“Of course, my lord. I’ll take another trip to the human realm and retrieve the… teeth, the day after tomorrow.” He spoke with another reverent tilt of his head. “That should give me time to warn my brothers that I won’t be home and time to nurse my inevitable hangover.”

That startled a laugh from the prince. Only a definitively drunk Lucifer would admit to the very idea of the firstborn being able to have hangovers.

The days passed in a relatively normal fashion for Mammon; He went to R.A.D., shirked what he could, went to work, and sent what cash he had to the pact holders that mooched off of him. He dearly looked forward to when he could swallow those witches’ souls, if not their bodies, whole.

It really shouldn’t’ve shocked him to see his teeth again, safely stoppered within a small, glass bottle.

But it did. They almost glittered in the light of his room as the bottle sat, innocent, on top of his poker table.

Mammon’s vanity was never something great- it could never be compared to the likes Asmodeus’s- but, gold: gold was always gorgeous. Especially when it was capping off his pearly whites.

There was nothing to be done with them now, honestly, but there was something deeply satisfying about tucking the treasure- his treasure- into a drawer, safe and out of sight.

#text #obey me #obey me! #obey me! shall we date? #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #not going to tag dia and barb specifically though that could be annoying #obey me fanfic #this could technically be hurt and comfort but lucifer doesnt really comfort well unless things are REALLY bad #i hope i wrote i nailed the older sib vibes but we'll see #deeply funny to see 'be nice to mammon!' as I write about his teeth getting yoinked #next time i write you mammon i swear!

[loreleywrites]

The Gateshead Engine

If you bought the itch.io game bundle for racial justice and inequality a month ago, one of the games it contains is a single-player ttrpg called The Gateshead Engine by Adam Roy (Follow the link to buy and play yourself!)

The basis of the game is simple: It is Victorian England, and you have been commissioned to built a steampunk mech. You flip cards from a tarot deck to give you situations for your diary entries, and you can finish...basically whenever you want.

I enjoyed it greatly, and wanted to publicly share my game. Content warning for a bit of body horror and minor surgical stuff at the end? It’s not like, explicit though. Anyway, I haven’t stretched my horror muscles in a while, and I love how this game started vs where it ended. Hope y’all enjoy!

Starting Questions:

—Who are you, and why did you agree to build the Engine?

I am Loreley Weisel, German thermodynamicist on the brink of bankruptcy. Europe is corrupt, and my will careens towards destruction.

—Who is your patron, and what, if anything, do you know about them? Why did they tell you they wanted the Engine?

My patron is an English aristocrat, Thomas Boroughshire III. All I know is that he has deep pockets and a fascination for thermophysics. He wants my Engine as a mechanical marvel, a party trick for a boy with too many years behind him.

—What is your community like? What do they value and what do they fear?

The community is wealthy. Large estates line a well-kept road. Dogs are bred. Horses are shoed. Foxes are hunted. Gardens beg for release from their clipped restraints. The air itself is made of brick. They value stability, power (or the projection of it), and greed.

—What will the Engine do when it’s completed, and what will it change? (This may shift during play; for now, decide what you think the answer is when you agree to build the Engine.)

My Engine is a herald of death. The aristocracy will be beaten into submission, and England will follow France in the march towards the guillotine.

My Engine:

Diary:

Monday, April 26, 1880—

I do not belong here, in this kingdom, in this estate, in this…garage. Hope’s Paradise is far from the largest house in this community, and His Highness can barely provide enough space for me to work. He does not respect me, nor does his staff. Dinners will be cold on nights I work late. There will be no hot water when I go to draw a bath. They do not want me here.

Fitting enough; I do not wish to dwell here any longer than I have to.

The neighbors are no better. Squire Duncannon of Blah Blah Blah invites me to speak German whenever he harasses me with what he calls conversation, but refuses to use the tongue himself. His wife has never uttered a word beyond her scowl. When I pass by Covington Place, the children stop and watch, twittering among themselves. I wonder what the Duke and Duchess have told them about me. I would not know, for I have never been allowed inside their gates.

England will burn, and this wretched grove of greed will be the tinder.

Wednesday, April 28, 1880—

That godforsaken child has entered my workshop again. Grease smeared all across the floor. Handprints of coal dust cover every box and bench. Every fire hazard should come at the cost of a finger. The little brat will have nubs by week’s end.

Friday, April 30, 1880—

Saturday, May 1

A song. Melancholic, but strong. Thunderous, but ephemeral.

How many hours have slipped by tonight? Dream grips my mind like a starving urchin with hardtack. Maybe these gears and pipes are singing me a lullaby.

Oh for heaven’s sake it’s half two. To sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 4, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. Every thief with deep pockets thinks themselves a scientist just because they bought opium from one once. I know how to build my Engine. Fuck off with this talk about gas compression. My math is sound, and changing one element means redesigning the entire boiler system.

His Highness has been placated with some minor aesthetic downgrades that better cater to his asinine tastes. For now.

Wednesday, May 5, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. If it weren’t for the coal dust handprints, I’d think he was the child ransacking my workshop with relentless fervor. Instead, he has simply decided to rearrange my supplies to the garage entrance. My ankle will heal in a few days, but I cannot work on my Engine until it mends. Time is money, and he has more money than I have time.

Sunday, May 9, 1880—

The ankle works.

Monday, May 10, 1880—

His Highness invited his dearest, most important friends to dine in his atrociously cultivated garden. The Wells boy snuck off and found me in my workshop. I have never met another child like him. His curiosity is insatiable, and he knows more about thermodynamics than most learned men I’ve met.

He asked me a question I could not answer: “If this machine is meant for war, how can you fight a navy with it?”

I suppose this will be a larger problem when the revolution hatches from England and threatens the mainland. For now, I must keep focused on this single-minded task. If we make it that far, I will find an answer.

…Perhaps I am naïve and misguided.

Wednesday, May 12, 1880—

The entire community has decided to roll their porcine asses to the south of France for holiday. Such a shame I contracted a bit of a cough and elected to stay here to recover. The travel would have been much too hard on my delicate frame.

Two weeks of uninterrupted work begins tonight.

Friday, May 14, 1880—

For. Fuck’s. Sake.

Her Highness fainted at the pier moments before they were to board a ferry across the Channel. Feared she had come down with the same pestilence I had contracted. Now the entire extended Boroughshire rabble is returning posthaste.

The quiet? Gone. Their need for attention? Only I can sate it. My Engine? Still incomplete, and will be for some time.

If I drown myself in enough whiskey, the mystery of my death should keep their tiny minds occupied for at least a week.

I intend to refill my lamps and work as long as I can tonight. May their arrival home tomorrow wake me at noon for all I care.

Saturday, May 15, 1880—

I was awoken at nine in the morning. Forty minutes of unrestful rest.

Tuesday, May 17 18, 1880—

Knocked the fucking lamp looking for my pen. Lucky I didn’t burn this entire estate to ash.

…Perhaps unlucky.

He even haunts my dreams, touching my Engine and reducing it to rust at the moment that should have been my victory. What Hell of idiocy have I gotten myself into? Fucking aristocrats standing in the way of their own downfall by sheer incompetence. Back to sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 18, 1880 (again)—

I’ve read a number of fascinating papers that I received in the mail today. While I admit I know little of the burgeoning field of electrical engineering, the work being done in the States is fascinating. I intend to take a short trip into London to seek more research (And get a right stein of beer; this house and its occupants are worthless.)

Friday, May 21, 1880 (London)—

I have been granted access to ~~Royal~~ archives. Despite my distaste for locking knowledge away from the public, I am nonetheless grateful for this opportunity. All the kingdom’s brightest minds (what few there are) have recorded years of research on every possible thread of science.

Galvanic principles are fascinating to me. To think, all these thousands of years, we have had electricity inside us! Thoughts percolate, but I do not yet know to what end.

I shall return to the cursed Golden Land in the countryside tomorrow. Between my notes and a few papers, I have been allowed to abscond with, I am reinvigorated with hope for my work.

Saturday, May 22, 1880—

I should extricate and boil every last one of their tongues!

The entire community’s patriarchs were waiting in the living room of Hope’s Paradise (Clearly not my hope.)  Word got out of my project, and every cock-waggling primitive decided that this was a matter that required ending their holiday early. While their offspring splash in the Mediterranean, their sagging eyes are now fixed on that fucking garage.

I don’t know who is merely curious, who else feels inadequate enough to lie about their scientific credentials, or who wants to break my Engine merely because I’m a woman. Too many men in my workshop. Had I less restraint, an axe may have been all I needed to solve this annoyance.

Hopefully the dullards bore sooner than later. I may need to beat Mr. Duncannon with a German dictionary regardless.

Tuesday, June 8, 1880—

Between the constant need to shun nosy men from my workshop and the actual work itself, I have not had the constitution to keep my diary.

But today…ah, today! The control platform appears to be totally functional! I have toiled too long to have failure spring from my fingertips. Rotational velocities are stable, cranks and gears are greased and mobile, the Gatling guns are…gatling.

For the first time since I began my work here, I feel like I have accomplished something great. The aristocracy’s days are numbered.

Monday, June 14, 1880—

Work continues to sap my focus. Boiler…not cooperating. I fear I will lose all the work I’ve done on it due to some unforeseen flaw. A redesign at this stage would be costly, but so would continuing with a faulty boiler. Either way, I’m taking tomorrow off from work to clear my head.

Thursday, June 17, 1880—

Time off has proved productive. I finally finished reading the documents on loan from the ~~Royal~~ archives, and there is a fascinating bit of research by a man by the name of Frankenstein. His work on galvanic sciences from earlier this century are far beyond anything I’ve found from English archives in the last decade. This even only seems to be his initial work; perhaps I can track down his true masterpieces of intellect. Maybe I don’t even need to redesign a boiler…

One blight on my day over lunch: that coal-handed bastard child has returned. I think it’s Constance.

Wednesday, Jun 23, 1880—

The Andersons down the way lost one of their bitches last night. She was a beautiful hound, but her memory will live on in my diary. I wanted some hands-on experience with Frankenstein’s work, so I was able to procure the corpse for a small fee (to His Highness who is paying my bills).

Wondrous! Such are the things I learned. A body, made of muscle, controlled by electricity. I suspect I may need to seek out an anatomist or some other scholar of the biological sciences to continue this research.

My mind is alight with so many ideas…

Wednesday, June 30, 1880—

June ends and takes the boiler with it. My Engine shall have a grand new design. Thomas has been placated by promises of surprise. “The most groundbreaking work in thermodynamics!” I lied. His is a mind easily led astray by spectacle.

Sunday, July 4, 1880—

Constable came round today. Mr. Duncannon hasn’t been seen in three days. He left for an important business meeting in Paris, but missed his boat. Coach is missing too. It’s all very curious. I did everything I could to keep that sniveling pig out of my workshop. Given the way his nose recoiled into his skull, it seems the stench of grease and ozone was enough.

In more academic news, I received notice that more of Victor Frankenstein’s research papers are being released from an archive in Switzerland. I should have them by week’s end. My excitement radiates like the sun.

Friday, July 9, 1880—

Wolfgang. Heinrich. Fuchs.

At my forsaken door. With my forsaken research papers.

How the fuck did he find out I was working on galvanism? Who is he still connected to? Which one of my friends betrayed me (besides him)?

He was in this fucking house asking me fucking questions about my fucking work. Fuck him. He better not stick around. After what he took from me…fuck.

Tuesday, July 13, 1880—

Chaos reigns.

Wolfgang has shacked up with the Andersons. He swings by almost daily. When I’m not actually busy, I try to look it.

Constance has gotten her hands into the coal again (I haven’t disposed of it for appearance’s sake.)

The Duncannons are planning a funeral for…whatever his name was. I don’t think I ever bothered to remember anything about him other than when he would finally leave this hellish corner of England.

Thomas has been migrating in and out of Hope’s Paradise. Something about a trade deal in India. It sounds very important for a man who makes riches off the backs of foreigners.

I could use a big stein at a small biergarten.

Sunday, July 18, 1880—

Widow Duncannon speaks! Her first words spoken to me in the months I’ve resided her are accusations that I have something to do with the death of her husband and his driver. Utter nonsense. The police found the driver at the bottom of a pint in a pub last week. The way gossip echoes around these families, however, I won’t be surprised if they begin to turn on me.

My work must accelerate.

Thursday, July 22nd, 1880—

Widow Duncannon, Duchess Byron. Mrs. Boroughshire. All the Andersons. None of them will speak to me. They glare if they see me, so I try to keep to my room and my workshop as much as possible. I’m lucky Her Highness is so subservient to Thomas. This house would be unbearable if she had any willpower over it.

Tuesday, July 27, 1880—

Celebrations are in order! I have poured over work by Golgi, Frankenstein, and Schwann. Every guide I could find on electrical engineering. Trial after trial, failure after failure. And yet…

And yet.

It’s not that I have hope my Engine will work, it’s that I have knowledge that it will. My designs are so clear to me. My protypes are all working as planned. The path to revolution has been laid out before me. Now it is up to me to walk it.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the end.

Wednesday, July 28, 1880—

Coal hands. Inside my workshop. Inside. My. Workshop. And this time, ha! This time, I have a culprit.

I made it very clear to Constance that she will not be loitering in my laboratory anymore.

Saturday, August 7, 1880—

What have I become?

Why did I begin building my Engine? Something about a war? Who can say. Time marchers onward. My Engine will march with time. Every experiment has made it clearer to me that I have stumbled upon the greatest discovery of this era.

No one celebrates with me. Not Thomas. Not Her Highness. Not Constance, nor the boys, Timothy and Franklin. Even Wolfgang is silent (at last).

The neighbors have stopped visiting. I wave when I pass them by, but they just sneer and hurry past. Finally, I can work in peace and silence. Finally my genius can become reality. Finally all of Europe will know what Loreley Weisel is capable of.

I have become the herald of great change, a conduit of the very building blocks of existence.

Tuesday, August 10, 1880—

A toast to the Duke and Duchess! May their patronage live forever in my greatest work! Soon I hope to bring the Andersons into this project as well.

Wednesday, August 18, 1880—

The Engine lives! The support of this community has been invaluable as the final construction has occurred. Everyone has poured their hearts into my work, and it’s truly a masterpiece that could not have been built alone.

My galvanic calibrations have been finalized. My circuits have been tested. It is nearing time for me to put all of myself into my work. I will see success.

Saturday, August 21, 1880—

The loneliness is getting to me. Not even the dogs bark anymore. I talk to my Engine, but its flesh is silent.

Monday, August 23, 1880—

The constable returned. With six policemen. He had questions about His Highness and the Duke and Duchess and Widow Duncannon. I told him the truth: I could help him find them.

I cooperated.

I have a surplus.

Wednesday, August 25, 1880—

Why shouldn’t I? It worked for them. Shouldn’t it work for me? All the principles are the same. They’re muscle. I’m muscle. They’re electric. I’m electric. Why shouldn’t I be in control?

Thursday, August 26, 1880—

Wolfgang, that bastard! He said he knew everything that I had been up to. That is outrageous! He knows nothing!

I have destroyed my room in rage. Fucking Fuchs! What does he think he knows? Who has he told? I should have killed him. Why didn’t I kill him? He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve my creation. He covets it. He wants it for himself. I know it. He got me kicked out of university, he got me run out of Germany. He is jealous. Jealous! He knows I’m better. He knows I’m smarter. He wants what I have, my Engine, my child. He can’t have it. He can’t. He won’t. Where did he go? Fucking Wolfgang I will fucking kill him. He knows nothing. He’s bluffing. He just wants my success. My genius. He is nothing. He will be nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He nothing. Nothing. nothing nothing nothing noth

Sunday, August 29, 1880—

This will be the final entry to my diary. The morning air is heavy with the musk of summer. It’s strange to me how calm I am given what I am about to do.

My Engine has come so far from its days as a sketch on a piece of parchment. Veins of red pulse behind the metal. Sinew, steel, and lightning working in harmony. Every stitch and every suture as perfect as the one before it. So many died for its creation, and so many more will die when I am finished today.

I expected my hand to shake more as I inked the incision lines across my skin. I expected my mind to be foggier as I tried to remember every nerve that would need work. Even the pain I am about to endure has not shaken my resolve.

I am uncertain what the scientific community will think of my work. Of the sacrifices I made. But I have proven a radical truth: All the money in the world does not stop one from being built from the same parts as another. And that’s all we are: Animals with organs and muscles and electricity surging through us. If machines can harness that energy, why can’t we? If new machines can be invented, why not new humans?

All I can hope for now is that my composure holds through the entire procedure. Once I am integrated into my Engine, I will command a mind and body unseen by man. Unparalleled by any of God’s creation. Magnificent in its genius. My genius.

Today I will change humanity forever.

#loreley writes horror #body horror #surgery #The Gateshead Engine

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [1030]

The man's name is Balthazar. He’s a great weapon’s master. Currently he’s a rank C adventurer. No guild affiliation. But he has — had — been traveling with a party for a while now.

He was on a rank D mission. A simple census of the Hinterland’s current population needed to be done to prepare for winter. A check on the people: how many elderly, how many children, how many unborn babies — the current numbers of livestock, the crops. And in addition to that a survey of the surrounding area. Winter in the Hinterlands is known for piles of snow that create mudslides or avalanches that can ruin fields and wash away houses if not planned for correctly. Every year they need to do a survey of the area to check for the most vulnerable points and prepare for any possible changes or disasters. It’s a routine mission.

It was a mission dispatch picked up at the Redcliffe branch of the Herald’s Rest every year around this time. The only reason it’s rank D instead of E is because Redcliffe is still scarred by the Blight, and traces of it needed to be handled with utmost care.

The more pressing issue is that the mission ranking was vastly underestimated this year.

At some point over the year a Fereldan Frostback made its home in one of the cliff formations near Redcliffe. And Bull would love to hear how that got missed. He’d invite anyone, anyone at all, to come and tell him how the fuck a damned high dragon nesting — not just claiming a territory, but fucking nesting — was overlooked. They’re not hard to miss. They aren’t the biggest type of dragon but they’re still a dragon.

They’re huge. They’re loud. And they eat a fuck ton of shit.

There would have been sightings. There should have been reports of missing livestock, burned houses — there should have been something. Not this sudden surprise.

Based on Balthazar’s description of the lair, it couldn’t have been recent, either. It had been there for a while. And it had a damn clutch.

A high dragon — with an active clutch — is nothing less than a Special rank mission. It should have been handled by the Inquisition. That isn’t the business of adventuring parties.

It was a full wipe.

Balthazar almost didn’t make it out either.

Unlucky bastard. Took a D rank survey mission and lost his entire party to a damned dragon. Bull can’t imagine that sort of grief. Well. He can. He’s lived enough situations similar to it that he can guess how it feels. He’s never lost anyone to a dragon though.

Lucky for him Ellana Lavellan had heard the noise and was in the area. Lucky for him she’d literally snatched him from the jaws of death and hauled his ass to safety. Lucky for him she had a teleportation spell — and Bull was right, the Storm Coast is her base of operations for now, because her teleportation spell was keyed to Morrin. That confirmation shouldn’t make him feel pleased, and that’s something he’s going to have to pick apart and examine later. Later when he isn’t pulling this story out of this poor guy who just watched all of his friends get roasted alive. —  and enough magic to power it. Lucky for him she had a voucher for food and rest at the Herald’s Rest.

“She was alone?” Bull presses the Balthazar when he falls silent, lost to his grief and his shock and his helplessness. “Was she with a party?”

It’s brave and heroic to go in and save a guy. The feat becomes markedly more stupid and foolhardy if you die in the process.

Balthazar’s armor bears scorch marks and ash. It sticks to his face. There’s a trickle of blood from his nose, now crusted.

Bull would normally insist the guy takes a bath or at least washes his face off before sitting here. It’d scare away other customers — civilians visiting the Herald’s Rest for gossip and good food and music. But Bull has questions and they cannot wait.

If she’s alone he needs an emergency message sent to Redcliffe. How long has it been? She could be dead already for all they know.

“She was alone,” Balthazar says and Bull has a hand up, flagging someone over to get a message to the Redcliffe branch right the fuck now, but the man continues, “But before she used her teleportation spell on me she sent a message spell calling for help. I told her to come with me but she said that the dragon needed to be taken care of right away and if she went with me the only two people who knew about it would be too far away.”

The man puts his head in his hands.

Bull turns towards Dalish, “Get word to Skyhold and Redcliffe.”

Dalish is already moving, hands drawn up towards her face — a line of magic stretching between her fingers as she hurriedly whispers an urgent dispatch request into the communication array —  and she quickly heads towards the back rooms to use one of the more secure and stable communication arrays they have permanently set up to reach the other branches.

Bull turns back to Balthazar.

“Do you know who she was contacting?”

The man just moans softly, shaking his head. “Her guild? Her party? Maybe Redcliffe? Or Honnleath? I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Bull squeezes the man's shoulder, eye searching the room until he sees Aclassi coming in, Rocky hot on his heels. Bull gestures for the two to come over, pointing at Balthazar.

Take care of this, he thinks at them, willing them to understand what he means. They pick up on it instantly. Bull’s alright dealing with people going through shock and grief. But he has other things to see to right now.

Aclassi and Rocky take his place at Balthazar’s side. Either they ran into Dalish who told them what they need to know, or they can read the grim urgency on his face.

As Bull quickly goes to join Dalish in the back offices he hears Aclassi gently coaxing Balthazar into standing and going with him to get a room and get cleaned up.

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

[erintoknow]

not okay

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

You can’t even be in the general proximity of The Rangers without being dragged into their garbage, can you? Tw: past sexual abuse [That Kind Of Girl]

[Read on AO3]

Argent working with vigilantes is a new development. Not an entirely unwelcome one if it makes the Rangers look even more unreliable. But it begs the question as to what the hell is going on in that damn building? Is it worth trying to ask? Ariadne is just Ortega’s retired friend. Nothing suspicious about a friend checking in on another friend. Right?

It’s been a couple of days since the bridge fight, so it’s not like it’s too suspicious. Plenty of time for all kinds of details to filter out into the wild.

Walking down mainstreet you stop to buy a newspaper, flipping through the pages. One article in the celebrity column gives you pause. Herald and Argent have broken up?

Huh.

You might not even need to do anything to get the Rangers to fall apart. Just push at the right moment and they’ll do the work themselves.

Once they're on their own, picking them off one by one will be a lot easier – your stomach twists into a knot at the thought. Do you… really need to do that though? As long as they aren’t a threat to the plan, that’s all that matters, right?

It’s an hour of wandering around before you find yourself standing in front of the Rangers HQ. You haven’t set foot inside since the morning of the Gala. Wonder how small Chen’s frown would get if he knew his advice helped push you down this path. ‘Commit to a choice, and stick with it’ huh?

Well it wasn’t your choice that marked the Rangers as your enemy. You just stopped pretending otherwise. Fuck. Fuck this. What were you thinking? You can’t just… walk in the front door.

Can you?

You don’t belong there.

You turn around, trying to modulate your speed so you aren’t straight up running away. Because you aren’t. There’s nothing to run from. Don’t be stupid.

It’s the change in the crowd that tips you off first, people pointing upwards. What’s the big deal…? Oh. You hunch your shoulders, picking up the pace. Nope. This isn’t happening. Not today. You’ve got places to be.

“Ariadne!”

You groan, freeze midstep.

God fucking hell.

Shading your sunglasses with a hand you turn around and peer upwards against the sun at Herald hovering in the sky like violating the laws of gravity was a completely normal thing to do. Lucky fucking bastard.

He dips down lower. “Sorry, sorry. I saw you from the window, and, well, I thought I’d get a chance to talk to you inside but then you didn’t come inside and well, I’ve been meaning to talk and we haven’t had a chance and–”

“Wonderbread for the love of god, stop babbling.”

His smile is frantic and anxious. “Can we talk?”

Oh this’ll be good. You raise an eyebrow. “No one’s stopping you.” You glance around. Herald is drawing more and more attention. Ugh. It’s only a matter of time before it occurs to someone to ask who he’s talking to. “Actually – Can’t we do this, um, somewhere more private?”

He brightens up. If that was even possible. “Yeah! Yeah of course! I know the perfect place.”

“Gre–fucking shit!” The ground drops away from your feet as Herald scoops you off your feet, soaring into the sky. You might have screamed. You flail your arms and legs trying to get free but Herald’s grip is worryingly tight, pressing you against his chest.

“Put – put me fucking down.” You're up too high now. You’ll fall. You’ll fall and die. And hands on you, holding you tight fuck why is it so bright, the light piercing around your sunglasses and shit shit fucking hell god dying would be better than this let go let go let go let go

Five years later and your feet touch solid ground. You shove him away, swinging your fist straight for his face. The asshole cries out in surprise, falling backwards onto his ass. Scrambling away you fall on your butt as well, pulling your legs to your chest. Breathe short – can’t get enough air. Fingernails digging into your knees.

“Sidestep – uh, Ariadne…?”

You swing a fist at his arm, batting him away. You bury your head in your knees. Try to stifle the sob in your throat. You’re not there. You’re not there. It’s just the sun. There’s no walls. You’re safe. You’re not there. You press your wrists against your eyes, pushing your sunglasses out the way.

Fuck.

Fucking hell.

Crying. Tears. Not like this.

Fuck. Fucking. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

It takes another two years before you finally have control again. Stagger to your feet. Rub the back of your hand against your face. Don’t care if it ruins the foundation. Herald stands there. Awkward. Worried. Watching. Always fucking watching. You storm over to him, and he takes a step back, raising his arms. He opens that damn mouth of his and before he can say a single goddamn word you slap him across the face, follow it up by slamming your knee between his legs. He wheezes, collapsing to the ground, clutching his privates. “Don’t. Ever. Fucking. TOUCH ME. Again.”

Cold fury fills you as you stand there, hands on your hips watching Herald squirm. Eyes watering. Fucking Asshole. Should have broken his other leg too.

You deepen your frown, and stick a hand down to him. Help him stand back up.

“S–sorry…” He rasps, bleary-eyed.

“What the fuck?”

He winces, stepping backwards from you. “I just… you wanted somewhere private so… I didn’t – I didn’t think.”

“You can’t just–just–just… abduct random women off the streets.” You fold your arms against your chest. Fuck. You did a number on him. That eye is going to bruise.

“Random…?” He frowns. Doesn’t get it. “But – you’re Sidestep.”

“Would Sidestep have just beaten the shit out of you?”

“Uh.” He coughs. “Probably.”

You frown at that. “Just… I don’t know. Warn me. Ask first. Something. You don’t…” What someone has been through. What they still dream about. You hug yourself, suppress a shudder.

Herald looks away from you, face flush. Embarrassed. Contrite? “You’re right. I just… I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. And I got excited and…” You can see it in his head, clear as daylight. Never imagined you could have reacted like that. That’d you be vulnerable like this.

Weak.

This isn’t real. You can’t be real.

“Well, y–y–you deserve worse.” You glare at him. Already the panic and anger are slipping out of your fingers, sliding somewhere else. Escaping you the harder you try to cling on. “What’s the big idea?”

“I… just,” Herald groans, a hand massaging his cheek. “Ariadne, are you okay?”

“I’m just fucking fine, asshole.” You spit back. “And don’t – don’t tell anyone about this.”

Herald blinks, alarmed thoughts swirling in his head. “What?”

“Look.” You straighten up, put out your hand to stop whatever is about to come out of his mouth. “Ortega’s already… breathing down my neck. She’s gonna be on – on both our cases if she finds out fucking boy wonder gave me a panic attack.”

Shit you named it out loud.

Herald’s expression looks absolutely wretched. “Sidestep–”

“Ariadne.” Even as you insist on it, it doesn’t feel like yours.

“Ariadne,” He corrects himself, “I’m – so, so sorry.” He’s about to take a step towards you – sees how you tense up and thinks better of it. “This is… not how I wanted this to go.”

“No shit.” You cross your arms. Cling to anger. You have a right to be angry now. Don’t you? That’s what you’re feeling right now. Has to be. Stay in control. “So what’s the big f–f–fucking idea that’s so important you–you–you needed to abduct me like a discount flying saucer.”

“Well… I wanted to, uh, ask why you retired but…” Herald sighs. Can practically feel the clouds storming up his head. Shit. He really does feel bad.

“Is it… really a mystery?” You force yourself to stay standing. To not curl up. Stay in control.

“Heartbreak.”

“Yeah.”

“But…”

“What’s the big fucking idea anyway.” You glare in his direction, avoiding his eyes. “What? Did you think you’d be the big hero? Convenience Sidestep to come back where everyone else had failed?”

“I… no!” Herald grimaces, “Well. Maybe? I mean. I… I know you and Ortega have… uh, history. I thought that maybe I could…” He trails off, at a loss for words. “I just… You were Sidestep. You never gave up.”

“And then Sidestep died.” You turn away from him, frowning. For the first time it occurs to you to take a look around. Where the hell did Herald put you? A roof. High up. A sudden sense of vertigo rocks your legs as you see the distant buildings against the horizon. Tiny roads running up and down the hills.

Oh.

You’re up high.

Little tiny toy cars running over their tiny toy roads. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. How high up are you? High enough to kill, probably. Would Herald catch you? He’d try. Unless you stopped him.

Save you from one jump just to give you a second. That would fix him.

Herald – he’s standing – floating there. Watching you. “Ariadne?”

“Just – just get me down.” You can’t stop staring at the horizon. “I… I just want to go home. P–please.” Ugh. That sounded pathetic. Hate this. Hate how vulnerable he’s forced you into being.

He hovers closer, keeps his distance as if he’s afraid you might hit him again. Good. Sometimes that’s the only way to learn. You know that from experience.

Herald fidgets with his hands, “Um… Is it okay? If I…?”

You blink.

Oh.

Right.

He… he has to carry you back down.

You watch yourself nod. Obediently lift out your arms so Herald can awkwardly pick you up. The flight down is direct. Almost painfully slow. Like a human elevator. And then there’s cement under your shoes again and metal stretching into the sky hiding the mountains like it’s supposed to and not a single damn motherfucker pays more than a cursory glance to the mockery of the human understanding of flight that is Herald.

You take a breath, rub at the bridge of your nose.

“Again,” Herald’s voice filters in from the next planet. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. I…” He falters. “I’d guess it’d be a little insensitive to say I’m not at my best right now.”

You glance over at him. God, you're so tired.

“Look. Side–” He winces,  “–Ariadne. I… I know I really screwed up and you probably hate me now, but…”

Oh god. “Just… spit it out, Wonderbread.”

“Look. I don’t know who else I can ask at this point and–”

You step towards him, and he floats backwards. “Spit it out. Wonderbread.”

“I need help. For training. I mean for training. I need help for training, is what I meant.” He raises his hands defensively. Ready to catch another swing at him. It’s tempting to oblige but you restrain yourself.

“You’d really think… I’d ever help you? After today, Herald?”

He drops his gaze to the ground. “Look, I… I know I messed up. You’ve got every right to be mad at me. But…” He trails off, thoughts linger on the Gala. His fight with you.

Oh.

Oh no.

Herald looks up again, embarrassed. “I really got trashed in that last fight. My…” He puts a hand to his knee, the one you broke. “I can walk on it again, but it, well. It still hurts like hell. Chen’s got me playing spokesman for now, but… what good am I if I can’t fight, Ariadne? I can’t fail everyone like that again. I can’t.”

Herald is your enemy. He’s a self-absorbed asshole who abducted you from the middle of the street and gave you what might be one of the worst panic attacks you’ve had in months. How fucking dare he make you feel bad for breaking his leg.

You should tell him no and punch him again for good measure.

He takes your silence for hesitation. Flares hopeful. “I can still remember, uh, growing up. Watching you fight. How you zipped around the whole place. Made use of whatever you could grab. I… know our uh, our ‘talents’ aren’t the same. But… I think that’s what I need to learn to do.”

No. No you are not seriously considering this. This is stupid as hell. You don’t feel guilty. You don’t feel anything. You’re beyond feeling. “Ortega’s a better fighter than I ever was.”

“I… think trying to learn how to fight like Ortega would probably kill me.” He laughs, runs a hand through his hair in a bid to burn off anxious energy.

You nod. “Yeah. That’s fair.” You don’t know how fighting like Ortega hasn’t killed Ortega.

Fucking hell.

You squint your eyes at him. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

It takes him a moment. Then his whole face lights up.

You’re…

You’re going to get something useful out of this, right?

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne

[crqstalite]

after adamant.

ugly little fic that i wrote in the middle of the night a while ago and shared with a friend. post-adamant about my inquisitor trying to rationalize their losses at the fortress and in the fade. nothing’s capitalized, so if that annoys you, this isn’t the little fic for you.

chose not to use warnings? im not quite sure what to use here, so tread lightly.

dragon age inquisition. 

-

she stays strong, after adamant it’s all everyone needs. she sees to the few wardens that had been at the keep, had offered inquisition aid.  they thank her thousands of times over, as uneasy as they are.

their senior warden, alistair, won’t meet her eyes. deep brown orbs looking anywhere but at her, even with a smile on his face. he thanks her, quietly. bandages wrapped around his side, muttering that he’d need to get a letter out to the hero of ferelden — tabris.

she leaves him, offering to let leliana find her. to let leliana send the message and get it back to him as soon as possible. he agrees, numbly is when she swings a leg over the elk in the morning, sun peaking over the rise in the distance.

she knows that look that settles in his dark brown eyes, that look that cries it should’ve been me. but she’s sure he knows what he must do now, to lead the wardens properly against corypheus. she thanks him.

he doesn’t say it, but he does respond that hawke’s sacrifice would not be vain. that shatters a part of her, seals her lips all the way back to skyhold. thankfully, marzeyna is lucky enough no one else is in a talkative mood. but they will be, with questions, with reactions, maybe with thinly veiled anger.

she’s not sure if she’s lucky or simply being lied to when varric seems more despondent than furious with her. he simply responds there are letters to write, to bethany, to other friends she’d made in kirkwall. they’d been close. she bites her lip hard enough to draw iron laced blood to keep from crying.

he hugs her.

though he’s not mentioned, marzeyna doesn’t make the request to send a letter to the mage anders. though he will be left in the dark, surely varric would know how close they’d been. the way hawke spoke of him, with a wistful tone laced with uneasiness, she doesn’t want to look into his eyes and tell him she was the reason reyna hawke would not be coming home.

she makes her rounds. to cassandra, to blackwall, to dorian. then to the others who learning of it secondhand, to leliana, who’d been hurt over justinia. to sera, to bull, to vivienne, to solas, who was fascinated about her journey into the fade.

she doesn’t indulge him. any other day, she might’ve, but not today.

marzeyna has to put on a brave face when she’s nearly hit with what she assumes to be a lyrium kit when she visits cullen. to think she’d thought she’d get any miniscule amount of comfort from anyone after her return, she would’ve thought, just maybe, that it would be him. but no, her nerves are shot and she’s terrified and can’t think straight. she hasn’t slept since before adamant, doesn’t even want to think about dreaming in the fade. and yet, she’s able to give cullen the strength he needs to go on. 

she wavers. her tiny form struggles to make it back to the war room after the moon has long risen in the sky. working, bent over the war table. they’d head out for the exalted plains in the morning. switch out her ground forces, get to work.

get her mind off the blonde woman that haunted her thoughts these days. piercing storm cloud eyes with dexterity over daggers that she’d never seen before. a determination to save mages from the templars that burned white hot within her, flames licking everyone she met.

her voice never wavering when she’d accepted her fate. a strong nod when she drew her daggers for the last time.

she shoves the knife meant for josephine’s diplomatic mission into the table deeper than she’d intended, grinding it into the table with a groan. her fire red hair falls into her face, her once tight ponytail loosening into a lump of curls at the base of her neck.

magic crackles at her fingertips, papers flying off the desk and fluttering to the floor. lelianna’s secrets, cassandra and solas’ requests, josephine’s agreements, cullen’s reports.

yanking off her gloves in front of the fire in her quarters, she grits her teeth when she can’t yank a swollen finger out of it’s respective sleeve. eyebrows knitting together in frustration, fire climbing her thoughts.

why hadn’t she been quicker? why hadn’t she forced them ahead with magic? she could’ve done something, done anything different. could’ve fade stepped them past the bastard. but no, she hadn’t done any of those things. she’d knowingly sent hawke to her death, not fought alongside her and alistair, but sent her away so she and alistair could get away.

the glove comes off, pain reverberating through her hand in waves. she kicks off her boots, the pair thumping away somewhere in the darkness.

she should be the one in the fade. running for her life, terrified in the darkness of the spiders she saw racing towards her. reliving nightmare after nightmare.

marzeyna was a mage. she could’ve handled it longer before she went mad. reyna was not, she was a young woman from kirkwall. a rogue no less. so stupid, marzeyna should’ve been the one to stay behind. from what little she understood of the tensions between varric and cassandra, hawke could’ve been the inquisitor. hell she probably was supposed to be. or alistair’s love, tabris.

both were older, wiser than she was. with only twenty five years on her, she wonders if some God with a sick sense of humor had decided it should be her. things had only gone wrong when she appeared in haven, half alive and delirious. justinia had died, the mage/templar conflict in the hinterlands that she couldn’t solve, alexius.

then they lost haven. and so many people. the smell of wood burning around her and screams of people being cut down by red templars. her advisors asking for orders, her mind spiraling in a thousand different directions.

she wonders if cullen saw the terrified look in her eyes when he’d spoken to her. saw her fumbling for answers, saw the little girl that had been given too much power, much too soon. had second thoughts about her being the so called herald of andraste. had wondered why he put his faith in her.

marzeyna lavellan. she was a mage. and a dalish elf. two of the most marginalized statuses you could have in thedas, and so many people still looked up to her. asked her what to do, trusted her not to lead them astray. 

hawke had trusted her. marzeyna had promised her she’d get her out alive, had promised she’d get her back to bethany. to anders. that they could do this.

she yanks a box, some sort of box, maybe empty off the desk and throws it, chucks it into the wall just off the windows. it crashes, shattering into splinters of oak. then something else holding an ink quill, lighter, easier to throw. that too shatters, ceramic maybe. it’s satisfying almost, anger and regret and everything in between flooding her emotions like a tidal wave. they drown her, choking her when she screams like a caged animal, chucking another small box into the wall. raw magic dances at her fingertips and lights her ablaze, body glowing a gentle white as hot tears slide down her face in rivers.

justinia. maybe. she’s needed her and there was nothing she could do. she failed her.

every single person in haven believed in her. they needed her when corphyeus arrived with his forces.

hawke had believed in her. smiled at her. told her jokes. at first skeptical, as any non andrastian would be. but quickly had become her friend. her first real one that wasn’t asking her what was next all the time. someone she could go to when her advisors were too much that day.

her hands clench into fists in her hair, sobs heavy and heaving as she slides to the floor in a heap against one of the walls. now hawke was gone, and it was all her fault. just like it’d been before. another person who’d gotten killed because of her.

she’d tried to justify her decision. the wardens would need someone to lead them through this possible blight. tabris would need him when she got back with her research into the fake calling. 

nothing answers when she thinks about hawke. she can’t justify her death. she was a good person, supported mages to a fault. didn’t seem the type to kick puppies. was friendly to everyone, had a sister, had a friend in varric.

then, why isn’t marzeyna dead?

she has nothing. clan lavellan maybe, but they’d surely replaced her by now, it wasn’t as if she was coming back now. it wasn’t like they were clambering to see her again. she’s a mage, she’s already being persecuted anyway. and it wasn’t as if what she’d started with cullen couldn’t be forgiven. it wasn’t anything serious, he could meet someone else.

sure, she was young. younger than most in the inquisition. but others still had most of their lives ahead of them. she had nothing. no future beyond what lie inside of skyhold.

hugging her knees, the pants legs begin to wet with the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. the anchor was the only thing that made her important, that kept people from actually wanting to get her killed. people put their lives on the line for her. and she couldn’t even return the favor.

her nails dig into her biceps, curling in on her herself as a draft whips into the room. a shiver after the fire chases it away. 

then why is she still here? she’s nothing, no one. 

and right now, she doesn’t want to be anyone. she doesn’t go to bed that night, reading reports until she can’t. staving off sleep to keep from drifting into the fade against her will. eyes blurring and burning when she dresses herself in the morning, she avoids varric’s gaze following her down the corridor to the war room. josephine follows, rattling off things she doesn’t understand. nobles. treaties. alliances.

lelianna and cullen join them a few minutes later. if they notice her hands shaking, they don’t say anything. a glimmer of concern in cullen’s eyes, josephine outright with the words on her lips, gently biting them back.

she should be dead, she chants when they arrive in the plains, i don’t even have a right to be alive. she should be here, and yet i handed the situation to her like the scared child i am.

it’s the beginning of many restless nights.

#marzeyna lavellan #oc #original character

[ofravensandgenesis]

Meme Tag Games!

Thank you for all the lovely tags!! :D <3 This is quite belated but between some health happenings, the weather deciding to turn the thermostat way up (and the house AC went out), and other stuff, I got swamped for a while there. Here we are now though! :D Tagging anyone who wants to jump in on any of these, namely FC5 GFH tag game; OC Fighting Style; and WIP Day. Continued below the cut because this got long:

FC5 Guns For Hire Meme Game

Tagged by @chyrstis​ and @amistrio​ for the FC5 GFH meme, thank you for the tag!! :D <3 We have full length responses with some banter with the human GFH in particular here. I was kind of stumped with how to answer this for Joshua in what he might say as a GFH since his verse is very tailored for him being the Deputy and all the psychic shenanigans. Eventually I got over that and this is basically an AU where there’s another (unnamed here) Deputy who IS slated to be The Deputy that Joshua is trying to help (and convince to do less murder) to explain how he fits into a verse as a Gun For Hire. Psychic shenanigans still happen in this AU of an AU ofc, just it’s perhaps less prominent. We’re skipping over possible musings of relevant sidequests for Joshua relating to the Seeds in this for the sake of time, though I acknowledge that it’s something to explore, likely would impact the endgame with the Heralds, cult, and Joseph depending on the Deputy’s choices of doing a Kill or No-kill run. This verse also assumes that Joshua, the Deputy, Whitehorse, Pratt, and Hudson all got away or were not present for the helicopter crash. Other characters minor and otherwise who are alive in Joshua’s main fic verse ACABH are the same as in that story thus far, such as Rae-Rae and Ryan being alive. We’ll also presume the Seeds are all still alive at the time of these dialogue lines.

Deputy Joshua Raguel Rook

(All images used were public domain and/or labeled free for reuse under creative commons license. Above image was sourced from [here.]) With Fangs for Hire

Boomer: “Hey there boy, how’re you feeling today? Got some venison strips saved for you, you eating enough with all this running around?” [cue more small talk and praise for Boomer about how Boomer’s doing such a good job and Joshua feeding Boomer bits of cooked meat. Will likely sing snatches of cheery dog-themed songs he’s heard when in the party with Boomer and there’s no enemies nearby.]

Peaches: “...I hope that’s not people-meat in your teeth, Peaches, you know how Miss Mable feels about that, it’s bad for your health. I’m also not quite brave enough to want to brush your teeth—though maybe Dr. Lindsey or Wade can offer advice on that. We’ll get you some nice fish instead, that’s a good kitty.” [He’s a bit more shy around Peaches than Boomer bc cougar, but an effort at friendliness will be made.]

Cheeseburger: “...that is one big bear. He’s a sweetheart though. Just...hoping he doesn’t make a mistake of who he’s barreling into. It’s not like we’re wearing team colors or anything.” [Cheeseburger is a sweetie and Joshua likes him, but also: bear. Joshua’s a bit wary around him, but will still feed Cheeseburger salmon when able. May crack a joke paralleling Cheeseburger going “Only You Can Prevent Cult Gun Fire.” Will not crack this joke after any Jacob-region events though.]

With Other Guns for Hire:

Sharky

Sharky: So amibro, I was thinking, you know how those Angels are all dead in the head and stuff? How are they still shuffling around, is the Bliss like a zombie plant or something? Joshua: ...no, that’s more in line with the aliens that Larry keeps going on about I’m sure. Something about brainmelting and bendy straws, I got lost when he started mentioning Navier-Stokes equations for how the...resulting brain juice would be redirected. [Shuddery noise of disgust.] I’m not sure if he’s serious or just fucking with me and referencing Guy’s zombie movie series at this point. Could be either or. The Bliss is more like...like...uh. Like if you lost the keys to your car, but the car’s your body. You get me? Sharky: Damn, remind me never to OD on the stuff, I lose the keys to my car all the time. Sometimes I can’t be bothered to find em and just jiggle the lock so I can hop on in to hotwire the car because I’m in a hurry, you know? Ladies love a man who’s good with his hands, and who’s good with time and can improvise. You think that’d work on the Bliss car keys? Joshua: Maybe? Not everyone seems to be as readily lost to the Bliss at the same amounts. Personally I’d wager you’d be able to find your way back to your body no matter where you were in the bliss if we stood you near a signal fire. Sharky: This is why we’re friends man! Ride or die! ...also can you help me find my keys with that trick of yours, I lost ‘em again. Joshua: Yeah, though did you check under your bed? Also, maybe hang your regular set and a spare set of keys on a hook by the door so you can always find them, just in case you’re in a hurry.

Hurk

Joshua: Hurk. [Said in a Mild, Judgmental Voice of Impending Doom From A Friend kind of tone.] Hurk: Hey man I didn’t do nothin’ to deserve that tone of voice now don’t you start on me. Joshua: How can you say that when you and Sharky went and invented zipline grenade-golf without me last night? And blew up part of the mini-YES-sign. Hurk: Oh man you were talking up Lindsey and with the way the two of you were smiling and laughing, we figured you might be getting lucky so like the proper supportive wingmen me and Sharky were, we left you gentlemen some of our finest booze and sticky green. You did find it didn’t you, I’d hate to waste the gifts of the beneficent Monkey God from above as He Who Likes To Par-tay Above And Here Below On This Earth did command me never to waste beer or the good kush and to always help a brother out who’s trying to hook it up with their fine persons of choice. Joshua: Hurk I’m not— [sighs in accepting and fond exasperation.] It’s not like that with me and Charles— Hurk: Ooooooooooooo, you’re on a first name basis already! I knew you had it in you! Get it man, get it good! I’m not into that, you know I like the ladies strictly, but I will support your endeavors no matter the sex of your fellow party-goer as leader of Hurk Gate and the Bro-iest of Bros. Joshua: Hurk oh my god, I’m not trying to sleep with or romance him. I’m—he’s not looking for that, at least not with me certainly, and I—...just, thanks. I still have most of the beer and weed leftover if you and Sharky are up for graffiting one of John’s billboard signs though. You in? Hurk: Hell yeah man, and oo, you did get some then, Josh you sly dog! Joshua: I DID NOT! [Meta-clarification: Joshua indeed did not, for reasons to be revealed at a later time in the main fic.]

Sharky, Hurk, and Joshua, if one bends the mechanics so they are all in the party together at the same time:

Sharky: Pfhahahahaha oh man did you see the look on those Peggies’s faces when we came just crashing down the mountainside in that burning car? It was priceless!

Joshua: What better way to set fire to mass amounts of Bliss fields than with a moving fireball? Sharky: I know man it was great! We didn’t get too singed or nothin’! We gotta try that burning trash-ball idea next time though, like building a snowman but with fire! A fireman! Ha! That was the easiest fifty bucks of my life, cuz. Joshua: Hold up a tick now, what. Hurk: Sharky man that’s against the betting code! You’re not supposed to tell! Joshua: Oh, you cheeky bastards were betting on if Sharky could convince me to drive the car down the hill, weren’t you. Hurk: Man it’s always a crap shoot with you, specially around cars. That’s what makes it fun, sometimes you get all “guys that’s not safe,” [said with a poor imitation of Joshua’s voice complete with a very terrible southern, Georgian-style accent before Hurk switches to his normal speaking voice to continue,] —and other times it’s just “hold my beer.” You’re not going to go all prim and proper on us now are ya? Joshua: I can’t believe you two. Gambling in Hope County, I’m shocked, shocked. Sharky you owe me half, I’ll buy you a beer first round. Sharky: Hell yeah man! Hurk: Wait a second did you two just con me? I’ve been robbed! Police! Joshua: Hurk I *am* the police, one of them present at least. Hurk: Oh shit son, you right. Help I’m being oppressed by the system!

Nick Rye

[This conversation happens after Seed Ranch has been taken, along with the AU detail of capturing John’s plane Affirmation at the same time, preferably early on, while John is still alive.] Nick: Hey Joshua I was talking to Sharky— Joshua: Oh no. Nick: And he had an idea that wasn’t half bad. Not a good one, and you’d be liable to get killed or captured, but I got stuck thinking on it and wanted to ask: What d’you think would happen if you dressed up like the Father and just pulled a whole Mission: Impossible face-a-roo switch? You can do that imitation of how he speaks and everything, I’ve heard you do it before. And with how high the Peggies are most of the time, they’re so far out of their gourds they wouldn’t notice the differences. Joshua: You mean aside from his brothers and sister noticing he’s suddenly an inch shorter, twenty years younger and the wrong brand of crazy? Nick: Just go off about there being an edit to God’s Plan or something, and you could get makeup or something going on with that age thing. People do all kinds of wizardry with foundation and stuff, though you’d have to ask someone else on that. Maybe Addie or someone she knows? I don’t know if they have aging-up tricks compared to aging-down though. It could work! Might be a quick way to end the fighting if we can just stuff Joseph into a car trunk and then stash him in a bunker somewhere while you’re pretending you’re him. Joshua: Nick my tattoos are different and I’m not going to convince people I’m Joseph if I have to do one of his shirtless walkarounds, NOR am I having sins and Bible verses carved into my hide to complete the look. I don’t think we have any special effects or make up artists in the county who specialize in convincingly fake scars made out of latex or something. Nick: I don’t know, that Guy Marvel might have someone. Or, had someone. He has to be able to afford all those special effects somehow. Joshua: I’m not going anywhere near that guy with a ten foot pole man, he weirds me out. Also consider: I’d have to talk to Jacob, John and Faith as Joseph. I don’t want that kind of responsibility of herding that conversation at the family dinner. Nick: Hoo, good point. So...how is that family bullshit coming along then? Joshua: I have no idea, I’m just winging it, like you are. Nick: [who’s currently flying a plane, thus the slight pun] Heh. Good luck with that then, and let me know if you want me to paint something special on John’s precious little Affirmation next time you take it out for a spin to spite him. Joshua: I’m sure I can think of a thing or two.

Adelaide

Adelaide: Honey you need to take a breather one of these days and just take a load off, if you keep up the way you’re going you’re going to end up looking more like your dad sooner rather than later. You should swing by the Marina sometime and have a yoga session with Xander, really helps get the blood pumping and limber you up if you know what I’m saying. Joshua: [Snorts in amusement.] Is Xander trying to convince you to eat more kale chips instead of potato chips again? Adelaide: Rook sweetie, I love Xander but there are some things a woman won’t put in her mouth, and kale chips are one of them. Joshua: I’ll swing by sometime to help out with the kale chips then, and maybe get in a yoga session at the same time. It’s been a while since I chatted Xander up what with the county going pearshaped. Adelaide: I’ll never understand how you two can eat those things. Ugh. Gives me the willies. Joshua: *I* eat them dipped in homemade spicy nacho cheese sauce. I have no idea how Xander eats them straight and still claims to have working tastebuds.

Grace

[For context: This conversation is based on the AU’s detail that Grace’s father has survived the previous attempt on his life prior to the start of the Reaping.]

Joshua: Did you crack open the extra care packages we dropped off yet Grace, or did your dad get to ‘em first? Grace: You referring to the chocolate bars you stashed in there? I got my share of them out in time. Joshua: Good, I was a little worried when you told me they were missing last time. Thought they might’ve been lifted without me knowing beforehand. Grace: He’s a sly one when sweets are up for grabs. Now if you can do something about the shortage of decent coffee… Joshua: What’s that? A reason to piss John off today and raid his personal stash? Say no more!

Jess

Jess: So. Joshua: So. Jess: Just like old times but with more fucked up cultist family bullshit than before, huh. Joshua: [Sighs.] Yeah. Jess: That’s rough, buddy. Joshua: Least I can steal shit en masse from the cultists and no one else minds right now. For the life of me though I can’t figure out where all of the snacks from Lorna’s went when the Peggies hit her place. I think they ate ‘em all. Jess: [Noise of disgust.] Those two-faced fuckers going on and on about how bad commercially produced food is and how everyone should get back to basics, but there they go snatching up all the frosted cakes and maple bars like it's baby’s first shoplifting spree. Joshua: I know right? Even if they do believe the end of the world’s coming, that’s still rude to clean the store out on the first go around—leave some snacks for the next bunch of looters, god damn.

In Combat

[Note: due to Joshua’s verse details, this comes with the assumption that were one to play in a version of his universe, the Deputy would have a kill/spare mechanic and thus also an option of doing a No Kill run and variations on that spectrum, which Joshua’s mechanics would support more so. This would likely also mean some additional options for the other guns-for-hire and creative use of their canonical loadouts and abilities. Joshua’s setup would overlap with Boomer and Jess’s via the Spotter and Concealment abilities, and he’d be equipped with a bliss dart gun and a scoped hunting rifle. Also melee options and such.] Seeing/tagging an enemy: “Hey look, another whack-a-mole.” / ”Fashionably challenged mountain-man zealot sighted.” / “Enemy sighted.” Seeing/tagging multiple enemies at once: “duck, duck, cultists.”/ “The Rapture called, they don’t want these Peggies back.” / “multiple hostiles in the area.” Bliss darting/knocking out a Peggie at range: “Nap time.” / “Another one bites the dust.” / “Down they go!” / “A little dirt nap never hurt any Peggie. Won’t hurt their outfits any either, a little dirt brown looks better than all of that mayonnaise-white so many of them wear anyway.” Knocking out a Peggie with a non-lethal stealth takedown: “Lights out.” / “Rang this one’s chimes hard enough he’ll think it’s time for morning service on a sunday when he wakes up.” / “Sleep tight.” / “She’s/he’s down.” Sneaking: “Feels like a tuesday.”  / “...” / “Five bucks says I can pickpocket the guards and they’d never even know till later.” / “Moving position.” / “Good to go.” Upon witnessing the Deputy killing an enemy: “Was that really necessary?!” / “...shit.” / “Maybe we should disengage and drop back out of sight instead of this.” / “What the fuck!” Reviving an ally/The Deputy: “Don’t you go dying on me! Stay alive, you’ve got so much to live for!” / “Come on, let’s get you patched up, you’re gonna be okay!” / “No no no! Don’t you dare die! Not today!” Hurt: “MOTHERFUCKER!” / “Ow!” / “God damn it, I just patched this shirt! And myself!” / “This is NOT my fucking element, fuck!” / “Why are we even in a situation where we’d get shot at?!” Downed: “Could use a little help over here!” / “Bleeding out, help!” / “...mom?”

Driving

When asked to drive: “...you sure? I really think someone else driving would be a better idea under current circumstances, but okay. Just don’t go making a habit out of this. Please. For everyone’s sake.” / “No.” [This is followed by outright refusal to sit in the driver’s seat.] / [Optionally if Sharky and/or Hurk are around] “Ugh. Just...gotta pretend this is driving through a Clutch Nixon. With live gun fire, instead of just fire-fire.”

When the Deputy/someone else is driving recklessly: “Iwantoffthisride” / “I’m going to have to pick upholstery out from under my nails later.” / “JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL.” / [Recites a Hail Mary.] / “Having a good time! NOT.” / [If it’s Sharky or Hurk driving] “This is the kind of reckless driving I can get behind. Through regular past exposure therapy.” Changing radio stations: [If it’s being changed to Eden’s Gate stations] “Can we not? I’ve heard this music so many times it’s old as hell, however catchy.” / “They did do a good job on the music, I gotta say. More ominous meaning to the lyrics right now in particular though.” / [If it’s being changed to Resistance Radio stations] “Road trip time! Watch out for moose in the road.” / “Hell yeah, crank those tunes!” / “I’m glad we have regular music to listen to still, it’d be such a drag to have to go without it.”

Idle

- [General] “What’s up? Everything going alright with you?” - [General] “I heard of a good fishing spot where the rainbow trout [or other game fish depending on situation/mechanics] are really biting today if you want to take a breather and just do a bit of fishing.” [this dialogue only triggers if the Deputy hasn’t filled out the map yet for fishing spots, and adds one to the map with a notification.] - [General] “Hey, there’s a prepper stash over yonder, if you want to try your hand at getting at it. [This dialogue only triggers at random if the Deputy hasn’t polished off all the nearby Prepper stashes already. Marks a nearby prepper stash on the map and gives a notification.]

- [General] “You know what surprises me? That the Project didn’t try to shut off the power plant to at least portions of the county. Sure lots of people are preppers or woodsmen and such, but electricity makes everything easier for us. Weird, ain’t it? They have the technicians for it I’m sure. Guess we should thank our lucky stars they either didn’t think of that or decided it wasn’t worth it. We’d be straight out of ice cold beer then, Whitehorse would hate that.” - [If the Deputy is taking the no-kill route] “Hey I just want to say...I appreciate you trying not to kill people, even if some of these cultists are absolute motherfuckers who deserve it. We might be able to stop all their prophecy crap dead in its tracks if you keep this up. And...you know. Thanks for not killing my crazy relatives? I think. They’ve done a lot of bad shit and they need to answer for that, but...the right way, not backwoods murder. We’re better than that, I hope.” - [If the Deputy is taking the killing route] “I get wanting to kill the Seeds and the cult...but this isn’t going to end well, even after we’re done. I wish you wouldn’t, but I can’t stop you if this is the choice you’ve made. ...I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you. I...hope you’ll be alright, in the end. But I don’t think you will be.” [Recall that Joshua Knows What Will Happen To The Deputy if they take the canonically-based killing route. He leaves before the final confrontation, and curiously Whitehorse, Pratt, and Hudson don’t show up in the final scene either—ie, whichever route the Deputy chooses, they survive elsewhere (coughcough Joshua’s secret bunker cough.) The scene with Joseph still happens more or less the same, only the Deputy leaves alone if they choose Walk Away, and ends up alone with Joseph if they choose Resist. Also interestingly enough: Dutch isn’t present on the radio, nor in his bunker. His fish have been taken too. Joshua didn’t have the time to grab everyone, so he tried to grab the ones he knew for sure would die, and warned the others that he foresaw not surviving the Collapse or aftermath, like Mary May and Jess Black, or who suffered serious injuries like Grace. His buds Sharky and Hurk he bribes with beer and weed to hide out in their bunker or hang out in his while this goes down. Boomer, Cheeseburger, and Peaches are all herded to safety (yes there are mechanics for that in the standard AU verse, we shan’t delve into them here though bc spoilers tho.) The others he tries to warn, but whether he managed to get to them and some of the other latter people mentioned above in time or not is uncertain.] - [If the Deputy switched from a killing route to a no-kill route and all of the Seeds are still alive, Joshua sounds relieved] “Hey, I know it’s...it’s hard to hold off pulling the trigger when someone who’s hurt so many people is in your gunsights, but...I do think bringing them in for actual processing through the legal system—a proper trial without bullshit—is the better way. For all of us. Thank you.” - [If the Deputy switched from a no-kill route to a killing route, sounds slightly devastated] “...Why?” - [If the Deputy is doing a “neutral” run of killing significant numbers of cultists, but is sparing the Seeds as they go] “...I appreciate you not killing the murdery head-cult-family members, but…you think we could maybe lighten up on killing the rank and file? They don’t have the big names and they aren’t the leaders, but those are still people. They are responsible for their own actions, not saying they aren’t, but many of them are redeemable. Not all of them, but...maybe we can just lay them out in the infirmary for a good long while instead? Nothing permanent. The bad ones though can fall off a cliff.”

- [If the Deputy is doing a “selective killing” run of not killing rank and file cultists, but is in the process of killing all the Seed Heralds. Joshua sounds conflicted.] “I appreciate you not killing the followers, though some of them are definitely bastards who shouldn’t be allowed to walk free for the shit they’ve done, but...you think we could...maybe not kill the Seeds either? The Seeds are the primary responsible parties, not contesting that, but maybe we can just kick their asses and arrest them instead? It might help dampen the chaos somewhat, maybe we can use ‘em for leverage. We certainly could hide them somewhere secure that the Peggies wouldn’t be able to find ‘em. It’d be easier to talk Joseph down too, using his siblings as leverage.” [See above for killing route ending details.] Also? We’re driving in separate cars. Don’t turn on the radio, stay away from the others. You’re still brainwashed, and dangerous.” [Joshua is disappointed in the Deputy for not having stuck to some manner of universal moral principle.] - [If friendly, and the Deputy is on either a no-kill playthrough or has switched to a no-kill route,] “Hey, you wanna play a game of checkers, or chess? Take five for a bit, if you got the time?” - [If friendly, and the Deputy is on either a no-kill playthrough or has switched to a no-kill route,] “Hey, not to be mushy or anything, but...thank you. For being you. It’s inspiring to see someone’s able to take the higher path when everything’s falling to pieces all around us. Makes me have a little bit more faith in humanity, too.” - [If friendly, and the Deputy is on either a no-kill playthrough or has switched to a no-kill route, and has been on said no-kill route for a decent amount of time,] “Hey, we grabbed some really good produce this time around and sent it on over to Casey. Told him I’d tell you to swing by, and asked him to save some for you in case you were interested. They’ve got some fresh beef for burgers and sandwiches, pumpkin pie, apple pie, loaded baked potatoes, and all kinds of other tasty stuff for a cookout. The Ryes are coming round to help pitch in and organize it all as a little morale boost party. Wanna come? You deserve to put up your feet and relax, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who’d appreciate your company if you felt like joining in. If you’d rather not, I can sneak food to you if you want quiet time to yourself. It’s all good, just tell me what you want and where you want it.”

Location Specific:

- Near where the police station was, if it’s been burned down: [Sighs.] “While I’m not missing the paperwork that got torched, there was a nice feel of history to the old place. Wish they hadn’t burned it down, fuckers. But, well...the Project and the Seeds have good reason to have no love for police and authority figures among others, even before all this horribleness and the leadup stuff came down. So I can’t say I’m surprised they did.”

- Upon entering the Spread Eagle, if friendly: “Finally, a place where everybody knows our names instead of yelling “Deputies!” at us all day! Wanna hit up the arcade? I’ll buy the first round if you get the higher score.”

- Seed Ranch, outside if it hasn’t been liberated, inside if it has been liberated: “Never going to understand why some folks want real airy houses with so much dead space as their main living quarters. Feels more like a knickknack museum you’re supposed to look at, not a home you’re supposed to live in. He’s got all this Eden’s Gate paraphernalia in those glass display cases, and I don’t doubt John’s fervent in his beliefs, but it feels more like a rich boy’s hunting and vacation lodge cobbled together with a vague idea of home. You saw the doghouse out back, right? What’s the point of having a dog live outside if you’ve got ALL this space, it’s all finished wood floors, and you’ve made sure to train ‘em and raise ‘em properly so they know not to chew on the furniture? It’s lonely, that’s what this is. Joseph chides John and all that about learning to love, but it’s a case of the blind leading the blind there.” - Outside St. Francis Veterans Center: [Before the Veterans Center is liberated, if Jacob has captured the Deputy at least once, so the song “Only You” is played around the Center, and the melody starts to be audible in the distance as the group approaches.] “Yeah hey, I’m going to go the other way now and wait for you over here where I can’t hear the song of madness, ‘kay? Maybe you should avoid it too.” [This is followed by Joshua refusing to go too close to the Center, sans possible AU story missions.] - Anywhere near Joseph’s Island: [The first time the party gets near Joseph’s Island,] “Uh. No. I’m not going near that place twice any sooner than we need to.” [Watch Joshua be willing to jump out even into deep water and swim away if the Deputy tries to approach the island with him in tow on a boat.]

OC Fighting Style

Tagged by @chyrstis​ !! Thank you for the tag!! :D <3 This was another fun one to fill out (and shorter than the above but you know what we’re stapling all of these bad boys into one post bc Why Not.) Have an aesthetic picture of a Jacob sheep skull upon a sheep skin for the fun implications of what that says about Joshua’s fighting style. xD Ram skull image after some searching was sourced from [here], with a creative commons license for free-to-reuse, with some limitations.

Rules: bold = often (or always), italics = sometimes, default = rarely, strike = never

fight honorably / fight dirty / prefer close-quarters / prefer range / chat during / go silent / low pain tolerance / high pain tolerance / attack in bursts / attack steadily / go for the kill / aim to disarm / fight defensively / bait an opponent’s first strike / strike first / provoked easily / provoke their opponent / tease / get visibly frustrated / shout while attacking / use strategy / focus on their battle / experience conflicting thoughts during battle / rush in recklessly / try to read their opponent before fighting / fight wildly / fight calmly, apathetically / fight with anger / fight with excitement / fight because they have to / fight because they want to / fight without regard to wounds / run away when wounded / hide wounds / take a blow to protect another / prefer a blade / prefer a gun (non lethal rounds/tranquilizer darts) / prefer a bow / prefer a shield /  prefer a spear naginata / prefer a personalized weapon / prefer psychic abilities / prefer brawling / their greatest weakness is physical / their greatest weakness is mental / their greatest weakness is emotional / transform for battle / fight as they appear / rely on strength / rely on speed / use everything they have / hide their full potential / exhaust quickly /  high stamina / doubt their strength / proceed with caution / behave arrogantly / brag after landing a hit / belittle their abilities / use psychological tactics / use brute strength / avoid civilians / strike down civilians / damage surroundings / avoid damaging surroundings / signature fighting style / making it up as they go / mastered skillset / learning their skillset / fancy footwork / sloppy footwork / messy fighter / elegant fighter / accept defeat / refuse defeat / beg for mercy / compliment their opponent / insult their opponent / use unnecessary movements / move efficiently / barely move / prefer to dodge / prefer to block / defend their blindside / has no blindside / use all available advantages / strictly use one main method / play around / hold back / fight ruthlessly / show mercy / wait for opponent to be ready / strike when opponent isn’t ready / fear death  / fear pain / fear killing / has PTSD / avoid fighting / has lost a fight / has won a fight / has killed / refuses to kill / want to die standing / would succumb slowly

WIP Day

Tagged by @chyrstis and @hawkfurze !! Thank you for the tags!! :D <3

An excerpt from the current WIP chapter for ACABH: ————————— Weak. He was so weak, barely able to move right now, and he didn’t even know why. There was pain, a lot of pain, a feeling like his bones were on fire and about to crumble under pressure at any moment—but he’d been through worse. In this instance, he could recall that he’d fallen through the sky for a brief tumultuous time before gravity had stepped in, leading to him landing hard upon the road, as if making up for the lack of physics earlier. —————————

#FC 5 #Far Cry 5 #FC 5 AU #Far Cry 5 AU #WIP #WIP Wednesday #ask game #tag game #Deputy Joshua Rook #long post