Outfit breakdowns for all of my Kirby hero of yore ocs! I don’t know if I can count Galacta (or Papi) as ocs but my interpretations are rather far from the source material at this point ^^;
First is Galacta, the Hero of Heart, who is the hero among heroes of the four of them. The most honored, the most gallant, the light and hope of Halcandra.
Second is Nebula, the Hero of Dream, who is a laid-back, mostly relaxed figure who is calm and kind. Though they can often be found napping in various locations around town, in battle, they are a fierce warrior, and are very protective of Galacta.
Third is Papilio, the Hero of Soul, also known to many as Lio, or by their personal name, Anax. They are the smallest and the youngest of the heroes, a prodigy with the blade, and known as the fastest and most light-footed of the heroes.
And finally, the Hero of Dark, whose true name is only known to their friends. They are the quietest of the heroes, and wield a spear, though most of their powers are long range magic.
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*lays down* im thinking about minecraft again and the empty spaces you create. the flat lands. the grand halls. the picture perfect buildings and towns that no one lives in.
have you ever entered a multiplayer world and found an empty town? it's like. people were there. there were players there, once, and maybe there will be players there again, but there aren't any now. now there are only empty buildings and straight-lined roads where forest used to be.
have you ever made a building that's just too Large? four chunks, one empty room. Or maybe found a megabase from the ground. you are so small, and the world you've and your players have made is so big.
i've seen so many people talk about how empty and lonely single player worlds are, but my favourite world is a single player one. i live in a valley and I've killed the dragon, and i live in a cave. it's messy and its homey and nothing fits together. i go to large multiplayer worlds with giant towns for hubs and its perfect. no one lives in any of the houses, no one explores them. we are all journeymen, never locals. "life" is a prop we hold up against the void so we don't keep staring into its depths.
or what about the big churches? the monuments? the gorgeous, sprawling builds that take hours and hours and are stunning and are so empty. when they're finished the builder moves on to the next project and the building stays. do you understand? the buildings are always lit up so nothing will spawn but nothing will spawn anyway because there's no one there. there are skyscrapers with a few chests and a crafting table inside. the purpose of the building is to be built and once its purpose is fulfilled it doesn't just go away. the buildings haunt their own halls, perfectly pretty and lovingly made and eventually forgotten.
i dont know. ive played this game for a decade. i've beat the ender dragon twice. i start a world and i restart them and i restart them and i restart them. there are posts going around that say that the world itself is not for you, but sometimes the things you build aren't for you, either
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the worst trait of me and my family is probably this: we never learned to say the word sorry.
i) my best friend and i, we are no people. knives? maybe. liars? definitely. but people? i’m not so sure.
knives were never forged to be tender (what a shame, what a shame) and we too, fall and slay what we meant to protect. him and i, we go for the throat when we clash. we hurt and bleed and oh, i should be terrified, i should be running for my life, but all i am is tired and a bit lonely and would really like his arms around me.
( “can we please stop fighting now.”
“oh god yes please.”)
because time and time again, this man has held my heart in his hands and cleaned its festering wounds with cotton dipped in alcohol (always the healer, always the lover) and wrapped gauze around them with clinical precision. and i have walked through the maze of his head and tended to his withering garden, have dragged the sun and fresh air and all the oceans to the barren land to make it bloom (always the poet, always the lover).
him and i, we have never needed words because we are knives forged in the same fire and at the end of the day, we both know that he will be the one who wordlessly stitches my broken heart and i will be the one who sings him to sleep.
ii) let me paint you a picture:
blue that fades into red that fades into black that fades into blue that fades into red. loud, clashing and nonsensical. a pit in your stomach that was dug with desperation and blunt fingernails. how do you colour anger that is also pain, grief, hate, love, fear and truth? the smell of the paint is foul and clogs your windpipes. blunt fingernails and blue and black and madness. can you bear to look at what you created without flinching?
that’s what anger looks like on my father. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.
all his life, my father has been scorned, belittled, beaten, spat on. his mother didn’t love him right because her mother didn’t love her right. my dad loves like he hates. something is fucked in his head and heart and his words fade into black and blue and red and this shitshow always ends with me sobbing, bleeding, dying on the floor. my father watches with his hackles raised and his eyes red and wide and glowing. once wounded, an animal never sheathes its claws. it strikes the ones it loves and walks away with its head held high and hands trembling.
but here’s what happens when the curtains close: he pulls me into his arms and brings me tea. he wipes away my tears with hands that has moved mountains to make me smile. he kisses my forehead and tells me that his mom didn’t love him right. my grief is like anger and indignation and love. i wrap my arms around him and cry all the tears he never had the luxury to. who should say sorry, really? is it him or his mom or his mom’s mom or this stupid fucking world? my father has never said the word sorry. he never needed to. this is what love looks like on us. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.
iii) despite it all, i am not usually an angry person. i take after my father and my mother, after all. i rage like my mother (quick, loud, fire that burns out almost as quickly as it sparked to life) and fight like my father (aim, shoot, bullseye). my sister does something even mildly upsetting and before i know it, i’m cursing her to be miserable till she dies. not even an hour later i’m draping myself over her shoulder and bugging her till she rolls her eyes and smiles ever so slightly.
(“do you have no shame?”
“yeah no i don’t think so.”)
my family and i, we never learned to say the word sorry. because the word sorry never meant sorry, not to us. because at the end of the day, that’s all it is: a word. and it sticks to the back of my tongue and the dents of my molars and gets tangled in my mouth when i try to spit it out. so i grab it by its throat and thread it into my being. i find it so much easier to hide my pathetic inability to do one thing that doesn’t scream that there's something wrong with me with the truth of another three words:
“i love you”
and they are always echoed back to me, just a few million times more tender, in ways only we can understand.
“yeah, i know.”
“that’s great, but there’s no escaping dishes duty.”
“oh, shut up, you.”
“what’s that for?”
a pause and a hum.
“i love you too.”
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Someone in the tags of my last Xero post (you know who you are) talked about the similarities between a doodle and Hollow so naturally I couldn’t stop thinking about Xero and Hollow.
I love the idea that Xero was a loved and respected knight. The idea he saw Hollow as a child and knew, knew, this was a child. And Hollow so, so young, feeling guilt about even letting this knight show kindness and love to them - when they were meant to be hollow (oh but they couldn’t be)
Do you think they felt guilty? When they overheard Xero raise his voice at the King, quickly hushed, because he dared suggest Hollow was a child? When they started seeing this knight less and less, scared that their father was furious at him? When suddenly this knight was executed, for betraying the king? Was it their fault? Should they have never allowed him to be himself, ran to avoid indulging in the tiny moments of someone looking at them as a person? Did they even know Xero was falling to the infection? Would that make it feel worse?
They were both victims of an infection, bound by gods with their own desires. No one wins in a gods game.
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