#may do more mutated sea creatures in the future

[wishing4nuclearwinter]

[click for quality]

Glowing Blue Whales are found on both the east and west coast of Post-War America and can grow up to five times the size of their non-mutated predecessors

#1 million pound creature. almost 500 ft long... #may do more mutated sea creatures in the future #fallout #fallout creatures #fallout 1 #fo1 #fallout 2 #fo2 #fallout 4 #fo4 #far harbor #mutated creature #glowing whale #gif #drawing4nuclearwinter

[somethingclevermahogony]

A Few Creatures Unique to Kobani and Day 25 Kobani Worldbuilding Question

Pictured Above: The Sea-Dragon Gabrisu, which lives off of the KIshic Coast. Gabrisu is the largest living thing in Kobani. I will talk about Gabrisu more in a future post. Gabrisu is an example of a Great Monster.

25. What kind of animals and creatures live here?

This is a subject I could go into a lot of depth about, aside from species that are familiar to those on earth, there are also thousands of other species native to all parts of Kobani. In the interest of time I will be limiting this list to just Kishetal and will only give a few examples. More information on various species will be shared in future posts.

First, a quick classification of beings 

This is a quick description of the classification of mortal beings in Kobani. Gods and Spirits do not fall into these classifications.

Animals/humans/other: Those creatures and entities seemingly unaffected or unchanged by the effects of wild magic. These beings are, as a rule, not magical, not including the intrinsically magical aspects of life itself, though certain humans, sages, and seers, are capable of seeing and communicating with spirits and, with permission, may wield their power though never their own. Examples unique to Kobani include horned rabbits and giant minks

Beasts/Forestfolk: These are mortal and physical creatures and beings that have been reshaped and changed by wild magic but have not been changed to such an extent that wisemen cannot determine their original origin. Examples include the Deer of Lat and the Dorasi. Most forestfolk fall into this category as well, being vastly changed but still recognizably originating from a mundane and non-magical creature, namely humans or, on rare occasions, Giants or one of the other Sapient/Awakened Creatures. Beasts/Forestfolk may exhibit supernatural or magical aspects, but this is relatively rare as their mutations are typically physical and, at times, neurological rather than spiritual or metaphysical. In essence, the soul is unchanged, despite what may be claimed by certain people. Though their bodies and, at times, their behaviors are different, forestfolk, on the level of the soul/het, are still human and thus still privy to the Human/Awakened Cycle of Reincarnation rather than the typical mortal cycle experienced by Animals and other non-sapient creatures.

Monsters: Monster is a broad category. A monster is any creature whose lineage has been affected by magic to the extent that the species of its original ancestry is no longer clear, as with the silverwings of the Baalic Island. They may also be beings that seemingly have no distinct origin and/or are naturally found in their state, having not been affected by wild magic. These creatures are typically differentiated from animals by various magical or supernatural properties though their magical nature/dynamic nature is still mostly static and purely physical, unlike spirits. Examples of these "true" monsters include creatures such as lesser dragons, many sea serpents, and the kirki. To be considered a monster rather than a “Great” monster, an individual must necessarily be considered part of a group or species.

Great Monsters: These are ancient creatures that are unique in nature, they may be the progenitor of a line of lesser monsters, but they must be the first of their kind or else included in a very small group, one which prohibits the proliferation of the creature without degradation. Typically they are named individuals and are typically though not necessarily supernatural or magical. Examples include the Great Dragon Ilhumbaya. 

Demigods: A demigod is the progeny of a human or human-descended forestfolk and a spirit, typically a Great Spirit, given the power and focus required by spirits to produce and provide the necessary materials for sexual reproduction. Demigods are almost always born from a human mother, as most spirits detest the physical limits which come from carrying a physically static being. Unlike forestfolk, demigods are magical in nature and not merely the result of magical mutation. Demigods are typically not able to wield magic and change their form in the same sense as a spirit, as their physical body forbids it. Magic rather manifests in the body itself. Demigods are prone to unusually large stature, heal at an unusually fast pace, and possess great physical strength. Demigods are also capable of speaking with and seeing spirits regardless of the spirit's wishes. In some cases, this may only occur after certain mental blocks and expectations are broken. Depending on the individual, if not killed by unnatural means, a demigod may live for upwards of fifteen hundred years. Despite this, demigods are still considered among the Awakened and mortal beings.

For the purposes of this post, I will be addressing species from the first two categories, Animals and Beasts.

1. Horned Rabbit

Classification: Animal

Common Name: The Wild Horned Rabbit

Kishic Name: Juraijir (Juraba- Rabbit, Jir- Horn/Antler/Branch)

Description: The Wild Horned Rabbit is a large leporid typically found in plains and mountain slopes though populations may exist in a range of biomes. Both males and females possess large curling horns similar to those found in wild sheep. Males possess thick manes similar in some sense to that of the American Bison. Horned Rabbits are considerably larger than their non-horned cousins. Horned Rabbits typically travel in large groups called clatters, named for the tell-tale sound of their horns clashing during the mating season. During the mating season Horned Rabbit males may become aggressive, more than one Kishic shepherd or hunter has taken an unfortunate fall of a cliff or ledge after running afoul of horned rabbit. Unlike rabbits Horned Rabbits do not create burrows but rather construct nest like structures called isisu. Does may produce a litter twice a year with each litter typically consisting of 2 to 4 kits. Rabbits typically live between 4-7 years.

Range: Red Areas represent the native range of the Horned Rabbit, Green diagrams those areas where horned rabbits have been introduced in wild or domesticated form.

Size: Bucks(Male) generally reach between 50-60 lbs with the largest specimens reaching upwards of 85 lbs. Does generally weigh between 40-50 lbs with the heaviest examples reaching 70 lbs.

Diet: Rabbits are herbivorous, the majority of their diet is composed of grasses, shrubs, herbs, and mosses. In some areas the diet may be supplemented by twigs, and buds.

Magical Aspects: Horned Rabbits are not inherently magical, however by eating magical herbs Rabbits may begin to exhibit magical traits. These traits become particularly important in cases where magically affected rabbit is eaten by humans or other species.

Relation to Humans: Wild rabbits are often hunted for meat and fur. The mane of the male rabbit is commonly used for shawls and decorative purposes while meat is a common ingredient in stews and sauces throughout the Red Cedar Mountains. The horns commonly used in the creation of jewelry, weapons, and drinking vessels. Over 45 separate breeds of domesticated horned rabbit exist throughout Kobani. The largest breed, the Amshigarian Imar, may reach up to 400 lbs. The smallest domesticated breed the Jurasum, popular among Kishic commoners, weigh in at around 15 lbs. 

2. The Giant Mink

Classification: Animal

Common Name: The Giant Mink

Kishic Name: Jalkukusu (Jal- Great or Big, Kukusu- Mink)

Description: The Giant Mink is a large mustelid most closely related to the common mink. Aside from the obvious difference in size, the giant mink possesses longer and more powerful legs suited for both climbing and running. Giant Mink typically hunt via ambush, pouncing down on their prey from thick limbs and branches or else springing from water in similar fashion to a crocodilian. Giant Minks are accomplished swimmers and climbers and can be found in most areas of the eastern Green Sea where both forest and running water can be found. The range of the Giant Mink has shrunk somewhat as a result of deforestation throughout the Green Sea. The rich and glossy coat of the Giant mink is a deep brown and is known for its silky appearance. Mink typically live between 7-10 years.

Range: Red areas represent the current range of the Giant Mink, Pink areas represent the former range.

Size: Differences between male and female specimens is often substantial. Males may reach weights of up to 210lbs but are generally 130-170 lbs and approximately 8ft from snout to the tip of the tail. Females typically fall around 100-120 lbs and 7.3ft. In size they are comparable to the Puma Concolor or Mountain Lion. Giant Mink are both the longest and heaviest mustelids in Kobani.

Diet: Giant Minks are voracious and often vicious predators. The diet consists of fish, shellfish, small birds and mammals, eggs, insects, and reptiles as well as larger prey including gazelle, deer, boar, wild goat and sheep, porcupine, horned rabbit, small bears, lion cubs, livestock, and on rare occasion, humans and forestfolk.

Magical Aspects: Giant Mink in their natural state have no magical traits unless introduced via diet.

Relation with Humans: While Giant Mink fur is heavily coveted and the pelts a symbol of wealth and power, hunting the mink is considered a dangerous endeavor due to the species’ aggressive nature. Some consider the hunting of Giant Minks to be a greater honor than the hunting of lions. Minks often prey on livestock including sheep and horned rabbits. It is not unheard of for Giant Mink to find their way into villages only to make off with pets and small children.

3. The Deer of Lat

Classification: Beast

Common Name(s): Flesh-eating Deer, Deer of Lat

Kishic Name:  Latdul Atjir (Latdul- Of Lat, Atjir- Deer)

Description: The Flesh-Eating Deer of Lat are a monstrous species originally native to Kishetal that have since spread to surrounding regions. Their name stems from the semi-historical folk-hero, Lat, who it is said first encountered the creatures near the future site of the Kishic city of Bur. The deer are quite easy to separate from their plant-eating cousins by their comparatively bulky bodies, their large size, long busy tails, the presence of canine-like teeth, and front facing eyeballs. Does and Bucks alike possess antlers. Unlike other species, antlers are not used in mating rituals. Rather male deer compete by creating caches of food. As a result male deer are particularly aggressive during the breeding season and will often actively hunt down humans. Deer move in small packs of between 3 and 8 individuals typically led by a dominant pair. Often deer will hunt in similar fashion to wolves, using their hooves, teeth, and antlers to kill prey. Unlike other deer, Deer of Lat do not shed their antlers. It is is not unusual to see deer with small prey items skewered upon the antlers. Deer are highly aggressive and will almost certainly prey on humans if given the chance. It is believed that the Deer of Lat are the descendants of roe deer exposed to wild magic in the Red Cedar Mountains. Deer live approximately 9 years on average. 

Range: The range of the Flesh-eating Deer is shown in red.

Size:  The Deer of Lat reach on average, 6ft 5in tall at the shoulders. Sexual dimorphism is surprisingly limited. Deer may typically reach 990–1,320 lbs and up to 1,640 lbs.

Diet: The Deer of Lat are obligate carnivores. A single individual may eat upwards of 100lbs of flesh in a week. Prey animals include gazelle, deer, boar, wild goat and sheep, porcupine, horned rabbit, small bears, lion cubs, livestock, and humans.

Magical Aspects: The Deer of Lat are immune to all diseases. Additionally it would seem the deer possess supernatural quietness, as despite their massive size, deer are capable of sneaking up on prey practically silently. The deer hide is supernaturally resistant against extreme cold.

Relation with Humans: The Deer of Lat are one of the few species which actively hunt and seem to show a preference for human and forestfolk as a part of their diet. Packs of deer will stalk the outside of villages, preying on stragglers. The Deer are much feared and are a common villain in Kishic folklore. Despite the dangerous nature of the deer, the antlers are prized for use in weapons and jewelry. The hide with its magical properties is often used in the creation of cold-weather and mountain clothing.

4. Long-Necked Bear

Classification: Beast

Common Name: The Long-Necked Bear

Kishic Name: Dorasi (borrowed from a forestfolk dialect)

Description: The long-necked bear is believed to descend from a mutated population of brown bear in the Shabalic Mountains before the decent of humanity from the mountains of sanctuary. Dorasi are now found all over northwestern Macia and Kallistera. The dorasi is thinner and less robust than the brown bear, better suited to sudden bursts of speed. Dorasi are known to gallop after their prey. The Dorasi is additionally quite a good swimmer and may on some occasions swim many miles over lake or sea, accounting for its spread off of the mainland. The most identifiable traits the dorasi are its elongated neck, fanged mouth, and iridescent fur. Like the brown bear, dorasi hibernate during colder seasons and will gorge themselves before the winter season in order to gain the requisite fat deposits. Dorasi are highly solitary and territorial and will attack strange bears, monsters, and even humans that enter their territory, which may cover several hundred acres. Bears will only leave their territory when searching for a mate or else leaving the territory of their mother. Bears typically live between 10 and 15 years. Dorasi are known to hoard shiny objects including gold and silver which is then incorporated into their den.

Range: The range of the Dorasi is shown in red. 

Size: While thinner than the Shabalic brown bear, the Dorasi is taller and longer and thus roughly equivalent in weight at 500-780 lbs for males and 400-650 lbs for females with females typically being sleeker and less bulky than males. Both sexes generally measure at 8 to 10ft from nose to tail.

Diet: The diet of the dorasi varies greatly on geographical location. Typically a dorasi’s diet will consist of a mixture of grasses, berries, sedges, fungi, mosses, nuts, fruit, honey, insects, birds and fish as as larger prey items like deer and boar. Dorasi may occasionally prey on humans but most attacks are territorial in nature.

Magical Aspects: The iridescent fur of the dorasi expels water. Dorasi have a seemingly supernatural ability to detect gold and other precious metals, and make their dens near deposits. As such dorasi are often used as an indication of the presence of gold and silver. It is said that same northern populations are capable of imitating human speech. Dorasi blood is an oft ingredient in potions and medicines as it seems to increase the effect of other magical components consumed alongside it.

Relation with Humans: Dorasi are hostile towards humans and while they will only rarely prey on humans and forestfolk, have no qualms with attacking those who enter their territory. Dorasi are seen as good luck by miners as their presence often signifies large deposits. Dorasi hides are popular for use as cloaks and robes among northern peoples. However due to the magically hydrophobic nature of the fur it is incredibly hard to clean and prepare. 

#world building #worldbuilding #queer fantasy #fantasy #fantasy writing #fantasy world #wip #fantasy worldbuilding #fantasywriters #writlbr #kobani #Kobaniquestions #Narul #TestamentsoftheGreenSea

[cyberneticfamiliar]

Collaborative writing ideas

Lately, I have been fascinated by the idea of larger collaborative worldbuilding projects like scp and Orion's arm. Something about the idea of a community coming together to create expansive lore is intriguing even if they do tend to become crap eventually(or instantly in the case of the backrooms). I could never actually run one myself as the idea of being a moderator makes me want to vomit but I do have some ideas.

Liminal colonization-  taking place in a never-ending  liminal maze of rooms much like the original backrooms but installed of being populated by random  dolts who have managed to stumble in there it  is high kardashev humans invading and making use of this bizarre dimension

Dyson preserve- a Dyson swarm consisting of innumerable space stations created by an unknown intelligence as a combination of wildlife preserve and art piece. In contrast to normal Dyson swarms which serve as living space for their creators the stations of this swarm work as habitats with each containing life forms wholly unique to it.  the artificial nature of the habitats and life allows for environments and creatures that would never be able to occur naturally, some examples Alternate life solvents such as liquid nitrogen, methane sulphuric acid molten salt Gravitys that fall on the extreme ends of the spectrum or perhaps even alternate over a time period Machine life Alternate bioenegetics

Cloacina’s domain- a gargantuan sprawling sewer system in the bottom of an ecumenopolis which may or may not be earth,  playing host to countless inhabitants including but not limited to vermin and their offshoots, abandoned gmo pets gon feral, self-replicating sewer repair robots that have mutated into a sort of ecosystem, and of course cannibalistic mutants. What is the surface world like is only hinted at as just about every sentient creature has been down there multiple generations.

Fantasy sci-fi- while fantasy settings are often shown stuck in the medieval period this setting would show what was at one point a generic fantasy setting but nearly a million years in the future, a bizarre combination of hard sci-fi and fantasy where the various races and factions have reached out and colonized the stars. Advanced tech and magic are something intertwined rather than existing in opposition to one another.

Cryptid sci-fi- a hard sci-fi space colonization setting in a timeline where a large number of cryptids are real. What impacts does this have?  As many of the intelligent cryptids are discovered they may be integrated into societies and or given modern tech Mermaids and sea monks building large underwater mega cities, dogmen and goatmen forming independent space colonies, bio ships made from the DNA of sea monsters. Things only get more bizarre when uplifting comes into play.

Non-existent anime- somewhat inspired by Tumblr’s Goncharov this would be a fandom wiki for a long-running anime/show that does not exist.

Institute for the study of paranormal ailments (ISPA)- a sort an SCP adjacent universe focusing on the eponymous ISPA- an organization created to research and treat supernatural illnesses and disorders.

The tower Arcana - a colossal sealed self-sustaining skyscraper arcology that seems to be the only feature on a dead uninhabited planet. The tower reaches all the way up to the upper atmosphere and goes down all the way through the entire core of the planet and out the other side where proceeds to again reach up to the upper atmosphere. where the tower or its inhabitance came from is a mystery that has descended into mythology for its techno barbarian inhabitance. What has been known from signs on some of the floors is its creators did give the tower a name: The 16th Arcana.

Park service division 411- in the early 2000’s the paranormal bullshit that goes on in US national parks kicked itself into overdrive and became undeniable leading to the creation of the 411 and a governmental organization dedicated to researching these entities as well as minimalizing the damage they might cause to campers and native ecologies.  While the presence of paranormal horrors might seem like it would harm camping and general tourism it is in many ways the opposite as it would attract countless people hoping to see and research these creatures, besides we don't wall off national parks because they have dangerous wildlife.

#scifi #writing #writing prompt #world building #writing collab #urban fantasy #fantasy

[surveillance-0011]

I may blend the hotd and tboi x splatoon aus but it may be too many ideas or people in one place,, idk but ive got ideas,, and i’ll put em in one post ehehe

hotd x splatoon:

ams and nsbs are affiliated or just the same thing the idols r still there but more in the bg,, Maybe they’d all have different themed codenames rather than numbers.. lisa would probably be neo 3 or adjacent then. this is one of the points that would clash with mixing it with the tboi x splat au

All creatures are sanitized or like. half fuzzy half sanitized some sort of secret third thing fucking neosanitization idk maybe it’ll have to do with coral instead,, but curien is an inkfish so misanthropic he’s bringing squids back and/or continuing what Tartar started. Goldman is either an inkfish the opposite species of curien or some sorta fish. hm. goldfish hehe. but he wants to make a sanctuary of more “natural” beings. And thornheart is thornheart.. 

Most of the creatures are made from already existing people maybe theyd be able to be reverted back into their previous selves with some side effects. others are made in the lab. Most are inkfish but it gets wacky

Temperance is a part of the same clan as shiver and is like.her 2nd or 3rd cousin. they did not get along before hand and he’d try to upstage her a lot. now while warped he’s still relatively lucid so he’s just kind of an ass to her. ALso going to drag ocean hunter into this the shark he’s tamed is leviathan. Since the muatations still make him gigantic he swings the poor shark around. 

Likewise Justice is a part of the eel clan though he is not as closely related to frye as shiver is to temp. He’s very cryptic and not rlly all there. Frye did used to look up to him so seeing him like this is distressing

Emp(eror +ress) and the world are hybrid lab-grown creatures, all glass octo + sea angel probaby? maybe human in there?

Heirophant is a salmonid yeayy

hotd x tboi

maggie is neo 3 isaac is lil buddy. samson is agent 4 lilith is 8 idk about the og 3 yet maybe cain

Isaac’s mom is a goldie. ??? the lost and the forgotten only exist in Isaac’s nightmares when he thinks about his future of possibly dying, being abandoned etc etc.

His dad is a steel eel driver but defected to grizzco bc he Fucked Up Big Time

idk if azazel would be better as a salmonid (bc isaac parallels/evil him) or an octoling i kind of want the latter

Most demons r octarians but some of the human kids r too. Eve escaped to the surface early on and participated in turf wars circa Splat1 while in disguise. She’s also a werekraken. She uses the .96 gal deco

Lilith as mentioned before is 8. Incubus is some sorta seeing eye octotrooper guide and gello is a bby zapfish. Dark one/Adversary is her dad and he gets sanitized

Horsemen r salmonids yeeeayayay

Beast is a super fucked up king salmonid, some sort of giant mudmouth

ig there is a sect of octarian + salmonid diplomacy that all of the bosses mentioned here work under ehhh

dogma is some sort of ai, maybe a remnant of human society

Apollyon is also a salmonid they’re basically a worse flyfish in a weird tartar-based shell

deadly sins are an octoling team or more salmonids

most monsters are weird fuzzied inkfish

bethany mains ballpoint splatling and one of the stringers. Laz has the same mutation yoko has which leaves him sickly but when he’s well he plays with the h3 nozzlenose.

#splatoon au #splatoon

[unreone]

HTF - SIREN AU

BREAKING NEWS: Giggles, Petunia, Flaky and Lammy are still missing. It has been three weeks since their disappearance is reported to the police department. The rescue team started searching around the woods...

"But I'm telling you, I've seen them! They've become half fishes of some sort. They killed me last night, aren't my words enough of a proof?"

Cuddles exclaimed at Sniffles and Nutty. His fur may be dried now but he could still clearly remember the sensation of being dragged down the sea. The rabbit sighed as he reclined to his seat. "Look, I may sound like crazy but I need you two to believe me."

"I don't think you're crazy, but Sniffles really does!" Nutty said as he points to his best friend. Sniffles only rolls his eyes and puts the sugar-loving fellow's hand down. The anteater stands up on the table so his left paw could reach the bunny's shoulder.

"Listen, Cuddles. I know you've been staying up all night a lot since Giggles left. You are just grieving. Right now, you are at the phase of bargaining. But eventually, you will accept that she is gone and you can live your life without thinking of her..."

Silence reigned. Sniffles eyes focused on Cuddles' sad face. Out of nowhere, Nutty screamed.

"BUT WHAT IF THIS IS THE DOING OF THE SACRED PEARL!?!?"

Sniffles give Nutty a stern look. "Oh shut up about that, will ya? There's no way freaking pearl could mutate normal, sentient creatures like us. I already told you that's only an internet myth. Nothing more, nothing less."

Cuddles quickly turned towards Nutty, walking up to him with a face that spelt desperation. "Nutty, I'm gonna need you to be extra slow and detailed with me, what is this "Sacred Pearl"? And what would Giggles use it for, TELL ME!" He grabbed onto his shoulders and shaking him a bit. "Please! I need answers!"

"Nutty, what are you doing?" Sniffles says as he pinches the muscles between his eyes, trying to logic his way out of this stupid myth. "Don't give him false hope, Cuddles needs to accept that-"

He was about to say that the girls are just gone but the squirrel cuts him short. "Hush! Let the smart one do the talking."

Sniffles raised a finger to say a point, but seeing Cuddles' desperation, he can't help but let out a sigh of defeat.

"...fine. Go explain, I don't care. I'm just gonna go back to searching books...ALONE." Sniffles says with a huff and jumps down the table. Nutty giggles at what just happened.

"Pfft~ don't mind him. He's not really angry. Okie just sit down and lemme try to explain it to ya in a way ye can understand."

Nutty laughs, clapping his hands excitedly because he is finally the smart one. He clears his throat and starts talking in his narrator voice, which he copies from a videogame.

The location of an artifact known as Sacred Pearl is shared on the internet. It's a pearl but a sacred one! It is said that it grants wishes, any kinds of wishes! And for some reason, the wish will be instantly granted if you are a girl. All you have to do to keep your wish is keep working for it in the ocean! OoooOOoooOoooh~~~

Cuddles sighed, disappointed at how ridiculous it sounds... but this is the only explanation he could hold unto. With hope, he set off on his journey to find the missing ones...

The girls did got their wishes... but they did not realize how much it really costs until it's too late...

((The animatic is still ongoing yall. Since my SD card got corrupted, I have to redo all the voice lines TwT

But don't worry, just look forward to the future where I have finished this shyte))

#htf #happy tree friends #htf au #htf siren au #siren au

[heisen-shrine]

So...am I gonna have to make an entire AU based on this concept? Apparently yes lol.

The Four Lords of RE 8 and their Daemons! For a potential future His Dark Materials AU...probably...

1. Alcina Dimitrescu and Bartholomew, the black panther

-for our ever so lovely lady I wanted to give her a Daemon that was all at once sophisticated, powerful, and deadly. Bartholomew is definitely that, and while he's like Alcina in many ways, he's not as temperamental as she is. Surprisingly the big cat is the more even tempered of the two of them.

-However this doesn't mean that Bartholomew will not hesitate to put an asshole in their place. Like with Alcina and her daughters, Bartholomew considers the girls' three clouded leopard Daemons as his sons. He's very family oriented and protective.

-he and Desari (Karl's red panda) also don't get along. Though they're a little more civil in their debates, to be fair. Bartholomew would rather win a fight with his mind than his claws and fangs.

2. Karl Heisenberg and Desari, the Red Panda

-im admittedly a bit biased, of course. I really wanted to see Karl with something adorable as his Daemon. When Desari first settled he despised her settled form but it grew on him. Desari is practical and disarming due to her cuddly appearance, something I feel Karl himself could've benefitted from.

-Desari can and will fight. She's taken on Daemons several times her size and ferocity. For example: in my AU, Ethan Winters has a badger as his Daemon (Eurasian badger but even so...) and Desari was quick to take her down. She likes to hang out either on Karl's shoulder or on the handle of Karl's hammer, using her tail and front paws to stay on. Her tail sometimes functions as a scarf for him.

-Desari (Desy, as Karl lovingly calls her) is a massive troll and will do anything to get on Bartholomew's and/or Alcina's nerves just for the hell of it. She's also stolen stuff from castle dimitrescu, as, like a witch's Daemon, Desari can go as far from Karl as she wants. The two can also communicate telepathically.

3. Donna Beneviento and Otello, the Horned Chameleon

-Donna's Daemon gave me the hardest time since I couldn't really figure out what animal best suited her, but I think a Chameleon is a good pick. Otello is quiet and soft spoken, slow and steady but is deeply loyal and loving to Donna and Angie.

- Otello was the last of the Daemons to settle, and while a reptile wasn't ideal, much like Desari to Karl, Otello's form grew on Donna and she adores him now. Angie doesn't have an actual Daemon, but Donna did make her little butterfly so she didn't feel left out.

-Otello helps in amplifying Donna's abilities, as he's the only Daemon with an additional ability: he can actually render a person's senses moot, making it harder to discern what's real and what isn't. Unlike regular chameleons who change based on their mood, Otello can actually blend in with his surroundings and be just about anywhere.

4. Salvatore Moreau and Sarella, the Leopard Seal

- of course I was gonna give Moreau a sea creature, something that was just as beautiful as it is deadly. What better animal for this than the notorious leopard seal? Sarella is the oldest of the four lords Daemons, having settled just before Miranda gave Salvatore the cadou.

-while both his body and his mind are twisted, Salvatore's mutation also seriously effects Sarella. Of all the Daemons, she acts the most animalistic, functioning more like an actual leopard seal than a Daemon. However she does show some signs of human like cunning and intelligence, as she's able to still be a rather lethal foe to Ethan and Talia (Ethan's Badger daemon).

-Sarella spends most of her time in the Reservoir, preferring the water than the land. However she will come with Sal when the time demands to go for meetings or if he just needs her around. She functions more like an emotional support animal or a pet than a Daemon.

And that's all folks! I may write this AU or not, I haven't really decided yet. Hope you liked it ^.^

#his dark materials #alternate universe #resident evil crossover #potential fanfic #alcina dimitrescu #karl heisenberg #donna beneviento #salvatore moreau #the four lords #the daemons

[raeynbowboi]

DnD 5e UA Subclass Concepts

With the sheer onslaught of new content we’ve gotten from Wizards of the Coast recently, I felt it’d be fun to throw out my own ideas for potential subclass ideas. Some are admittedly a little more fleshed out than others, but it’s still a fun exercise just to flex my creativity.

ARTIFICER

    Cybertronics: Perhaps too much of a retread of Warforged, the base concept is an Artificer who has replaced parts of their body with artificial substitutions.

    Interfacer: Geared towards spying and information gathering, the interfacer is a hacker who is skilled at disabling security, causing machinery to malfunction, and can turn a building’s security cameras into their eyes on the inside. But might rely too heavily on a technologically advanced world.

BARBARIAN

    Hero’s Soul: Your body is host to a legendary warrior. Upon raging, you surrender control of your body to this paramount champion, allowing you to fight like a demigod.   

    Bleeding Heart: Rather than only gaining power through rage, a Barbarian with a Bleeding Heart can form an attachment to mementos as they level up that remind them of intense emotions, with each emotion having different benefits at different levels. So, you could have a memento for every powerful emotion, or you could choose to only keep mementos that trigger a single powerful feeling, such as fear, sadness, or joy.

BARD

    Wilderness: Your song has the ability to attract the attention of woodland critters, and beast creatures will be less hostile toward you. At higher levels, your song can soothe even the most savage beast, making one intelligent creature passive toward you once per long rest.

    Humor: Laughter is the best medicine, and keeping the morale and vitality of your allies high is the primary concern of this bardic subclass. A successful performance check will revitalize friendly creatures. When you’re not lifting your friends’ spirits with your gambols, you’re making yourself a distracting target so that your friends won’t get hurt as much with you around.

CLERIC

    Love     Sea     Fire     Shadow/Darkness     Evil     Plague     Music     Secrets     Fate/Destiny     Luck     Chaos     Time

DRUID

    Unity: You have literally become one with nature. You select a terrain and bond so deeply that the world has started to live in you. Whether birds nest in your hair, barnacles and coral has begun to sprout out of your body, or your hair has turned into leaves, your bond with nature has reached the pinnacle.

    Menagerie: As you level up, certain parts of your body will be given the option to permanently morph into having bestial traits. For example, you might choose the predatory eyes of a hawk, the keen smelling of a dog, the superb hearing of a cat, or the gills of a fish as a facial mutation.

    Xenomorph: Very similar to the Menagerie, except instead of looking like a freaky gene spliced chimeric beast, you instead become more and more alien until you look like something out of Lovecraftian horror.

   Shaman: Your spirit animal is given shape through your understanding of magic, and it aids you in ways a physical animal could not.

FIGHTER

    Achilles: You have trained like a Greek hero and have honed the mythic power of the gods. You are stronger and tougher than is normal for your race at the cost of having a weak spot that expands the chances for enemies to land a crit on you.

    Dragon Knight: At level 1, the dragon is a tiny creature that can ride on your shoulder and try to help you in a fight. By level 20, it will be a full-sized mount that you can ride on. As you level up, you can decide where to focus its training, whether you want it to throw its weight around, focus on its breath attack, or make its scales sturdier and more resilient. How you train your dragon will determine the kind of fighting style that works best for you.

MONK

    Mystic: Your enlightenment and understanding of the universe has become so sagely that you have learned to convert your ki into spell slots. Casting with Wisdom, you have learned how to tap into the Wizard’s spell list of 5th level or lower spells.

    Animal Style: Choose an animal’s martial arts style between Tiger, Monkey, Snake, Crane, Mantis, and Dragon. Tigers hit harder and more ferociously, Monkies are more agile and excel in mobility, Snakes strike faster and are more adept at stunning and can cause poison conditions, Cranes have superior balance and can fly short distances, Mantises are better at not getting hit and going unnoticed, and Dragons are better adept to fighting large groups of enemies on their own.

PALADIN

    Fairytale Knight: Able to resist magical damage, magical charms or fears, and being adept at slaying magic-users and dragons makes this the quintessential hero in story-telling. Of course Remove Curse is among their subclass spells.

    Reaper: You have sworn an oath to the laws of death, which are finite and absolute. You roam the land ending the lives of those whose time has come to perish. This subclass is neither intrinsically Good or Evil, as it can be used as a normal part of the natural order, or for carnage and murder.

    Vigilante: Donning a mask and cowl, you bring about justice outside of the law.

RANGER

    Pack Bond: You forge a bond with an animal companion of your choosing. While in the wild, you can attempt to tame other animals of the same kind with your Animal Companion serving as the Pack Leader. Among wild groups of your Animal Companion, you and your traveling companions will be trusted enough to be welcomed in their dens, receive a share of their hunt, and be protected by them from other hostile creatures.

ROGUE

    Viper: An expert in poison and disguises, the Viper is a stealthy killer who uses poison and pragmatic tricks to put their opponents at a disadvantage during a fight. What they lack in sheer power they make up for by having ways of weakening their foes.

    Tomb Raider: You’re an experienced graverobber who has developed a knack for exploring ancient temples. Your past adventures have given you a keen eye when detecting traps, solving puzzles to advance through dungeons, and the ability to set up camp inside a dungeon without being at risk of hostile encounters.

SORCERER

    Infernal: Your power comes from a Fiend ancestor.

    Fey: Your power comes from a Fey ancestor

    Entombed: Your power comes from an Undead ancestor.

    Demigod: Unlike the Divine Soul Sorcerer, you are the literal progeny of an actual deity. Select a Cleric Domain your divine parent belongs to and receive unique features through your divine birthright.

WARLOCK

    Nature: You have made a pact with a powerful force of nature, be they a Nature God, an elemental, or a powerful druid, you are given the ability to harness the forces of nature in return for protecting nature with your life.

    Shadow Society: Rather than getting your power from an extra-dimensional being, your power was granted by a group of mortal castors to use you to do their dirty work. In return for your service, they have given you a portion of their power.

    Artifact: This patron isn’t sentient. Rather, it is simply a powerful magical relic which you use to channel energy from in order to cast your spells. While this subclass comes without the burden of indentured servitude to a usually malevolent being, the artifact can be lost or stolen, and with it, your powers.

WIZARD

    Arcane Lore: When you choose this subclass at 2nd level, select another casting class. Whenever you have the option to learn a Wizard spell, you can select a spell from that class’ spell list. You may only select one spell list to select from and they become Wizard spells for you.

I hope this was fun for you guys. And if any of these suggestions really sound interesting, I might just turn them into proper Homebrew posts. I’ve already covered the Love Domain Cleric, so I’m not opposed to covering others in the future. Which ideas were your favorites, and are there some that you’d love to try and use in a future campaign?

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #unearthed arcana #UA #dnd ua #dnd 2020 #WoTC #wizards of the coast #homebrew #subclass #dnd fifth edition #dnd 5th edition #fifth edition #5th edition #d&d 5th edition #d&d fifth edition #dungeons and dragons 2020 #unearthed arcana 2020

[stoicbreviary]

"The Last Words of Cleanthes"

Richard Henry Horne (1802-1884) 'Here do I take my seat, Great Element! And for the last time listen to thy voice, Which now methinks hath a more lulling tone, E'en as of sympathy: but that's a dream. 'Many great spirits dwell in other worlds, And some are here, who live, like me, alone, But with a recognized influence of good, Rewarded by self-consciousness of power, Which is the Stoic's well-sufficing law; It is his law unto himself, comprising All kinds of labour; water, food, and space Of ground sufficient where to rest the head, Being his right in common with the herds, And all dumb fellow-creatures of the earth. 'Zeno is gone; and I have taught his School, With pride I yet may pardon in myself, Knowing how much of his great soul, outpoured For all throughout my being was transfused. Zeno hath passed to higher learning now, And thence to higher teachings will attain, Proportion'd to his spirit towering still; While I have linger'd here, and day and night Striven to be worthy of his great bequest.' The sage was seated on a lone sea-coast, And while the sun slow sank 'midst solemn smiles, As of paternal sadness, touch'd with hope, The sea came flowing up, still murmuring Its ever-fresh yet ancient harmonies. Near him there stands a Thracian youth, whose head And limbs elastic had enchain'd the gaze, But for the anxious chisellings o'er his face, As he beholds a man of massive brow, O'ersnow'd by four score years, who like a rock Placed on a rock, sits there, self-doom'd to die. 'Young man, thou pray'st me to recount my life— New comer from the Thracian Chersonese, Not knowing of my labours, or my thoughts, Nor why I sit here with intent to end A long life, every day whereof hath wrought The utmost work my faculties could achieve; Here, where the bright waves hasten tow'rds my feet, Not like fierce rows of fangs, but gracious friends Who bring to me my flowing funeral rites, Murmuring their deep hymns to eternity. 'I was a rough-bred and unletter'd man, Born to great strength of sinew and of bone, With that endurance which outlives defeat; And as a cestus-bearing athlete fought, Gaining some batter'd victories, with the applause Of brutal natures, and of spirits refined, Needing reaction after mental toil. With heavy ox-thonged cestus, newly stained From smashing contest, craving rest and shade, The grove I pass'd where Zeno held his School. The vision of that grand head floats before me, As then it loom'd above the shoulders bare, And grape-like curls of many a lovely youth Whose soaring spirit stood with folded wings. 'The hush'd repose—the shadows,—and the rhythm Of Zeno's eloquent cadences—a flow Of harmony as of the confluence sweet When Simoïs and Xanthus murmur'd through Some temple in the groves of vanish'd Troy, Melted my nerves, and overcame my heart, Till a new life-spring gushed into my brain, Flooding my thoughts, and forcing o'er each sense A change, which all my bodily strength transformed. More than a child's within a giant's grasp, Or clay beneath the statuary's hand, Softly I laid me listening on the grass,— And year by year, ne'er absent, day by day, Save for deep study in my lone abode, As one of Zeno's flock I fed and thought. 'Now while the days roll'd o'er my bowed-down head, My corporal needs—how few—were well supplied By labours of the night, wherein my strength Served well my higher craving; and for hinds On gardens, farms, or cattle far a-field, Water I drew from wells, or when the springs Sparkled in frosty silver 'neath the moon. 'Thus through my mind were melted twenty years, And Zeno left us—on life's pilgrimage Tow'rds higher knowledge,—and his Chair devolved On me, though others to that lofty seat Held worthier claim. As Polygnotus' hand In paintings illustrated godlike forms, And acts of heroes, so did I but teach, With humbler, but not less devoted powers, What godlike minds had imaged. Let that pass From me, the medium of those truths sublime, To rest as crowns for their diviner brows. 'And yet, young man, I have not lived in vain In mine own person, since examples weighty Rank with best teachings. Now, brief words paint years:— The tide rolls inward, and thou must depart, And leave me here to close my mortal hour. Through a long life I have thoroughly wrought my will, From nature's hand refusing all rich fruits, As from my labours, or man's kindliness, Receiving but the means for innocent food, Thus following Crates' and great Zeno's course, As rigidly as link doth follow link, When seamen raise an anchor to the prow; Or as the shadow of the hero's spear Beneath its singing, flies to the same mark. To man's best knowledge, and highest good Myself have I devoted evermore, With no weak murmurings o'er the poverty Which was my choice. And if my chief return From man were scoffs, cold pity, or neglect, As I for social life were all unfit— No business had on earth—let man progress The better for my life; I, none the worse For his contempt, but more content and glad In that my labours have been more removed From personal profit. My pure 'vantage rests On its negation and its nullity, Which is the Stoic's true—his best reward, Save in the satisfaction of his soul. It may be that some balance here is lost, Since Nature bids each seek his proper good. Every devotion hath inspiring madness— Oft madness of the loftiest, purest scope; But 'tis poor earthliness large gains to crave, Thanks, and prompt recognition from the world Of service and self-sacrifice. Enough— Man knows his own acts, his own secret mind,— Evades, or all the mingled truths confronts. 'Leave me, young man; the tide is rising fast! Good youth, retire—'tis now my will to die. Studies and hardships on extreme age piling Weight upon weight, life's arches are borne down; And as nought useless can, or should exist, I have for days, all sustenance refused, Press'd to my hands, but thankfully laid down, And now sit here, beside my sand-scoop'd grave, Waiting majestic burial from the sea. 'Nor are tombs wanting. Lo, yon marble rocks!— The architecture of some hand Divine! Intaglios fretted by a thousand years— Inscriptions motto'd by the unseen Powers That guide earth's great mutations, while around me The symbols both of present and of past— Enormous sea-weeds, strombites, and whitening bones, Submarine flowers that lift their welcoming heads, And wail of starv'd birds echoing to the moon, Now slowly rising from her daily grave, Profusely furnish funeral honours due To those whose life-lamps burnt in caves, like mine. Young man! forbear thy touch!—thy tearful voice— Begone at once! behold the waves flow near, And soon will kiss these pale and paralyzed feet. The crescent points creep round with gushing gleams, And now they eddying meet, and deepening flow! 'Covering his face, with smother'd sobs he goes— Farewell!—nay, boy!—he weeps, but he is gone. Ever-young World! I have well loved thy youth, And thought for me thou hadst no heart at all; But 'twas not so. I ne'er had sought to gain That sympathy which yet, like unplucked fruit, Is ready for the worthy traveller's hand. Absorb'd in work for man, men I forgot, With all their cherished trivialities. Wherefore they viewed me as a thing apart. I. 'O Zeus! I bless thee for the life thou gavest, So full of bodily strength, and health, and years; I bless thee for the mind that hath no fears Of death, whereby our atoms thou still savest, Till some fine consciousness again appears. II. O Zeus! I have doubted further gifts of Gods— Doubted futurity for each special mind; The soul, like music, dying on the wind; The body merging in earth's sands and sods;— But to thy Ruling evermore resigned. III. O Zeus! no claim have we to aught beyond! We bless thee for the life we have enjoyed; We hope our spirit shall not be destroyed: Thy waters to my dying Hymn respond In harmonies that change, ere rapture-cloyed. IV. O Zeus! I hear the broad waves gently flowing Over my feet, and nestling round my knees! My senses melt away by soft degrees! My thoughts, like seeds, thy hand afar is sowing! Sweet songs are in my brain—sweet birds in trees! V. O Zeus! at all-devouring Time I smile; For he is but Heaven's little playful son, Toying, or teasing, while we graveward run: Flow then, ye waves!—our mingling sands beguile! Flow on, divine Maternity, flow on!'

#stoicism #cleanthes #richard henry horne

[fantroll-purgatory]

PROXIMIA, LAND OF DEEP WATERS

(Did I design a fanplanet for fun? Blame Hussie releasing the Epilogues for this. This is an extension of my broader thoughts on how Trolls are basically Space Orcs? Without further ado:)

PROXIMIA, LAND OF DEEP WATERS

PITCH: Sometime after the tribulations of The Sufferer and The Summoner and of Mindfang, Her Imperious Condescension decided to try an experiment. Could the troll species brood on another planet besides Alternia? Having two sources of soldiers would certainly make her conquest more swift. And if it didn’t work, no skin off of her horns- she has all of eternity to try again. However, things didn’t quite go as planned. Her fated Duel for that cycle never happened, as her Heiress apparent died in a freak accident, so there was a time where The Empress had to deal with her old Lusus. She loaded her Ark Enterprise with a young Mother Grub, as well as some hopefuls from every blood caste tier still in existence- Rust through Violet, though she had her doubts that anyone below Blue would survive the long journey to the planet she had selected within her empire.

When she left Alternia to return to overseeing, the Ark never arrived. She presumed them dead, and thought no more of it. But, the truth was much stranger…

  AU IDEAS ABOUT TROLL BIOLOGY: Trolls are an insectoid species with multiple metamorphic stages throughout their life cycle. They are brood parasites, and possess a relationship with the Mother Grub species that now neither can divorce themselves from. However, over the course of Troll Existence, the species that the Trolls initially resemble has changed, creating a bizarre and redundant genome that has the potential for many fantastic and visible mutations. From Spiders to Bulls, Trolls have been it all. Trolls are by design Crepuscular animals, in that they are most active during Twilight hours (such as Dawn and Dusk). Alternia’s overactive sun and impending environmental collapse have made their nights bright enough that true darkness never quite falls.

 God I do love this setup a lot. I like the idea that trolls are able to just pick up lots of variation. It makes me wonder if the lifespan and # split has a more functional role for trolls, too? Like, lowbloods can go out in Large Numbers, all over, and live relatively short lives where over generations they pick up biological niches that they can then propagate through the other blood colors via the Gene Slurry. It’s fun to imagine in this context what trolls might’ve been before coming to Alternia. It’d be hilarious to imagine they became less buglike and more mammalian/humanoid because of, like, musclebeasts. Be The Horseman.

You talk about sort of reciprocal mutations later down the line and I also wonder if that could be the case for trolls. Like, do trolls sometimes get wings on accident because mother grubs have wings? 

HISTORY: The Fuchsia that was to battle the Condesce did not die, she cleverly faked her demise and stole away onto the Ark in hemoanon. Her original intent was to steal away and die helping trolls for the rest of her long life, but things went wrong on the ship almost instantly. A solar flare from Alternia’s incredibly active sun fried the ship’s navigation as they were leaving the system, causing the ship to veer incredibly far off course. The panicking trolls needed a leader, and the woman who had spent her whole life leading stepped into the role.

When she revealed herself to be their rightful leader, the reaction was fierce. But, when push came to shove, she was the best person for the job. Eventually, her title became known as The Forgiven, who lead the trolls out of darkness and into light.

The journey lasted longer than anticipated, and more things went awry than could be accounted for. Soon after they had moved into dark space, the Mother Grub began to waste away due to a buried disease in her blood. The Forgiven transfused her own blood into the creature in an attempt to save her life (and her species’ future) because as a Fuchsia, she had the most blood to give. This worked, but something in the blood of the Fuchsia warped the Mother Grub. With all of her Jade replaced with pink, her body began to independently produce Fuchsia blood, effectively changing her caste. This caused freak mutations to occur, which warped her body into a semi-aquatic creature, conferred her massive psychic resistance, and, strangest of all, caused the now Forgiven Fuchsia to calm down in her presence. Gone was her deeply buried bloodlust, replaced with a surreal stillness in the presence of the Mother Grub.

Eventually, the Ark crash landed on a habitable planet far away from their intended destination. In a way, it was much like Alternia in that it had deep oceans and a temperature range easily habitable for trolls. It was a veritable paradise for both the cryogenically frozen lowbloods who had survived the many-sweep journey as well as the Highbloods who were awake for the entire trip.

The Forgiven took her Mother Grub, which she had begun to see as a personal Lusus, to a cave system not unlike the Brooding Caverns. In the center of the caverns was a deep pool down into the waters that make up the core of this unlikely planet. Here, the Forgiven decided to create her own society, that would be better, more humane than the world she left. For her part, she may have been right- but “humane” is a relative term. Once her society had existed for a number of sweeps that she deemed enough to ascertain its survival without her, the Forgiven descended to the bottom of the sea, far out of the reach of even other Fuchsias, on a quest even her closest companions could not fathom.

In the modern day, Proximian society has progressed to a point that modern Proximian Trolls are taking to the stars and attempting to replicate their success on other planets within their solar system. This has left Proximia with a much lower Adult to Teen ratio than one would expect.

 A really good justification for keeping the story Teen Focused as is the case on Alternia! I do have to wonder what I always wonder about these sort of aus- Are they worried about being found or have they decided they’re out of probable radius and safe? Do they take any precautions against being found? Or do they think they could take the Condesce if she did find them? 

ENVIRONMENT: Proximia is a hothouse planet, characterized by heavy rainfall, higher than average oceans, and very small polar ice caps. Proximia therefore is primarily a rainforest planet, being more tropical towards the equator, and temperate on the northern and southern extremes. Landmass is less than Alternia, but still decently spacious. The ecosystems have undergone several radical changes since the Troll species arrived, which will be detailed later under whose responsible for each change.

  CHANGES TO THE HEMOSPECTRUM

While the biological blood castes of Alternia still exist to an extent, the changes to both the Mother Grub as well as to society have redefined the entire system. The Forgiven decreed that no longer would blood be a line, but a loop. Each caste needed to pull their weight in order for the species to survive. This has create a more egalitarian society.

The Fuschiablood that permeates the Proximian Mother Grub has extended the lifespan of lowbloods born from the Grub, but oddly, reduced the lifespan of highbloods born from the Grub. Proximian Biologists theorize that it is some kind of enzyme or hormone must exist within the Fuchsia coloring that clamps down on Highblood cells. Or something. They’re not really quite sure about the science of it all yet.

The Limebloods have returned anew on Proximia as full members of society. Mutants on Proximia are not culled immediately. Instead, they are divorced from all castes, and are considered a sub-caste to Fuschia. This will be expanded upon in the Fuschia writeup.

While the Hemospectrum has turned into a cyclical hierarchy, the actual use of the blood castes is in groups of three, known as the Hemotriads.

 Creating a triad system is a great way to break them up, very clever. 

THE HEMOTRIADS

The Hemotriads are the backbone of Proximian Society. While different groups have broken off and move around the planet, they are tied by their adherence to the Triad model.

  The Carving Triad: Bronze, Lime, Purple

The Carving Triad are the Triad responsible for taming the planet and making it habitable to Trolls. All three castes have some measure of psychic prowess, but each has a particular focus that separates them from the Controllers.

Bronze: The Tamers quell wildlife, making them docile and turning them on their fellows. You don’t tend to find Bronzebloods within cities, as their talents are in such demand throughout the planet.

Lime: The Converters were so feared on Alternia because of their innate ability to warp wildlife into new forms. On Proximia, their birth on the planet signaled the beginning of Lusus naturae, native animals of the planet becoming tied to the Troll species and losing their pigment.

Purple: The Subjugators are the defenders of the Carvers, using their psychic powers to keep dissidents in line, and physically destroy any who dare get in the way of their mission, animal, alien or troll alike.

 I of course have to ask the question if there are any ways that purple Rage is kept in line. Is it something that’s been soothed developmentally over time? Or are they partnered with limes who help steady them? Have they found some substance on-planet that keeps them level? Or do they just let the purples go full Red-Eyed Murder Clown Party Hours? Did anything of the story of the Messiahs survive over to Proximia, or is Clown Church completely cancelled? Have any other religions sprung up to replace it? 

The Throne Triad: Fuschia, Jade, Indigo

The Throne Triad live in the Brooding Caverns, where they focus on defending the Mother Grub and rearing the next generation of the Troll species. Together they form the core of Proximian society.

Fuchsia: The Sustainers live in the waters directly below the Brooding Caverns, and it is their role to keep the Mother Grub alive, and to ensure that the grubs make their way to the dry land of the caverns.

Mutants: The Chosen live in the caverns surrounding the Brooding Pool, where they are clients to the Fuchsiabloods. Their job is to be the last line of defense against any and all threats, as well as to cull any wigglers who cannot make it out of the caverns.

Jade: The Infiltrators are the Throne caste most likely to leave the Caverns. When they enter a settlement in full Green, all goes silent. Traditionally masquerading as other castes when they leave the caverns, Jades root out dissidents and threats to society before they become too big to handle.

Indigo: The Builders are the innovators of Proximia. Focused on the future of both their own caste as well as the Troll species, the Indigos build rocketships and training gyms in equal measure. They are considered the second line of defense to the Mother Grub, with Jade being the first.

 This is funnn. Okay, I do have to ask about Rainbowdrinkers in this society. Are they more or less common? Nonexistent? How do trolls feel about them? Revered and/or feared or are they generally accepted? It seems like over time, Alternia developed to think of them as something as a beauty standard (see: that makeup product I told you about that’s meant to mimic their shimmer). Did ideals on Proximia happen to Converge with that, given the status of the Jades? Since caste living spaces are changing over time, could it be that rainbowdrinker traits start bleeding into other castes? 

This cavern arrangement also definitely implies wrigglers are aquatic. Do they experience a tadpool phase and grow up onto land? Do they all retain some of those aquatic features or do the traditionally landdwelling bloods lose all echoes of that? 

The Control Triad: Burgundy, Cerulean, Gold

Scientists and thinkers in equal measure, the Control Triad is linked by their primary colors as well as their psychic powers. The Controllers often fill the upper echelon of Proximian society, despite its claims of being truly egalitarian.

Burgundy: The Speakers can move both the dead and the living with a combination of necromancy and telekinesis. Often responsible for the creation of many troll cities, Burgundybloods are very cosmopolitan, and are seldom found on the frontier.

Cerulean: The Twisters with powers over the mind, are often the enforcers of Proximian law, working closely with Teals and Jades to deal with threats and criminals. “Blue Rules” is often a turn of phrase used to refer to Cerulean caste allowance of brainwashing criminals for reformation.

Gold: The Medics are programmers, doctors, and disability advocates upon Proximia. Due to their caste-specific disease of Voidrot, it became a necessity for the early Golds of Proximia to learn medicine on top of their Alternian technological training.

 This could be a fun one to play with, especially if you play with the idea of proximity to the furthest ring. Does goldblood voidrot get more common the farther they get from the protective layer of good old Glub Glub? Outside of intratriad interaction, do golds and blues often find themselves working together considering the hard/software sort of split we see here? We know from Equius that on Alternia, blues are oft associated with the craft of prostheses. (You could also consider how prostheses themselves might change on Proximia, though. Do they go from metal to more biotech with the advent of the Gold Doctor?)  

The Worker Triad: Olive, Teal, Violet

The most common of the Triads, the Workers keep society going, and are found everywhere there are Trolls. While not the most glamourous of the Castes, without them, everyone would starve and society would collapse in on itself.

Olive: The Farmers were the first Trolls on Proximia who tamed the land after the Limes and Bronzes made it habitable. Olives are notoriously lucky, and those who don’t go into agriculture (such as those in big cities) often make big names for themselves in entertainment and other flashy industries.

Teal: Known as The Keepers, The Tealbloods found that the nascent Proximia was the perfect place for them to be themselves. Found abundantly in cities, the Teals are primarily lawmakers and judges.

Violet: The Sailors, in the early days of Proximia, were never far from the Forgiven’s side, though her commands were for them to create pathways for the Carvers to reshape the planet. Violets, as a Seadwelling caste, have pockets of insular cities under the sea, but the majority of them are sailors, fishermen, and public transit workers.

 We’ve talked about it before, but trolls do seem to be omnivorous with a carnivorous bent. And Olives are, at least somewhat (because of Nepeta, at the very least) associated with hunting. Does this caste take care of hunting, too? Or do they do ranching? Or have troll diets shifted completely to rely more on plant matter than on meat? Did they pull a panda on us? 

Design Notes: Proximian Trolls wear their blood colors proudly, regardless of what colors those are. To wear primarily black is seen as juvenile, similar to presenting as Hemoanon. Even mutant bloods with odd blood colors often scrounge up things that match their inner selves.

Really good, really fun. All around love this! Thank you for submitting. 

-CD

#sonatinetheworld #fan planet #submission

[thelittlesushithatcould]

Fallout Meme!

I saw this on @courierspikeee and I noticed one of the tags was anyone who thought ED-E was the goodest boy, and i am 100% in that camp, so I hope nobody minds if I do this ;) Rules:

1. Choose an OC.

2. Answer them as that OC.

3. Tag 5 people to do the same.

1. What is your name?

"Doctor Wanda Thompson, of the Institute!” She laughs “oh, don’t give me that look”

2. How old are you?

"well that’s what we call a ‘complication’ . In reality I’m somewhere around 245? Give or take a few years. Being flash frozen really does a number on your sense of time”

3. What do you look like?

"Me? Oh, you know...curly brown hair, tan complexion, I’ve gotten a little softer as I’ve gotten older, more curves than in my youth.” She rubs her hand “I’ve also gotten some radiation burns during the course of my research. My hands, particularly, and a bit over my lip” She laughs “I like to think I look like a proper scientist, as well as a mother”

4. Where are you from? Where do you live now?

Wanda thinks for a moment, a small smile on her lips that catches on her scar, turning it a little lopsided “I was born on the cape. Over by Hyannis.” She pauses “I moved to Boston after that, to attend the Institute.” She shakes her head “i still live in Boston. just...under it, I suppose”

5. What was your childhood like?

“Wonderful” She laughs, and claps her hands together with a jovial grin “Simply wonderful! I spent more days than I could count out there on the sandy beaches, collecting samples of sea critters and studying them in their natural habitats” She leans on her hand , smiling “I can still smell the salt in the air, when I really think about it”

6. What groups are you friendly with? Are you allied with any factions?

“The Institute” She says without missing a beat “I’m their Director after all.” She waves her gloved fingers dismissively "I took the liberty of changing our standards and practices away from Playing God and into actually helping someone for a change.” “As for allies...well. I met this nice man who claims to have been a courier once. Rules Vegas now, he says. We hit it off fairly well.. and heavens... I suppose there’s the woman who took over Pittsburgh from those slavers...”

7. Tell me about your best friend.

“Nick? He’s fantastic” She points “I’ve never met a finer detective in my life. Even if he refuses to let me help mend his synthskin. Stubborn old bastard”

8. Do you have a family? Tell me about them!

“My husband. He died when we were all frozen, but...there were some strange circumstances involving Institute tech that helped us find one another through the barrier of life and death” She pauses, and frowns slightly “ah. And we had a son. but he turned out to be...well. We don’t like to talk about him”

9. What about a partner or partners?

“Curie! My beloved!” She hugs herself with an ear to ear smile “the cutest robot I’ve ever met in my entire life. I helped her get a body, you know. And for the longest time it was just me and her in the wasteland! Now Thomas, Curie and I all intermingle in a lovely little poly amorous triangle”

10. Who are your enemies, and why?

“oh hoho...” She covers her mouth “Bandits. The Gunners. the Enclave. The Brotherhood of Steel. Covenant. Rogue Institute Personnel..Honestly I’m probably forgetting a few”

11. Have you ever heard of The Brotherhood of Steel? What do you think about them?

“They call me the Bane of Steel for a reason” She smiles,  though there’s something almost vicious in it “When they tried to ‘help’ the Commonwealth by killing anything they wished and hoarding tech...” She mimes shooting into the sky “My one regret is that I didn’t keep their airship. Oh well”

12. What about The Enclave?

“HAH!” she laughs out loud, clapping her hands together again “Terrible! The worst idea I’ve ever heard! America fell, you old loons, rebuild it as something new instead of rehashing the same mistakes all over again”

13. How do you feel about Super Mutants?

“Fascinating creatures. I only wish I could meet the ones from the early West Coast. They’re a real testament to the FEV. If only they’d stop trying to fill me with holes long enough for a proper interview..”

14. What’s the craziest fight you’ve ever been in?

“oh...” she sighed “the time my friends and I destroyed the BoS?” She shrugs slightly “I went up into their blimp, and walked right up to that pompous ass who called himself their leader, before vaporizing him. I did manage to preserve his coat” She smiles slightly “Then we had to fight our way out of a sea of trained soldiers to get back to the ground and organize the destruction of their funny little blimp”

15. Have you ever fought a Deathclaw?

“Heavens yes, and I wish I hadn’t. They’re too gorgeous to kill!”

16. Do you like fighting?

“not really” She folds her fingers together with a sad look in her eyes “It’s always sad to have to harm someone or something. And to take a life is always a weight on the soul” She closes her eyes “but to fix the world, you have to survive...”

17. What’s your weapon of choice?

“Energy Weapons” She says with a bright smile “nothing like holding a buzzing laser rifle in your hands and feeling the raw INNOVATION that went into it” She shook her head “i also have a serrated revolutionary war sword I hooked a battery onto that i’m fond of”

18. How do you survive? Your wits, your charm, your skills, brute force, some combination? (a.k.a. what’s your S.P.E.C.I.A.L?)

“Intelligence” She said , holding up her hand “with a side helping of Charisma. You need to have a keen mind in the field of science. To analyze, theorize and know how to convince others to put those theories into practice...” She tapped her head “that’s the key to changing the world”

19. Have you ever been in a vault? What do you think about them?

“I’ve always hated Vault Tec. They invited me to join their little experiment, but I declined in favor of continuing my research into radiation and mutation. And then the damned bastards froze me!”

20. How do you beat all the radiation around here? Has it affected you?

“I wrote several studies on the effects of radiation exposure on the human body! hah, so I have some ideas on how to prevent it. Some lead lining in the clothes, lots of Rad-x and Radaway transfusions....building decontamination arches over all my doors. The usual stuff”

21. What’s your favorite wasteland critter?

“I love those funny little geckos” She smiled “They’re just so precious!”

22. What’s your least favorite wasteland critter?

“Cazadors” She frowned “i knew the idiot who made them back in the day. Hated him then. Damned fool made a flying plague”

23. How do you feel about robots?

“I ADORE robots” She says with almost girlish glee “I’ve always found them so interesting! While I’m a biologist by trade, I’ve always appreciated the sheer science of a robot. That glowing chrome...that hydraulic power...” She looks like she’s going to go on about this for a distressingly long time.

24. How many caps do you have on you right now?

“More than enough to fix the Commonwealth”

25. Nuka Cola or Sunset Sarsaparilla?

"Nuka Cola is absolute swill” She sniffs “ I’m a Sunset Sarsaparilla girl, myself. and just a little side note from one of my studies: Nuka Cola can melt a crab. A whole crab. Just saying!

26. Do you do chems?

“Mentats, Sometimes. I hate the damned things, but damn were they useful during particularly long and stressful studies”

27. Do you ever think about the Pre-War world?

“All the time. I remember it in all it’s glory...in all it’s faults. It was a flawed society built upon fear...but it was also peaceful, and comfortable... a place full of friends I’ll never see again...” She bites her lip gently “...I’ll help the Wasteland become something better... the Old World without it’s flaws..”

28. What’s your deepest regret? What would you do differently?

“Everything. I would have spoken up about the ethical issues I saw in the Institute before the war even began. I would have found another way to survive that wasn’t Vault Tec and it’s Trap. The ...the synth project maybe. I don’t know. I can’t dwell on this question too long without regretting almost everything I’ve done prior to my choice to change the Institute and fix the wasteland”

29. What’s your biggest achievement? Or what do you hope to achieve?

“Which leads us into this.. hah. When my son passed away, he left the Institute to me. in my hands. He trusted I’d keep us on the course he chose...but he was wrong. The Synths were an exercise in needless cruelty. A species created, given sentience and then called slaves and tools. I ...reorganized...the head committee, and demanded a stop to the hunting and production of synths. No more bodysnatching. no more ‘property retrieval’ . No more. There were those who fought me...and there were those who tried to remove me. But I’m stronger than I seem.” She smiled grimly “I got them to see things my way eventually. And with that, the Institute’s copious resources could be turned outward...and used to help the Commonwealth at large”

30. What do you want for the future? For yourself? Your friends? The world? ”I want...” She looks into the middle distance for a moment in thought “A world where we can all live in peaceful co-existence. Ghouls. Synths. Super Mutants, humans, true robots, and anyone else in that great wide world...I want a world where we can all work towards a mutual understanding and betterment of this wonderful Second Chance we’ve all been given”  And now for the tagging <3 @queenofblackcrows @spookdoggy @corpsewyrm @ all those who think Curie is a sweetheart @ all fallout fans who may see this? idk <3

#fallout #fallout 4 #Sole Survivor #Fallout meme #Local Science Mom fights Everyone for the chance for people to be happy #The Insitute

[anupamasdiggs]

SV 1

Satan, being thus confined to a vagabond, wandering, unsettled condition, is without any certain abode; for though he has, in consequence of his angelic nature, a kind of empire in the liquid waste or air, yet this is certainly part of his punishment, that he is . . . without any fixed place, or space, allowed him to rest the sole of his foot upon.

Daniel Defoe, _The History of the Devil_

I

The Angel Gibreel

1

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die. Hoji! Hoji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . ." Just before dawn one winter's morning, New Year's Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.

"I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me these infernal noises now."

Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. "Ohé, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. _Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."

Out of thin air: a big bang, followed by falling stars. A universal beginning, a miniature echo of the birth of time . . . the jumbo jet _Bostan_, Flight AI-420, blew apart without any warning, high above the great, rotting, beautiful, snow-white, illuminated city, Mahagonny, Babylon, Alphaville. But Gibreel has already named it, I mustn't interfere: Proper London, capital of Vilayet, winked blinked nodded in the night. While at Himalayan height a brief and premature sun burst into the powdery January air, a blip vanished from radar screens, and the thin air was full of bodies, descending from the Everest of the catastrophe to the milky paleness of the sea.

Who am I?

Who else is there?

The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats, stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles, disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups, blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its everreasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mothertongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, _land_, _belonging_, _home_. Knocked a little silly by the blast, Gibreel and Saladin plummeted like bundles dropped by some carelessly open-beaked stork, and because Chamcha was going down head first, in the recommended position for babies entering the birth canal, he commenced to feel a low irritation at the other's refusal to fall in plain fashion. Saladin nosedived while Farishta embraced air, hugging it with his arms and legs, a flailing, overwrought actor without techniques of restraint. Below, cloud-covered, awaiting their entrance, the slow congealed currents of the English Sleeve, the appointed zone of their watery reincarnation.

"O, my shoes are Japanese," Gibreel sang, translating the old song into English in semi-conscious deference to the uprushing host-nation, "These trousers English, if you please. On my head, red Russian hat; my heart's Indian for all that." The clouds were bubbling up towards them, and perhaps it was on account of that great mystification of cumulus and cumulo-nimbus, the mighty rolling thunderheads standing like hammers in the dawn, or perhaps it was the singing (the one busy performing, the other booing the performance), or their blast--delirium that spared them full foreknowledge of the imminent . . . but for whatever reason, the two men, Gibreelsaladin Farishtachamcha, condemned to this endless but also ending angelicdevilish fall, did not become aware of the moment at which the processes of their transmutation began.

Mutation?

Yessir, but not random. Up there in air-space, in that soft, imperceptible field which had been made possible by the century and which, thereafter, made the century possible, becoming one of its defining locations, the place of movement and of war, the planet-shrinker and power-vacuum, most insecure and transitory of zones, illusory, discontinuous, metamorphic, -- because when you throw everything up in the air anything becomes possible -- wayupthere, at any rate, changes took place in delirious actors that would have gladdened the heart of old Mr. Lamarck: under extreme environmental pressure, characteristics were acquired.

What characteristics which? Slow down; you think Creation happens in a rush? So then, neither does revelation . . . take a look at the pair of them. Notice anything unusual? Just two brown men, falling hard, nothing so new about that, you may think; climbed too high, got above themselves, flew too close to the sun, is that it?

That's not it. Listen:

Mr. Saladin Chamcha, appalled by the noises emanating from Gibreel Farishta's mouth, fought back with verses of his own. What Farishta heard wafting across the improbable night sky was an old song, too, lyrics by Mr. James Thomson, seventeenhundred to seventeen-forty-eight. ". . . at Heaven's command," Chamcha carolled through lips turned jingoistically redwhiteblue by the cold, "arooooose from out the aaaazure main." Farishta, horrified, sang louder and louder of Japanese shoes, Russian hats, inviolately subcontinental hearts, but could not still Saladin's wild recital: "And guardian aaaaangels sung the strain."

Let's face it: it was impossible for them to have heard one another, much less conversed and also competed thus in song. Accelerating towards the planet, atmosphere roaring around them, how could they? But let's face this, too: they did.

Downdown they hurtled, and the winter cold frosting their eyelashes and threatening to freeze their hearts was on the point of waking them from their delirious daydream, they were about to become aware of the miracle of the singing, the rain of limbs and babies of which they were a part, and the terror of the destiny rushing at them from below, when they hit, were drenched and instantly iced by, the degree-zero boiling of the clouds.

They were in what appeared to be a long, vertical tunnel. Chamcha, prim, rigid, and still upside-down, saw Gibreel Farishta in his purple bush-shirt come swimming towards him across that cloud-walled funnel, and would have shouted, "Keep away, get away from me," except that something prevented him, the beginning of a little fluttery screamy thing in his intestines, so instead of uttering words of rejection he opened his arms and Farishta swam into them until they were embracing head-to-tail, and the force of their collision sent them tumbling end over end, performing their geminate cartwheels all the way down and along the hole that went to Wonderland; while pushing their way out of the white came a succession of cloudforms, ceaselessly metamorphosing, gods into bulls, women into spiders, men into wolves. Hybrid cloud-creatures pressed in upon them, gigantic flowers with human breasts dangling from fleshy stalks, winged cats, centaurs, and Chamcha in his semi-consciousness was seized by the notion that he, too, had acquired the quality of cloudiness, becoming metamorphic, hybrid, as if he were growing into the person whose head nestled now between his legs and whose legs were wrapped around his long, patrician neck.

This person had, however, no time for such "high falutions"; was, indeed, incapable of faluting at all; having just seen, emerging from the swirl of cloud, the figure of a glamorous woman of a certain age, wearing a brocade sari in green and gold, with a diamond in her nose and lacquer defending her high-coiled hair against the pressure of the wind at these altitudes, as she sat, equably, upon a flying carpet. "Rekha Merchant," Gibreel greeted her. "You couldn't find your way to heaven or what?" Insensitive words to speak to a dead woman! But his concussed, plummeting condition may be offered in mitigation

. . . Chamcha, clutching his legs, made an uncomprehending query: "What the hell?"

"You don't see her?" Gibreel shouted. "You don't see her goddamn Bokhara rug?"

No, no, Gibbo, her voice whispered in his ears, don't expect him to confirm. I am strictly for your eyes only, maybe you are going crazy, what do you think, you namaqool, you piece of pig excrement, my love. With death comes honesty, my beloved, so I can call you by your true names.

Cloudy Rekha murmured sour nothings, but Gibreel cried again to Chamcha: "Spoono? You see her or you don't?"

Saladin Chamcha saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. Gibreel faced her alone. "You shouldn't have done it," he admonished her. "No, sir. A sin. A suchmuch thing."

O, you can lecture me now, she laughed. You are the one with the high moral tone, that's a good one. It was you who left me, her voice reminded his ear, seeming to nibble at the lobe. It was you, O moon of my delight, who hid behind a cloud. And I in darkness, blinded, lost, for love.

He became afraid. "What do you want? No, don't tell, just go."

When you were sick I could not see you, in case of scandal, you knew I could not, that I stayed away for your sake, but afterwards you punished, you used it as your excuse to leave, your cloud to hide behind. That, and also her, the icewoman. Bastard. Now that I am dead I have forgotten how to forgive. I curse you, my Gibreel, may your life be hell. Hell, because that's where you sent me, damn you, where you came from, devil, where you're going, sucker, enjoy the bloody dip. Rekha's curse; and after that, verses in a language he did not understand, all harshnesses and sibilance, in which he thought he made out, but maybe not, the repeated name _Al-Lat_.

He clutched at Chamcha; they burst through the bottom of the clouds.

Speed, the sensation of speed, returned, whistling its fearful note. The roof of cloud fled upwards, the water-floor zoomed closer, their eyes opened. A scream, that same scream that had fluttered in his guts when Gibreel swam across the sky, burst from Chamcha's lips; a shaft of sunlight pierced his open mouth and set it free. But they had fallen through the transformations of the clouds, Chamcha and Farishta, and there was a fluidity, an indistinctness, at the edges of them, and as the sunlight hit Chamcha it released more than noise:

"Fly," Chamcha shrieked at Gibreel. "Start flying, now." And added, without knowing its source, the second command: "And sing."

How does newness come into the world? How is it born?

Of what fusions, translations, conjoinings is it made?

How does it survive, extreme and dangerous as it is? What compromises, what deals, what betrayals of its secret nature must it make to stave off the wrecking crew, the exterminating angel, the guillotine?

Is birth always a fall?

Do angels have wings? Can men fly?

When Mr. Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival, his and Gibreel's, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure, and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind, in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel, except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside, holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel Farishta by the balls.

"Fly," it commanded Gibreel. "Sing."

Chamcha held on to Gibreel while the other began, slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity and force, to flap his arms. Harder and harder he flapped, and as he flapped a song burst out of him, and like the song of the spectre of Rekha Merchant it was sung in a language he did not know to a tune he had never heard. Gibreel never repudiated the miracle; unlike Chamcha, who tried to reason it out of existence, he never stopped saying that the gazal had been celestial, that without the song the flapping would have been for nothing, and without the flapping it was a sure thing that they would have hit the waves like rocks or what and simply burst into pieces on making contact with the taut drum of the sea. Whereas instead they began to slow down. The more emphatically Gibreel flapped and sang, sang and flapped, the more pronounced the deceleration, until finally the two of them were floating down to the Channel like scraps of paper in a breeze.

They were the only survivors of the wreck, the only ones who fell from _Bostan_ and lived. They were found washed up on a beach. The more voluble of the two, the one in the purple shirt, swore in his wild ramblings that they had walked upon the water, that the waves had borne them gently in to shore; but the other, to whose head a soggy bowler hat clung as if by magic, denied this. "God, we were lucky," he said. "How lucky can you get?"

I know the truth, obviously. I watched the whole thing. As to omnipresence and -potence, I'm making no claims at present, but I can manage this much, I hope. Chamcha willed it and Farishta did what was willed.

Which was the miracle worker?

Of what type -- angelic, satanic -- was Farishta's song?

Who am I?

Let's put it this way: who has the best tunes?

These were the first words Gibreel Farishta said when he awoke on the snowbound English beach with the improbability of a starfish by his ear: "Born again, Spoono, you and me. Happy birthday, mister; happy birthday to you."

Whereupon Saladin Chamcha coughed, spluttered, opened his eyes, and, as befitted a new-born babe, burst into foolish tears.

2

Reincarnation was always a big topic with Gibreel, for fifteen years the biggest star in the history of the Indian movies, even before he "miraculously" defeated the Phantom Bug that everyone had begun to believe would terminate his contracts. So maybe someone should have been able to forecast, only nobody did, that when he was up and about again he would sotospeak succeed where the germs had failed and walk out of his old life forever within a week of his fortieth birthday, vanishing, poof!, like a trick, _into thin air_.

The first people to notice his absence were the four members of his film-studio wheelchair-team. Long before his illness he had formed the habit of being transported from set to set on the great D. W. Rama lot by this group of speedy, trusted athletes, because a man who makes up to eleven movies "sy-multaneous" needs to conserve his energies. Guided by a complex coding system of slashes, circles and dots which Gibreel remembered from his childhood among the fabled lunch-runners of Bombay (of which more later), the chair-men zoomed him from role to role, delivering him as punctually and unerringly as once his father had delivered lunch. And after each take Gibreel would skip back into the chair and be navigated at high speed towards the next set, to be re-costumed, made up and handed his lines. "A career in the Bombay talkies," he told his loyal crew, "is more like a wheelchair race with one-two pit stops along the route."

After the illness, the Ghostly Germ, the Mystery Malaise, the Bug, he had returned to work, easing himself in, only seven pictures at a time . . . and then, justlikethat, he wasn't there. The wheelchair stood empty among the silenced sound-stages; his absence revealed the tawdry shamming of the sets. Wheelchairmen, one to four, made excuses for the missing star when movie executives descended upon them in wrath: Ji, he must be sick, he has always been famous for his punctual, no, why to criticize, maharaj, great artists must from time to time be permitted their temperament, na, and for their protestations they became the first casualties of Farishta's unexplained hey-presto, being fired, four three two one, ekdumjaldi, ejected from studio gates so that a wheelchair lay abandoned and gathering dust beneath the painted coco-palms around a sawdust beach.

Where was Gibreel? Movie producers, left in seven lurches, panicked expensively. See, there, at the Willingdon Club golf links -- only nine holes nowadays, skyscrapers having sprouted out of the other nine like giant weeds, or, let's say, like tombstones marking the sites where the torn corpse of the old city lay -- there, right there, upper-echelon executives, missing the simplest putts; and, look above, tufts of anguished hair, torn from senior heads, wafting down from high-level windows. The agitation of the producers was easy to understand, because in those days of declining audiences and the creation of historical soap operas and contemporary crusading housewives by the television network, there was but a single name which, when set above a picture's title, could still offer a sure-fire, cent-per-cent guarantee of an Ultrahit, a Smashation, and the owner of said name had departed, up, down or sideways, but certainly and unarguably vamoosed . . .

All over the city, after telephones, motorcyclists, cops, frogmen and trawlers dragging the harbour for his body had laboured mightily but to no avail, epitaphs began to be spoken in memory of the darkened star. On one of Rama Studios' seven impotent stages, Miss Pimple Billimoria, the latest chilli-and-spices bombshell -- _she's no flibberti-gibberti mamzel!, but a whir-stir-get-lost-sir bundla dynamite_ -- clad in temple--dancer veiled undress and positioned beneath writhing cardboard representations of copulating Tantric figures from the Chandela period, -- and perceiving that her major scene was not to be, her big break lay in pieces -- offered up a spiteful farewell before an audience of sound recordists and electricians smoking their cynical beedis. Attended by a dumbly distressed ayah, all elbows, Pimple attempted scorn. "God, what a stroke of luck, for Pete's sake," she cried. "I mean today it was the love scene, chhi chhi, I was just dying inside, thinking how to go near to that fatmouth with his breath of rotting cockroach dung." Bell-heavy anklets jingled as she stamped. "Damn good for him the movies don't smell, or he wouldn't get one job as a leper even." Here Pimple's soliloquy climaxed in such a torrent of obscenities that the beedi-smokers sat up for the first time and commenced animatedly to compare Pimple's vocabulary with that of the infamous bandit queen Phoolan Devi whose oaths could melt rifle barrels and turn journalists' pencils to rubber in a trice.

Exit Pimple, weeping, censored, a scrap on a cutting-room floor. Rhinestones fell from her navel as she went, mirroring her tears. . . in the matter of Farishta's halitosis she was not, however, altogether wrong; if anything, she had a little understated the case. Gibreel's exhalations, those ochre clouds of sulphur and brimstone, had always given him -- when taken together with his pronounced widow's peak and crowblack hair -- an air more saturnine than haloed, in spite of his archangelic name. It was said after he disappeared that he ought to have been easy to find, all it took was a halfway decent nose . . . and one week after he took off, an exit more tragic than Pimple Billimoria's did much to intensify the devilish odour that was beginning to attach itself to that forsolong sweet-smelling name. You could .say that he had stepped out of the screen into the world, and in life, unlike the cinema, people know it if you stink.

_We are creatures of air, Our roots in dreams And clouds, reborn In flight. Goodbye_. The enigmatic note discovered by the police in Gibreel Farishta's penthouse, located on the top floor of the Everest Vilas skyscraper on Malabar Hill, the highest home in the highest building on the highest ground in the city, one of those double-vista apartments from which you could look this way across the evening necklace of Marine Drive or that way out to Scandal Point and the sea, permitted the newspaper headlines to prolong their cacophonies. FARISHTA DIVES UNDERGROUND, opined _Blitz_ in somewhat macabre fashion, while Busybee in _The Daily_ preferred GIBREEL FLIES coop. Many photographs were published of that fabled residence in which French interior decorators bearing letters of commendation from Reza Pahlevi for the work they had done at Persepolis had spent a million dollars recreating at this exalted altitude the effect of a Bedouin tent. Another illusion unmade by his absence; GIBREEL STRIKES CAMP, the headlines yelled, but had he gone up or down or sideways? No one knew. In that metropolis of tongues and whispers, not even the sharpest ears heard anything reliable. But Mrs. Rekha Merchant, reading all the papers, listening to all the radio broadcasts, staying glued to the Doordarshan TV programmes, gleaned something from Farishta's message, heard a note that eluded everyone else, and took her two daughters and one son for a walk on the roof of her high-rise home. Its name was Everest Vilas.

His neighbour; as a matter of fact, from the apartment directly beneath his own. His neighbour and his friend; why should I say any more? Of course the scandal-pointed malice-magazines of the city filled their columns with hint innuendo and nudge, but that's no reason for sinking to their level. Why tarnish her reputation now?

Who was she? Rich, certainly, but then Everest Vilas was not exactly a tenement in Kurla, eh? Married, yessir, thirteen years, with a husband big in ball-bearings. Independent, her carpet and antique showrooms thriving at their prime Colaba sites. She called her carpets _klims_ and _kleens_ and the ancient artefacts were _anti-queues_. Yes, and she was beautiful, beautiful in the hard, glossy manner of those rarefied occupants of the city's sky-homes, her bones skin posture all bearing witness to her long divorce from the impoverished, heavy, pullulating earth. Everyone agreed she had a strong personality, drank _like a fish_ from Lalique crystal and hung her hat _shameless_ on a Chola Natraj and knew what she wanted and how to get it, fast. The husband was a mouse with money and a good squash wrist. Rekha Merchant read Gibreel Farishta's farewell note in the newspapers, wrote a letter of her own, gathered her children, summoned the elevator, and rose heavenward (one storey) to meet her chosen fate.

"Many years ago," her letter read, "I married out of cowardice. Now, finally, I'm doing something brave." She left a newspaper on her bed with Gibreel's message circled in red and heavily underscored -- three harsh lines, one of them ripping the page in fury. So naturally the bitch-journals went to town and it was all LOVELY"S LOVELORN LEAP, and BROKEN-HEARTED BEAUTY TAKES LAST DIVE. But:

Perhaps she, too, had the rebirth bug, and Gibreel, not understanding the terrible power of metaphor, had recommended flight. _To be born again,first you have to_ and she was a creature of the sky, she drank Lalique champagne, she lived on Everest, and one of her fellow-Olympians had flown; and if he could, then she, too, could be winged, and rooted in dreams.

She didn't make it. The lala who was employed as gatekeeper of the Everest Vilas compound offered the world his blunt testimony. "I was walking, here here, in the compound only, when there came a thud, _tharaap_. I turned. It was the body of the oldest daughter. Her skull was completely crushed. I looked up and saw the boy falling, and after him the younger girl. What to say, they almost hit me where I stood. I put my hand on my mouth and came to them. The young girl was whining softly. Then I looked up a further time and the Begum was coming. Her sari was floating out like a big balloon and all her hair was loose. I took my eyes away from her because she was fallIng and it was not respectful to look up inside her clothes."

Rekha and her children fell from Everest; no survivors. The whispers blamed Gibreel. Let's leave it at that for the moment.

Oh: don't forget: he saw her after she died. He saw her several times. It was a long time before people understood how sick the great man was. Gibreel, the star. Gibreel, who vanquished the Nameless Ailment. Gibreel, who feared sleep.

After he departed the ubiquitous images of his face began to rot. On the gigantic, luridly coloured hoardings from which he had watched over the populace, his lazy eyelids started flaking and crumbling, drooping further and further until his irises looked like two moons sliced by clouds, or by the soft knives of his long lashes. Finally the eyelids fell off, giving a wild, bulging look to his painted eyes. Outside the picture palaces of Bombay, mammoth cardboard effigies of Gibreel were seen to decay and list. Dangling limply on their sustaining scaffolds, they lost arms, withered, snapped at the neck. His portraits on the covers of movie magazines acquired the pallor of death, a nullity about the eye, a hollowness. At last his images simply faded off the printed page, so that the shiny covers of _Celebrity_ and _Society_ and _Illustrated Weekly_ went blank at the bookstalls and their publishers fired the printers and blamed the quality of the ink. Even on the silver screen itself, high above his worshippers in the dark, that supposedly immortal physiognomy began to putrefy, blister and bleach; projectors jammed unaccountably every time he passed through the gate, his films ground to a halt, and the lamp-heat of the malfunctioning projectors burned his celluloid memory away: a star gone supernova, with the consuming fire spreading outwards, as was fitting, from his lips.

It was the death of God. Or something very like it; for had not that outsize face, suspended over its devotees in the artificial cinematic night, shone like that of some supernal Entity that had its being at least halfway between the mortal and the divine? More than halfway, many would have argued, for Gibreel had spent the greater part of his unique career incarnating, with absolute conviction, the countless deities of the subcontinent in the popular genre movies known as "theologicals". It was part of the magic of his persona that he succeeded in crossing religious boundaries without giving offence. Blue-skinned as Krishna he danced, flute in hand, amongst the beauteous gopis and their udder-heavy cows; with upturned palms, serene, he meditated (as Gautama) upon humanity's suffering beneath a studio-rickety bodhi-tree. On those infrequent occasions when he descended from the heavens he never went too far, playing, for example, both the Grand Mughal and his famously wily minister in the classic _Akbar and Birbal_. For over a decade and a half he had represented, to hundreds of millions of believers in that country in which, to this day, the human population outnumbers the divine by less than three to one, the most acceptable, and instantly recognizable, face of the Supreme. For many of his fans, the boundary separating the performer and his roles had longago ceased to exist.

The fans, yes, and? How about Gibreel?

That face. In real life, reduced to life-size, set amongst ordinary mortals, it stood revealed as oddly un-starry. Those low-slung eyelids could give him an exhausted look. There was, too, something coarse about the nose, the mouth was too well fleshed to be strong, the ears were long-lobed like young, knurled jackfruit. The most profane of faces, the most sensual of faces. In which, of late, it had been possible to make out the seams mined by his recent, near-fatal illness. And yet, in spite of profanity and debilitation, this was a face inextricably mixed up with holiness, perfection, grace: God stuff. No accounting for tastes, that's all. At any rate, you'll agree that for such an actor (for any actor, maybe, even for Chamcha, but most of all for him) to have a bee in his bonnet about avatars, like much-metamorphosed Vishnu, was not so very surprising. Rebirth: that's God stuff, too.

Or, but, then again . . . not always. There are secular reincarnations, too. Gibreel Farishta had been born Ismail Najmuddin in Poona, British Poona at the empire's fag-end, long before the Pune of Rajneesh etc. (Pune, Vadodara, Mumbai; even towns can take stage names nowadays.) Ismail after the child involved in the sacrifice of Ibrahim, and Najmuddin, _star of the faith_; he'd given up quite a name when he took the angel's.

Afterwards, when the aircraft _Bostan_ was in the grip of the hijackers, and the passengers, fearing for their futures, were regressing into their pasts, Gibreel confided to Saladin Chamcha that his choice of pseudonym had been his way of making a homage to the memory of his dead mother, "my mummyji, Spoono, my one and only Mamo, because who else was it who started the whole angel business, her personal angel, she called me, _farishta_, because apparently I was too damn sweet, believe it or not, I was good as goddamn gold."

Poona couldn't hold him; he was taken in his infancy to the bitch-city, his first migration; his father got a job amongst the fleet-footed inspirers of future wheelchair quartets, the lunch-porters or dabbawallas of Bombay. And Ismail the farishta followed, at thirteen, in his father's footsteps.

Gibreel, captive aboard AI-420, sank into forgivable rhapsodies, fixing Chamcha with his glittering eye, explicating the mysteries of the runners' coding system, black swastika red circle yellow slash dot, running in his mind's eye the entire relay from home to office desk, that improbable system by which two thousand dabbawallas delivered, each day, over one hundred thousand lunch-pails, and on a bad day, Spoono, maybe fifteen got mislaid, we were illiterate, mostly, but the signs were our secret tongue.

_Bostan_ circled London, gunmen patrolling the gangways, and the lights in the passenger cabins had been switched off, but Gibreel's energy illuminated the gloom. On the grubby movie screen on which, earlier in the journey, the inflight inevitability of Walter Matthau had stumbled lugubriously into the aerial ubiquity of Goldie Hawn, there were shadows moving, projected by the nostalgia of the hostages, and the most sharply defined of them was this spindly adolescent, Ismail Najmuddin, mummy's angel in a Gandhi cap, running tiffins across the town. The young dabbawalla skipped nimbly through the shadow-crowd, because he was used to such conditions, think, Spoono, picture, thirty-forty tiffins in a long wooden tray on your head, and when the local train stops you have maybe one minute to push on or off, and then running in the streets, flat out, yaar, with the trucks buses scooters cycles and what-all, one-two, one-two, lunch, lunch, the dabbas must get through, and in the monsoon running down the railway line when the train broke down, or waist-deep in water in some flooded street, and there were gangs, Salad baba, truly, organized gangs of dabba-stealers, it's a hungry city, baby, what to tell you, but we could handle them, we were everywhere, knew everything, what thieves could escape our eyes and ears, we never went to any policia, we looked after our own.

At night father and son would return exhausted to their shack by the airport runway at Santacruz and when Ismail's mother saw him approaching, illuminated by the green red yellow of the departing jet-planes, she would say that simply to lay eyes on him made all her dreams come true, which was the first indication that there was something peculiar about Gibreel, because from the beginning, it seemed, he could fulfil people's most secret desires without having any idea of how he did it. His father Najmuddin Senior never seemed to mind that his wife had eyes only for her son, that the boy's feet received nightly pressings while the father's went unstroked. A son is a blessing and a blessing requires the gratitude of the blest.

Naima Najmuddin died. A bus hit her and that was that, Gibreel wasn't around to answer her prayers for life. Neither father nor son ever spoke of grief. Silently, as though it were customary and expected, they buried their sadness beneath extra work, engaging in an inarticulate contest, who could carry the most dabbas on his head, who could acquire the most new contracts per month, who could run faster, as though the greater labour would indicate the greater love. When he saw his father at night, the knotted veins bulging in his neck and at his temples, Ismail Najmuddin would understand how much the older man had resented him, and how important it was for the father to defeat the son and regain, thereby, his usurped primacy in the affections of his dead wife. Once he realized this, the youth eased off, but his father's zeal remained unrelenting, and pretty soon he was getting promotion, no longer a mere runner but one of the organizing muqaddams. When Gibreel was nineteen, Najmuddin Senior became a member of the lunch-runners' guild, the Bombay Tiffin Carriers' Association, and when Gibreel was twenty, his father was dead, stopped in his tracks by a stroke that almost blew him apart. "He just ran himself into the ground," said the guild's General Secretary, Babasaheb Mhatre himself. "That poor bastard, he just ran out of steam." But the orphan knew better. He knew that his father had finally run hard enough and long enough to wear down the frontiers between the worlds, he had run clear out of his skin and into the arms of his wife, to whom he had proved, once and for all, the superiority of his love. Some migrants are happy to depart.

Babasaheb Mhatre sat in a blue office behind a green door above a labyrinthine bazaar, an awesome figure, buddha-fat, one of the great moving forces of the metropolis, possessing the occult gift of remaining absolutely still, never shifting from his room, and yet being everywhere important and meeting everyone who mattered in Bombay. The day after young Ismail's father ran across the border to see Naima, the Babasaheb summoned the young man into his presence. "So? Upset or what?" The reply, with downcast eyes: ji, thank you, Babaji, I am okay. "Shut your face," said Babasaheb Mhatre. "From today you live with me." Butbut, Babaji ... "But me no buts. Already I have informed my goodwife. I have spoken." Please excuse Babaji but how what why? "I have _spoken_."

Gibreel Farishta was never told why the Babasaheb had decided to take pity on him and pluck him from the futurelessness of the streets, but after a while he began to have an idea. Mrs. Mhatre was a thin woman, like a pencil beside the rubbery Babasaheb, but she was filled so full of mother-love that she should have been fat like a potato. When the Baba came home she put sweets into his mouth with her own hands, and at nights the newcomer to the household could hear the great General Secretary of the B T C A protesting, Let me go, wife, I can undress myself. At breakfast she spoon-fed Mhatre with large helpings of malt, and before he went to work she brushed his hair. They were a childless couple, and young Najmuddin understood that the Babasaheb wanted him to share the load. Oddly enough, however, the Begum did not treat the young man as a child. "You see, he is a grown fellow," she told her husband when poor Mhatre pleaded, "Give the boy the blasted spoon of malt." Yes, a grown fellow, "we must make a man of him, husband, no babying for him." "Then damn it to hell," the Babasaheb exploded, "why do you do it to me?" Mrs. Mhatre burst into tears. "But you are everything to me," she wept, "you are my father, my lover, my baby too. You are my lord and my suckling child. If I displease you then I have no life."

Babasaheb Mhatre, accepting defeat, swallowed the tablespoon of malt.

He was a kindly man, which he disguised with insults and noise. To console the orphaned youth he would speak to him, in the blue office, about the philosophy of rebirth, convincing him that his parents were already being scheduled for re-entry somewhere, unless of course their lives had been so holy that they had attained the final grace. So it was Mhatre who started Farishta off on the whole reincarnation business, and not just reincarnation. The Babasaheb was an amateur psychic, a tapper of table-legs and a bringer of spirits into glasses. "But I gave that up," he told his protégé, with many suitably melodramatic inflections, gestures, frowns, "after I got the fright of my bloody life."

Once (Mhatre recounted) the glass had been visited by the most co-operative of spirits, such a too-friendly fellow, see, so I thought to ask him some big questions. _Is there a God_, and that glass which had been running round like a mouse or so just stopped dead, middle of table, not a twitch, completely phutt, kaput. So, then, okay, I said, if you won't answer that try this one instead, and I came right out with it, _Is there a Devil_. After that the glass -- baprebap! -- began to shake -- catch your ears! -- slowslow at first, then faster--faster, like a jelly, until it jumped! -- ai-hai! -- up from the table, into the air, fell down on its side, and -- o-ho! -- into a thousand and one pieces, smashed. Believe don't believe, Babasaheb Mhatre told his charge, but thenandthere I learned my lesson: don't meddle, Mhatre, in what you do not comprehend.

This story had a profound effect on the consciousness of the young listener, because even before his mother's death he had become convinced of the existence of the supernatural world. Sometimes when he looked around him, especially in the afternoon heat when the air turned glutinous, the visible world, its features and inhabitants and things, seemed to be sticking up through the atmosphere like a profusion of hot icebergs, and he had the idea that everything continued down below the surface of the soupy air: people, motor-cars, dogs, movie billboards, trees, nine-tenths of their reality concealed from his eyes. He would blink, and the illusion would fade, but the sense of it never left him. He grew up believing in God, angels, demons, afreets, djinns, as matter-of-factly as if they were bullock-carts or lamp-posts, and it struck him as a failure in his own sight that he had never seen a ghost. He would dream of discovering a magic optometrist from whom he would purchase a pair of greentinged spectacles which would correct his regrettable myopia, and after that he would be able to see through the dense, blinding air to the fabulous world beneath.

From his mother Naima Najmuddin he heard a great many stories of the Prophet, and if inaccuracies had crept into her versions he wasn't interested in knowing what they were. "What a man!" he thought. "What angel would not wish to speak to him?" Sometimes, though, he caught himself in the act of forming blasphemous thoughts, for example when without meaning to, as he drifted off to sleep in his cot at the Mhatre residence, his somnolent fancy began to compare his own condition with that of the Prophet at the time when, having been orphaned and short of funds, he made a great success of his job as the business manager of the wealthy widow Khadija, and ended up marrying her as well. As he slipped into sleep he saw himself sitting on a rose-strewn dais, simpering shyly beneath the sari-pallu which he had placed demurely over his face, while his new husband, Babasaheb Mhatre, reached lovingly towards him to remove the fabric, and gaze at his features in a mirror placed in his lap. This dream of marrying the Babasaheb brought him awake, flushing hotly for shame, and after that he began to worry about the impurity in his make-up that could create such terrible visions.

Mostly, however, his religious faith was a low-key thing, a part of him that required no more special attention than any other. When Babasaheb Mhatre took him into his home it confirmed to the young man that he was not alone in the world, that something was taking care of him, so he was not entirely surprised when the Babasaheb called him into the blue office on the morning of his twenty-first birthday and sacked him without even being prepared to listen to an appeal.

"You're fired," Mhatre emphasized, beaming. "Cashiered, had your chips. Dis-_miss_."

"But, uncle,"

"Shut your face."

Then the Babasaheb gave the orphan the greatest present of his life, informing him that a meeting had been arranged for him at the studios of the legendary film magnate Mr. D. W. Rama; an audition. "It is for appearance only," the Babasaheb said. "Rama is my good friend and we have discussed. A small part to begin, then it is up to you. Now get out of my sight and stop pulling such humble faces, it does not suit."

"But, uncle,"

"Boy like you is too damn goodlooking to carry tiffins on his head all his life. Get gone now, go, be a homosexual movie actor. I fired you five minutes back."

"But, uncle,"

"I have spoken. Thank your lucky stars."

He became Gibreel Farishta, but for four years he did not become a star, serving his apprenticeship in a succession of minor knockabout comic parts. He remained calm, unhurried, as though he could see the future, and his apparent lack of ambition made him something of an outsider in that most self-seeking of industries. He was thought to be stupid or arrogant or both. And throughout the four wilderness years he failed to kiss a single woman on the mouth.

On-screen, he played the fall guy, the idiot who loves the beauty and can't see that she wouldn't go for him in a thousand years, the funny uncle, the poor relation, the village idiot, the servant, the incompetent crook, none of them the type of part that ever rates a love scene. Women kicked him, slapped him, teased him, laughed at him, but never, on celluloid, looked at him or sang to him or danced around him with cinematic love in their eyes. Off-screen, he lived alone in two empty rooms near the studios and tried to imagine what women looked like without clothes on. To get his mind off the subject of love and desire, he studied, becoming an omnivorous autodidact, devouring the metamorphic myths of Greece and Rome, the avatars of Jupiter, the boy who became a flower, the spider-woman, Circe, everything; and the theosophy of Annie Besant, and unified field theory, and the incident of the Satanic verses in the early career of the Prophet, and the politics of Muhammad's harem after his return to Mecca in triumph; and the surrealism of the newspapers, in which butterflies could fly into young girls' mouths, asking to be consumed, and children were born with no faces, and young boys dreamed in impossible detail of earlier incarnations, for instance in a golden fortress filled with precious stones. He filled himself up with God knows what, but he could not deny, in the small hours of his insomniac nights, that he was full of something that had never been used, that he did not know how to begin to use, that is, love. In his dreams he was tormented by women of unbearable sweetness and beauty, so he preferred to stay awake and force himself to rehearse some part of his general knowledge in order to blot out the tragic feeling of being endowed with a larger-than-usual capacity for love, without a single person on earth to offer it to.

His big break arrived with the coming of the theological movies. Once the formula of making films based on the puranas, and adding the usual mixture of songs, dances, funny uncles etc., had paid off, every god in the pantheon got his or her chance to be a star. When D. W. Rama scheduled a production based on the story of Ganesh, none of the leading box-office names of the time were willing to spend an entire movie concealed inside an elephant's head. Gibreel jumped at the chance. That was his first hit, _Ganpati Baba_, and suddenly he was a superstar, but only with the trunk and ears on. After six movies playing the elephantheaded god he was permitted to remove the thick, pendulous, grey mask and put on, instead, a long, hairy tail, in order to play Hanuman the monkey king in a sequence of adventure movies that owed more to a certain cheap television series emanating from Hong Kong than it did to the Ramayana. This series proved so popular that monkey-tails became de rigueur for the city's young bucks at the kind of parties frequented by convent girls known as "firecrackers" because of their readiness to go off with a bang.

After Hanuman there was no stopping Gibreel, and his phenomenal success deepened his belief in a guardian angel. But it also led to a more regrettable development.

(I see that I must, after all, spill poor Rekha's beans.)

Even before he replaced false head with fake tail he had become irresistibly attractive to women. The seductions of his fame had grown so great that several of these young ladies asked him if he would keep the Ganesh-mask on while they made love, but he refused out of respect for the dignity of the god. Owing to the innocence of his upbringing he could not at that time differentiate between quantity and quality and accordingly felt the need to make up for lost time. He had so many sexual partners that it was not uncommon for him to forget their names even before they had left his room. Not only did he become a philanderer of the worst type, but he also learned the arts of dissimulation, because a man who plays gods must be above reproach. So skilfully did he conceal his life of scandal and debauch that his old patron, Babasaheb Mhatre, lying on his deathbed a decade after he sent a young dabbawalla out into the world of illusion, black-money and lust, begged him to get married to prove he was a man. "God-sake, mister," the Babasaheb pleaded, "when I told you back then to go and be a homo I never thought you would take me seriously, there is a limit to respecting one's elders, after all." Gibreel threw up his hands and swore that he was no such disgraceful thing, and that when the right girl came along he would of course undergo nuptials with a will. "What you waiting? Some goddess from heaven? Greta Garbo, Gracekali, who?" cried the old man, coughing blood, but Gibreel left him with the enigma of a smile that allowed him to die without having his mind set entirely at rest.

The avalanche of sex in which Gibreel Farishta was trapped managed to bury his greatest talent so deep that it might easily have been lost forever, his talent, that is, for loving genuinely, deeply and without holding back, the rare and delicate gift which he had never been able to employ. By the time of his illness he had all but forgotten the anguish he used to experience owing to his longing for love, which had twisted and turned in him like a sorcerer's knife. Now, at the end of each gymnastic night, he slept easily and long, as if he had never been plagued by dream-women, as if he had never hoped to lose his heart.

"Your trouble," Rekha Merchant told him when she materialized out of the clouds, "is everybody always forgave you, God knows why, you always got let off, you got away with murder. Nobody ever held you responsible for what you did." He couldn't argue. "God's gift," she screamed at him, "God knows where you thought you were from, jumped-up type from the gutter, God knows what diseases you brought."

But that was what women did, he thought in those days, they were the vessels into which he could pour himself, and when he moved on, they would understand that it was his nature, and forgive. And it was true that nobody blamed him for leaving, for his thousand and one pieces of thoughtlessness, how many abortions, Rekha demanded in the cloud-hole, how many broken hearts. In all those years he was the beneficiary of the infinite generosity of women, but he was its victim, too, because their forgiveness made possible the deepest and sweetest corruption of all, namely the idea that he was doing nothing wrong.

Rekha: she entered his life when he bought the penthouse at Everest Vilas and she offered, as a neighbour and businesswoman, to show him her carpets and antiques. Her husband was at a world-wide congress of ball-bearings manufacturers in Gothenburg, Sweden, and in his absence she invited Gibreel into her apartment of stone lattices from Jaisalmer and carved wooden handrails from Kcralan palaces and a stone Mughal chhatri or cupola turned into a whirlpool bath; while she poured him French champagne she leaned against marbled walls and felt the cool veins of the stone against her back. When he sipped the champagne she teased him, surely gods should not partake of alcohol, and he answered with a line he had once read in an interview with the Aga Khan, O, you know, this champagne is only for outward show, the moment it touches my lips it turns to water. After that it didn't take long for her to touch his lips and deliquesce into his arms. By the time her children returned from school with the ayah she was immaculately dressed and coiffed, and sat with him in the drawing-room, revealing the secrets of the carpet business, confessing that art silk stood for artificial not artistic, telling him not to be fooled by her brochure in which a rug was seductively described as being made of wool plucked from the throats of baby lambs, which means, you see, only _low-grade wool_, advertising, what to do, this is how it is.

He did not love her, was not faithful to her, forgot her birthdays, failed to return her phone calls, turned up when it was most inconvenient owing to the presence in her home of dinner guests from the world of the ball-bearing, and like everyone else she forgave him. But her forgiveness was not the silent, mousy let-off he got from the others. Rekha complained like crazy, she gave him hell, she bawled him out and cursed him for a useless lafanga and haramzada and salah and even, in extremis, for being guilty of the impossible feat of fucking the sister he did not have. She spared him nothing, accusing him of being a creature of surfaces, like a movie screen, and then she went ahead and forgave him anyway and allowed him to unhook her blouse. Gibreel could not resist the operatic forgiveness of Rekha Merchant, which was all the more moving on account of the flaw in her own position, her infidelity to the ball-bearing king, which Gibreel forbore to mention, taking his verbal beatings like a man. So that whereas the pardons he got from the rest of his women left him cold and he forgot them the moment they were uttered, he kept coming back to Rekha, so that she could abuse him and then console him as only she knew how.

Then he almost died.

He was filming at Kanya Kumari, standing on the very tip of Asia, taking part in a fight scene set at the point on Cape Comorin where it seems that three oceans are truly smashing into one another. Three sets of waves rolled in from the west east south and collided in a mighty clapping of watery hands just as Gibreel took a punch on the jaw, perfect timing, and he passed out on the spot, falling backwards into tri-oceanic spume. He did not get up.

To begin with everybody blamed the giant English stunt-man Eustace Brown, who had delivered the punch. He protested vehemently. Was he not the same fellow who had performed opposite Chief Minister N. T. Rama Rao in his many theological movie roles? Had he not perfected the art of making the old man look good in combat without hurting him? Had he ever complained that NTR never pulled his punches, so that he, Eustace, invariably ended up black and blue, having been beaten stupid by a little old guy whom he could've eaten for breakfast, on _toast_, and had he ever, even once, lost his temper? Well, then? How could anyone think he would hurt the immortal Gibreel? -- They fired him anyway and the police put him in the lock-up, just in case.

But it was not the punch that had flattened Gibreel. After the star had been flown into Bombay's Breach Candy Hospital in an Air Force jet made available for the purpose; after exhaustive tests had come up with almost nothing; and while he lay unconscious, dying, with a blood-count that had fallen from his normal fifteen to a murderous four point two, a hospital spokesman faced the national press on Breach Candy's wide white steps. "It is a freak mystery," he gave out. "Call it, if you so please, an act of God."

Gibreel Farishta had begun to haemorrhage all over his insides for no apparent reason, and was quite simply bleeding to death inside his skin. At the worst moment the blood began to seep out through his rectum and penis, and it seemed that at any moment it might burst torrentially through his nose and ears and out of the corners of his eyes. For seven days he bled, and received transfusions, and every clotting agent known to medical science, including a concentrated form of rat poison, and although the treatment resulted in a marginal improvement the doctors gave him up for lost.

The whole of India was at Gibreel's bedside. His condition was the lead item on every radio bulletin, it was the subject of hourly news-flashes on the national television network, and the crowd that gathered in Warden Road was so large that the police had to disperse it with lathi-charges and tear-gas, which they used even though every one of the half-million mourners was already tearful and wailing. The Prime Minister cancelled her appointments and flew to visit him. Her son the airline pilot sat in Farishta's bedroom, holding the actor's hand. A mood of apprehension settled over the nation, because if God had unleashed such an act of retribution against his most celebrated incarnation, what did he have in store for the rest of the country? If Gibreel died, could India be far behind? In the mosques and temples of the nation, packed congregations prayed, not only for the life of the dying actor, but for the future, for themselves.

Who did not visit Gibreel in hospital? Who never wrote, made no telephone call, despatched no flowers, sent in no tiffins of delicious home cooking? While many lovers shamelessly sent him get-well cards and lamb pasandas, who, loving him most of all, kept herself to herself, unsuspected by her ball--bearing of a husband? Rekha Merchant placed iron around her heart, and went through the motions of her daily life, playing with her children, chit-chatting with her husband, acting as his hostess when required, and never, not once, revealed the bleak devastation of her soul.

He recovered.

The recovery was as mysterious as the illness, and as rapid. It, too, was called (by hospital, journalists, friends) an act of the Supreme. A national holiday was declared; fireworks were set off up and down the land. But when Gibreel regained his strength, it became clear that he had changed, and to a startling degree, because he had lost his faith.

On the day he was discharged from hospital he went under police escort through the immense crowd that had gathered to celebrate its own deliverance as well as his, climbed into his Mercedes and told the driver to give all the pursuing vehicles the slip, which took seven hours and fifty-one minutes, and by the end of the manoeuvre he had worked out what had to be done. He got out of the limousine at the Taj hotel and without looking left or right went directly into the great dining-room with its buffet table groaning under the weight of forbidden foods, and he loaded his plate with all of it, the pork sausages from Wiltshire and the cured York hams and the rashers of bacon from godknowswhere; with the gammon steaks of his unbelief and the pig's trotters of secularism; and then, standing there in the middle of the hall, while photographers popped up from nowhere, he began to eat as fast as possible, stuffing the dead pigs into his face so rapidly that bacon rashers hung out of the sides of his mouth.

During his illness he had spent every minute of consciousness calling upon God, every second of every minute. Ya Allah whose servant lies bleeding do not abandon me now after watching oven me so long. Ya Allah show me some sign, some small mark of your favour, that I may find in myself the strength to cure my ills. O God most beneficent most merciful, be with me in this my time of need, my most grievous need. Then it occurred to him that he was being punished, and for a time that made it possible to suffer the pain, but after a time he got angry. Enough, God, his unspoken words demanded, why must I die when I have not killed, are you vengeance or are you love? The anger with God carried him through another day, but then it faded, and in its place there came a terrible emptiness, an isolation, as he realized he was talking to _thin air_, that there was nobody there at all, and then he felt more foolish than ever in his life, and he began to plead into the emptiness, ya Allah, just be there, damn it, just be. But he felt nothing, nothing nothing, and then one day he found that he no longer needed there to be anything to feel. On that day of metamorphosis the illness changed and his recovery began. And to prove to himself the non-existence of God, he now stood in the dining-hall of the city's most famous hotel, with pigs falling out of his face.

He looked up from his plate to find a woman watching him. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, and her skin possessed the colour and translucency of mountain ice. She laughed at him and turned away.

"Don't you get it?" he shouted after her, spewing sausage fragments from the corners of his mouth. "No thunderbolt. That's the point."

She came back to stand in front of him. "You're alive," she told him. "You got your life back. _That's_ the point."

He told Rekha: the moment she turned around and started walking back I fell in love with her. Alleluia Cone, climber of mountains, vanquisher of Everest, blonde yahudan, ice queen. Her challenge, _change your life, or did you get it back for nothing_, I couldn't resist.

"You and your reincarnation junk," Rekha cajoled him. "Such a nonsense head. You come out of hospital, back through death's door, and it goes to your head, crazy boy, at once you must have some escapade thing, and there she is, hey presto, the blonde mame. Don't think I don't know what you're like, Gibbo, so what now, you want me to forgive you or what?"

No need, he said. He left Rekha's apartment (its mistress wept, face-down, on the floor); and never entered it again.

Three days after he met her with his mouth full of unclean meat Allie got into an aeroplane and left. Three days out of time behind a do-not-disturb sign, but in the end they agreed that the world was real, what was possible was possible and what was impossible was im--, brief encounter, ships that pass, love in a transit lounge. After she left, Gibreel rested, tried to shut his ears to her challenge, resolved to get his life back to normal. Just because he'd lost his belief it didn't mean he couldn't do his job, and in spite of the scandal of the ham-eating photographs, the first scandal ever to attach itself to his name, he signed movie contracts and went back to work.

And then, one morning, a wheelchair stood empty and he had gone. A bearded passenger, one Ismail Najmuddin, boarded Flight AI-420 to London. The 747 was named after one of the gardens of Paradise, not Gulistan but _Bostan_. "To be born again," Gibrecl Farishta said to Saladin Chamcha much later, "first you have to die. Me, I only half-expired, but I did it on two occasions, hospital and plane, so it adds up, it counts. And now, Spoono my friend, here I stand before you in Proper London, Vilayet, regenerated, a new man with a new life. Spoono, is this not a bloody fine thing?"

Why did he leave?

Because of her, the challenge of her, the newness, the fierceness of the two of them together, the inexorability of an impossible thing that was insisting on its right to become.

And, or, maybe: because after he ate the pigs the retribution began, a nocturnal retribution, a punishment of dreams.

3

Once the flight to London had taken off, thanks to his magic trick of crossing two pairs of fingers on each hand and rotating his thumbs, the narrow, fortyish fellow who sat in a non-smoking window seat watching the city of his birth fall away from him like old snakeskin allowed a relieved expression to pass briefly across his face. This face was handsome in a somewhat sour, patrician fashion, with long, thick, downturned lips like those of a disgusted turbot, and thin eyebrows arching sharply over eyes that watched the world with a kind of alert contempt. Mr. Saladin Chamcha had constructed this face with care -- it had taken him several years to get it just right -- and for many more years now he had thought of it simply as _his own_ -- indeed, he had forgotten what he had looked like before it. Furthermore, he had shaped himself a voice to go with the face, a voice whose languid, almost lazy vowels contrasted disconcertingly with the sawn--off abruptness of the consonants. The combination of face and voice was a potent one; but, during his recent visit to his home town, his first such visit in fifteen years (the exact period, I should observe, of Gibreel Farishta's film stardom), there had been strange and worrying developments. It was unfortunately the case that his voice (the first to go) and, subsequently, his face itself, had begun to let him down.

It started -- Chamcha, allowing fingers and thumbs to relax and hoping, in some embarrassment, that his last remaining superstition had gone unobserved by his fellow-passengers, closed his eyes and remembered with a delicate shudder of horror -- on his flight east some weeks ago. He had fallen into a torpid sleep, high above the desert sands of the Persian Gulf, and been visited in a dream by a bizarre stranger, a man with a glass skin, who rapped his knuckles mournfully against the thin, brittle membrane covering his entire body and begged Saladin to help him, to release him from the prison of his skin. Chamcha picked up a stone and began to batter at the glass. At once a latticework of blood oozed up through the cracked surface of the stranger's body, and when Chamcha tried to pick off the broken shards the other began to scream, because chunks of his flesh were coming away with the glass. At this point an air stewardess bent over the sleeping Chamcha and demanded, with the pitiless hospitality of her tribe: _Something to drink, sir? A drink?_, and Saladin, emerging from the dream, found his speech unaccountably metamorphosed into the Bombay lilt he had so diligently (and so long ago!) unmade. "Achha, means what?" he mumbled. "Alcoholic beverage or what?" And, when the stewardess reassured him, whatever you wish, sir, all beverages are gratis, he heard, once again, his traitor voice: "So, okay, bibi, give one whiskysoda only."

What a nasty surprise! He had come awake with a jolt, and sat stiffly in his chair, ignoring alcohol and peanuts. How had the past bubbled up, in transmogrified vowels and vocab? What next? Would he take to putting coconut-oil in his hair? Would he take to squeezing his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, blowing noisily and drawing forth a glutinous silver arc of muck? Would he become a devotee of professional wrestling? What further, diabolic humiliations were in store? He should have known it was a mistake to _go home_, after so long, how could it be other than a regression; it was an unnatural journey; a denial of time; a revolt against history; the whole thing was bound to be a disaster.

_I'm not myself_, he thought as a faint fluttering feeling began in the vicinity of his heart. But what does that mean, anyway, he added bitterly. After all, "les acteurs ne sont pas des gens", as the great ham Frederick had explained in _Les Enfants du Paradis_. Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.

The seatbelt light came on, the captain's voice warned of air turbulence, they dropped in and out of air pockets. The desert lurched about beneath them and the migrant labourer who had boarded at Qatar clutched at his giant transistor radio and began to retch. Chamcha noticed that the man had not fastened his belt, and pulled himself together, bringing his voice back to its haughtiest English pitch. "Look here, why don't you. . ." he indicated, but the sick man, between bursts of heaving into the paper bag which Saladin had handed him just in time, shook his head, shrugged, replied: "Sahib, for what? If Allah wishes me to die, I shall die. If he does not, I shall not. Then of what use is the safety?"

Damn you, India, Saladin Chamcha cursed silently, sinking back into his seat. To hell with you, I escaped your clutches long ago, you won't get your hooks into me again, you cannot drag me back.

Once upon a time -- _it was and it was not so_, as the old stories used to say, _it happened and it never did_ -- maybe, then, or maybe not, a ten-year-old boy from Scandal Point in Bombay found a wallet lying in the Street outside his home. He was on the way home from school, having just descended from the school bus on which he had been obliged to sit squashed between the adhesive sweatiness of boys in shorts and be deafened by their noise, and because even in those days he was a person who recoiled from raucousness, jostling and the perspiration of strangers he was feeling faintly nauseated by the long, bumpy ride home. However, when he saw the black leather billfold lying at his feet, the nausea vanished, and he bent down excitedly and grabbed, -- opened, -- and found, to his delight, that it was full of cash, -- and not merely rupees, but real money, negotiable on black markets and international exchanges, -- pounds! Pounds sterling, from Proper London in the fabled country of Vilayet across the black water and far away. Dazzled by the thick wad of foreign currency, the boy raised his eyes to make sure he had not been observed, and for a moment it seemed to him that a rainbow had arched down to him from the heavens, a rainbow like an angel's breath, like an answered prayer, coming to an end in the very spot on which he stood. His fingers trembled as they reached into the wallet, towards the fabulous hoard.

"Give it." It seemed to him in later life that his father had been spying on him throughout his childhood, and even though Changez Chamchawala was a big man, a giant even, to say nothing of his wealth and public standing, he still always had the lightness of foot and also the inclination to sneak up behind his son and spoil whatever he was doing, whipping the young Salahuddin's bedsheet off at night to reveal the shameful penis in the clutching, red hand. And he could smell money from a hundred and one miles away, even through the stink of chemicals and fertilizer that always hung around him owing to his being the country's largest manufacturer of agricultural sprays and fluids and artificial dung. Changez Chamchawala, philanthropist, philanderer, living legend, leading light of the nationalist movement, sprang from the gateway of his home to pluck a bulging wallet from his son's frustrated hand. "Tch tch," he admonished, pocketing the pounds sterling, "you should not pick things up from the street. The ground is dirty, and money is dirtier, anyway."

On a shelf of Changez Chamchawala's teak-lined study, beside a ten-volume set of the Richard Burton translation of the Arabian Nights, which was being slowly devoured by mildew and bookworm owing to the deep-seated prejudice against books which led Changez to own thousands of the pernicious things in order to humiliate them by leaving them to rot unread, there stood a magic lamp, a brightly polished copper--and--brass avatar of Aladdin's very own genie-container: a lamp begging to be rubbed. But Changez neither rubbed it nor permitted it to be rubbed by, for example, his son. "One day," he assured the boy, "you'll have it for yourself. Then rub and rub as much as you like and see what doesn't come to you. Just now, but, it is mine." The promise of the magic lamp infected Master Salahuddin with the notion that one day his troubles would end and his innermost desires would be gratified, and all he had to do was wait it out; but then there was the incident of the wallet, when the magic of a rainbow had worked for him, not for his father but for him, and Changez Chamchawala had stolen the crock of gold. After that the son became convinced that his father would smother all his hopes unless he got away, and from that moment he became desperate to leave, to escape, to place oceans between the great man and himself.

Salahuddin Chamchawala had understood by his thirteenth year that he was destined for that cool Vilayet full of the crisp promises of pounds sterling at which the magic billfold had hinted, and he grew increasingly impatient of that Bombay of dust, vulgarity, policemen in shorts, transvestites, movie fanzines, pavement sleepers and the rumoured singing whores of Grant Road who had begun as devotees of the Yellamma cult in Karnataka but ended up here as dancers in the more prosaic temples of the flesh. He was fed up of textile factories and local trains and all the confusion and superabundance of the place, and longed for that dream-Vilayet of poise and moderation that had come to obsess him by night and day. His favourite playground rhymes were those that yearned for foreign cities: kitchy--con kitchy-ki kitchy-con stanty-eye kitchy-ople kitchy-cople kitchyCon-stanti-nople. And his favourite game was the version ofgrandmother's footsteps in which, when he was it, he would turn his back on upcreeping playmates to gabble out, like a mantra, like a spell, the six letters of his dream--city, _ellowen deeowen_. In his secret heart, he crept silently up on London, letter by letter, just as his friends crept up to him. _Ellowen deeowen London_.

The mutation of Salahuddin Chamchawala into Saladin Chamcha began, it will be seen, in old Bombay, long before he got close enough to hear the lions of Trafalgar roar. When the England cricket team played India at the Brabourne Stadium, he prayed for an England victory, for the game's creators to defeat the local upstarts, for the proper order of things to be maintained. (But the games were invariably drawn, owing to the featherbed somnolence of the Brabourne Stadium wicket; the great issue, creator versus imitator, colonizer against colonized, had perforce to remain unresolved.)

In his thirteenth year he was old enough to play on the rocks at Scandal Point without having to be watched over by his ayah, Kasturba. And one day (it was so, it was not so), he strolled out of the house, that ample, crumbling, salt-caked building in the Parsi style, all columns and shutters and little balconies, and through the garden that was his father's pride and joy and which in a certain evening light could give the impression of being infinite (and which was also enigmatic, an unsolved riddle, because nobody, not his father, not the gardener, could tell him the names of most of the plants and trees), and out through the main gateway, a grandiose folly, a reproduction of the Roman triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, and across the wild insanity of the street, and over the sea wall, and so at last on to the broad expanse of shiny black rocks with their little shrimpy pools. Christian girls giggled in frocks, men with furled umbrellas stood silent and fixed upon the blue horizon. In a hollow of black stone Salahuddin saw a man in a dhoti bending over a pool. Their eyes met, and the man beckoned him with a single finger which he then laid across his lips. _Shh_, and the mystery of rock-pools drew the boy towards the stranger. He was a creature of bone. Spectacles framed in what might have been ivory. His finger curling, curling, like a baited hook, come. When Salahuddin came down the other grasped him, put a hand around his mouth and forced his young hand between old and fleshless legs, to feel the fleshbone there. The dhoti open to the winds. Salahuddin had never known how to fight; he did what he was forced to do, and then the other simply turned away from him and let him go.

After that Salahuddin never went to the rocks at Scandal Point; nor did he tell anyone what had happened, knowing the neurasthenic crises it would unleash in his mother and suspecting that his father would say it was his own fault. It seemed to him that everything loathsome, everything he had come to revile about his home town, had come together in the stranger's bony embrace, and now that he had escaped that evil skeleton he must also escape Bombay, or die. He began to concentrate fiercely upon this idea, to fix his will upon it at all times, eating shitting sleeping, convincing himself that he could make the miracle happen even without his father's lamp to help him out. He dreamed of flying out of his bedroom window to discover that there, below him, was -- not Bombay -- but Proper London itself, Bigben Nelsonscolumn Lordstavern Bloodytower Queen. But as he floated out over the great metropolis he felt himself beginning to lose height, and no matter how hard he struggled kicked swam-in-air he continued to spiral slowly downwards to earth, then faster, then faster still, until he was screaming headfirst down towards the city, Saintpauls, Puddinglane, Threadneedlestreet, zeroing in on London like a bomb.

o o o

[texanredrose]

Did You Know?

-Today, 0317- (214) 13-170-9: Did you know that "hamburger" is two words combined, but it's not "ham" and "burger", but "hamburg" and "er"? No idea what "er" means, though. Or “Hamburg” really. English is weird. You: Who are you and how did you get this number? (214) 13-170-9: Shit, is this not Blake? You: No. I am not Blake. (214) 13-170-9: Ah fuck, sorry, must've fat fingered the number! You: It's four in the morning here. (214) 13-170-9: Oh, cool, same timezone. Still, sorry about that. You: It's fine. You: And, for the record, -er is an Atlesian suffix that roughly means "from" and Hamburg is a city in Atlas. "Hamburger" means, quite literally, "from Hamburg". You: I grew up not too far from there. (214) 13-170-9: Oh, that's so cool! My name's Yang! You: Noted. Now, may I return to slumber or do you have any other useless trivia to impart upon me? (214) 13-170-9: Right, sorry! Again! (214) 13-170-9: Night! Sweet dreams!

-Today, 1034- You: Now that it’s a somewhat respectable hour, I’d like to apologize for being curt last night.  (214) 13-170-9: Hey, I get it! I’d be a little cranky if someone woke me up, too. (214) 13-170-9: Really, no harm, no foul. (214) 13-170-9: But if you’re ever in need of useless trivia, I’m here! You: That was... harsh of me. (214) 13-170-9: I mean, you’re not exactly wrong. Most of this stuff isn’t really that useful. But it can be food for thought or even a little funny! Like, did you know the electric chair was invented by a dentist? Sounds weirdly appropriate, doesn’t it? (214) 13-170-9: Guess he got his patients confused with chickens; THOSE are the ones where you pull out all the white things and THEN fry ‘em. You: That was dark. You: I’ll admit it made me laugh out loud, but still dark. (214) 13-170-9: Okay, look, I work with what material’s available to me, and that was the first one that popped into my head. (214) 13-170-9: Also, did you really type out ‘laugh out loud’? lol, really? You: What do you have against properly spelling out words? (214) 13-170-9: Okay, you know what, in hindsight, you’re right. It just caught me off guard. Most people use abbreviations. (214) 13-170-9: Or emojis. You: I honestly hate the sight of that stupid word. You: Also, I spend all day trapped in an alphabet soup hell. I don’t need more abbreviations, thank you. (214) 13-170-9: But they make things so much quicker! btw, ofc I could spell it all out, but rn I’m using one hand, other’s occupied. (214) 13-170-9: I swear that’s not as dirty as it sounds. You: At EOD, I meet with my POC for a SITREP, then CM to the DFAC. (214) 13-170-9: I respectfully withdraw my argument, have a good day.

-Today, 1425- (214) 13-170-9: Um. I might be overstepping here and maybe you’re busy but either way I hope I didn’t upset you or insult you earlier. You: You said “have a good day”; I assumed that was the end of the conversation. (214) 13-170-9: Do you even meme?! You: I realize I implied and now am outright stating that English isn’t my primary language but you don’t have to make up words. (214) 13-170-9: Oml have you never seen a meme before? Hold on. (214) 13-170-9: [MyHairIsABird.jpeg][open][save] You: What.The. Fuck. (214) 13-170-9: You’ve never seen that before? You: I have and am now wondering why I allowed myself to be teleported back a decade. You: At least. It’s probably closer to two at this point. (214) 13-170-9: That’s a meme. It’s short for mimetic mutation I think? Where a joke gets so far removed from the source that it loses all connection but it’s still somehow funny? You: No. (214) 13-170-9: Look, I’ve never had to explain a meme before! You: I’m not saying “no” to your explanation; I’m saying “no” to that meme, as you call it. (214) 13-170-9: That’s what it’s called! You: Of course it is. (214) 13-170-9: Okay, fine, how about this one? (214) 13-170-9: [loss.jpeg][open][save] You: Now you’re tormenting me. You: Wait. I recognize this format. You: This is the stupid joke the idiots I call my subordinates are giggling about like school children? You: It’s not even a joke. This is a serious matter. (214) 13-170-9: I mean, I agree, I’m not sure how it became a joke but it did? (214) 13-170-9: I swear I’m not as dark as I’ve been sounding. (214) 13-170-9: Like, this whole conversation is kinda atypical for me, I swear. You: You’re putting in a lot of effort to convince a stranger that you’re not exactly as you’ve been acting. (214) 13-170-9: Well, you got me there. Sorry.

-Today, 1832- You: You’ve gone quiet. I suppose both of your hands were required? (214) 13-170-9: I just figured you probably had a point and I should just stop digging a bigger hole for myself. You: You don’t have any more trivia? (214) 13-170-9: Did you know a shark’s top speed is 96 km/h? You: Which species? (214) 13-170-9: Uh, Mako shark, I think. You: You are correct. I have a certain affinity for sharks.  You: They aren’t as terrible as people make them out to be, you know. Yang: Actually, more people die from being struck on the head with a coconut than from shark attacks every year. They’re mostly fine if you leave them alone. Unprovoked attacks aren’t as common as people think, I mean. It’s mostly just one species responsible for them, too, but people lump all sharks together. You: They do. Sharks are dangerous, yes, but most creatures are. Sharks just get a bad reputation for essentially no reason. Yang: Actually, the movie Jaws spawned a lot of the social stigma around sharks. Yang: Do you have a favorite shark? You: The catshark. There’s several species all over Remnant; they’re deep sea creatures, living below what most people fish at, but they’re occasionally spotted by research vessels. They have beautiful skins with wonderful patterns but very little is known about them, and each subspecies is unique in its own way. You: They’re truly fascinating creatures. Yang: They sound really cool! You: I have a question for you. Yang: Shoot. You: You’ve given me your name yet you haven’t ask me mine. Why? Yang: Well, let’s start from the top. Yang: I messaged you in the middle of the night on accident, which you weren’t very happy about. Then when you apologized, I made a bad joke and you took it literally. THEN, I apologized again, and we talked about memes, and that entire discussion didn’t go anywhere good, I think we’re on the same page on that one. Yang: So, from my perspective, I really don’t have any right to ask your name. I gave you mine so you’d know who to specifically curse if you’re religiously inclined. Yang: Or, like, you just want the satisfaction of specifically cursing me, because like, mood. You: How thoughtful. You: It’s Winter. Yang: I’m pretty sure it’s spring? You: You boob. My name is Winter. Yang: OH Yang: IT’S A GOOD NAME You: ... really? Yang: Absolutely! It’s a beautiful name! You: That wasn’t me looking for reassurance; that was me being... surprised by your response. Yang: It makes me think of Atlas, kinda, cause it’s so cold up there. Yang: Oh. Yang: I am just a series of “open mouth, insert foot” examples today. You: Are you on something? Alcohol? Weed? Nicotine? Yang: NO! You: Admittedly, that last one wouldn’t lead to such a lapse in judgement as you’ve currently displayed. You: Are you lying to me? Yang: FUCKING NO, I’M NOT ON ANYTHING! Yang: I just haven’t been sleeping well recently and my head’s a little fuzzy. That’s all. You: That would explain the middle-of-the-night trivia session. Yang: I said I was sorry about that. You: I believe you but I also believe that a good night’s rest in fundamentally important. You: Tonight, you’re going to sleep at a reasonable hour. Yang: You can’t just command me to go to sleep! You: I just did. Yang: Wait a minute, the acronyms, the orders, “subordinates”- you’re military, aren’t you? You: Yes. Yang: That’s awesome! I’m just a mechanic. I like working on engines. You: Riveting, truly, but those are topics for tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep. Yang: lmao, nice pun! You: I didn’t make a pun. Yang: I said I’m a mechanic, you said “riveting”, how was that not a pun? You: You’re deflecting. Yang: My shields are up. You: I’m not engaging in a pun war when you should be going to bed. Yang: I’m not going to bed, so I guess we’re at a stalemate. You: Fine. Here’s the deal. Make me a promise. Yang: Wow, we’re hardly on first name basis and now we’re making promises? You move fast. You: Promise me you’ll text me whatever piece of trivia comes to mind whenever you’re having trouble sleeping. Yang: I don’t get it. I’d be waking you up at all hours. You: Exactly. You seem like the sort of person to care very much about others so I doubt you’d compromise my sleep intentionally. Now that you have a clear purpose of going to sleep to help someone else sleep, you’ll have an easier time accomplishing the task. Yang: What are you, some kinda quack psychologist? Yang: You’re playing dirty. You: I’m military. What did you honestly expect? Yang: Touche. Yang: Fine. I’ll try to sleep tonight. But just know! I have a whole bunch of factoids for ya! Get ready cause neither of us is sleeping tonight! You: Usually, I’d insist someone buy me dinner first. Yang: Now you’re flirting. You: I’m merely stating fact. You: How about one more “factoid” before bed? Yang: Did you know a shark’s teeth are literally hard as steel? You: Playing to my interests, I see. Yang: I have my moments of brilliance. You: Indeed you do. Now, good night, Yang. Get some sleep. Yang: Good night Winter. Sweet dreams. You: And to you the same.

-Today, 0947- Yang: I hate you. You: Care to elaborate? Yang: Somehow, it worked, and I just woke up from the sleep of the dead. My body feels like mush sloshing around a hollow lead cylinder. You: What you’re feeling is the side effects of your body getting both too little and too much rest at the same time. If you establish a better sleep schedule, you’ll avoid this feeling in the future. Yang: Thank you, Doctor Winter. Do I get a lollipop? You: Continue being this cheeky; I assure you it’s doing nothing but improving my perception of you. Yang: Harsh. You: That was teasing. Yang: Oh. You really should add, like, an lol or something when you're joking. I'm not awake enough to find context clues. You: Aside from the lethargy, how are you feeling? Yang: Hungry. I finally dragged myself out of bed to cook breakfast and it turns out my sister already made me some. I’ve taught her well. You: Older or younger? Yang: I’m older by two years. Sometimes, it feels longer than that, though; I practically raised her. You: Interesting. I’m glad she made some food for you. Yang: Yeah. Now that I think about it, probably worried her pretty bad the last few weeks. You: Is that how long you’ve been having trouble sleeping?” Yang: About that. Yang: These pancakes taste fucking delicious btw. Yang: Did you know that, for most people, their right lung takes in more air than their left? You: We need to have a talk about priorities because I highly doubt you’ve inhaled your food that quickly. Yang: Sorry, my sis had to leave, so it’s a quiet breakfast over here. You: I don’t see that as something that needs to be corrected. You: However, I find myself wondering if you know the reason behind the lung trivia. Yang: I do! It’s because, for most people, your heart is just to the left of the center of your chest. So, since the heart takes up space, there’s only two sacs in your left lung, as opposed to three in your right. Yang: *sacks? Idek You: Idek? Yang: I Don’t Even Know- not sure what the difference between “sacs” and “sacks” is. You: This is why acronyms and abbreviations are more trouble than they’re worth. Yang: Okay, so basically, a sac is biological and a sack is manufactured. Like, sacs are things naturally occurring that fill with air or liquid, either in the body or outside it. Sacks are made for carrying things like groceries. Yang: Meanwhile, “sack” as a verb means either getting hit or getting laid off. Or maybe both, I guess, depending on your job. You: You went and looked it up? Yang: What, you think I was born with all these random things preprogrammed? Yang: I have a really good retention rate and I'm curious a lot. Yang: Google is my friend. You: Obviously. I suppose the appropriate follow-up question would be: you kept highlighting “most people”. Why? Yang: Well, there are a lot of medical reasons that makes it not applicable to everyone. Dextrocardia, for instance, in its mildest form causes the heart to face the opposite way, so the lungs usually fill differently because of that. More severe cases mean that more visceral organs are mirrored, too. You: Okay, so, language, sharks, the electric chair, and now medical trivia. The breadth of your subjects of interest is impressive. Yang: Thanks! Yang: Did you know that the cracking sound made by a whip is caused by the tip breaking the sound barrier? Yang: I’m pretty sure this counts as physics. You: I’ll add physics to the list. You: Now finish your breakfast and do something small. Take a nap in a few hours or whenever you feel tired. Yang: Do you have any siblings? Yang: You don't have to answer right away! Yang: Or at all. Yang: Guess you're busy? Eating breakfast maybe?

-Today, 1036- You: Actually, I was in formation. It's usually at 0930 but there were... complications this morning, so they pushed it back half an hour. Yang: Huh. For some reason, I always thought the military would be, like, SUPER punctual. You: And I have a younger sister and a younger brother, in that order. You: I'm going to tell you a secret: the military is always late. We just never admit it. Yang: So, you're like a bunch of cats? You: Given what constitutes my workday, yes, I would say that's accurate. "Herding cats" is the most accurate description of my job title. Yang: lmao, that's wild. Your siblings here in Vale too? Or back home in Atlas? You: My sister is here; she moved here to study at Beacon and then decided to stay. I suspect her girlfriend might factor into that decision but she's remaining tight lipped about it. My brother is at home, in Atlas. You: Now explain “lmao”. Yang: Laughing My As Off Yang: You really don’t know any chat abbreviations? You: Has it occurred to you that abbreviations is a very long word to describe the shortening of words and is, in itself, evidence that it’s all very silly? Yang: I know this is going to sound very grade school but you’re kinda cute when you’re annoyed. You: You’re right; that does sound very grade school. You: And you only say that because you can’t see me. Yang: Oh, so you don’t go all broody, kinda constipated, pursed lips when you’re annoyed by something? You: I understand those words individually but, combined, I’m lost. What would that even look like? Yang: Here. Yang: [photo][open][save] You: First, I want to assure you that you’re a very beautiful individual. You: Next, you look absolutely ridiculous. Yang: Hey, that’s how I think you look when you’re annoyed! You: I do not. Yang: Okay, I’ll take your word for it! You: [photo][open][save] Yang: Oh Yang: Wow You: That is what I look like when annoyed. You: And, not to wound your ego, but that annoyance isn’t inspired by you. A subordinate just asked me for fucking grid squares. You: At this point, one would think that joke’s too tired to work, but one would be wrong. Yang: Did you know that the winter of 392 was so cold, all of Beacon Falls froze over? You: Back to trivia? Yang: It’s my default response when higher brain function shuts down. You: I’ll admit, this is the first time in a long while I’ve felt flattery to be entirely sincere. Yang: This isn’t flattery; this is cold, hard facts. You: I see. Yang: Hey, I, uh, just realized the time, I gotta get to work. Yang: See if I still have a job, at any rate. You: I understand. Good luck. Yang: Thanks! Hope your work day gets better!

-Today, 1236- You: I assume the radio silence to be a good sign.

-Today, 1428- Yang: Yeah! Turns out, the shop kept a spot for me. My boss is being really understanding. Yang: Kinda... babying me, too, but... I’m getting used to it. Yang: At least he fired the idiot that started this whole mess. You: Am I permitted to inquire as to what happened? Yang: I don’t wanna go into details. You: That’s understandable. You: I’m glad they kept a spot for you. Are you going to return to work full time or ease into it? Yang: Give me a minute. You: Very well.

-Today, 1513- Yang: A few months ago, there was an accident at the shop. We do body work too and this guy tried using a machine he had no business using. Freaked out, caused a scene, I tried going over to help, ended up with my right arm caught in the damn thing. Mangled it pretty bad. So bad the docs had to take it. I got fitted for a prosthetic and I’m just trying to find normal again. Yang: I know I said I didn’t wanna go into the details but I’m actually shit at lying. Yang: Except in, like, weirdly specific circumstances. You: Thank you. Yang: Ok. Gotta admit. Not the response I expected. You: It must be very difficult to discuss and think about the accident. You didn’t have to go into it, yet you did, and I thank you for trusting me with that. You: That being said, is this a contributing factor to your insomnia? Yang: It’s not insomnia. I’m just not sleeping well. Yang: But yeah, idk, maybe it’s related. I liked sleeping on my right side and I can’t anymore. Anchor digs into my ribs. You: Establishing a new routine can be tricky at first. Everything is just a painful reminder of the incident. Yang: Sounds like you have experience with this. You: A bit. A superior of mine whom I respect greatly lost most of his body a few years back. He speaks very frankly about the challenges he faced when returning to the line. Yang: Wait, you mean General Ironwood? You: You know him? Yang: Who in Remnant doesn’t? He’s basically a celebrity. I mean, not just for the prosthetic body thing; he’s also the youngest commanding General of the Atlesian military. Yang: Which... tbh, is kinda weird. Isn’t he pushing fifty? You: Age takes on a whole new concept in the military. Yang: I’d say. Yang: They talked about him when I started my physical therapy. Supposed to inspire me, I guess. You: For what it’s worth, he actually dislikes when people do that. He says that each individual case is a war all unto itself. Comparisons are detrimental to the individual’s recovery. Yang: I like him better already. I’ve been over here trying to just “suck it up” I mean, not like I lost anything more than an arm, what do I have to complain about? You: Hold that thought. Yang: Okay?

-Today, 1558- You: Miss Yang? This is General Ironwood. Yang: Look, I’m all for practical jokes, but this isn’t a good one. You: [photo][open][save] Yang: This is not a joke. You: No, it is not.  You: Miss Yang, I’d like to extend my deepest, sincerest sympathies to you for your loss. Having your life upended in such a way can be extremely disorienting. However, the measure of your strength does not come from what you can or can’t do in comparison to before. It comes from your desire to continue fighting, to find a new balance to your life. Asymmetry is a measure of beauty, strength, and courage in its own right. Yang: Thank you, sir. Yang: *Sir. You: I’d like to extend an invitation to a support group I host. It’s mostly military members from all over Remnant but, if you don’t mind a bit of morbidly crass humor- a habit I’m attempting to break the lot of them from, with limited results- we’d be honored with your presence. Yang: No offense, but I doubt a bunch of soldiers would be “honored” by a mechanic. You: The first thing I teach is to see similarities instead of differences. You saw something dangerous and, rather than run away, you ran towards it. All of us share that experience. You: Except Carl. Yang: What happened to him? You: I apologize; it’s a military specific meme. Winter mentioned you’re rather fond of memes. Yang: Oh, so you know what a meme is, but she doesn’t? You: Don’t tell her I said so- she’s a very good soldier- but she’s always had a stick up her ass. She could use more memes in her life. Yang: Should I take that as an order? You: Absolutely. Yang: Can do. And, uh, sure. About the support group. You: Excellent! I’ll give Winter the details so she can pass them onto you. It was wonderful taking to you, Miss Yang. Yang: Yeah, you too, Sir. You: It’s Winter again. I hope that helped. Yang: Did you literally walk into the office of the commanding General of Atlas’ military, just to hand him your scroll and say ‘talk to this bitch’? You: I didn’t use those words; I told him I had a friend who recently attended physical therapy post amputation and I thought some words of encouragement from him would be a good idea. You: Wait, did he literally say I have a stick up my ass? Yang: WOOOW, meme savvy he might be, but apparently he doesn’t know how to delete a text message. You: I can’t believe he’d say that. You: I most certainly do not have a stick lodged in my posterior, figurative or otherwise. Yang: I’d offer to check but that’s a bit too fast too soon, so I’ll just say you seem alright to me. You: Thank you, Yang. Yang: Cranky when I wake you up at the asscrack of dawn, though. That might be when ass and stick are firm friends. You: Do not make me take it back. Yang: I’m just kidding! Yang: Seriously, though, thanks. You didn’t have to do that. You: You’re welcome.

-Today, 0233- Yang: Did you know it takes the average person seven minutes to fall asleep? You: I sincerely thought you’d be asleep by now. Yang: I did. Woke up. Yang: Sorry. You: Do you know what a contact truck is? Yang: Uh, no, no idea. You: It’s the military vehicle utilized by mechanics, outfitted with tools, so they can drive out and repair other vehicles. Do you know why it’s called that? Yang: Hit me with it. You: That was an actual question. Yang: Huh? You: I’ve been asking for as long as I’ve been in. Not even General Ironwood knows why it’s called that. It just is. Yang: omg that’s hilarious You: It’s that, too. Also incredibly vexing. You: I just want to know why it’s called that. Yang: Heh. If I find out, I’ll let you know. You: Go back to sleep, Yang. Yang: I’ll try. Night. You: And sweet dream. Yang: lol, same to you.

#TRR writes #Elderburn #Texting AU

[zuidadewenti-blog]

Famous Anthropologist Mr. Hu Jiaqi Responded to the Issue of "Gene-edited Babies"

The world’s first gene-edited babies have been born in China recently, according to startling news. The babies are immune to HIV/AIDS because a gene segment was removed from the zygote. It is said they are “the world’s first gene-edited babies immune to HIV”.

Since the news was announced, the issue of “gene-edited babies” has sparked heated discussion concerning ethics and morality, as well as security. Well, what is the famous anthropologist Mr. Hu Jiaqi’s view on the issue? The author has sorted out two important points of view through interviews.

Key point I: The developing “Human Gene Editing” is bound to bring crisis to mankind.

Human genes are rational because they are the result of billions of years of natural evolution. Will human editing of genes arbitrarily cause a crisis?

In fact, there is no mature technology for accurate editing of human genes at present. With the existing technologies, it is very difficult for human beings to avoid failures because the human genome consists of billions of bases.

There is a phenomenon called "off-target effect" in gene editing.

What does being off target mean? In short, it means the gene is located mistakenly. The negative impact of off-target gene editing is far beyond our estimation. The safety of gene editing is affected because of the off-target effect. It is one of the most important issues in the application of gene editing technology.

However, even if it is on-target, there may also be unforeseen serious consequences as the technology develops.

The famous anthropologist Mr. Hu Jiaqi held the view years ago that it would be entirely possible for humans to reconstruct themselves in the near future by altering their genes.

And the crisis brought by science and technology themselves will be far greater than the current state of primary development of science and technology.

The similar view was mentioned later in the book Brief Answers to the Big Questions by Hawking. There will be gene-edited super humans in the future. Not only do they have a longer life and better physical quality, but also they may even have higher IQ and better memory than ordinary people.

Once the gene editing technology is mature, it will bring tremendous pressure on the lives of civilians who have no access to the resources of gene editing, and even bring disaster to them.

What makes us even more frightened is that the modified genes are bound to be passed on to their descendants through such editing at the level of embryo. This is equivalent to adding a new variety of gene to the human gene pool. After generations of reproduction, there will even be incalculable mutations.

Key point II: The moral and ethical issue of “gene-edited babies”.

In fact, many scientists were able to use the gene editing technology years ago. But the scientists around the world were unwilling to or were afraid to use the technology because of the uncertainty of being off target and unpredictable mutations, and the more important moral and ethical issue.

The research of“gene-edited babies”was approved by an ethical committee called Ethical Committee of Shenzhen Hemei Gynecological and Pediatric Hospital. However, the Shenzhen Health and Family Planning Commission said the organization of Ethical Committee of Shenzhen Hemei Gynecological and Pediatric Hospital had not put on required record.  

So far, more than 100 scientists said in a signed joint statement, “We are firmly against and condemn the research.” They think the so-called biomedical inspection exists in name only.

It is mentioned in the book Saving Humanity by the famous anthropologist Mr. Hu Jiaqi, “The so-called gene reconstruction technology is to cut, paste and repair genes on DNA with enzymes so as to create creatures that meet our own needs based on our own wishes. The technology has been widely used so far. Scientists are able to produce red, yellow and brown cotton, and breed seedless watermelons and seedless grapes. They can let frogs grow six eyes and let mice have no tails. The reason lies in the technology of gene reconstruction.

Human beings will be able to, if they want to, reconstruct their genes in the near future. Especially today, we know that the Human Genome Project has comprehensively studied and sequenced 3 billion base pairs of human DNA and more than 20,000 genes made up of the base pairs, and considerable results have been achieved. With the further development of biological science, it is entirely predictable for human beings to thoroughly understand all human genetic structures and the human life code that they represent in the near future. So we are able to freely rebuild ourselves as long as we make a little effort on this basis.”

“People neither consider the negative effects of science and technology, nor do they doubt the justice of the development of science and technology. We have been marching forward bravely to the depth of science without any scruple. Because of such basic historical facts, we cannot fully believe that human beings will be able to control the development of science and technology in the future.

At present, babies are used as an experimental article to modify the genetic code through gene editing. Their future will be exposed to unknown risks. What is more terrible is that even half-human and half-beast monsters may be created through gene editing in the future if human beings disregard morality and ethics, the relevant ethical regulatory bodies fail to act, research is carried out for a temporary impulse, or some scientists are overwhelmed by commercial interests.

This is not an alarmist definitely. If the issue of “gene-edited babies” is not condemned but allowed to develop, human beings will surely taste the bitter wine brewed by ourselves.

During the interview, the famous anthropologist Mr. Hu Jiaqi emphasized more than once that the issue must be condemned from an ethical point of view. Once Pandora's box is opened, human beings will not always be lucky to escape the disaster. We will have to restrict the development of science and technology since law and morality can not really play a restrictive role.

With the emergence of various gene editing technologies, ethics and morality are always a threshold to enter the gate. Meanwhile, faced with the benefits brought about by the operation of commercial capital, scientists should maintain moral integrity and uphold the rationality as scientific researchers. They should not be callous to seek such so-called results that only attract attention and serve their personal interests. Humans can no longer be so numb.

As what the famous anthropologist Mr. Hu Jiaqi said, “When people accept all scientific and technological achievements without much thinking, they will inevitably show indifference to the negative effects of scientific and technological achievements. However, disasters always stem from numbness. The sea is often very calm before the arrival of huge waves but the undercurrent is surging on the bottom of the sea. When the whole society is numb, a devastating disaster may be just ahead of us.”

[booksandtea]

Video Game Recommendations| #Blogoween So I wanted to do a post on horror games to fit into blogoween but I realised I haven’t really played that many. Or at least many that people may think of when thinking of horror games.

You have the big names; the Amnesia series and Slender: The Eight Pages games that shot pewdiepie (one | two) into the spotlight and which for me at least are when horor games became more popular. I tried both of the games named but neither really did anything for me.

Much later we see the rise of the Five Nights at Freddy’s series which I also tried at the height of its hype and wasn’t fond of.

It wasn’t a case that any of these games were too scary to play, they just didn’t offer enough for me to get invested in them. If I were to return to any of these games it would be Amnesia as its a lot more story focused.

But fear not. Or do fear! I do have a small list of games that I can recommend in the horror genre, or at least have horror elements to them.

RESIDENT EVIL 5 (2009): “The Umbrella Corporation and its crop of lethal viruses have been destroyed and contained. But a new, more dangerous threat has emerged. Years after surviving the events in Raccoon City, Chris Redfield has been fighting the scourge of bio-organic weapons all over the world. Now a member of the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance (BSAA), Chris is sent to Africa to investigate a biological agent that is transforming the populace into aggressive and disturbing creatures. Joined by another local BSAA agent, Sheva Alomar, the two must work together to solve the truth behind the disturbing turn of events.”

I probably played this back in 2009 or 2010 on the XBOX and its actually the only Resident Evil game that I’ve completed all the way through. I actually really enjoyed this game and at the time the hardest thing I found was keeping an eye on my health.

Lots of zombie fun which means its kinda gorey! But yay to weird mutations.

RUSTY LAKE HOTEL (2016): “Welcome our guests to the Rusty Lake Hotel and make sure they will have a pleasant stay. There will be 5 dinners this week. Make sure every dinner is worth dying for!

Rusty Lake Hotel a unique puzzle-escape game with a surreal, strange setting inspired by David Lynch’s TV series Twin Peaks.”

I love the Rusty Lake series, I’ve only played Hotel but I do also own Roots. Both of these I’ve seen Dodger play through but Hotel is probably my favourite of the two.

In RLH you have 5 guests staying and for 5 days you have to procure the ingredients for a meal by doing tasks and puzzles for one of the guest. In the evening everyone sits down and eats a meaty meal that they can rate depending on how many of the ingredients you were able to get. The puzzles can be pretty challenging at times and none of the guests ever seem to care that every evening there is one guest less…

I highly recommend you check out any and all of their games and the best thing is many of them are on mobile and they’re not huge or powerful games so I would imagine most PCs can handle them. I also think the horror in this is tame so if you’re a fan of puzzles they’re definitely worth it, my only complaint is theres no achievements.

YEAR WALK (2014): “In the old days man tried to catch a glimpse of the future in the strangest of ways.

Experience the ancient Swedish phenomena of year walking through a different kind of first person adventure that blurs the line between two and three dimensions, as well as reality and the supernatural.

Venture out into the dark woods where strange creatures roam, on a vision quest set in 19th century Sweden. Solve and decipher cryptic puzzles, listen for clues, and learn about mysterious folklore creatures in the built-in encyclopedia as you seek to foresee your future and find out if your loved one will ever love you back.

Mysteries and clues await everywhere in Year Walk, but to fully understand the events that took place on that cold New Year’s Eve, you will have to delve deeper than the adventure and lose yourself between fact and fiction.”

I’ve also completed Year Walk and I really enjoyed it, the art itself is super cool and at times very pretty. The story itself is rather sad too but you learn a lot about this Swedish phenomena.

This game does have achievements which is great but I will say it can be tricky to navigate to each area so if you can have the map pulled up elsewhere that makes it easier – also will help you get an achievement.

This is definitely a fairly straight forward game to play but it is on the spookier side of things, both story wise and because there is a jump scare or two. I know at least one of them can be avoided.

LAYERS OF FEAR (2016): “You take another drink as the canvas looms in front of you. A light flickers dimly in the corner. You’ve created countless pieces of art, but never anything like…this. Why haven’t you done this before? It seems so obvious in retrospect. Your friends, critics, business partners—soon, they’ll all see. But something’s still missing…

You look up, startled. That melody… Was that a piano? It sounded just like her… But, no—that would be impossible. She’s gone. They’re all gone. Have to focus. How long has it taken to get to this point? Too long, but it doesn’t matter. There will be no more distractions. It’s almost finished. You can feel it. Your creation. Your Magnum Opus.

Dare you help paint a true Masterpiece of Fear? Layers of Fear is a first-person psychedelic horror game with a heavy focus on story and exploration. Delve deep into the mind of an insane painter and discover the secret of his madness, as you walk through a vast and constantly changing Victorian-era mansion. Uncover the visions, fears and horrors that entwine the painter and finish the masterpiece he has strived so long to create.” I picked up Layers of Fear the other month when … humble bundle? was offering it for free. I figured why not! I dont play many horrors and this seemed interesting.

So far its mostly a walking simulator where you explore a mansion that evolves over time. Its very atmospheric and creepy, theres no real guidance as to what time line you’re in but you slowly get to know more about the people who live here. I’m very excited to see where the story goes.

As I’ve not finished this game yet I can’t fully say how scary it is but the bit I’ve played there are definitely the odd jump scare here and there and overall a very eerie vibe.

ABZU (2016): “Immerse yourself in a vibrant ocean world full of mystery and bursting with color and life. Perform fluid acrobatics as the Diver using graceful swimming controls. Discover hundreds of unique species based on real creatures and form a powerful connection with the abundant sea life. Interact with schools of thousands of fish that procedurally respond to you, each other, and predators. Linger in epic seascapes and explore aquatic ecosystems modeled with unprecedented detail. Descend into the heart of the ocean where ancient secrets lie forgotten. But beware, dangers lurk in the depths. “ABZÛ” is from the oldest mythologies; AB, meaning water, and ZÛ, meaning to know. ABZÛ is the ocean of wisdom.” Okay, so technically Abuz isn’t a horror game. For the most part its very pretty and tranquil, but there is a part full of exploding bombs whic is a bit tense. Additionally the full story of Abzu is one of horror and warning as at its core its a commentary on how we’re destroying worlds and pollution.

Rather than going into full depth on its story you can read up on it here as I think its a very important and powerful game. Plus if you don’t like being underwater then this might have a layer of fear for you!

And thats that for horror video games I think you should play. Of course honorable mention to Until Dawn but with that being a PS4 exclusive its a lot harder for people to play – instead try watching a playthrough of this game on YouTube perhaps? This has a lot of gore, jump scares, and Josh is my favourite character in that game as realistically we all need to protect him.

Please note: all images were taken from their own Steam store pages.

Have you seen played any of these games? Are there any games that you’d recommend?

If you enjoyed this post consider supporting Northern Plunder Ko-fi | Twitter | Book Club | RedBubble

5 Horror #VideoGames You Should Play | #Blogoween Video Game Recommendations| #Blogoween So I wanted to do a post on horror games to fit into blogoween but I realised I haven't really played that many.

#Abzu #Blogoween #Blogoween 2018 #Layers of Fear #Resident Evil 5 #Rusty Lake Hotel #Video Game #Video Game Review #Video Games #Year Walk

[wandering-chronicler-blog]

The Wolf of Farore - Chapter 44

An Ongoing Zelda/Witcher Fusion Fic - Updates Sundays/Mondays for the foreseeable future.

War has come to The Kingdom of Hyrule.  The people cry for a savior as monsters and spirits stalk the once green fields of the provinces.  Famine grips the populace as the Gerudo Tribes and their blin allies strike along the borders.  Hope for peace begins to drown in the blood spilled in No Man’s Land.  But Hyrule doesn’t need another hero.  It needs a professional.

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CHAPTER 44:  PRE-DIVE

The escape had gone far smoother than anyone expected and the Tower of the Gods was almost a day behind them now.  All around them was just the ocean.  No signs of the platforms that Medli’s tribe used for their courier work or other ships. It was completely empty apart from the steamboat and frigate that moved together through the vastness.  They’d expected trouble from the escape as the other ship in Jolene’s small fleet had been lost to geozards and the mutants, but they met no resistance.  For the moment, he stood on the bridge next to the cannon, watching below as Medli demonstrated to Aryll some of her martial arts.  His sister had started to practice them as well and he could hear the rito correcting her as they went.  She stopped as Medli pulled a stick to mimic a sword and handed it to her.  A moment later, she demonstrated how to disarm an opponent with it.

 They were still a ways from their destination though, and he was sure there was more they could be doing to prepare.  Given the hour though, he reached up and squeezed the wolf around his neck.  Any other last pieces of information on what they were up against would be invaluable.  Especially given how she’d saved them a world of hurt when learning that the mutated corpses could become carriers.  He turned back to look to where they’d come, leaning against the rail and squeezing la little tighter.

 “Hey, you there, Mid?” he asked.

 There was a long pause before he heard her voice.  “...hang on...”

 He realized then the time differences between their worlds.  “I didn’t wake you did I?”

 “No.  I’ve been preparing for my trip to Lorule.  Got the okay from my father to check in.”

 He closed his eyes, focusing.  “Ah. Making sure something didn’t happen there like with the mask?”

 She appeared in his mind’s eye then.  “Yeah.” She ran a hand through her hair. He could make out a couple books and a bag too.  

  Her red eyes glanced in his direction.  “So. What’s up?” she asked.

 “We’re preparing our dive,” he said.  “We found Bellum’s tomb.  And its looking very dangerous.  Just because of the depths we’re going to.”

 “To say nothing of the fact it’s a god from before The Goddesses ordered your world.”

 “Yeah.”  He took a deep breath.  “Really nervous about it.  Good chance none of us will come back from it.”

 “Well, did find a couple other little things.  Least from one of our texts.”

“Oh?”

 She grabbed one of the books.  He saw papers sticking out of it she’d used to bookmark it and quickly skimmed through them before stopping on one page.  “Looks like your goddesses may have been partially involved.”  She pulled it up and showed it to him.  He recognized some of the symbols, even though he didn’t know any of the specifics of what they m eant.  Shad would’ve known, he was sure.  “Nayru specifically.”

 He nodded a little.  “Well, one old tale says she created the sea by weeping into it and submerging an entire continent.”

 “That could very well be part of the tale.  She used it to hide a prison buried under the rock so that something would remain there until the time was right.”

 Only one answer to what would be there given everything.  They both knew it.  “Bellum.”

“I don’t have enough to clearly tell you one way or the other what’s down there, but Bellum’s tomb could have been made by The Goddesses and sealed away by your sky and ocean spirits.  Hoping to keep him down there until eternity ends.”

 Though going that deep and into the unknown was something particularly worrying, he was sure that at least he might be okay now and that they had some small thing in their favor against the old god now.  “Alright.”

 “There’s something there too.  Something keeping his servants from opening the door to his cell, but most of these texts don’t have a whole lot to go on.”

 “Oh?”

 She furrowed her brow as she flipped through the book some more, eventually putting it aside and taking another one.  “They’re deliberately cryptic.  Why I can’t reason with something this important.”

 “Heh.”

 She glanced up at him. “What?”

 “Twins say the same thing with some of their research.  Especially about The Inquisition.”

 “Aaah.”  She gave an understanding nod before looking back down at the page and the paper she’d stuffed in it.  “There’s a note here though that...”  For a brief moment she looked surprised then.

 Suddenly, she vanished from his sight.  The magic was still working though, he could feel it in his charm.    “Mid?” he asked.  There was no response though.  He let go of the charm for a moment before looking back down at his sister and Medli.  They were practicing kicks now as Medli played the instructor for Aryll.  He was glad she was getting along so well with everyone.  Maybe it would be okay to bring her along.  He bowed his head a little then, looking back to the stern of the ship. The life of a Chosen was brutal and though many a tale painted them as great as The Hero, he knew all too well that they were still very much mortal.  Their mutations, a secret to the world apart from those few in power, did let them perform legendary feats, but there was a host of things that came with it. Before his mind could dig further into it, his charm shook.  He reached for it and closed his eyes again.  Midna appeared once more, this time, eyes narrowed and a scowl on her face.  One he had seen her wear countless times during The Conjunction.

  “You okay?” he asked

 “Zant’s here.” She said plainly.

 “Oh.  You have to go?”

 She shook her head, sitting back down and slouching in her seat.  “He’s not even supposed to be here today.  One of the new servants let him and his entourage in.”

 “Aaah.  And now he’s demanding to speak with you.”

 “Yep.  I have a couple people delaying him right now.   Though I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

 “Know what he wants?”

 Her gaze scared him a little at the look in her eye.  Though he’d seen it before, it still was something that scared him.  She was clearly unhappy with the events that had occurred.  “Yeah.  Me.”

 “Ah.”  From what little she’d told him on him, he assumed whatever had happened in their past was something that had caused her to loathe him.  At that moment though, he immediately realized she’d always disliked him as long as he’d known her.  Or at least as long as...  “.. oh.”  Midna glared at him.  She figured out what he had just learned as well.  He saw her lip curl down and her gritting her teeth.  Link held up a hand to her then and shook his head.   “Say no more.  I won’t pry.  But if you want to vent I won’t tell a soul.”

  The sneer faded as she closed her eyes with what sounded like a forced chuckle.  “You’re too noble for your own good sometimes, y’know that?” she asked.

 “Didn’t you want me showing you more chivalry?” he replied, a slight smirk on his own lips.  

 It was her turnt o smirk back at him.  “Wasn’t expecting it to show up right then with that Griffin.  And be remarkably difficult to tell the difference between that and your usual noble idiocy.”  The smirk turned into a sweet smile as the mischief left her for now.  “Thanks though.  Seriously.”

 “Of course, Mid. 

 She sighed a little and sat back up in her chair, tugging down the vest she wore.  “It’s...  Kind of a touchy topic.”

 “So how about to one less touchy?”

 “Yeah”  Midna’s eyes glanced over the book again  “Like old gods at the bottom of the ocean.”

 Her bluntness made Link chuckle.  “Like that.  So.  That note you mentioned before Zany Zant so rudely interrupted us.”

 That got a small snicker out of her.  “Uh...  ah.”  She began to skim the book again, looking for where she’d left off.  “It looks like for some of it that the prison designed follows the same laws of Nayru.  So.  This could’ve been during The Ordering.”

 “Anything specific?”

 “That no divine hand or ones touched by divine hands could open it,” she said, not even looking up.

 Given what he knew about mythology and legends in their world, virtually everything had been made by divine hands.  “If that’s the case someone or something has opened it enough that Bellum is trying to change the world.”

 “I have a theory on that actually.  But it’s a lot of speculation.”  She closed the book then.

 “What is it?”

 “The Conjunction put cracks in the prison.  And it has allowed Bellum’s influence to leak out. But he can’t break the prison to free himself.  Because he’s a ‘divine being’ or counts as one at least as far as I can tell by these texts.”

 “But his servants can still carry out his will.  Use the slime to give him a better look at things, which is his influence leaking out of it.  Given a physical form and mutagenic properties like The Malice of Demise.”

 “Exactly.”

 Guilt washed over him then, much as he’d learned with some of the creatures twisted by The Twilight energies during The Conjunction and then again when him and Midna had encountered the refugees turned into shadow beasts .  He always hated these instances. “So those geozards could be as much victims of his mutagens as the pirates were.”

 “Definitely possible.”

  He shook his head, focusing on her theory.  “So...  why The Conjunction?” he asked.

 “Mmm.”  Midna tilted her head and looked at the ceiling.  “If I were a goddess...”  She stopped when she heard Link stifle a snicker and gave him a look of mock annoyance.  It vanished as quickly as it had appeared and was replaced with a smirk.  ”If,” she continued, pointing a finger at him.  “And if there was a being I couldn’t kill, like Bellum, I’d try and trap him somewhere he could do no harm to my followers or plans.”  Her brow furrowed as she looked down at the desk and bit her lower lip.  “Which might mean making an entire little pocket dimension to stuff him in.  We have theories on how to do that even.”

 “Mmm?”

 “Making new realities.  But with our current understanding of magic, they’d be literally the size of a needle point and flash out of existence faster than the blink of an eye.  To say nothing of just how much magic would be needed to do even that in the first place.” She paused for a moment as he nodded, at least understanding some of it.  “But for a divine being, they could easily and have laws applied to it like Nayru did to your world.”

 He could see where she was getting.  “And then The Conjunction happens and the worlds collide.  The prison gets cracked just enough the inmate can peak out and try to influence things In your world.”

 “Yep.  And so Bellum starts whispering to anyone who will listen and people fall under his influence.”

 “Yep.”

  “Huh...”

 “What?”

 “Didn’t know they taught transdimensional magic and theory in The Twilight.”

 She laughed at little at it.  “I had to track down a couple people after The Conjunction. People far smarter and with more time on their hands than me.  One of them helped me get the stuff together on how our worlds are still pretty connected.” She glanced to her right then.  “I hope you have a good plan for sealing up whatever cracks are in that tomb.  ‘cause I haven’t found anything that suggests how you could.”

 “So, this could all just be for nothing.”  He took a deep breath then.  “But we have to try.”

 “You do have a plan, right?”

 “Mikau is working on it with the frost bombs we recovered, I think.”

 She nodded a little.  “If you can make it red ice with the alchemy, it won’t melt down there.  Real patch job but it should at least buy the world time.  Close it off enough that you should be fine for a while.”

 “Yeah.”

  She glanced to her side then before sighing.  “Aaaand I’m out of time.”

 “No more distraction?”

 “Yeah.”  She closed the book.  ““I won’t be available for a few days too, so really make sure you don’t do something stupid.”

 Link chuckled a little. “Well, you know me.”

 “Heh.  You still owe me for all this extra work.  And I expect you to pay in full.”  The smirk was back on her face.

 “Alright.”

 Midna composed herself, taking a deep breath and sitting up straight.  “Good.”

 “Good luck with your trip.”

 “Thanks.”  She smiled at him.  “You too.  See you later.”  She vanished from his sight then and he let go of the charm.

The waves beat against the bow of Linebeck’s ship as they traveled.  Black smoke billowed out of the stack in the back as Link sat on the floor with his back to one of the many crates that had been loaded in the hold. Knowing what was coming, he prepared himself mentally and practiced his breathing.  Deep dives had not been something he’d been formally trained in, but he had done it before.  Just not to the depth that Mikau had mentioned as they left for what was ominously named ‘The Dreamer’s Tomb.’  Before him were the elixirs he’d picked up in Windfall and another one the zora had given him and Aveil.  He remembered what the zora had said about it and picked up two other vials.  One was another Kaepora’s Vigil, while the other was a Red Ice.  He pulled another bottle from the bags he had next to him.  It was empty and particularly large, but was meant for mixing. He uncorked both of the smaller bottles and poured them into the larger one.  Once done, he mixed the one Mikau had given him, using a stick to get the last of it out and stirred it together.  After a minute, he placed it on top of his lantern and lit it to ensure it would mix properly.

 Across on the other side of the hold was Aveil.  She was essentially doing the same thing, muttering a prayer in her native tongue as she poured the syrupy blue mix into a larger bottle.  It had been the first time as well he’d seen her out of her armor. She was in leather pants and was wearing a white shirt much like the one he had, but cut more for a woman.  The sleeves were rolled up and her left wrist was wrapped in a couple bandages to help keep her from injuring her sprained wrist any further.  He noticed numerous scars along what skin was showing on her arms.  They weren’t as bad as his, but from their talks, it sounded like the desert viper’s preferred prey was the kind that wouldn’t leave scars if it managed even to land a single blow.  He’d only encountered moldorms when working with Shad in the desert and was amazed that she’d been able to kill things like the lanmolas she’d mentioned back on Windfall.

She inhaled sharply, holding the bottle to her nose that held the now pitch black liquid in it. Aveil placed it on her lantern to heat it to finish the mixing and looked over to Link.  “Amazing how similar our rituals are too,” she said.

 “You said it,” Link answered.  He looked to the scabbards that held his swords next to the bag.  “So, you never met a Chosen before me?”

 “Nope.”  Aveil carefully unsheathed one of her scimitars and produced a whetstone.  “Heard stories here and there, but nothing that could be said to be true.  You guys usually stick to Hyrule.”

 “Explains why we never heard of your sisters either.  We’re both so focused on our regions and the troubles there.”  

 “Speak for yourself. The Vipers were independent.  Not agents of Ganondorf.  At least until the war started to get worse…”

 Link instantly looked up at her.  His muscles tensed and he felt his fingers coiling around the grip of his arming sword on the floor next to him.

 “Technically we still are…” She ran the whetstone along the scimitar to sharpen it.  “We’ve been forced to take some contracts from The United Tribes though.  You know all about the counter invasion I’m sure.” Aveil let out a sigh as she continued sharpening her blade.  “You’d be surprised at what you do when your entire culture is at stake.”

 He picked up the longsword then and pulled it from its scabbard.  “I was on the Northern Front.  Against the blins.  I’d heard though that an incursion was successful though.  Captured a couple forts even.”   Link inspected the weapon carefully again before getting a vial of oils to treat the blade.  “The Chosen were meant to prevent a conflict like this.”

 “Prevent it how though?” She was watching him closely with her gold eyes.  The sound of the blade being sharpened echoed in the hold.  They heard voices and the pirates working with Linebeck discussing things.

 “Depends on who you ask.” Link started to rub the oil along the blade with a cloth.  He worked it carefully to make sure the blade was treated right.  “Some would say that we should’ve attacked the second Ganondorf proved himself a threat and could’ve united your people.  Others would say we would have waited until later when the invasion started…”

 “And you?”

 He slowly ran the cloth along further and shook his head.  “I’d have liked if we could have found a solution that’d prevented a war and avoided any bloodshed.  I was standing guard in some of the negotiations before the war.  Seeing the diplomats trying to find something but…” Link shook his head again.  “I wanted to grab them and just shout at them to find something to avoid the slaughter that was going to come.”

 “Did you?”

 Link shook his head.  “I didn’t realize just how bad it was.  How much our people hate one another…”  He ran the cloth back up the blade again.  “I got reassigned just after Ganondorf arrived to try and work through the negotiations.”

 “Tarey Town Summit?”

 “That was it.”  He coughed a little.  “I’m guessing too then you heard about the trouble.”

 “Only a little. Someone tried to kill the Labrynnan Empress?”

 “Yep.  Prevented it, but it didn’t do well for negotiations I heard.”  Link inspected the blade carefully then, watching the reflection.  He could make out his face almost in the silver diamonds along its flat sides.  “I was sent off to help oversee work with an archeological dig on the northern end of the Haunted Wasteland.”

 Aveil’s face lost its color and she stopped sharpening her blade.  “That was Arbiter territory…”

 “Yeah.  A storm had revealed some ruins and we wanted to take a look since a couple zuna traders had talked about it bearing marks of the Royal Family and the Sheikah.  Was there… Six months before The Conjunction.”

 “That mess with the monsters.”  She started sharpening her blade again.  “That was pretty profitable for us.  Talk of a swamp that could be found if you went in the right caves…”

 “Lorule.”

 “Huh?”

 “It’s…”  He tilted his head and looked at the ceiling.  “It’s another world.”

 “Really?”  She sounded disbelieving.

 “Really.”  Link looked back to her.  “That entire event with the monsters was our world colliding with the space between dimensions and a parallel to our own.”

 “You must’ve been there then.”

 “Yep.”  He finished with the oil and inspected the blade carefully again.  Each of the goron glyphs were incredibly clear now.  He held his wolf charm tightly and moved it carefully along the blade. It vibrated as it got close. There was magic, but he couldn’t tell any specifics.  “We called that entire thing The Conjunction.  Worked with some people to try and close every door we could find.”

 “Given how vast the world is, that must’ve taken months.”

 “Almost a year.  But we did it.”  He put the longsword back in its scabbard and started treating his arming sword.  “Y’know, I’m a bit surprised we’re not at each other’s throats after what you said. Working for The Ganon.”

 “We’re hunters.”  She ran the whetstone along a little more before inspecting the edge of her sword.  “We’re about as far from normal as you can get.  What with the enhancements seared into our bones and spending most of our childhoods being turned into killers of the world’s filth.” Aveil winced a little as she twisted her wrist in a way that wouldn’t have if it wasn’t injured.

 “You going to be okay?”

 Her gaze glanced up at him. “I’m fine.”  Aveil looked back at her wrist then.  “A potion won’t fix that.  It needs time.”  She inspected the bandage before looking back at him.  “Going to put us at a disadvantage, but we don’t have a choice here. Do or die time.”

 “The water at that depth is going to help a little I think.  Mikau said it’d be near freezing apart from some of the thermal vents.”

 “Been that deep before?”

 He shook his head.  “Not that deep.  But deeper than when we looked at the platform the other day.” The elixir on the lantern began to bubble and white steam started to rise out of it.  With a thick cloth, Link removed the bottle from the lantern and placed it on the floor.  “So… Do we have any idea really of what exactly Bellum is going to look like or its abilities?”

 “Well, we know the statues Linebeck picked up were squidlike.  If they were anything like the idols of the Sand Goddess or your Golden Goddesses, we could assume that Bellum’s avatars or greatest servants are like that.  Or could be like the phantom we encountered.”

 “And we don’t have anything that can scratch a phantom…”  He let out a sigh as he oiled the arming sword.  “So our goal is going to be I think more to contain this thing.  Seal it in its tomb.”

 “Which is what the frost bombs are going to be for.”

 “Yeah.  Sounded like Mikau wanted to make some undersea glacier there…  Or at least use it to damage the tomb and hold it together so that when it finally did thaw it’d make the entire place collapse in on top of him and leave him even more trapped than he already is.”

 “Mmm…”  Her eyes widened and a small smile played across her lips.  “What if he’s preparing it?”

 “Preparing how?  I’d guess with some sort of alchemy?”

 “He said he was an agent for the zoras out of Great Bay in Termina.  They could have others.  He’s been sent ahead to help prepare and clear the way.  Make sure any witches or sorcerers that come along later can do their work in peace without Bellum causing problems.”

 “That’s a pretty solid plan, actually.  Was something they taught the mages in the tower back home.”

 “Your order had mages?”

 He nodded.  “Yeah.  Yours didn’t?”

 “Sort of.”

 “Ah.”

 “Most of the time we’d have tribal witches for help with magic.  Would be worked out in the contracts usually.”  She sheathed her scimitar then and leaned back against the ship’s hull.  “There were a few times though we’d have liked to have had our own witches to do our work…  Let me tell you.  Especially when it came to setting traps for things like tracking the stalks of a desert manhandla.  Oh.  Or finding the nest of one of the thousand-year moldaraches and then holding its claws and stinger away so we can kill it quickly.”  They felt the boat dip then and rise.  There was a creaking sound as someone came down the stairs.  Link glanced over to see Medli there.  She was soaking wet and looked ready to collapse.

  “You okay?” Link asked her.

 “Just exhausted from flying between the ships,” she said.  The rito stumbled a little before collapsing over the crate Linebeck used as a bed.  “Mikau said he’d be over shortly to make sure you were ready for the dive.”

 “We’re just waiting on him now,” Aveil said.  She picked up her glass bottle with the mixture in it and eyed it carefully.

 “Drink it before you go down.  So you’ll have the most time before it works through your system and can get back up. You don’t want a case of the bends.”

 “It’s actually supposed to prevent that,” Link said.  “Mikau said it would allow us to adapt to the pressure differences like a zora does between the layers.”

 “I figured, but…  What about the time until it is worked through your body?  What would happen if it ran out when you were still at a lower level?”

 “Shouldn’t.  It should last at least two days with how thick it is.” He picked up the bottle again.  “…I’m still not going to drink this until I’m in the water though.”  Link looked back at Medli as she lay over the box.  “I don’t want Aryll to see the change.”

 “Is it that toxic?”

 “Looks it,” Aveil said. “Someone without our enhancements drinks it, they’ll be throwing up their stomach.  And lungs…  And liver…”

 “Geez.  I know that those things can be nasty but.”

 “Be happy you’ve never seen an idiot highwayman drink a venomblood potion,” Link said.

 “There’s gotta be a story behind that,” Aveil said.

 “If there is I don’t think I want to hear it,” Medli said.  “You two need anything to eat or things to prepare for the dive?”

 Link shook his head.  “Just that if we fail that we have some plan in place and word to get help.”  He looked right at Medli then.   “And… And please keep an eye on my sister.”

 “I will.”

 “Thank you.”  He slowly got to his feet then.  “Mikau say how long it would be until we reached the point to dive?”

 “Couple more hours Linebeck says.”  She eyed the black mixture in the bottle.  “So, you have the one he gave you.  What other two did you mix in?”

 “Kaepora’s Vigil and Red Ice.”

 “I can guess what the red ice does,” Aveil started, “but what does the other one do?”

 “Endurance.  Keeps me awake.  And if it’s that dark down there, it’ll be hard to see.  So it lets me see in the dark.”

 “Sounds like the ones I mixed too.”  She glanced at her armor that was hanging on a rack next to Link’s.  “That thing doesn’t have a lot of insulation, so it’s going to be really cold down there.  Then again, Termina’s waters are a lot warmer than out here.”

 “I’m more worried about the pressure.  Even with the potion.  Going to the bottom of a lake or as deep as we went for the platform was one thing. But this…”  He shook his head and looked to Medli.  “When I went for the freighter, it was deep enough I was feeling the weight of the water on top of me.  I can’t imagine what it’s going to be that far down.  Hope the armor can take it.”

 “Hope so too,” Medli said.

#Link #Midna #Legend of Zelda #Zelda AU #Fanfic #zelda/witcher fusion fic #Influenced Heavily by The Witcher #The Wolf of Farore