#only they can understand what it is to be god’s most treasured abandoned creatures and how heavy a burden that is | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

goldenwitherphoenix13 · 10 months

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A long post is under the cut, but I think we, as a fandom, moved on far too quickly from the endings of empires smp season 2.

Almost everyone got a happy ending.

Fwhip resigned from the role of the Goblin king.

Joel accended to true God hood.

Sausage grew old in sanctuary and raised Hermes to be an interdimentional warrior.

Gem finished Dawn and chose to stay in Hermitcraft because it was the best choice.

Katherine cured the curse plaguing her land.

Joey got to go on all sorts of adventures after defeating his arch-nemesis Skeletron.

Pix, while not finishing his work, got to tell the story of the ancient ruins.

Lizzie created a fully functioning city of animals to live as they want.

Shelby became one of the most powerful witches and got that date with Katherine.

Scott went off into the sunset with Owen to discover new lands and treasures to steal.

Heck, even Oli got out of debt, even if he ended up accidentally time travelling.

And while False never uploaded her finale, we can easily infer that she continued to expand her empire and make her name for herself.

Who did I miss?

Sheriff Jimmy.

The sheriff, who all the other emperors abandoned. The sheriff, nearly loosing his own identity to a joke. The sheriff, who lost his town to the fae.

Let's not forget Jimmy never left tumble town willingly. He was booted out when the fae corrupted his lands, spreading it throughout his home. He and the old sheriff, Roswell, made the best of a bad situation. I mean, what else can they do? Fight the fae? Fae are powerful creature. Not to be messed with. Fighting them is a one-way ticket to death if they don't decide to hold you a prisoner in their realm.

Jimmy also never got the chance to say goodbye to anyone. Everyone had already left him behind. Joel had accended without saying goodbye to his supposed best bud. Sausage never thought to check in on tumble town. There was no final passing of words—just a note from Fwhip.

And, let's not forget this big bit of information, the thing that still grinds my gears about empires season 2. He is the only villain of season 2 who got no closure, redemption or apology. Shelby was uncorrupted and saved. Sausage supreme was fused into Sausages soul. Skeletron was killed by Katherine, Joey and Shelby. They all got an end to their villainy, wether through being saved or killed.

Jimmy got nothing.

His ending was, in multiple ways, left unfinished. He was still bitter towards the emperors. He was still lacking any human respect. He wasn't given any apology or forgiveness. He was forced out of his home by powerful creatures, trying his best to make good of the darkness left to him.

But it's not all darkness. This isn't a bad ending. I think this end has an underlying subtext not even Jimmy planned for. Something I've seen almost no one talking about.

The sheriff walked away from a toxic environment.

Now is an excellent time to remind you that this is all about the characters. Not the actual content creators. Got it? Good.

Let's be honest. None of the characters in Empires Season 2 were 100% innocent besides maybe Katherine. Some were thieves. Some were filled with pride, some made dubious choices, and some were even a little corrupt. And Jimmy isn't an exception. He was a lil bit dishonest with power sometimes and a lil bit prideful in his name. But the sheriff wasn't evil at first. He still did things to help people. He helped Katherine arrest Joey for theft. He did his best to follow the rules, and he actively sought to stop those committing crimes and try to understand the issue at hand, like with Shelby. And his reward. Constant teasing and mockery.

Everyone, including his allies, still made fun of him. Even his best bud said things behind his back. And this is what made him snap. Not the jokes, but that no one, not even his allies, seemed to show any human decency to him.

And he never got an apology or a moment to put them in their place to tell them that they have done goofed. The sheriff was barely given a chance to build, hardly a chance to breathe. He knows he probably couldn't take them in a fight, but they didn't even give him a chance to talk. They made him sit there and take it like he had no choice.

The sheriff instead chose to walk away. Everyone had left him behind. And with the threat of the fae above him, he decided that the best course of action was to leave the toxic lands behind. Lands full of pranks and mistakes that would only ever remind him of his negative attributes.

The sheriff stayed with the one person who ever showed him any sliver of true friendship—the old sheriff. The old sheriff helped reverse the effects of the lore potion with an unnamed potion he found at Shelbys. He helped Jimmy defend the town from a raid. He stayed with him through thick and thin. Sure, he isn't the best influence, but he's better than the world around them.

Ultimately, Jimmy's finale wasn't the good ending like everyone else's. Villains rarely ever get those. Instead, it's a bittersweet goodbye from the two sheriffs off to find a new home far away to the lands of one that brought sorrow, even if at least one of them has some anger issues to work through.

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twiggyart6 · 3 months

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collecting short funny things to write under fanart of characters you really love

please feel free to add more thank you :3

(this is long as shit be prepared)

ough

looking at them

my friend :)

mwehehe

augh

I can't believe this

brain blasted

what a little freak

do you even care

be so fucking for real

your kidding

what a weirdo

a wonderous creature

consider this

from my personal collection

what the

I'm so normal

I'm not normal

why are they like that

evil swag

TEEHEE

I'm gonna frow up

yeah this is pretty cool

pretty fucked up dog

have you seen this?

my beautiful princess

I'm ill

oh good heavens!

my son. he has every disease

this shit aint nothin to me man

I laurve them

yoink

just a little bit. as a treat

tell them to stop

me when I GET you

MY GUY

the psychic worm (wohwohwohwohw)

good lord

cuteness aggression towards them

what the fuck ever

im feeling something

sigh

me when the

GRRAAAHH

im fucking serious

love it when they appear

its becoming unhealthy

go white boy go!

your never gonna believe this

worst guy ive ever seen

their just so ... drawable

sorry guys

i saw it in a dream

she is very gorgeous to me!

i see them when i close my eyes

my little scrungle

be so fucking for real

i can do whatever i want

bitch

yeah

my baby girl

my little kitty meow meow

they've done something to me

i gotta get outa here

yep

my favorite white man

dude!?

full of joy a whimsy

going cray cray!

well....

erm

heyy gurl wasup

she is beuty she is grace

aaaaanything could happen

just like me fr

its time

yahoo!

divine retribution

yay!!

so was foretold in the prophecy

their so ... woah

yessir

god. fucking. damn.

they understand me

you are not immune to propaganda

Explodes character with mind

Forgive me

I would tell them my most depraved thoughts

for the win!

my treasure my beloved

awesome

oh yeah woo yeah

thats it thats the post

this above all else

-INHALE-

had to get it out of my system

you absolute baby buffoon

but make it epic

dont question it

gay baby jail

mwah <3

i want to make them into bread

no guys you don't get it

i got nervous

every fuckin time man

[puts face in hands and groans loudly]

no way

DONT DO THIS TO MEEEEE

take a deep breath

stupid little bow wow

cringeposting once again

abandon society, embrace insanity

god has let me draw another day

had to do it

changed my brain chemistry

so the thing is-

im going to make you so girlfail

pathetic wet cat

guys.

their neat idk

or something like that

ATTENTION!!

i have the disease and its terminal

shrimply amazing!

hits you with the beam

smile :)

send help

oh hi didn't see you there

no i will not elaborate

the creature is demonic in nature

i think there's something wrong with them

i think there's something wrong with me

its fine

woah woah woah

do you even realize what you've done

very cool

do you see my vision

whatever the fuck this is called

the strugler

interesting..

oh i got you dont worry

nobody move

character on the brain always and forever

#1 hater

funny you should say that

nature is healing

imagine a guy. now imagine them again

ooo mama

get drawn idiot

get obsessed over idiot

if only they were real

post this character instantly

your honor i need them

ive got some notes

A juicy morsel

I want to push them down the stairs

They wouldn’t dare

(Eyes wide and mouth frothing) yeah!

my beautiful wife <3

#text post

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yhwhsdaughter · 3 years

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pairing: trevor belmont x fem reader

content: forced vampirism, monster slaying, main character death, pining, angst, mention of animal death, usage of the word ‘assault’ to refer vampires feeding on reader

- this was meant as platonic soulmates but it can be seen as romantic too

“It hurts…”

Feet dragging across the rocky ground, you heard screeches of pain from behind, though they soon diminished. You could only focus on the pulsing sensation at the side of your neck; it was like fire rushing through your veins.

Preoccupied with your agony, Belmont was able to sneak up. He raised his whip, ready to kill off the last of the creatures when you suddenly turned, and with glossy eyes you said, “Help me…”

The whip managed to leave a thin horizontal line across your cheek as he pulled back, causing blood to drip out slowly. Now illuminated by the moon, Belmont saw the damage on you. Skin exposed by the ripped clothes showed multiple bite marks. Blood stained the corner of your lips.

She’s been infected..

Belmont didn’t see a monster but a scared woman who’d just been assaulted by vampires. He knew what she’d turn into, but he couldn’t kill her… not when she looked at him like this. Sunrise was approaching so he had to act fast.

Draping his cloak onto your form, Belmont proceeded to carry you into the nearest building, which so happened to be where the carnage had occurred. Upon recognizing the place, you began to panic, shaking and looking at him with distrust. “You’re safe. I killed every last of those bloodsuckers.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, in that shitty stinking room. Eventually tiredness overcame your senses; Belmont felt weight settle on his shoulder. He wonder how a vampire could look so innocent whilst sleeping.

“Hungry…”

You felt parched; it felt like your throat had dried up, barely able to utter a word.

“I know.”

A rabbit was placed in front of you. Blinking at it, you directed a confused glance at the man. “I’m—this is.. for me?” He nodded. Taking the animal with traces of disgust, you raised it to your mouth. Blood gushed into your mouth; feeding made a horrible slurping that would certainly haunt you but there was relief amongst those troubling feelings.

You gulped every last drop, draining the poor creature of its life. Still, your hunger and thirst weren’t satiated. Biting your lip, you pondered on the next move. Because this man had saved you, daring to kill him or even feed off him seemed… rude. Not to mention, he seemed way stronger than you in terms of experience. Prior to this, you were a regular citizen. Maybe you could run away?

“Here.”

Trevor could see your turmoil. Most vampires needed to drain at least one human every time they fed—if they were being generous. They could survive weeks without blood but it made them weaker. Besides, it was older vampires who had this kind of self control. Newborns tended to be more unstable.

“Just take it before I change my mind.”

You did as told, though you were still unsure. Hesitating, you licked your lips before nearing towards the vein on his wrist.

Trevor let out a grunt when your fangs pierced him. Although you tried to be gentle, it was an uncomfortable feeling nonetheless. As he became lightheaded and you full, the mouth that was attached to his wrist removed itself with a ‘pop’.

After making sure he was alright, you asked for his name. “Trevor. Trevor Belmont.”

“Oh..”

“……”

“Oh! I’m (Name) (Surname).”

─── ☾☼☽ ───

“It’s dangerous.”

“I still-still want to go!”

The last remnants of sun were gone. Ever since your first encounter with the rugged monster hunter, you refused to part from him, following the latter like a lost puppy.

“I’m not much of a fighter.. b-but watch this!”

On cue, you punched the nearest tree, cracking it and making a sizable hole. You looked back proudly towards Trevor; except when you tried to pull your hand out, you were having difficulty.

“Ah. It’s stuck.”

Trevor couldn’t help but chuckle, walking away, clearly amused with your display of power. You pulled harder, “Hold on! Don’t leave me alone! It’s scary..” you muttered the last part while chasing after him. Despite being a creature of the night, the world and its evils still frightened you.

At the sound of a branch snapping, you yelped, grabbing a piece of Trevor’s cloak for security.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Belmont when you punched a head clean off, practically decapitating one of the attackers. He might have been seriously injured if you had not intervened.

“Trevor.”

Gazing at you under the moonlight, he saw the hunger in your eyes as you held a man whom was still alive but struggling. His neck was exposed. Even so, you waited.

The Belmont turned away, giving you privacy to feed.

He knew that by allowing you to live, you would continue to take blood from others. Normally he wouldn’t feel soft towards a monster but whenever he thought of you, it was different.

His guilt was lessened when you drank from scum. Before putting the lives of innocents in danger, he would offer his own.

“Are you done?”

The corpse of the man was dropped unceremoniously as you joined Trevor, a light skip to your step.

─── ☾☼☽ ───

Despite adopting a nighttime lifestyle, Trevor was still human and had to conduct business during daylight hours.

He’d left your lodgings, which was an abandoned cottage, for a while. Nobody really passed through there anyway, so he thought you were safe. Worst came to worse, you could handle yourself. But as your self proclaimed protector, Trevor felt uneasy leaving you alone.

Maybe he should’ve listened to his gut because when he arrived, the door was wide open with dirty footprints leading in all the way to your coffin.

Two men had opened it—staring at the peaceful expression on your face, unaware that they were here to end you. To them it was obvious what you were. Even with that frilly white dress that made you look somewhat angelic, they couldn’t be fooled. As they raised their weapons to strike, Trevor used his whip. His sudden entrance startled them but it gave you the chance to wake up.

Eyes snapping open, you jumped onto the other man, taking both of you to the ground. His screams echoed shortly as you tore into his throat. The remaining one had no chance; Trevor left the room, closing the door on his way out, killing the light that entered and cutting off the way to escape.

Left alone with your prey, a smile crept up your face.

When you opened the door again, the dress which decorated your body was now stained red. There was hardly a clean piece on the material. Even so, you greeted Trevor with a hug.

“Trevor..”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“M-me too..”

─── ☾☼☽ ───

Forty years passed in the blink of an eye.

“You should retire.”

“Belmonts don’t retire. The only rest they get is when they’re dead.”

“Well I don’t want you to die.”

“I have to, someday.”

“No you don’t.”

It’s been like this for the past few years; Trevor was sixty now. His body didn’t look that of an aging man, but the expression on his face did. He’d seen too much and as time passed, it was harder to fight monsters by himself.

Of course you’d noticed that and suggested turning him. It was an ongoing discussion; Trevor didn’t fancy the idea of living an eternal life but the thought of leaving this earth without you was disheartening. He didn’t say it but the situation tore him apart.

There was also the fact that he was too old for you; forty years to be exact. You’d maintained your youth, looking lovely as ever. His doubts were shot down when you immediately said that you didn’t care about that.

“I just want you.”

He always kept pushing the conversation away and you were patient. Trevor supposed that you could’ve taken him by force if you wanted and when he inquired, you told him it would be like violating him, robbing him of the choice you were never given.

As understanding as you were; the time would come for him to decide and confront you about it.

That time was now.

He should have been more careful, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Trevor watched as the sun slowly descended. Would you make it here before he passed? Would he die without seeing you one last time?

When you woke night had already fallen. Trevor wasn’t home; he’d been late plenty of times before but this occasion felt different.

Upon stepping outside, the smell of blood hit you. It reeked, staining the very air. You immediately recognized the source—how could you not? You’d fed from Trevor countless times.

Rushing in that direction, you prayed to whatever entity was listening to keep Trevor safe. The world and its gods could condemn you, but not him.

Not him.

You found him sprawled on a big rock, a creature hovering over his crumpled figure. Without thinking, you tore it to pieces. Blood rained as his mangled body flew to various parts of the forest.

“Trevor!!!”

He let out a groan, which would’ve made you sigh in relief but his visible injuries proved otherwise. You were no doctor and even if you could carry him into town, it would be too late. There was no other option. If you didn’t do anything, you might lose him.

“Trevor. Let me do it.”

Still conscious enough to reply, “I don’t want to become—”

“A monster?”

“I cannot become what I sought to destroy..”

Tears escaped your eyes, blurring the image of the person whom you treasure most. “Please.. please please please..! Don’t leave me alone!”

You begged, knowing it was unfair to pressure him in such way but you couldn’t bare the thought of existing if he wasn’t present. He was your salvation, your companion…your world. And yet, he was being robbed from you.

So soon… It’s too soon!

You always imagined Trevor living well into old age, spending the remainder of his life with you, being happy. He was destined to die peacefully, not like this. Not in this shitty place, by the hands of a shitty monster!

“I can’t. I’m sorry..”

Grabbing his hands, you lowered your forehead on them, crying your heart out. It was unfair. Life was unfair.

“Kiss me.”

Despite the pain that he was in, Trevor found it in himself to smile. For you. “Kiss me one last time.” Tears dropped slowly as you heard him. Shaking your head; you couldn’t kill him.

“I want it to be you..”

His words struck a chord.

Lifting him by the neck in a gentle manner, you pushed the collar of his shirt aside, exposing his carotid. As you bit into his familiar skin once more, your other hand caressed him, trying to make this goodbye as painless as possible.

With every sip you took, tears fell down.

I love you! I love you! I love you!

His warm hand turned cold.

You held him in your arms like he once did to you, with the outmost care, with the love he deserved.

Since Trevor didn’t say where he wanted his body to be buried, you chose the nicest spot. It was a secluded place where it wouldn’t be dug up by animals or people—but not so hidden either.

Whilst cleaning the blood that covered his body and face, you found a piece of cloth with writing on it. Staring at it, you recognized the Belmont insignia. Turning the material, you managed to read the words…

Take this. Go to Alucard.

Trevor must’ve written that in his final moments; probably in case he didn’t make it before you arrived. The letters were sloppy because of the blood but you could read it well.

Clutching it to your chest, you sobbed until the light of day began to burn. For a moment you wished to stay there and disappear. Perhaps you could join Trevor.

Together even in death..

─── ☾☼☽ ───

The journey was rather long.

Looming in all its glory, Castle Dracula. You looked at the last piece of your beloved, holding it tighter in your hand.

“Okay. Let’s meet this Alucard.”

#trevor belmont #castlevania trevor #trevor x reader #trevor x you #trevor x y/n #castlevania #castlevania x reader #castlevania x you #castlevania x y/n #alucard #alucard x reader #alucard x you #alucard x y/n #vampire

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years

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Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 2- Lay Me in the Sun

Summary: You’ve spent the past handful of years with your Witcher throughout your travels around the Continent. After a hunt, you’re all he wants.

Warnings: smut, fluff, Geralt being a hottie

-Part of my OMAM series that I’m working on, this is right before the happenings of the Witcher season 1, which is in the next chapter

Masterlist

You are currently sprawled out upon the vibrantly green summer grass, enjoying the softness of your living bed as a warm breeze brushes past your skin. You had hacked at a tree with your sword for about an hour and a half to let off some steam until you got too bored and sweaty. You then went for a refreshing dip in the nearby river before lounging in the afternoon sun where you happen to be right now.

Geralt has been off all day on the hunt for some subspecies of troll while you've been chilling with Roach by the river. He didn't seem keen on having you come with him this time, so instead you let him have his "me time", odd way to call hunting and hacking off a trolls head "me time" but it's Geralt so you didn't press any further. He just likes doing his thing by himself at times and considering how nice a day it is, let him.

You've been his travel companion for a good handful of years now, which delightfully has resulted in that of a strong romantic relationship with your fearsome Witcher. He keeps himself as a big scary badass with a look that could send you running for the hills, according to all the people of the continent that you've both met. But to you he's the most gentle, funny, loyal, and protective lover you've ever had, quit the opposite of what the villagers think of him.

He listens to you and cares so much about if your happy around him, which you always tell him yes. He needlessly worries that he's too much or too little for you, that maybe he doesn't show how much he truly loves you often enough. But you have grown to understand that he speaks his love language through his actions and how he looks at you, as you've found this better then any amount of words on a man's tongue could possess. And it's just how Geralt shows his affection towards you, as he's never been a mushy kinda guy who will flatter you with his abundance of compliments. Which you never have minded, in fact it would send you howling with laughter at the thought of Geralt singing you a song about your beauty compared to that of a flower. Now that would be quit the scenario.

Laying your head upon the pads of your hands, you close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the comfort of the tall grass as you enjoy the sounds of rushing water over the river rocks, that is, until a foul stench reaches your nostrils. Your face contorts into an unpleasant grimace at the nasty scent of something recently deceased coming your way. Then another more familiar smell reaches your nose and you know exactly who it is. If his disgusting smell didn't already confirm his identity it would be his heavy footfalls onto the soft earth, disrupting your peaceful afternoon snooze that you get so rarely.

Suddenly the footsteps get louder until they suddenly stop near your boot covered feet, as a shadow blocks the sun from reaching your face. You slowly open your eyes to behold the sight of your Witcher who is very visibly covered in something that is definitely not guts. But most certainly came from said guts of some unlucky creature.

"What threw up on you this time?" You ask, as he's about to give you a probable vividly disturbing answer, you hold your hand up to shush him.

"You know what, never mind."

He laughs at that as he slings something off the side of his shoulder, without warning the grotesque decapitated head of a rock troll slumps to the grass with a thud. The nasty fucker staring blankly into your ruby colored eyes while it's pale tongue slides out of its mouth, black inky bubbles of blood and saliva seeping out from its slacked jaw. You hiss at it before briskly gliding up into a standing position where you then take a few steps back.

"What the fuck Geralt! I was having a very nice and relaxing moment before you dropped that nice little present way too close for comfort." You sass at him while you fold your arms over your chest, he simply smiles, amused that he's annoyed you.

"You don't like my gift?" He muses with a cocky smirk upon his dirty face.

"Maybe if I was an orc, you got the wrong species, love. Uh, but hey...good work on not getting eaten alive."

"Whatever it takes to come back to you." He quips, you rolling your eyes at his adorable sarcasm.

"Alright troll slayer, I think you should take a dip in the river. I mean what is even on you it looks like brown chunks of....oh god is that cow?" You grimace in disgust once again, every so slightly leaning into him to take a better look at what's actually coating his leather armor.

"I truly have no idea. And I will take your kind suggestion lest we have wolves hunting us in the wee hours of the morning, like little angry ghosts." He replies with a nod before walking past you and stripping himself of his black leather armor.

He drops it in the grass as he quickly pulls his dark under shirt over his head where he promptly abandons it by a nearby rock. You don't even realize how hard core you're staring at him right now while you subconsciously bite your lower lip as your gaze travels from his bare shoulders to his chiseled torso. He's got an abundance of scars in various parts of his body and his muscles are as hard as stone. This is nothing you haven't seen before but still, Geralt knows how to put on a show, whether he knows he's doing it or not.

He slides his boots off and as he's casually unbuttoning his trousers does he finally look up to catch your lustful gaze. He smirks as you stare on boldly at his half naked self, a blissfully dumb smile upon your face.

"I could think of a couple ways we could spend the evening and right now my love you are just...a lot." Geralt keeps eye contact with you as he continues to unbutton his pants, he slides them down his god-like body until he's finally standing in the summer evening as naked as the day he was born.

He gives you a charming smile before turning and walking into the river to clean himself off of all the troll innards. He goes beneath the water before resurfacing once again, in the meantime you sit yourself onto the river bank and smile to yourself at the delicious sight of your glistening Witcher while he washes himself clean of all puke, blood, sweat, and whatever else is coating his skin. Suddenly all goes quiet and you can't see him above the water anymore, but you can see how his form is on a path for your legs that are dangling in the river. Quickly you pull your legs from the rushing stream just as Geralt resurfaces directly in front of you.

"You were not about to drag my ass into the depths, these are my only dry clothes." You halfheartedly whine, a small chuckle escaping you as Geralt rests his muscled arms upon the riverbank.

"Then take them off." He gives you an inviting look as you raise an eyebrow at his boldness.

He just smiles adoringly at you from the riverside, silently begging you to shed your clothing to come join his bum in the water. With a shake of your head, you stand up and tug off both of your boots, throwing them near Geralt's armor. Then you peel off your loose grey top that was conveniently all that was covering your top half from the eyes of the world. You look down at Geralt who's golden eyes have not left your body once, a giant blissful smirk playing at the corner of his soft lips as you give him a show.

You throw him a wink before sensually unlacing your pants, those things abruptly falling to the grass in a black puddle at your feet. You stand naked above him on the river bank like a water nymph in all her alluringly bewitching beauty. Playfully teasing him as you dramatically stretch in the warm sunlight, he watches as your arms reach for the clouds, your breasts lifting with the movement. You look absolutely radiant, a goddess come to earth that could make the very stars jealous with your dazzling features.

Your eyes lock with his and without warning you launch yourself over Geralt's snowy head, intent on making a large splash in the process, just to tease him. When you resurface he's rubbing the water from his eyes, you casually swim over to him, a cheeky grin adorning your wet face. Once he's gotten the water out of his eyes he lowers himself into the river until all you can see is his shoulders and his handsome face.

"All clean now?" You ask, tilting your head down to blow some river bubbles.

"Remarkably." Quips your Witcher with a low chuckle.

"Good...now you can take me on the grass of the riverbank, right in front of Roach." You state bluntly, Geralt's golden eyes widening in pleasant surprise as your face suddenly breaks out into a fangy grin.

"She's seen too much already." He jests, nodding in her general direction as she obliviously nibbles away at the grass.

"She's seen worse." You add.

"Fair point." Replies Geralt with a casual shrug.

You lower your face into the water, bringing it back up just as quickly before you spit a line of cold water right onto Geralt's cheek. He shuts his eyes as he takes your assault like a champ, letting you have your fun for the time being cause in a couple minutes he'll have you screaming his name into the afternoon breeze. Once all the water has left your mouth do you finally stand up and glide over to your patient lover. He watches you the whole time, keeping his sights onto your beaming face, although he's not unnoticing of how the water only conceals your bellybutton and your delightful treasure below.

"Hopefully no one stops by for a drink." You state with a small laugh as you stand in front of him.

He looks down at you with a soft smile gracing his kissable lips, you raise your hand up and let it trail down the side of his arm in a casually intimate gesture. He watches in content silence as you touch the skin of his scarred forearm, all the way down until you reach his hand where you then open your palm out for him to take. He does so without question, knowing exactly what your intended plans are for the both of you next. With a seductive bite of your lip, do you lead Geralt to the side of the river bank were your little camp is set up.

You let go of his hand and lift yourself up onto the soft grass where you stood not even five minutes ago. As you're seated, you turn around to face Geralt who's doing the same. You quickly bite the inside of your cheek when your eyes are known to the delicious sight of is hardened member glistening in the beams of sunlight through the nearby trees. He falls to his knees as he crawls over to you in the grass. When he reaches your closed bent legs he gives you a pleading look. Asking for your permission to continue, you smirk at him and slowly part your legs to his great delight.

You lean back on your elbows as his large form covers you from the sun, his hands land on either side of your face as his member grazes against your inner thigh. He's instantly attacking your lips in a heated embrace, pulling a moan from your lips as he takes this opportunity to stick his tongue into your mouth. Your tongues dancing in the darkness, he carefully leans himself onto one forearm as his other hand travels down the side of your body where he then parts your legs further apart for better access.

You can feel as he guides his cock to your slick entrance likes he's done this a hundred times before. Once he's found his mark does he then slowly push into you, you let out a breathless gasp at the uncomfortable sensation sliding into your wetness. He lifts his face a couple inches from yours to make sure you're doing okay and that he isn't hurting you too much. You look into his concerned eyes as you try to hide your slight discomfort, you've done this so many times before, it's just Geralt can be a lot to handle and you need a second.

Leaning up to give him a chaste kiss you find his eyes once again as a blissful smile appears onto your stunning face. Confirming that you've adjusted accordingly and it's time to pick up the pace. He ever so carefully does he thrust into you once again, starting off slow so you can prepare yourself for when he goes faster. Your hands claw at his muscular back as his head falls to your shoulder.

"I'm not a fragile maiden, fuck me Geralt...I can take it." You practically growl in his ear, sending chills down his spine as a cocky smile appears onto his handsome face.

"You're ready now?" He teases as he pecks you on the cheek, you turn to glare at him.

"Shut up, let's make a goddamn dent in the side of this bank." You rasp out as he begins to pick up the pace, heeding to your confident command.

He pounds in and out of you in a beautifully pleasurable rhythm that's sending you into a flurry of whimpers and moans at the sensational contact of his cock inside you. Your body feels electric with each new thrust that he sends deep into your womanhood, as he bottoms out every time. A dazed smile finds its way onto your parted lips at the sounds of Geralt's own grunts and staggered breaths.

He pushes you into the grass as he lays atop your shimmering body, his hips doing a fantastic job at keeping your legs apart as he thrusts into you over and over again. You're to out of to even think of wrapping your legs around his body, all that you're able to manage is a tight grasp onto his right arm as your other hand is clawing at the ground for some support.

The sweet sounds of skin on skin contact dissipates throughout the evening breeze. All of it lost to the roar of the river and yours and Geralt's moaning. Your as wet as the water below you as he slides in and out of you with ease. Sending waves of pleasure into your hot core, it's gradually building up with every new thrust he's throwing at you. When you turn your head to the side to get a better look at him, you can tell how concentrated his face is as more grunts subconsciously escape from his lips, he's on his way to paradise.

The building of your own pleasure rises every time he hits your sweet spot until you can't take it anymore and all at once your orgasm hits you like an arrow in the chest. Sending euphoric waves of pure bliss pulsating throughout your entire being as your walls close in around his hardness.

"Ah fuck Geralt!" You scream in ecstasy as another moan slips from your throat, "Geralt! Uh...ahhh oh my fuuuck!"

He relentlessly continues to pound into you as he chases his own high in the midst of you cuming. It's sending more shock waves into your sensitive clit with lack of a break. But you don't have time to care as another orgasm begins to build inside of you once more with every full thrust of his manhood into your dripping entrance. Due to him being a Witcher and all, heavily contributes to his high stamina, but luckily for him you're not entirely human yourself and can keep up with his lack of exhaustion.

More whimpers fall from your lips as he kisses the side of your sweaty cheek in a small act of appreciation for how well you're doing. He understands he's big and how he doesn't get tired easily, so he's rather blessedly grateful for you as a partner who can take him so well. Suddenly he lets out a string of curses mixed in with your name here and there as he releases his load into your aching womanhood. You cuming right after him for the second time today as you let out a pleasurable scream.

"Ohhh fuck Geralt...ohhh fuuuckk."

He gives you a couple more ending thrusts for good measure before he pulls himself out of you and lays at your side in a sweaty heap of heavily breathing Witcher. You can feel as his cum drips out of you and into the grass that's lightly caressing your legs. You're breathing heavily and your inner thighs feel sore as you lay here ever grateful for the cool wind that fans your swollen entrance and sweaty body.

You look up to the blue sky and watch as great puffy clouds roll by, a single falcon gliding on the current, completely oblivious to the smell of sex lingering in the air near you two. You turn your attention to Geralt who's watching the bird of prey fly high into the clouds.

"You think anyone heard us?" You furrow your brows in wonder.

"Some squirrels, probably a bird or two." Replies Geralt nonchalantly as he continues to breath heavily.

"Well I'm glad nothing bothered us, I would have gouged their eyes out if a single person disturbed us." You mutter, a flash of fire in your scarlet eyes.

"Oh Y/N, my ever gentle flower." Muses Geralt with a content sigh as he props himself up onto his elbow to have a better view of you. Smiling at him you go to do the same.

"I can be gentle." You laugh out half defensively, knowing full well that is not entirely true.

"Half the scratch marks on my back are your doing my dear." Replies Geralt with a kind smile as you playfully roll your eyes at him.

"Well, that's not completely my fault." You sass back as you slide yourself closer to him. The two of you now inches apart in the soft grass, he studies your face for a moment, really taking you all in.

"What's on your mind." You ask while playing with the ends of his silver hair. His eyebrows furrow for a second before he relaxes again, deciding to lay both you and himself back down on the riverside grass. He pulls you in close, enough that your top half can now lay comfortably upon his muscular chest and shoulder. You snake an arm over his torso as your head rests nicely upon his strong shoulder blade, your faces so close. His gaze keeps to the clouds above as yours watches him search for an answer.

"I think I may need new clothes." He finally confesses after a short while, you lightly chuckle at his blunt realization.

"What? No. I love the smell of death on you. It's very sexy." You add, sarcasm clear in your voice as you subconsciously trace the scared flesh of his torso.

"Thanks." He mumbles as his free hand finds your arm that's currently draped over his stomach, he trails his fingers upon your skin before resting his hand on your forearm, "The next village over, I'm trading that troll's head for enough coin to get us close to Blaviken...then we'll see what monster there might bring us some better gold."

"I've never been, but I know of a wizard who lives there in some fancy tower all alone, don't know his name or anything. Who knows what kinda shit he gets up to these days, I can't imagine it's anything pleasant or humane." You mutter into the breeze, you'd made sure to keep your distance from any mages or wizards for as long as you could after something caused you to finally become fed up with them.

You don't adheredly have any standing beef with any of them in particular, in fact you had been very close with one, but that was such a long time ago. It almost feels like it could have been a past life. It's just you've lived long enough to know that people like such are usually superstitious bastards who'll believe any prophecy that destiny may conjure up for them.

They do as they please and their use of magic is not always used with good intentions. Although one may say due to your father being a sorcerer and all, would make you part mage, but on the contrary. As far as your abilities go in the tricky area of sorcery and it's mysterious being with how it can be inherited from parent to child. Your capabilities run a specific line of nothing but whatever part vampire runs through your veins. Nothing more, nothing less. Unlike with mages in their give and take, you can simply bend your lighting to your will whenever you call it into your vessel via the dark gift.

That being said, you've seen the atrocities that mages and wizards alike can commit when given the opportunity, so for that, you don't fuck around with them, nor use your deadly gift very often. Figuring you're already dangerous enough as it is, people never seeming to want to keep you around for too long. Perhaps that's why you and Geralt are perfect for each other, if the world won't have you, at least you have one another's company.

"I know of your dislikes for wizards, but we...well I, need new clothes. And there's surely some coin to be given in that place." Whispers Geralt as he holds you close, you let out an annoyed sigh, earning a small laugh from the man beneath you.

"Dammit you know I can't say no to another adventure, wizard or not, I wanna see what Blaviken has to offer us."

Tagged: @notahappytree @ashleyforeverareject @sokkasdarling @kmuir1(@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work)

#the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x you #the witcher #falcor the luck dragon stories #Of monsters and men fic

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dailyadventureprompts · 3 years

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Dungeon: Rhoghor Slatebreaker and The Vault of Forgotten Verdicts

“Normally we’d do this slow; take it one chamber at a time, set up a grid system, document anything we find, and start making neat little piles of pottery to sort later. Sadly we don’t have that luxury on this site. We’re dealing with an isolated dig in the middle of hostile territory where what we’re looking for is likely to be just as dangerous as the stuff guarding it. This checks every box on the list of reasons not to do a delve, but we can’t risk those artifacts falling into the wrong hands.

Eyes sharp, weapons ready, watch eachother’s backs, we’re going in”

Adventure Hooks:

Thought lost for months while charting the unexplored underdark, a roving orcish scholar returns to civilization with news of a legendary find. While having survived enough horrors of the depths to last a lifetime, the historian is eager to resupply and set back out, this time with a trustworthy band of adventurers at his back strong enough to survive the rigors of the journey and smart enough to understand that this will be more difficult than your average treasure hunt.

Monuments and ruins throughout the local subterranean realm speak of the ancient ambitions of a long dead conqueror, with long abandoned fortresses brooding over key chokepoints within the cavern complexes, and crumbling statues standing triumphantly over gathering places. These provide plenty of opportunity for dungeon delving, but only hints at a long buried lore that others wish to uncover.

Rumor around the underground trading posts speaks of unusual movement in the depths, usually disorganized or isolationist factions like the derro, mindflayers, or duergar launching expeditions into neutral territory on the hunt for something big. Investigating these rumors leads the party to scattered notes involving ancient battles, consultations with undying ghouls, and a patchwork trail that leads into a section of deep canyons known for being plagued by violent geological activity.

Setup: Like many tyrants of the primordial age, the ancient orcish King Olzivogg thought he could take it with him. All the treasures looted from rival civilizations, all the weapons bestowed upon him by the warlike gods that had wrought his people for the purpose of expanding their dominion, all the fine things he had coveted and won by strength of arms and coldness of heart. To this end he built himself a fortress tomb, an altar to his own eternal glory, and had his most loyal followers seal themselves inside in order to complete his internment.

When the surrounding caverns collapsed, they were almost forgotten over the intervening centuries, until a recent earthquake once again joined them to the expanse of the underdark. Forces now pull warriors and warmongers toward the ruins, unwittingly compelled to open the old king’s tomb and reawaken the legacy left buried there for so long.

One of those who has felt the call is the “Rogue Archeologist” Rhoghor Slatebreaker, infamous among sellswords and scholars alike for his attempts to finesse the line between the “snatch and grab” blunders of adventurers and the methodical exploration of academics. Perhaps it is some ancestry traced back to Olzivogg’s court that draws him, perhaps it is his finely tuned awareness of the underdark’s dangers. Either way, Slatebreaker is intent on finding the old king’s vault, taking what he can for posterity, then destroying the remainder before the ruins give birth to any more conquerors.

Challenges & Complications

Having just suffered through a recent earthquake, the region surrounding the vault is an unstable nightmares of lurking rockslide and patiently hungering canyons. The disturbance has likewise opened up many unfamiliar cavern networks, letting strange and dangerous new creatures intermingle even as they are forced from their habitat by the terrain shift.

Lantern light reveals glorious sights within the Vault of Forgotten Verdicts, ranging from the treasures of long dead empires of the pimordial age, to the skulls of megafauna slain by Olzivogg’s warband, to an army of 433 lead-cast soldiers posed throughout the vault’s chambers to symbolically serve and watch over and serve their king. While these wonders are many, the shadows conceal terrors in equal measure, crowned by a balhannoth sustained by the magical energy produced by all Olzivogg’s treasures. This aberrant beast lurks in vaulted ceilings and seeks to ambush tresspassers, potentially overwhelming them lest they discard their magic items to blind it

Olzivogg’s clan were raised by a number of gods, but primarily Orcus, who rewarded the king for acting as his instrument of worldly judgement with endless chances for glory and expansion of his realm. This patronage extends even past death, as the goat-horned god will animate the King’s small army of gravetenders and sacrifices as a defense against a party set on stealing the tomb’s contents. Though little more than bones, each one cuts a terrifying figure, ragged burial shrouds crowed by horned circlets and wielding a corroded bronzeage blade.

Among all the gifts given to the king, Ruiner was the greatest. Made from the bound essence of an unwitting earth elemental, This sentient adamantine maul sleeps since the death of her master, but in her time had the power to split mountains with a single blow. Even while dreaming she possesses enough power to bring the ceiling down on the player’s heads if the party don’t decide what to do with her. The only hope of stopping the sudden collapse is to attune to Ruiner, “waking” her up and filling her in on just how long she’s been out. Possessing the restless soul of a warrior, Ruiner is unwilling to let herself be talked over by her wielder, or to defer to them when she thinks a course of action is stupid. She is not above using her earthquake powers to topple a house just so she won’t have to sit through a boring meeting on her partner’s behalf.

Backstory: For generations the tomb was a site of worship in the empire he had carved out of the caverns, until the divinely gifted hammer he had been born to wield and had won so many battles with began to shake the earth in its hunger for battle. The trembles started gently, no different from any other one might expect living so far underground. Then their homes started to fall down around them, and they panicked. The faithful went to the steps of Olzivogg’s temple, thinking he was somehow mad at them for their impiety. In just a few weeks, the old empire collapsed in on itself, literally in the form of all the rock spilling down to crush them, and also abstractly, as the citizens tore eachother part in ever more grisly displays of faith.

Though he may claim that his epithet was gained by being a premiere tomb-robber, Roghor infact gained the title during his student days, desperately curious to learn but stifled and frustrated by the seemingly endless rituals of academia. Cooperative but highly focused on the task at hand, the orc talks with a contagious passion and extreme knowledgeability surrounding history, but completely ignores most social customs in for the sake of “efficiency”

#D&D #D&D adventure #Homebrew Adventure #Adventure #DnD #ally #dungeon #the river below #Wilderness #underdark #cave #tomb #Dungeon Crawl #treasure hunt #orcus #divinity: earth #divinity: war #temple #orc

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twoidiotwriters1 · 3 years

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Déjà Vu (Or are we losing our minds?) IX -Modern!Shirbert

Words: 2,967

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Chapter Nine: Captain Shirley and Prince Blythe.

Try not

forget me.

Gilbert woke up with the sea breeze hitting his face, the rotten fish also accompanying him on this journey, though he had no time for feeling sick, he had to find his way to Captain Shirley's room. It was easy if we were talking about finding it, harder if you take into account the fact that no one else could see him enter.

Why was he doing this in the first place? Easy.

Captain Shirley was the most vicious human to ever sail across the seven seas, and she had stolen something valuable from Gilbert's father, who was none other that the King of Prince Edward Island. Gilbert, being the impulsive young prince he was, decided to infiltrate the lines of this redheaded pirate in order to retrieve his father's treasure and take it back to safety.

There was a slight issue with this plan, though. Gilbert was infatuated with Shirley, and each day on that ship only meant a day more closer to irrevocably fall in love with her.

As he silently moved through the dark and cold night, Gilbert heard most of the tripulation downstairs, getting drunk or loudly snoring on their hammocks, he saw the dim candle light coming from the door in front of him, and he quietly opened it.

That was it, all he had to do was to kill the Captain and take back his father's crown back to where it belonged. He entered, the enticing smell of wine and dry flowers filling his lungs, he tightened his grip on the dagger he was holding and urged himself to move forward.

There was a curtain dividing one corner of the room, it looked light and thin, and the shadow of Captain Shirley was delicately drawn across it, she appeared to be laying on some kind of fancy bed for one, though he could hear a strange noise similar to moving water coming from it.

As he stepped closer, he heard her low breathing, and confident that she wouldn't wake up on time to avoid her imminent ending, he decided to take a moment before ending her life.

However, as he peaked through one side of the fabric covering her bed, Gilbert's eyes widened in disbelief. He didn't know how he managed not to scream, or even fall to his knees and cry, begging God for mercy and forgiveness after what he saw:

Captain Shirley was indeed fast asleep, but she wasn't on a bed, she was on a wide bathtub, long enough so it could cover most of her body, water was spilling thanks to the movements that the ship suffered from the nightly waves, but down where her legs were supposed to be, all Gilbert could see was a fish tail.

But that couldn't be a fish tail, because it was attatched to a woman! Or that could not possibly be a woman, that had to be... a siren, a mermaid.

Gilbert's stomach churned in horror as he remembered the horrid tales he'd heard during childhood, but he also found comfort in finding the reason why his heart had fallen victim of this creature's looks. It was obvious now, no human could have eyes like hers.

Though he was terrified beyong belief, he took in at every little detail he could catch, it isn’t every day that you get to see a real mermaid:

Her hair looked like fire, one that could live underwater and swing back and forth under the tides, her skin was white and freckled, like a snowy field with dry leaves of its trees and bushes. Her tail, though intimidating and hard to get used to, was of a charming pale blue, like looking at an early sky forever reflecting on her scales.

In her body Gilbert found the elements coexisting and sharing their home within every inch. Could she really be considered a monster when all she was built of was pure beauty?

Deep and raspy voices from outside the room caused Gilbert to quickly found his way to the door, waiting against it ready for any sort of attack that never came.

"We do it tonight," Said one of the voices. "Captain Shirley's a good leader all right, but she ain't gonna last forever. Remember the rumors."

"Rumors are rumors," The other man replied. "Do you really believe that she's some kind of creature that will abandon us as soon as we get too close to Green Gables Island? Wake up, Sloane! Mermaids aren't real!"

Gilbert gulped, his eyes going back to the curtain covering Shirley's real identity.

"Creature or no creature, we're taking her out," the other growled, "she's bad news. Willy and I have taken a decision, and the rest agrees, we're getting rid of Shirley, she's cursed."

"You're just a filthy traitor, that's it! Don't think I believe your little story, we know you're angry because she refused your advances, you're desperate to show her a lesson, aren't you? Heh! She'll have you begging for mercy in no–"

There was a sudden wrestling sound between the two man and a body crashing against the very same door Gilbert was standing, he prayed for Captain Shirley to be a heavy sleeper.

"I'd keep my opinions to myself, Jerry boy, if you don't want to end up at the bottom of the sea, sharing the same fate as our captain... she may give you a nice treatment, but I assure you, sirens get cranky when they starve."

Gilbert listened as Jerry pushed his way out of Sloane's grip and waited until they sounded far away. They were going to kill the captain and this had nothing to do with no curse, it was merely about a man having no honor, but what could he expect from a pirate?

New plan, he was going to search for the crown and then leave the rest to the tripulation, surely the mutiny was the perfect excuse in case some objects went missing from the Captain's room.

Something was bothering him though, and it was his moral compass.

Was he really going to let the tripulation kill her like that?

Well you were going to kill her moments ago, He thought bitterly.

Drowning in uncertainty Gilbert got closer to the bathtub, watching her lay there with her eyes closed. Only then he realized she was fully naked, he hadn't processed it since the fish tail was far more distracting, the scales only reach her sides and covered some parts of her chest, but she still had a human chest. Embarrassed and overwhelmed Gilbert turned around and weighed his options.

He could walk out of there with his father's treasure and never look back, or he could help the woman that was known across the world as this wickedly intelligent, viciously skilled pirate, survive the mutiny and have a new helping hand on his side that would assure him to return home safe and sound.

He convinced himself that this was a matter of clever negotiation and nothing else. No feelings of attachments whatsoever.

So he woke her up.

"Captain?" His voice came out weak and fearful, so he tried again. "Captain Shirley!"

Her eyes snapped open, quickly grabbing the gun that was hidden on the side of the tub Gilbert couldn't see. He flinched and closed his eyes, ready to get killed, but nothing came.

He opened his eyes and found the gun very close to his nose, the Captain's hand was unwavering and her eyes resembled the most vicious of hurricanes.

"What are you doing?" She asked in a low, dangerous voice.

"Good evening, Captain," Gilbert gulped, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm her to save you."

“Save me?" She let out sarcastically. Not even caring that he'd found her in such a vulnerable state, if anything, now that she was awake Gilbert was having a hard time trying to remember why did he ever thought she ever needed help.

"Sloane and company are planning a mutiny, they’ll attack later tonight and if you don't follow me they'll kill you."

"Oh, please," She replied. "Are you really expecting me to believe that, boy?"

"I'm only telling the truth," He frowned. "I can't do anything to convince you besides maybe the fact that I'm holding a dagger, like you can clearly see, and I didn't try to cut your throat before waking you up, did I?"

"No, because you're not that stupid," He felt a sting of annoyance at her retort. "Sloane's been on this ship for years, why would he try to kill me now?"

"I heard him speak to Jerry... he uh– I think his interests may be a bit... compromised… after the last talk you two had."

Shirley wasn't one to blush at such bold statements, not from embarrassment anyway. However, anger was a whole different thing. Her face shifted from understanding to tension, to a new calculating glare.

"I don't know you," She tightened the grip on her gun. "This is not the way men like you are meant to act. Who are you?"

"Men like me?" He asked back.

"Pirates," She spat. "In all my years of leading the Cordelia, no man has ever showed a glimpse of decency. Let alone to a woman they barely know."

"You're my captain," He replied in confusion. "Aren't I supposed to respect you?"

She blinked, her frown only increasing as her tail swung to a side, leaving the water and filling the room with a splashing noise. Almost instantly two perfect and fuctioning legs were hanging from the edge of the tub, and now she looked definitely naked to him.

Gilbert turned around instantly, the Captain let out a short and charming laugh.

"Boy you do not turn your back when someone's holding a gun in front of you!" She exclaimed. "You must be truly too new in this scene, why in the hell are you mingling with pirates?"

"Why is a siren leading them to victories?" He still has his back to her. "Aren't you supposed to... uh..."

"Finish that sentence, boy."

"I would rather not to," He said quietly.

He didn't hear her move, but somehow she'd circled the tub and was now standing in front of him again (thankfully now wearing a silky robe to cover her human form), the gun finding its way to his chest, and the cold metal causing him to jump back.

"I said," She repeated calmly, "finish that sentence."

"I'm sorry, Captain," He started, trying not to sweat. Were mermaids capable of hearing a man's heartbeat? "My father used to tell me stories about the sirens and their... unusual habits."

"Unusual indeed," She smirked. "All true as well."

Okay, now he was scared.

"All those treasures, all those stones you humans keep like they belong to you…” She started, “They all come from nature, and some of them belonged to us first. Some of my peers decided that eating the humans were the easiest way to get rid of you but you’re smart enough to learn not to repeat past mistakes. Soon enough you were avoiding our islands, and we were abandoned to our luck by our rulers. I'd had enough, if you can fight it, you can at least learn to control it, so I did.” Her eyes had a bit of sadness in them that she quickly covered with her usual glare.

"Sloane knows what you are, he’ll kill you…"

"Sloane was an accident," She frowned. "That nasty rat! Thought that after all these years under my protection he had at least a bit of loyalty towards me, but you humans have flimsy minds and those pesky emotions... I should've seen it coming, you're all liars. He got obsessed with who I really was and when I told him I cannot have those human feelings I guess he took it as an insult. Men are completely empty-headed.”

He was certainly insulted by this, but she still had her gun pointing at him so he decided not to make any comments.

"Why are you helping me?" She asked. "If you, like Sloane, are expecting to gain my favor..."

"No," He quickly responded. “It’s… it’s true, I'm not a pirate. I’m not like them.”

The hand holding the gun lowered, but only by half an inch.

"What are you?"

"I'm the son of King Blythe."

She froze in place, her eyes widening in shock and then... she laughed. She laughed and lowered her gun, walking away from him.

"A Prince!" She said in amusement. "Are you trying to teach dear father a lesson? Is this your way of showing him you’re not just a boy?"

"You stole his crown," He replied with more courage than the one he actually felt. "I'm here to take it back."

"So you were going to kill me," She smiled. "See? All of you, liars."

"I'm not!" He defended. "Listen, just give me the crown, we can make a deal."

"I don't make any deals with fake royalty," She eyed him up. "A human prince comes into my ship and demands I give him back the treasures his people stole from others. Not only that, but he promises he won't kill me if I cooperate! How charming must be, to have such an empty and conceited mind…”

Gilbert was about to answer when a lamp was thrown into the room through one of the windows, shattered glass spread across the floor along with flames and Shirley's mouth fell open in outrage.

"I told you!" Gilbert yelled in irritation. "We've lost precious time! It's too late now!"

"Get out of my way!" She yelled over the banging sounds her former men trying to break the door. She ran over to where her sword was and took it with her dominant hand while the other held her gun expertly.

"You're gonna need my help!” Gilbert insisted.

"Oh please, pretty boy," She scoffed. “You know nothing about me."

"I've done proper training, I can fight!"

"You won't last!"

"You have no one else!" They were shouting at this point, the door was going down splinter by splinter and lightining was falling from the sky, announcing the callous storm. "Give me a sword!"

"You'll kill me!" She replied. Her hair was still damp and every time she moved tiny drops would land on Gilbert's clothes. "I won't die like this!"

"I won't kill you if you give me the crown!" He growled. "You can keep everything else, I don't care for it! You're right, we steal, that's all we do, but I need that crown before winter!"

"Why?!"

"Because the King is dying!"

A harsh bang and one of the handgrips fell. The fire was spreading quickly and it was her against everyone on that ship. That could easily change though, she just had to trust the prince. Shirley groaned in frustration and ran over to were she kept her extra weapons, when she came back, it was with a second sword that she offered to him hastily.

"I'm going to regret this," She grumbled.

The door finally gave in, and as the dust and storm made its way into the room, she asked him:

"Ready, Prince of Blythe?"

"Yes," He lied.

As a large group of men ran into the room holding swords, guns, and knives, a dazzling lighting turned everything white, blinding him briefly.

____________________

Gilbert woke up.

Outside his room a second thunder caught his attention, there was a storm outside but he'd forgotten to close the window before going to bed and now the breeze was hitting his face fully. He got up, slightly dizzy from his sleepy state and with the memories of his dreams making everything confusing.

He touched his desk on his way back as if to make sure he was in his real room. The light from the street illuminated the place where Gilbert had been sleeping moments ago. Half of his covers were a little wet from the time the rain started and he was knocked unconscious by all the time he'd spent walking around town with Winne.

He pulled the covers out of his bed and left them on the floor, Mary would certainly be pissed the next morning if those covers ended up smelling, but he was too tired to care, he'd wash them later.

He crawled his way back and fell heavily on his pillow, the smell of dry roses raising like a faint reminder of this other world, this other life he'd shared with this striking redheaded pirate.

"The mermaid…” He mumbled, half asleep. His eyes widened, Gilbert sat up abruptly and repeated, this time in a much more shocked tone, “Pirate!"

____________________

"I'm..." Anne mumbled, half asleep. "I'm... Pirate!"

Her eyes opened lazily in the dark, her own voice had woken her up though she didn't remember what she'd said. In her phone the time said four in the morning and the sound coming from her window told her it was raining outside. It was too dark to see anything but what the lightning showed her from time to time whenever it blasted across the nightsky.

Anne sighed in contentment, this was her favorite weather to wake up to apart from that early morning bliss she could get from hearing the birds singing outside on the cherry tree every summer. What a treasure it was, to be able to experience these kinds of sounds and smells, and colors. How sad that the king wouldn't get to witness those in the near future...

Anne frowned as she caught her own thought. What was she talking about?

Her dream of course! -She turned once more on the bed, hiding under the covers- She's not going to remember all this tomorrow, of that she's sure… but what a nice dream though, the Prince was specially endearing.

Taglist.

@ninizkd @http-itsrebecca @fuckthisshitimoutyall @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @little-boats-on-a-lake @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual

#twoidiots writing #anne with an e fanfic #anne with an e #anne shirley x gilbert blythe #anne shirley cuthbert #Gilbert Blythe #awae #shirbert #shirbert fanfic #DV fic

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tinydooms · 3 years

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Original Short Story: written in early 2016 while I was minding the doors at Handel and Hendrix in London (in my glamorous past life). Content Warnings: demons, assault, demonic sexual assault, murder.

The Death of Andromeda Ashton

Now darling, you know that there is a big empty house on this property, away up past the formal gardens; you can just see it from your window when the leaves are down from the trees. Ashton Manor is its name, so called because my ancestor, Joseph Ashton, built it centuries ago, when Queen Anne ruled this isle. A solid English manor house, with wings stuck on it during the reign of the Georges, built of grey stone and with hundreds of windows peering down at us like so many curious eyes. It is the country seat of the Ashton family and has been for almost three hundred years. But we do not live there. Not anymore.

I can see impatience in your face. I know all this, is what you’re thinking. Patience, dear one, for I am going to tell you why.

They were great collectors, the old Ashtons were, and as the years went on they filled the Hall with all manner of treasures, ancient books and paintings and sculptures from far off lands where strange gods were worshipped and men look nothing like you’d believe. Every generation of Ashtons contributed to the Collection, until one day, one of them brought home something monstrous.

The house is empty now, its windows stare unseeing; its treasures are locked up and guarded by an aging caretaker. All know that it is abandoned, most of its treasures still inside, though some were safely moved to London around the time Queen Victoria died. But never, in eighty years, has anyone broken in to steal anything. There are too many stories about the place. You’ve heard some of them, of course. The crying that can be heard in the east wing. The singing heard on stormy nights. The dark figure that prowls the corridors and the woods by the park, thinning the packs of rabbits that live there. The woman sinking into the lake. Yes, I can see by your eyes that you know of what I am speaking.

Her name is Andromeda Ashton. She lived here many years ago, when the house was an open and happy place. She was the darling petted baby daughter of older parents, born when her elder siblings were almost grown and had thought their parents were passed the age of engendering children. Her eldest sibling, Henry, was already well into his first year at Cambridge, her sisters away at school. The closest brother in age was Edward, seven years older than she, a quiet and thoughtful boy.

Now, because she was the baby, and in no small part because she was a beautiful, intelligent little thing, Andromeda was given license to behave in ways that were most unusual for a girl of her class in that time. She had a governess and a tutor, learned Greek and Latin from childhood, and could always be found prowling the family Collection or reading books by great explorers and renowned antiquarians. By the time she was eighteen, Andromeda was widely considered to be one of the brightest Ashtons for a generation. What a shame, people said, that she was not a boy and could then use that pretty head of hers. What a shame such remarkable intelligence was all for naught.

They need not have feared, for Andromeda had plans for making her mark upon the world, in the form of her family’s Collection. She may not be allowed to attend Cambridge like her brothers or study theology like Edward, but she was allowed and encouraged to contribute something to the Collection. And it would be more than just her portrait, which showed a slim, wind-pale girl with dark hair and eyes, gazing at the painter with a fiery intensity. No, Andromeda had not spent her life reading the tales of antiquarians for nothing.

Now dearie, you know that there are many stories of ghosts and legends in these parts. The hills are as dotted with stories as they are with sheep. On the eve of her nineteenth year, Andromeda began to collect them. With her father’s blessing and the help of her former governess, a project was begun: to compile the county’s folktales. It was no small task. For months, Andromeda could be seen riding from farm to farm, speaking to laborers and landowners alike, and writing down their stories. The Crone of Tetley. The Wailing Well of St. Edmund’s. The Fenbury Witch. She recorded them all, never realizing that she herself would one day become such a whispered story.

“I don’t know how you sleep at night, after hearing these tales,” her mother said once.

Andromeda smiled. “They are not true, Mother! They’re silly superstitions that came about because people in the past had no learning. People tell stories to ascribe meaning to what they do not understand, that’s all. There’s no truth to them.”

This, my dear, was Andromeda’s firm belief: that superstition had given way to science, and that all the ghostly tales of the past, while amusing and interesting, had a rational explanation. It was to be her undoing.

Now, as is sometimes the case with amateur antiquarians, Andromeda began to be curious as to the truth behind these stories. There was one in particular that caught her fancy, and that was of the Chalice of Tilbury St. Bartholomew. What’s that? The what? I knew you would ask; it’s certainly not talked about anymore. Not since-no, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The story goes like this: centuries before, at the time the plague first appeared in England, there was an alchemist who thought he could escape the illness by coming to the countryside. And where did he come? Why here, of course. Tilbury St. Bartholomew, though in those days the name was rather different. It was whispered that this gentleman-I use that term lightly, for he was no such thing-continued his strange experiments in his cottage, and that he not only practiced alchemy, but the dark arts as well. You’re skeptical, I see. So was Andromeda. What were considered the dark arts then is known as science now, of course. But for all that, the villagers were afraid of him. It was said that he conjured devils, and that one such devil was contained in a silver cup he kept with him in his bedroom, ready to do his master’s bidding. Village maidens dreamed of a dark shape coming into their beds at night, bending over them and stroking their hair. The alchemist leered at them in church on Sundays, leading to speculation that his demon was kept for the hunting of women. Unease and unrest grew in the village, yet the alchemist continued his work unmolested.

But when the plague finally came to Tilbury St. Bartholomew-for no part of the country was left untouched-the villagers said it was the judgments of God upon them for allowing an evil sorcerer to live unhampered in their midst. The alchemist was dragged from his home and burned at the stake. The village maidens breathed sighs of relief, for though the plague raged about them, the dark creature came to their chambers no more. The alchemist’s cottage was burned, too, and the silver chalice was lost. No one knew what became of it.

Andromeda, though, had her suspicions. She was a learned young lady, and figured that there had to be some record somewhere of a necromancer and his effects. I don’t know what sort of research she did, but one summer evening, when her brother Edward was visiting from his Cambridge seminary, she asked him to ride out with her. No one knows where they went, but when they came back, Andromeda looked quite pleased, and shortly thereafter presented an ancient silver goblet to the family.

Why did she want it, you ask? Why, if such demonic stories were attached to the thing, would a young lady wish to bring such an object into her home? Come, child, haven’t you been listening? Andromeda was not a believer in such things as demons. She was an active and intelligent young lady, and it rankled that she could not use her brains to their fullest capacity. A book was all very well and good, you see, but a treasure such as this cup was a real asset to the Collection, and it gave her a measure of fame, besides. She wrote the card for it herself. Silver chalice, English, circa 1330. What a find! Everyone in the family and many people outside of it admired the discovery.

All of this is common knowledge. You can find Andromeda’s book in any bookshop in the county, and the local historians will tell you about the silver goblet. They will also tell you that the goblet has been lost under strange circumstances, and when pressed for an answer, they will sigh and tell you it was a great tragedy. For you see, darling, very few people know exactly what happened to the Ashton family in the months following Andromeda’s discovery.

Most of what I know comes from Edward’s personal diaries, and they are to be treated with much caution. He lost his mind that year, you know. But I think he was saner than anyone knew.

Nothing went right for the Ashtons after Andromeda’s discovery. First Mrs. Ashton, who had never been strong after the birth of her daughter, succumbed to illness, soon followed by Mr. Ashton, so that Henry, the eldest son, living in London, found himself head of the family. That was in September. Then there began to be problems with the livestock. Horses went mad, sheep began to die for seemingly no reason, and the gamekeepers reported outrageous amounts of dead rabbits and birds in the woods. The servants began to complain that tricks were being played upon them, for it seemed as though they were being pinched and grabbed at by unseen hands. Edward recorded in the days that followed his mother’s funeral, was the sense of being watched when you knew you were alone, of a cold breath at the back of your neck, the creak of a chair that only creaked when sat in. There was a presence in the house, he said, and everyone knew it. But no one spoke of it.

Andromeda was not spared. Alone in her room at night, as she lay in bed, she felt the gentle caress of fingers across her cheek, in her hair, running over her body, cold as a breath of winter air. She told herself that she only imagined the icy kisses on the back of her neck, on her shoulders and breastbone. They were the products of a fevered mind, surely, imaginations brought about by grief at the death of her parents. She ignored the caresses. What’s that, darling? She must have been very brave? Yes, or very foolish.

By late November, the events had become too real to ignore. When serving tea to visitors, Andromeda would feel whispery fingers on her thighs, and moments later her stockings would loosen as her garters untied themselves. Something tugged her hair as she brushed it, or grasped her hand as she reached for a pen. At night, the sensation of someone cuddling close to her became unbearable, until she jumped for a light, gasping. And then she would hear it: a soft, cold laugh.

At last, after one such night, Andromeda swallowed her pride and told Edward what was happening. He was a priest, or nearly so; of course he would help her.

“It has only been since we brought home my goblet that this has happened,” she told him as they walked through the portrait gallery. “But artefacts cannot truly contain demons. Can they?”

Edward rubbed his hand through his hair, eyes straying to Andromeda’s portrait, swinging in its frame against the far wall. “We cannot know what devilry a sorcerer can conjure when he goes against God. I fear we made a mistake in unearthing that cup, Meda.”

“What must we do?”

“We must put it back where it was. As soon as possible.”

They agreed that Edward would write to one of his teachers, Reverent Dr. Padgett, to come assist them in exorcising the demon. The letter was duly dispatched. The reply came by telegram the next morning: Dr. Padgett would arrive that evening on the six-thirty train. They would commence their business immediately.

That afternoon, Andromeda asked the servants to leave the house for the night. She found them eager to do so. None of them liked to say how relieved they were to be away from the house and its unseen occupant. At half past six, the head footman was dispatched to the station to collect Dr. Padgett. In the back of the carriage was his own trunk, for he had no intention of remaining alone with the family in the house once he had safely delivered the doctor. It was a cold, windy evening, and later he said that his master and mistress could not have picked a worse night to be alone in that house.

All of this is fact; you can find the records in the village police archives, if you’ve a mind to. But what I’m about to tell you know, darling, are the words of a madman. You see, the only two people who know what happened in that house are Andromeda and Edward, and the latter was in no fit state to speak coherently of what happened for some months afterwards. Besides, his tale was dismissed by doctors and magistrates alike as being too unbelievable to come from a sound mind.

What Edward said was this: believing that Padgett would soon arrive, he and Andromeda set about making preparations for the exorcism. The house was empty, but the air around them seemed heavy, oppressive. As there were no servants to light the lamps, they sat in near-darkness. Their black mourning clothes must have made the scene even darker. Once or twice, Edward felt as though something touched the back of his neck, but there was no one there but Andromeda, sitting on the sofa by the window, peering out into the windy dusk.

“Perhaps we should bring the cup here,” she said, at last. “Perhaps Dr. Padgett will be willing to go out with us immediately.”

“Certainly,” said Edward. “Shall I go for it?”

“No.” Andromeda stood, smoothing her black skirts. Edward says that her hands were shaking. “I feel certain it has to be me.”

Though neither of them said it, the fact hung in the air that Andromeda was the one to have meddled in what she should not. Still, Edward, being a kind soul, rose from his seat and put her arm through his.

“We will go together. Come now, little sister, chin up. Everything will be all right.”

The silver cup was in one of the many rooms that housed the Collection, deep in the bowels of the cold house. I’ll show it to you one day, if you like, through the window. Night was falling fast as they walked through the halls, the strong wind driving dark clouds before it as it screamed around the manor. The lamp in Edward’s hand flickered in the draught, and his diary says that it was with some relief that they gained the Collection rooms. Leaving Andromeda by the door, Edward moved across the room to light the lamps, thinking to bring some cheer to the evening, if cheer were at all possible.

It was as he was lighting the lamps that Edward heard the screams. He ran to the door to see Andromeda lying in the corridor, beating at something unseen with both hands. He ran to assist her and all at once found himself picked up and flung back into the room he had come from. Undaunted, he picked himself up and made to run to his sister, only to again be thrown down by the unseen creature. It must have been terrible, fighting such a force while Andromeda’s shrieks echoed through the halls. Edward says that she twisted this way and that as though grappling with something. He made for her a third time--and this time, Andromeda was thrown down on the floor, gasping, and the thing, the monster, the demon, grabbed Edward by the neck and dragged him back into the Collection room. He was sure it would kill him. But it did not. A moment of white hot pain, and Edward found himself pinned to the floor with an arrow through the leg. Where the dart came from, he did not know. He could not move. Apparently satisfied that the young priest would prove no further nuisance, the thing returned to Andromeda. Helpless, crying with pain and horror, Edward heard his sister’s screams renew, growing more and more awful until they were drowned by a low, terrible laugh. Then there came the sound of a body dragging, and Andromeda’s shrieks faded as she was carried away.

Dr. Padgett, arriving an hour later, found Edward, alive but in a terrible state. Having asked his driver to wait at the door, Padgett was able to send for a medical doctor, and a search was made for Andromeda. It did not take them long to find her, for though the wind continued to buffet the county, there was no rain. You know where they found her, of course, my dear, for you can see her there still, some nights. She was in the lake, just under the water, her dark hair a loose cloud around her, her heavy black frock covered in hundreds of tiny gashes, her shoes and stockings gone. Her eyes were closed, her skin bleached of color in the green water. She was quite dead.

For months afterwards Edward screamed in the night, howling that the monster had come for him. Certainly in the mornings he was covered in scratches that had not been there the day before. A team of doctors agreed that his mind had been shattered by his sister’s murder, for they did not believe that anything but a mortal man could have done such a vicious thing to the Ashton children. The best thing for him, they told Henry, was to retire to the coast in the care of a nurse. And so Edward never returned to Ashton Hall.

And the cup that had started the horror? Dr. Padgett conducted a search for it, but it was nowhere to be seen, though Edward swore it was in the room when they were attacked. No one knows what became of it. Perhaps it had gone, and the demon with it. I see the doubt in your eyes, dearest, and I have to agree with you.

Ever after, the servants whispered that there was something still haunting the rooms and corridors of the hall, and the gardeners swore they saw Andromeda slipping out of the lake on icy winter nights. Henry’s family certainly never felt comfortable in the Hall, and so it was shut up. And so it has remained for these eighty years, and who knows if we will ever return to live in it? But one thing I know for certain: on nights when the wind blows and the moon is dark, shapes can be seen moving in the windows of the Hall. And out in the lake, a dark-haired Victorian lady floats just underneath the water. Watching. Waiting.

#original fiction #my writing

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muzzleroars · 4 years

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Cake’s Bad End AU Part II: The Thieves

Here it is, the posts that will finally outline the events of my Bad End AU! I’m not a writer in any sense, but with so many people enjoying the content I create for this AU and several people asking about it, I wanted to write up a synopsis of the events that take place and, more simply, what this AU even is. This is my idea of what happens when Akira takes Yaldabaoth’s deal on Christmas Eve and all of its implications, so I hope everyone enjoys it and that it puts the pieces for my AU in context. There will be three parts: Akira, The Thieves, and The Holy Grail. This is Part II: The Thieves, which details how the Thieves come to find out about Akira and how they and Goro band together to confront him. (2,797 words)

(TRIGGER WARNINGS: Some descriptions of illness/pain)

The Thieves, meanwhile, have been able to better mobilize themselves now that they are out from under the oppressive atmosphere Akira had induced in their group for weeks. They all agree something is deeply wrong with their leader, who has since disappeared on one of his solo treks into the Metaverse, but they know he still lives as the changes of heart occur at a breakneck pace. They are more insidious however, people in the city now whispering about a curse, a ghost that appears in the dreams of those who will soon fall victim to the Phantom Thieves. They don’t know what’s become of Akira...but their only option is to brave Mementos and find where he’s gone, find who he’s become after spending so much time alone in the Metaverse.

They make several trips into Mementos to find him, but the environment they find there is overly hostile, more cruel and unforgiving than it has ever been. With each trip they learn better strategies, they prepare for more contingencies, and they progress deeper than the day before, but they continue to lose days as they are beaten back by more and more roadblocks. In order to save their leader, however, they fight through their exhaustion and their frustration because he’s there, he’s alive, and they would never abandon him...but what they find when they reach the Depths turns their hope into an utter spiraling sense of despair. The blinding cathedral that juts from the pitch black surroundings draws them in instantly, the bizarre behavior of the shadows flocking to it and begging for favor, and finally the cavern-like nave that becomes their destination. They find Goro there, bloodied and desperate opposite of a pale figure that’s almost difficult to make out against the white expanse that stretches and bends all around him. They rush in to help him, not even aware he was alive, when they see...the other figure is Akira, or what’s become of him. He’s unnatural, revolting in a way with a distinct wave of sickness rolling off of him, and while he speaks with Akira’s voice, there is no recognition in his words or his face, the flatness of tone and odd inflections making the sound almost nauseating. They cry out to him, they plead with him to remember them, yet he spouts nothing but scripted nonsense as Goro tells them they’re wasting their energy...while he was definitely once Akira, he is no more. He doesn’t recognize that he was human, he pays no mind to what any of them shared, what he did all of this for...it’s gone.

The shadows are closing around them, screaming to leave The Son alone and to stop calling him by false names as he himself never changes, smiling serenely through blank eyes. When the Thieves try to look for an out to retreat, however, The Son calls for his shadows to leave their guests be and allow them to return, as their time to accept him will come. They take his mercy without hesitation, wanting to run as far from him as they can even if his face and dead voice are burned into their minds. Goro flees with them and they escape Mementos like a bad dream, but what words can be exchanged even in the relative safety of the real world? Akira has turned into something indescribable, a parody of an angel in the wasting body of a sickly boy they once cherished, looking as though he could collapse and yet overflowing with a hideous, dangerous power they shudder to think of. Goro is the first to speak, telling them what he knows from the day he found Akira in Mementos before his disappearance and now what he has found out from this being calling himself The Son. He understands he apparently serves some god, the creature that revived Goro to be with them now and has turned Akira into what they saw in that cathedral, how Akira retains nothing of his human thoughts or emotions...and how he has no heartbeat. Goro has touched him and even that felt wrong, fleeting, as though he isn’t totally there, flickering in and out of solid form but distinctly without body heat or a single breath. He’s dead, changed beyond all recognition, and the only thing they can do for him now, for who he was, is to put him out of the misery he must be in. The Thieves immediately reject Goro’s idea and, with tensions and grief beginning to flood all of them, they agree to meet the next day instead. None of them sleep that night.

When they gather, they can all see the exhaustion on each others’ faces but there’s a resolve too – they refuse to accept his death until every other option has been used, until every single avenue explored. Goro...isn’t pleased with the decision, telling them that sentimentality will only get all of them killed and leave Akira to suffer, trapped forever in that hellish state if they don’t succeed in finishing him off now. And he can’t bear that, he can’t bear knowing even a sliver of Akira might remain in that shell and the torment inflicted on him every minute of every day, he can’t stand the idea of that thing continuing in Akira’s place if they fail. Trying to reach him, trying to drag him back to reality, all of it is so much more of a risk than just trying to end him so all of this can just stop – Emotions run too high as Goro insists on this, Futaba in particular on the verge of a full breakdown, before Makoto calms the situation to remind Goro they still really have very little idea how bad off Akira is, not to mention how strong he is. And as much as their emotions are dictating their decision to save him, Makoto is sure Goro’s emotions are controlling his decision to kill him just as much and frankly, they can only decide on emotion right now. She suggests they prepare, physically, mentally, and with the necessary equipment, before they return to the cathedral to investigate Akira so maybe they have a shot at giving any final decision some logic. So she moves to suspend both ideas – the rescue mission and assassination – before they get a better understanding of their position and what’s best for all parties. The Thieves agree with some decompression and Goro consents too, knowing Makoto was right about her assessment of his own decision-making process.

So they prepare, receiving aid from all of Akira’s confidants as they do their best to describe the danger he’s in but they see the people Akira’s gathered close to him need little convincing. It’s their turn to use the bonds he formed to reach out to him, to learn all the tricks Akira had from them in a crash course effort they split among the group as well as pooling their money to buy the best Iwai and Tae can offer them before they head back to the Depths. It nearly breaks their hearts all over again to see how much he learned, to see what he put together for all of them behind the scenes without saying a word unless any confidant needed their help in Mementos, and it’s the best trump card they could have asked for now...and it makes them feel as though Akira is there with them, still helping them along and leading. The hardest preparation, however, is the emotional one, readying themselves to see Akira again as they had that day but getting in much closer, knowing they will likely be fighting him. They all agreed they would do anything to save him though, that one day they would return the favor if he ever found himself falter, and now they’re prepared to make good on that, with the endless optimism they face down every challenge with – they will find their leader and they will save him.

Now fully armed and fully ready for the hostility they’re met with, along with Goro’s added firepower, the Thieves brave through a malignant Mementos where they can now always hear the distant ringing of church bells. It’s a balancing act to properly conserve their energy, but with Makoto’s meticulous planning, Goro’s expertise, and the Thieves’ cohesive teamwork combining all the added skills of Akira’s confidants, they manage to find themselves in much better shape upon their approach to the cathedral. This time they move slowly through the halls, paying attention to the stained glass windows, the reliquaries and treasures that adorn its limitless expanse, and, most importantly, they listen closely to the prayers and whispers of the shadows – they all speak of a Holy Grail, how they wish to join it at its shrine and have all their wishes granted, if only The Son recognizes them. The Thieves are puzzled slightly by this, as Goro told them of a god named Yaldabaoth according to Akira, but none of the shadows seem to speak of him no matter what conversations they eavesdrop on. Still, they continue on to the nave once more, filled with wandering shadows that they, at first, have no idea how to traverse...but they quickly find that, despite shadows seeing them, none of them move to attack. They may give a warning at most to go, in hushed voices, before they return to their prayer and the Thieves easily make their way through the endless row of pews to reach the sanctuary.

Akira is there but he sleeps on a throne, the shadows nearby now only making frantic motions to shoo the Thieves away without so much as a whisper. They pay them no mind, instead steeling themselves before they call out to Akira, their shouts ringing through a disturbingly silent cathedral despite all the shadows that pace around them. He rouses slowly, eyes cracking open almost painfully in an obvious show of exhaustion as the shadows all around them scream and wail, all of them bowing to pray for his forgiveness. It takes him a moment to focus, the Thieves easily able to see how drained his face looks before he smiles again just like he had when they first met him like this, standing to come down from his throne in movements that should be graceful but instead look too smooth, too perfect to be made by any human. He silences the shadows surrounding them with a wave, welcoming the Thieves to his cathedral and their salvation, to Yaldabaoth’s open arms as he has waited to receive them for so long now. They override him, however, pleading with him to remember them, to remember what they shared and who he was, but the exchange they share with him proves fruitless – he continues to repeat the same script over and over. The Thieves grow increasingly desperate with their appeals when nothing seems to reach him or even produce a different result, until Futaba figures to respond to his prompt and explicitly refuse his offer of salvation (she’s good with computers, after all). This proves a turning point in the conversation, with Akira then declaring they must be errant variables in his father’s system if they choose to reject him – escaped convicts, no different than the degenerates in their Palaces that he must cull for his god.

They take battle positions as the rosary wrapped around Akira’s hand morphs into the monstrous scythe they saw him wielding against Goro the day they rescued him and he readies to steal their hearts, telling them it will do them no good whether they have personas or treasures – they’re all functionally the same to him, a heart is a heart. The battle that ensues gives them a good idea of the amount of power Akira now possesses, how oppressive it is as he continues to wield personas of angels that he can call to his side along with his own brutal strength that he claims to draw from his god. It’s more overwhelming than the Thieves had anticipated but still they persevere, all the while shouting at him to remember them, their names, his name, the memories they made with him...and as they fight, as they band together as a unit huddled against an inhuman power they have no right to stand up against, the facade he holds up starts to crack, his name and theirs shouted at him over and over beginning to pierce through the fog of his thought, the blind faith his father has instilled in him. Those impossible memories peak through as he fights on exhausted, already drained from stealing so many hearts and being bled again by channeling Yaldabaoth to destroy the thieves before him until something cracks.

The Thieves. This is all for them isn’t it?

The battle stills in an impossible moment, Akira shudders, the memories are still fractured, still confused and make little, if any, sense to an already feverish mind but...his faith, it’s all for the people in front of him. His voice pitches when he speaks making all of them freeze instantly, the crack in it nothing like that dead monotone he’d spoken with before, his face twisted without a smile as his scythe falls heavy at his side and he screams it’s for them, all of this is for them, everything he’s done, everything he’s taken, everything he’s broken, it’s all been for them – God has resurrected them all from the grave and he saved them! The Thieves are stunned, confused, but have little time to speak any more to ask questions before blood pours from the scar on Akira’s chest, torn open from the inside out and his god comes to him, summoned as he screams in a rasped, raw voice. The cathedral rends around them and is swallowed, and the being that comes to Akira’s call is unlike anything they’ve ever seen, so enormous, a brilliant metallic deity that looms over all of them but encases its child...and they know they can speak with him no longer. Akira is silent now as the god berates them for their cruelty, for their ignorance, for their thanklessness...his child has given so much for them and yet they ask that he bleed again for their selfishness. It would be the least they could do to repay his kindness to accept his offer of salvation now and bow down to him by giving up their tainted hearts, or he will make them forever suffer for their rejection. Despite the threat, despite the overwhelming power that radiates off of a being nearly incomprehensible to them, the Thieves plainly restate their stance and vow to never give into him, to never give up until Akira is whole once more. Yaldabaoth moves to smite them, to give them the punishment as promised, but instead they blink and...they have returned to reality, totally fine outside of the obvious levels of exhaustion. Either the god delivered an empty threat or, far more likely, Akira had some kind of control over his actions in that moment and saved them all, booting them from the Metaverse as quickly as possible to avoid their deaths. It’s a somber but hopeful realization – Akira does exist inside the monster he’s become and while it tears at their insides to think he’s even semi-aware of his state, it gives them hope to reach him.

The only issue they face is...can they save him, or is Goro right? And if he is, what can be done about the entity that has taken over Akira and controls nearly all of his thoughts, his behaviors – even if there is some amount of feedback and Akira is able to affect the deity in small ways at a turn, it’s impossible he has nearly as much control and he likely can’t pull off much more than he did that day in saving the Thieves. They need to break to think on things, all of them too mentally and physically taxed to plan any sort of rescue mission...but being at home alone, trying to sort through what can be done, they are left with despair, with fear, with grief for Akira who continues to live on as they lie in bed, thinking of him trapped in the dark depths of Mementos and wondering if he’s okay, if he feels anything now from that small part of the boy they knew. It’s an agonizing night for all of them and again there is little sleep with all of them knowing the time is drawing near to make a decision on how they would save Akira. For his part, Goro wishes for the first time that he could have succeeded back in November, feeling nauseous over the idea that Akira really is still in part there, that he isn’t totally gone.

#I'M GETTING UHH...NERVOUS....#i'm not really good at setting up stories and doing pay off and stuff so like...#i hope all of this sounds even DECENT to people and the conclusion is ok kdfhdfg #again i'll restate i'm definitely not a writer SO YE....#conclusion is next and it's LONG LONG #p5 #bad end #bad end synopsis

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essays-for-breakfast · 3 years

Text

Tales of the Past

Kiane Week Day Three: Innocence

Note: Since the identity of King’s and Diane’s child is still a mystery, I simply incorporated Ivy from my other story, Conquest of the Past, into this. You don’t have to read that one to understand this one shot. Please enjoy.

Doesn’t time fly?

One day the Holy War scourged the lands of Britannia, a threat to all life and all light, and the next King kissed Diane and sealed their unending bond through the marriage he had dreamed of for so long.

One day he held his newborn daughter in his arms, mesmerized by every breath she took, and the next she talked in full sentences and outran him in a race to the silver springs and back home.

Life hurried past so quickly, it never stopped for King to catch up, and before he knew, his daughter would grow up to go her own way. Even his increased life span as Fairy King didn’t allow for enough time to appreciate all these precious moments, to savor all the talks and all the embraces and all the kisses before time placed the veil of forgetfulness over them. But life always had a new gift in store to repay the bittersweet taste on King’s tongue when his mind drifted to the inevitable end. A simple walk, a simple conversation, a simple smile – he never needed more.

Few things these days filled King with the same warmth as when he watched his daughter play. Ivy hopped across the root-infested earth of the Fairy King’s Forest, in pursuit of a butterfly. Unlike her mother, she took a liking to bugs and critters of all kind, maybe more so than to the Fairies around her.

His thoughts circled around her in lazy turns, like ponderous bees in the summer heat, and so he nearly missed the low-hanging sycamore branch in Ivy’s path.

“Ivy, be careful or you will…” She craned her neck towards King but didn’t bother to slow her steps. Her temple crashed against the branch, and she went down. “… or you will bump your head!”

King pushed his wings to their limits and raced to where Ivy lay in the grass. But she sat herself back up before he reached her, and a sigh slipped his lips.

Ivy rubbed her head. “That branch wasn’t there last week. Do I have to die now?”

“Don’t say such silly things, you won’t die. Not on my watch.”

King flicked his fingers, and Chastifol manifested by his side, enwrapped by a golden aura. Another turn of his hand later, the Spirit Spear transformed into the translucent dome of its eight form. Ivy gaped and giggled as the pollen of the Sacred Tree healed her wound and replenished her energy. The cramp between King’s shoulders disappeared, and he allowed himself three additional breaths surrounded by the scent of flowers and the transient sound of windchimes. But, although he had plenty of magical energy to spare, the excessive use of Pollen Garden remained a lavish act.

“Everything alright now?” King asked as the gold-patterned walls disintegrated.

Ivy nodded. “It doesn’t hurt one bit! I thought I was done for.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you. I promised you that, don’t you remember? But I’m afraid that the branch above us was there last week as well. You are growing too fast.”

“And soon I will be twice as tall as you! Do you think I will be as tall as mommy one day?”

“Maybe. But I hope you take your time with growing up. Just a little bit, for my sake.”

“I don’t like being so tall anyway. Every time Lance comes over to visit, I feel like he is getting smaller. Hitting his head with a ball becomes so much harder when the target’s so tiny.”

King opted for a serious expression, but the round violet eyes of his daughter melted any steel in his voice. “Ivy, you’re not supposed to hit him.”

“Why? He always gets back to his feet the next second. He’s a sore loser, it’s not my fault he can’t admit that I’m the better thrower.”

“I just don’t want you to do something you will regret later on. You are incredibly strong, and looking at your mother, I think you will become even stronger. But strength can be used for the wrong reasons. In a moment of carelessness, strength can become a weapon to hurt others, including people you care about. I fought your uncle once because I was blinded by loss and thoughts of betrayal. I wanted to hurt him. And I did. And he wasn’t the only one I hurt. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

Ivy crossed her arms. “But you’re not a fighter. I’ve never seen you so much as argue with someone. Not even with uncle Ban, even though he tells terrible jokes and talks too much when he is drinking that weird stuff in the glass bottles with the unseemly pictures.”

“You’d be surprised by how many battles your mother and I have fought. Come on. Let me show you something.”

Ivy straightened and climbed back to her feet – the last time King had offered her a hand, the attempt had ended in a dislocated shoulder on his part and a stream of sobs and apologies on Ivy’s part. After throwing the branch in her path a final death glare, Ivy caught up with King, and together they navigated the maze of tree trunks and broom bushes. The pathless forest allowed for uncounted places to hide and get lost beneath the dense canopy. But King knew every stone and every plant, could differentiate sections of the vast woodland by the sound of its leaves and the unique scents of morels or honey agarics. The energy of the forest was an ever-changing pattern that gave him a better understanding of where his wings carried him than any map. And so, he found the clearing overgrown with sweet woodruff in a matter of minutes.

Ivy pulled in a sharp breath. Amidst the greenery lay a war hammer of thirty feet length. The sun reflected from the bronze head. Despite a lack of recent polish, neither weather nor plant life had touched the Sacred Treasure; Gideon looked the same as on the day Diane had placed it here.

Ivy ran over and put her hands around the hilt. But she only managed to nudge the pommel from the ground. The head remained glued to its resting spot.

“What is this?” she asked and puffed when her next battle against Gideon’s weight proved fruitless. “It must weigh more than you and me combined!”

King smiled. “A lot more. This is your mother’s Sacred Treasure. She wielded it in the New Holy War.”

“No way. Mom fought in a war? And you were with her? Did you win?”

“Yes, we won. We won battles against knights and Demons, and even the foulest creature of all them all, the Demon King himself.”

Ivy abandoned her assault on Gideon long enough to gawk at King. “You mean you and mom were heroes? You took responsibility for all the many people out there and protected them?”

“Not us two alone, no. We had friends to rely on. Your uncle Ban, the Captain, and Gowther among many more. You remember them, don’t you? It’s important to have friends you can trust. So, next time you play catch with Lancelot, maybe try to be a little more careful. If you’re both nice to each other, your bond will eventually reward you, maybe in a way you never expected.”

“Yeah, sure, as long as he admits that I’m the better thrower. What else happened during the war? The people must admire you very much for saving them.”

“I believe they did. Some still do. But I never fought to gain their favor. If anything, I felt a little uncomfortable with all the parties they threw to honor the Seven Deadly Sins. There was a lot of gratefulness, some of these people gained a freedom they never knew before the war. And without the war on the horizon, the Seven Deadly Sins might have never been assembled, and Diane and I might have never reunited. Most likely she would have found someone else, maybe not the Captain, but someone who would have been willing and eager to give her the love she deserves. It’s easy to say that all fighting is bad, and I will be the first to admit that the Holy War claimed far more victims because we as a group of knights did not always stand united. But at the same time, I’m glad I can’t turn back the clock. Because otherwise, we wouldn’t have had you.”

King stroked Ivy’s soft, reddish-brown locks. She leaned into the touch, even went so far as to wrap her arms around him.

No, King would never want to turn back time and risk the life he had now, the happy ending he and Diane had fought for. But if the Sacred Tree or another god had offered him the chance to stop the clocks and hold onto today forevermore, he might have accepted.

One day, before he knew it, Ivy would be grown up, and the sweet innocence of her childhood would run through his fingers no matter how desperately he begged the flow to stop. Another war might plague the lands. Another tyrant might escape the ashes, another creature sent from Purgatory or a realm beyond the world he knew. Ivy might have to take up arms to protect what she loved, just like her parents before her.

King listened to the soft breaths of his daughter and blinked away the veil of tears. “Try not to grow up too fast. Will you do that for me?”

“Okay, dad. But I will first have to ask mom if she agrees.”

A chuckle rocked King’s torso, and the grey clouds of the future backed away to gift him with another day in the sun. “Please do that. I wouldn’t want to enrage her with another one of my selfish ideas. She could drop a mountain on top of me. And I’m afraid she doesn’t need Gideon for that. How about we go back to her right away? I miss her, don’t you?”

“Very. I wanna ask her more about the war. I bet she was a super-amazing fighter if she could lift this hammer. And while we go back, I could catch another butterfly as a gift for her!”

King made a face and produced a series of undefinable sounds. “Maybe… we could look for – er – something else to surprise her with? Flowers for example. Everyone likes flowers.”

“But they’re so boring to catch! They can’t even run away!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll try to come up with something on the way home. How about some wild berries?”

“That’s not very creative. And once mom has eaten them, she’ll have nothing left to remember the gift.”

“A mushroom that looks like a face maybe?”

“How boring!”

Side by side and engrossed in a discussion loud enough to scare away swarms of song birds, father and daughter walked back home, to Diane. By the end of their journey, they had found not a single idea they could agree upon. Diane nevertheless embraced both of them with a smile and a remark of how heavy Ivy was getting.

And as she gave King a casual kiss, he stopped the clocks and held onto this moment forevermore.

#kianeweek #kianeweek2020 #nnt #nanatsu no taizai #nnt fanfiction #my writing #conquest of the past #king #diane #kiane #kiane child #it's all a ploy #cross promotion I guess

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aetherarf · 3 years

Text

About Aobai, God of Promises [OC]

A half beast, half man abomination, he wasn't always considered such a vile creature. Bigger than most men and more cunning than most beasts, he's terrifying, but more honest than most you'd ever meet.

About

Gender: Cis Male Age: ~30 Years Element: Geo Weapon: Catalyst Nation: Liyue Constellation: Bestia Perdita Affiliation: Criminal Underworld

Visual Description

A large man who is taller than most humans, he has tan skin and white hair, with white ears atop his head that appear quite fluffy. His height and width make standing in a doorway awkward, he has large fangs that make closing his mouth entirely difficult. He has a fluffy white tail, but sometimes it appears invisible and a small, dangling charm will hang off of his belt around where his tail would reside. When visible, his tail is fluffy but it appears mangled and bent.

He has strong facial features and he has many scars on his body, his fingertips are covered in small cuts and his nails are more akin to claws due to his inhuman nature. He shares no direct visual relations with any known humanoid species of Teyvat, but has traces of the Kätzlein of Mondstadt, even if he does not appear strictly feline.

Character Details

Teyvat is not a place free of crime, free of those who ignore the law of commonfolk. Most commonly, these people are from a different land, such as how the Fatui are known for breaking even the laws of Snezhnaya, or Treasure Hunters who oftentimes don't even care for basic decency and respect for the past...

But, even those who do not obey common laws must be kept in line, lest they be hunted like wolves. Aobai is the so called God of those who work outside the lines of normality. Having been given the title "God of Promises", he is known as the head of all criminal activity, anything that happens always goes back to him...

Story 1

"The God of Promises goes by no name... And those who do know his name, either have a death wish, or his own blessing."

Few know Aobai by his name, many will see him directly, intimidated by his towering physique, and never learn his name. This is intentional, even if he truly does not have a personal life to shield the world from, even if they seemed determined that he does.

Only a few know his name, and they are counted as his two closest confidants, who advise him in all matters should he seek their advice, or to deal with threats personally...

And the only family he has left. Estranged, they seldom interact with him, but he has the grace to let them remember his name, and should they come calling, he will see to their needs, even if they have not always been kind.

Story 2

The God of Promises is truly not a god, but he is not human, either.

Born as a beast, he was always considered different, but he is unmistakably mortal. Instead, this title was granted to him by the way of Teyvet's Criminal Network.

He is of Liyue, where contracts are commonplace, but when a contract can get you in trouble that could lead to your termination, they're never written... But that does not mean the Criminal world is flippant, non committal to its word.

Instead, each deal must be bound with a promise, a vocal oath to commit. Upon breaking this oath, you forfeit all, your life, your money, your loved ones... A broken promise does not go forgotten.

And, he who had never once broken a promise had found his way to becoming its leader. Its god. He stands by the promises he makes, and always places them carefully... A promise from the God of Promises himself is a damning burden, but a powerful blessing, all in one.

Story 3

Despite looking like a monster, Aobai still has those he considers family.

A single younger sister. The two cannot be more different, she has fluffy ears, and she is quite shy, hiding from the world when he would easily take it on in a show of pride. Even still, she is terrified of him, and he adores her still.

At any chance he can, he tries to prove himself to his fearful sister, who doesn't know if she should trust him, or if their shared father is right, that he is a beast that cannot be tamed... Perhaps he cannot be tamed, but he is not a simple beast who cannot think, who cannot act of his own volition.

Aobai does not care for what he father thinks about him, because his father never wanted him to meet his sister. He would not tolerate Aobai's mother, and when Aobai was all alone, his father only continued to treat him like an outsider.

But he is used to this treatment, and he is determined enough to not let the man control him.

"A father is not the man who shares your blood," Aobai believed, "A father is the man that shows you love in the only way that cannot be broken by time."

Aobai has no father, and by now, no mother... But he adores his sister, even if she is a daddy's girl.

Story 4

Few expect it, but much of the money that flows through Teyvat has always crossed Aobai's watching gaze.

He himself controls much of the money flowing in the Undercity, in the Criminal Side of Teyvat. A sailor on a ship that sails from Inazuma to Snezhnaya to Liyue writes down every little detail, out of sight, out of mind, when his only duty is to move the stock to and fro.

Of course, this sailor does not understand why he does this, but he only gets a nice payment for this information, if he delivers, he is paid, but he never gives the information to the same person twice.

No one knows why Aobai keeps such strict watch over all of the goods carried across Teyvat, but more than once has an anonymous tip told the leads of the nations about a storm that trapped a caravan in a half-sunken cave, when there was no way anyone could have come in or out, and no one could have seen.

It seems Aobai's intense watch over such things has given him an uncanny ability to predict what has, what will, and what is happening.

If he dislikes you, you better hope that he is merciful, but if you are on his good side, expect a few, odd presents to appear in unique ways... perhaps a second dish served with one you ordered, simply from an overstock and needing to be rid of ingredients before they spoil, or an accidental double shipment that cannot be turned back to its original owner...

Or maybe just a pleasant bag of mora left forgotten, without a name in sight, waiting to be picked up.

Story 5

Aobai is called a cruel man, but truly, he is far from it.

He would protect a terrified child from a brutal father, throw himself in the face of danger to save others from a horrible fate, and endure the worst pain the world has to offer to keep order--be it amongst his lackeys, or in the fragile system of the law.

It is not that he wishes to die, far from it, but he is keenly aware of how the world is, and how delicately it hangs in the balance of the rusted, broken hands of Celestia.

A man such as himself could force the balance to sway to and fro, as could Jean or Diluc of Mondstadt, or Ningguang of Liyue. But, when it sways, the world trembles, and the foundations shatter.

It is terrifying, to see such an event come...

And so, he fights to find balance, within himself, and with the world around him.

He cannot undo everything he has done, but even as his duty as the King of the Undercity, he strives to hunt down the worst of crimes, and to keep the innocent souls of the world protected.

He believes, if it was not him in charge, then it would be another without a heart, for to exist in such a role, you must have lost your heart, never had one, or endure agony eternally.

He is always in pain, alone in the world, so it seems fitting.

A fitting punishment for his cursed existence.

Unique Appearance

Aobai is most known for his looks, making his presence known wherever he is, even if it is not exactly by choice. This has given him countless struggles through his life.

Parents, however, don't lend to his odd appearance. His father had come from Springvale, a Kätzlein, many years back, and after a fateful night, met his mother, only to disappear and never return. His mother, by all means, was human, quite petite in size, little more than a waitress at the Liliu Pavilion. But, when he was born, he proved to be far from human.

He was mistreated because of his appearance, and that he grew much slower than most other children, they would oftentimes grab at his tail, ripping at it and more than once there were cruel attempts to cut it off. This lead to the tail becoming mangled, aching in pain every moment, instead of simply being broken and without feeling.

Even as he grew older, more accustomed to the seedy underbelly of Teyvat, any research into his bloodline had gone forgotten. His mother was adopted, and meeting his father proved nothing beyond insisting his Kätzlein blood...

He long since abandoned the search for what he truly is, and where he may belong. All that matters now is his duty to keep Teyvat safe, and in line... After all, there must be a Kingpin, the God of all who only care for themselves, he figures he's as good as anyone else.

Vision

Aobai was determined to make something of himself, despite the way he was despised, and oftentimes feared, by those he dare consider peers. He was terrifying, but that also lead to isolation.

All he had was himself and his mother. He would admit the truth to her, the only person he would dare trust, for she would love him, and understand... After all, she had been there while he had been suffering his entire life, due to his oddities.

Still little more than a young man, he went home, only to find that everything inside had been destroyed, and his own mother was on the ground, motionless--and when he touched her, cold. It took only moments for him to hear the encompassing footsteps, those who had hunted the beast, those who he had called his allies. His comrades.

His friends.

"You knew this was coming, little cub," A voice said, "Just give up. You cant win."

Oh, of course he couldn't. His sensitive ears picked up every little footstep, this had been long coming. He was more powerful than the finest bull, more cunning than the swiftest thief... and more genuine than the youngest child.

And here he was, holding his mother's corpse.

Perhaps he knew he could not win, but despite it, he stood, and bared his fangs, and tensed his claws. And, despite the odds, despite everything, he leapt at the nearest hunter, with all the fury of a beast.

With each surge, and each crush of bones beneath his hands, he felt a power thrumming through his body, how his own body seemed as though it did not understand what it was, a horrifying pain that made his vision flash in and out of a white dreamscape, but when it was not white, it was red with rage.

Eventually, everything, once again, had gone silent, his own body was not his own, and in his hand was... Vision was a generous term.

It appeared to be an eye the color of geo, a jagged pupil and iris, motionless, encased in time.

Holding it close to his body was agonizing, as though it was not where it was meant to be, as though he was holding his heart in his hand, and it was meant to be within. But there was nothing he could do but endure the agony...

And walk outside before the Milleteth had come. They were honest men, and he had no desire to harm them, but too many had been harmed in his inhuman rage.

With a horrific level of self control, he regulated whatever this gift he had been given, and the agony it offered.

Whatever he was, was deeply tied with this gift...

And he didn't care what he was, only for what he could do with it, for Liyue, for Teyvat, and for all those promises he failed to keep.

#genshin impact oc #genshin oc #aobai #barks ocs

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1000scrubs · 3 years

Text

Round 1: Corporeal Dread

Writer Corporeal Dread’s entry for the initial prompts from 2 years ago

Nyfah scowled at the blinking light on her instrument cluster. She knew her calculations had been correct, but something was wrong. Her fuel was running out much faster than predicted, something had to be done to fix it, and it had to be done now. Sighing heavily she stood and made her way to the storage bay and began dragging her remaining provisions and weapons onto the bridge. 

After shoving as many crates as possible into the much smaller room she sealed the doors between the two areas, then, cursing quietly to herself, punched a button on the wall. She flinched as a loud siren began sounding, and the ship began to tremble violently. As the storage bay sheared away from the ship the screeching of metal grinding against metal melded into the cacophony of the blaring siren. Ears ringing, she desperately tried to shut it off. Pressing button after button, and typing commands into the ship’s interface yielded no results, until finally she ripped open a panel in the wall and sliced the cable providing power to the siren. 

Tensely Nyfah returned to her captain’s chair, as she sat, she turned her full attention to the radar and infrared sensor. It showed nothing but a dull blinking light of the storage bay falling away as the ship sped on. She watched as the light slowly disappeared, the abandoned piece of hull no longer in range. She waited another hour, monitoring the fuel gauge to determine if the reduced weight had worked. It seemed she was safe for now, and without the storage bay she would make it to Portunus.

——-

“LHY-825 requesting clearance to dock”. Nyfah’s voice sounded cracked and hoarse after hours of silence. 

The responding voice was cold and bureaucratic,“Noted LHY-825, please wait for confirmation.” 

Portunus was a small planet in one of the spiral “arms” of its galaxy located in the Virgo Supercluster, it was mainly used as a tourist destination and metropolitan hub. The entire outer surface had been converted into docking bays and landing ports, but beneath that, there was an entire multi-level subterranean city that held markets run by all sorts, from every corner of the known universe.The planet was usually visited by billions daily; however that number had dipped recently due to rumours of attacks and violence emerging from the lower levels of the planet. As a result there had been an increase in galactic enforcers and their patrol routes both on and around the planet, to ensure safety for the vendors and tourists. Nyfah knew she would have to be discreet so as to not get caught.

“LHY-825 you are cleared for landing, please proceed to bay 2593.” 

“LHY-825, proceeding to bay 2593.” She put down her transmitter and coasted the ship to her assigned landing bay. As the traction beam began pulling the ship in, she shut off its engines. 

Once her ship had come to a stop she changed into a delivery service uniform. She stretched as she disembarked stiff from sitting for so long then assessed the damage to the ship’s exterior. She breathed a sigh of relief, counting herself lucky that there was only minor external damage where the storage bay had been removed, and that she wouldn’t need to repair it right away. 

Nyfah inspected the fuel tank for external damage, and was annoyed to find an intermittent stream of liquid dripping out of a small bullet hole. She thought she had managed to bypass the galactic enforcer’s checkpoint without incurring damage by doing it in hyperspace, but it would appear otherwise. Knowing it would draw suspicion she glanced around casually, stepped in front of it, jabbed her knife into the hole and wiggled it back and forth.

Once the damage had been sufficiently disguised Nyfah ordered a quick-patch and a fuel refill, then picked up a small crate she had brought from the ship and stepped onto an elevator to the markets. 

——-

After a few moments in the dim elevator, playing quiet relaxing music, the doors slid open and a disorienting wave of noise, colour, and bright lights washed over Nyfah. In every direction neon signs flashed obnoxiously, many of the shop exteriors were overly adorned, trying to attract the highest number of customers possible. 

In all directions vendors shouted; advertising their wares, each trying to outsell the other. In addition to the ambient noise of the tourists shouting to each other to be heard over the vendors, Nyfah could barely hear herself think.

Groups in bizarre outfits bustled around the large open area excitedly motioning to each other. Most of them wore rich, vibrant, expensive fabrics and extravagant jewelry, likely rich tourists ready to spend their wealth. They contrasted harshly with who Nyfah figured were the planet’s inhabitants, visiting from the lower levels. The inhabitants were sparse compared to the densely packed tourists, and wore cheap plain materials in earthy tones.

The Portunians worked mainly to ensure the higher levels were functioning at their best for the tourists, and it was very rare for them to own any of the shops. The people were paid little and taxed by the number of inhabitants per level, causing them to live in perpetual poverty. 

Most of the shop owners had come to Portunus already very wealthy as the shops were also heavily taxed by the planetary government,in addition to the exorbitant annual lease fees. 

It was unlike any environment she had ever experienced before. She hated it, but she knew she was practically invisible here, she sighed feeling conflicted.

The areas around the elevators were large and cavernous. The walls looked like rough stone and dirt at first, but they were coated in a semi-shiny substance, most likely to strengthen them. The coating didn’t help with the awful lights. Tunnels lead off in other directions creating a honeycomb like shape, they were tall and wide and they all led to areas similar to the one side was in, making the markets very hard to navigate. 

Nyfah stepped out of the lift and shook off her stupor. She pulled up directions on her augmented retinal display (ARD) and began making her way through the crowds and kiosks.

Finally she found the shop she was looking for, it had a larger storefront than most of the other permanent shops and had a giant pink neon sign presenting its name, through the window she saw an array of garments, and all manner of showcases with figurines and other decorative artifacts. She stepped under the awning and made her way to the back of the store to the service counter.

She placed the crate on the desk, and said hesitantly “Hello, I’m looking for...Halsir.”

The tall, pink woman behind the counter turned around defensively. “Who’s asking?” 

“I have a rush delivery, the name on the order is Halsir”

Before Nyfah had even finished her sentence the woman was beaming and bouncing on her feet.

“Oh, you’re early! My sweet boy, he’s finally here! I’ve been beside myself” She squealed.

Nyfah, carefully pried the lid off the crate and stepped back.

Halsir gingerly lowered her hands into the box and lifted out a furry creature, it had a long slim neck and limbs, with bird-like feet, and a feline face.

“Hello sweetheart, how was the ride?” 

The creature chittered at the woman, and she turned a concerned gaze on Nyfah.

“He said there was a loud noise that scared him, I hope that you didn’t run into any trouble on the way here!”

Nyfah frowned at the tattletale pet “No ma’am. I had a minor mechanical issue and there was an alarm, it didn’t ring for long.”

The woman’s jovial smile returned to her face and she placed the creature onto the counter. “Wonderful dear, here you are.”

She tossed a small flat square into Nyfah’s outstretched hand and began retreating to the back room.

Nyfah stared at it, her arm still extended. “What am I supposed to do with this?” She asked incredulously “I require the second half of my payment! We agreed half up front and half upon delivery, I’ve kept my end of the deal!”

Halsir turned and smiled at her “Believe me dear, what you’ll find on that is worth much more than I could pay you”

Nyfah rolled her eyes “If it’s worth that much why are you giving it to me instead of what we agreed on?”

“Because!” Halsir walked back over, “I’m far too old and delicate to go treasure hunting. I was given good intel that this treasure is a grail, but none of my customers will buy the map! Anyone who is able to recover the goods will go down in history as the all-time best treasure hunter to ever live, the greatest honour and glory. Also to be honest with you I thought you were just a small-time smuggler, but I saw a poster just the other day and your bounty is quite high. I figured if you were able to find the treasure you could pay off the right people. I needed to get my sweet baby angel…”

Honour and glory? Nyfah’s eyes widened, she had been trying to make a name for herself for years. She was one of the best smugglers in the business; but being a smuggler meant staying under the radar. She wanted to be somebody. Rich, envied, maybe even mystic in reputation. This was an opportunity that could lead to all of that! If it was real…

“Wait, wait, wait,” Nyfah interrupted, “what is this so-called treasure, and how can you guarantee that it is what you say it is and that it will be there?”

“I got the intel from my supplier. He has never lied to me; I know I can trust him. As for what it is, it is an ancient relic said to depict a god so old no-one alive knows the religion it belonged to. Depictions of it were found in some ancient writings though” Halsir paused, trying to remember something.

Nyfah frowned, this whole thing could be some kind of trick.

“I’m going to need collateral” she finally responded, not realizing that Halsir had resumed talking. 

“I understand dear, you mysterious types aren’t very trusting. I’ll just pay you the second half of your fee” 

‘Mysterious types’ Nyfah thought smiling slightly, she paused, “all right, if I do find this treasure, I’ll come back and pay you a finders fee. If it isn’t, you’ll know your supplier is full of it.” 

“Deal.” Halsir handed the outstanding balance to Nyfah. “Good luck my dear.”

“Thanks, maybe I’ll see you later.” Nyfah called back, grinning, as she exited the shop.

——-

Nyfah held the square up to the light as she began the walk back to her ship. The tech was old, almost outdated, but her ship’s interface would be able to read it. As she slipped it into her pocket mulling over where it would lead, she bumped into someone, almost losing her balance.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She glanced up and felt her heart drop when she saw the enforcers patch.

“Stop right there. Show me your identification.” The enforcer’s voice was harsh.

Nyfah pulled out a fake ID and handed it over.

The two enforcers scanned it and one of them handed it back.

“Watch where you’re going. Don’t move.”

“Thank you” Nyfah took her ID and shoved it into her clothes.

She stood motionless, watching the enforcers as they discussed her retrieved data for any indication of suspicion. She noticed a group of tourists walking towards her; as they got close she stealthily swapped hats with one of them and flipped her jacket inside out. What had looked like a delivery uniform on one side became a dusty brown cape reaching almost to her knees, with a large hood. She slid the hood over her head and joined with the tourists, matching their pace and behaviour. She heard the enforcers start to shout to each other and the people around them. They were attempting to stop people in clothing similar to her delivery uniform — luckily they hadn’t seen where she had gone. As the group around her started to stop and turn around, her heart racing, Nyfah began speed walking, following her ARD back to her ship.

She broke out into a run as she turned a corner and got halfway to her ship when she came upon another group of enforcers. As she ran past she heard them say something about a suspicious delivery person. 

Good, she thought. Her disguise was holding. 

“You there!Slow down!” One of the enforcers yelled after her.

Nyfah slipped her hand over the handle of a baton she had hidden in her cloak.

“Yes sir!” She shouted back, and shifted back to a fast walking pace.

She glanced back to see they had returned to their conversation.

She managed to get back to the elevator without getting in any more trouble and breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed and the lift began ascending.

——-

Nyfah felt the dread creep back up her spine as she stepped out of the elevator. An enforcer was inspecting her ship as another stood guard. They must have matched her uniform and description with the security feed to find her ship. She had to find a way to sneak on board.

Calmly walking past her ship, Nyfah set her sights on another craft in the same bay. It was small, barely held together by assembled bits of scrap, and after easily circumventing the door lock she crept quietly inside. She furrowed her brow in disappointment upon finding that the interface was extremely simple and limited; it would not be able to read the chip from Halsir. It was what she had expected from the dilapidated exterior of the ship, but it could still be useful. 

She connected a remote control device to the interface and exited the ship, ensuring to re-secure the door lock. She once again walked past her ship, this time heading back to the elevator, but ducked behind a wall before reaching it. Using her ARD Nyfah powered up the engines of the run-down ship. Once she heard the sound of the door being rammed by the enforcers she made a break for her ship. Once onboard she plopped into her captain's chair and fired her engines at full burn. 

She increased the thrusters and felt the ship lurch and pitch as it tried to get airborne, then it began pulling away from the landing bay. 

“LHY-825 you are not cleared for takeoff! I repeat you are not cleared for takeoff! Land your ship immediately!” The ship’s speakers crackled as though they were trying to properly relay the anger she could hear in the orders.

She smirked and cut communication, there was no way she was following that command.

Narrowly dodging the carefully organized chaos of incoming and outgoing vessels, Nyfah heard Portunus’ emergency response siren start and saw enforcer cruisers closing in on her. Far ahead she saw the Planetary Defense Shields starting to close. Seeing the other ships trying to get out of the way, Nyfah slammed her thrusters to full. Her ship heaved violently and she felt an intense pressure pinning her into her seat. 

The pressure worsened as she careened toward the atmosphere, and as she approached the Defense shield she felt the pressure blossom into pain. It felt as though she may explode, fighting with all her might she lifted her arm to the thruster and pulled it back. As her ship slowed the pressure lightened, and what had been immense pain reduced to a dull ache. She had cleared the shield and was leaving the atmosphere, there was hope yet.

——-

Nyfah had managed to escape into open space, however several of the galactic enforcer cruisers pursuing had managed to get through as well. Luckily they were far behind her as they had not used her aggressive flying tactics. Now that she was free of the atmosphere she redeployed the thrusters to full. 

She took the opportunity to plug the treasure map chip into her ship, then linked up her ARD. A holo map popped up, showing her current location and that of the treasure. She studied the map closely. The ‘god relic’ was in the same galaxy, on a planet close to the centre. It was going to take a while to get there, even travelling through hyperspace. A flashing light accompanied by a steady beeping pulled Nyfah out of her thoughts; someone was trying to hail her on the open communication channel.

She pushed a button to receive the transmission and was greeted by a stern voice “-no authorization for take-off, stop your ship immediately for boarding.”

Nyfah weighed her options before deciding that her best course of action was to enter hyperspace. The galactic enforcers would not be able to follow her without coordinates, they could try to follow her trajectory, but they would have no idea of where she was going or why so none of their estimations would be helpful.

Nyfah smirked as she prepped and engaged the hyperdrive. Once she entered hyperspace, she decided to pull up any relevant information on her destination planet. It was nearly 25,000 light years away from Portunus, and had once been inhabited by a small population of the human species who had tried to prepare it for permanent habitation; however they had withdrawn for an unknown reason. It had been devoid of life ever since. She would not be able to breathe it’s atmosphere, so she made sure she had an exploration suit ready.

The planet was named QRNS-3858, but had been affectionately nicknamed Quirinus by the humans. It had mostly a rocky surface with some large areas of liquid water. It looked like she would be landing at one of the abandoned human colonies.

It had been a millennia since there had been reports of human contact, as they had taken to disguising themselves as other species when on their own and there were rumours that they had hidden civilizations across the universe, but did not like interacting with others. Either way it was unlikely she would run into one.

Nyfah settled in for the long journey ahead.

——-

As she came out of hyperspace she was alarmed to see everything around her ship slowly moving away from her. After a few moments it seemed to have stopped, but she realized that it was because her ship was now a part of whatever was happening. She was slowly being pulled into the direction of Quirinus. As she cautiously increased her speed, Nyfah felt her skin tingling with apprehension.

Suddenly she noticed a thin golden bloom in the distance that was rapidly expanding into a plume. Confused, Nyfah turned on all of her scanners. She felt her blood run cold as she realized that beyond Quirinus at the centre of the galaxy was a supermassive black hole. What had become a glittering cloud in the light of the nearby stars could only be a quasar, a large amount of space dust escaping the huge black hole.

It had now become a race; Nyfah had to get to Quirinus before what had quickly become a massive wave of space dust got to her. To make matters worse, the strange pull she had observed earlier was now seemingly trying to push her away. Gritting her teeth Nyfah diverted all of her power to her engines and maxed her throttle to get her to top speed.

Her ship began to rattle and shake as she approached the huge wave. She was only a few minutes away from reaching Quirinus’ atmosphere, but she wasn’t sure she was going to make it. The wave had spread so that she could no longer see the inky blackness of space. As the dust enveloped the planet, she began to doubt if landing would be any safer than being where she was now. Soon the dust began hitting her ship and, cursing, Nyfah quickly diverted some power to her shields. Silent warnings and flashing lights began popping up, and she knew her ship wouldn’t be able to last much more of the beating it was receiving. Her shields were failing when she made it to the atmosphere, but she had made it. She greatly reduced her speed as she approached the planet’s surface.

Nyfah pulled up the map again, and followed the location tag to colony 4. She landed her ship and pulled on her exploration suit. She began disembarking and grunting with effort, heaved the exterior door open. Little bits of debris that had been trapped in the seams of the door clattered to the ground, bouncing off her helmet and shoulders as she stepped out. Checking the damage; she found all of the paint was stripped clean off, and there were gouges where larger rocks had cleaved into the ship. She shivered considering what would have happened if she had been in the storm a few minutes longer. There were scorch marks covering most of the surface, and the damage was especially bad around the area where she had removed the storage bay. She would probably be able to leave Quirinus without any major issues, but it was going to take some work.

She looked up to see the dust storm had created a fiery rain as everything entering the atmosphere burned up. Luckily most of it was completely incinerated before reaching the ground, but every now and then a palm sized rock would smack into the ground. Nyfah began her search wary of the celestial menacing.

——-

Several dwellings later, to her excitement, Nyfah came across a large locked box that matched the image on the holo-map. She broke the lock and pried open the box.

She felt adrenaline surge through her like electricity as she reached in and pulled out the relic. It was beautiful, intricate and delicate looking. She was surprised it had lasted this long. It appeared to be a small statuette depicting a red haired warrior holding a jewelled sword, resting in its sheath, at his right hip. His short hair, blue headscarf and tattered red lined cape billowed in an invisible wind. Glittering blue armour rested on top of a blue and white tunic with gold adornments. He stood atop what looked like a golden coin in red and brown boots, blue knee armour adorning wide, flared white boot coverings. A small clear cube encased the relic attached to a stiff paper backing with an enlarged picture of the little god on a background of green.

In the top right was an intricate symbol, one of the characters matching the symbol on the coin the god was standing on except it was on fire. The bottom right hand corner had a friendly looking symbol with three brightly coloured squares on each side. In a darker green than the background beneath the picture of the warrior there were three large characters, most likely depicting his name, R O Y.

Nyfah wasn’t sure what it said, but she would be able to cross reference it with the writings Halsir had mentioned. She made her way back to her ship in a state of bliss, she had found the treasure.

——-

Who: An alien being pursued by the government What: looking for a Roy amiibo waiting to be opened When: in an impending tsunami zone/area Where: in the first inhabitable planet outside this solar system Why: for the fame and glory

#5w story #short story #round 1 #placeholder tag 4 #placeholder tag 5 #corporeal dread #sci fi #space adventure

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cassianus · 3 years

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The Hidden Life and Epiphany by St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross

When the gentle light of the advent candles begins to shine in the dark days of December a mysterious light in a mysterious darkness it awakens in us the consoling thought that the divine light, the Holy Spirit, has never ceased to illumine the darkness of the fallen world. He has remained faithful to his creation, regardless of all the infidelity of creatures. And if the darkness would not allow itself to be penetrated by the heavenly light, there were nevertheless some places always predisposed for it to blaze.

A ray from this light fell into the hearts of our original parents even during the judgment to which they were subjected. This was an illuminating ray that awakened in them the knowledge of their guilt, an enkindling ray that made them burn with fiery remorse, purifying and cleansing, and made them sensitive to the gentle light of the star of hope, which shone for them in the words of promise of the "protoevangelium," the original gospel.

As were the hearts of the first human beings, so down through the ages again and again human hearts have been struck by the divine ray. Hidden from the whole world, it illuminated and irradiated them, let the hard, encrusted, misshapen matter of these hearts soften, and then with the tender hand of an artist formed them anew into the image of God. Seen by no human eye, this is how living building blocks were and are formed and brought together into a Church first of all invisible. However, the visible Church grows out of this invisible one in ever new, divine deeds and revelations which shed their light ever new epiphanies. The silent working of the Holy Spirit in the depths of the soul made the patriarchs into friends of God. However, when they came to the point of allowing themselves to be used as his pliant instruments, he established them in an external visible efficacy as bearers of historical development, and awakened from among them his chosen people. Therefore, Moses, too, was educated quietly and then sent as the leader and lawgiver.

Not everyone whom God uses as an instrument must be prepared in this way. People may also be instruments of God without their knowledge and even against their will, possibly even people who neither externally nor interiorly belong to the church. They would then be used like the hammer or chisel of the artist, or like a knife with which the vine-dresser prunes the vines. For those who belong to the church, outer membership can also temporally precede interior, in fact can be materially significant for it (as when someone without faith is baptized and then comes to faith through the public life in the church). But it finally comes down to the interior life; formation moves from the inner to the outer. The deeper a soul is bound to God, the more completely surrendered to grace, the stronger will be its influence on the form of the church. Conversely, the more an era is engulfed in the night of sin and estrangement from God the more it needs souls united to God. And God does not permit a deficiency. The greatest figures of prophecy and sanctity step forth out of the darkest night. But for the most part the formative stream of the mystical life remains invisible. Certainly the decisive turning points in world history are substantially co-determined by souls whom no history book ever mentions. And we will only find out about those souls to whom we owe the decisive turning points in our personal lives on the day when all that is hidden is revealed.

Because hidden souls do not live in isolation, but are a part of the living nexus and have a position in a great divine order, we speak of an invisible church. Their impact and affinity can remain hidden from themselves and others for their entire earthly lives. But it is also possible for some of this to become visible in the external world. This is how it was with the persons and events intertwined in the mystery of the Incarnation. Mary and Joseph, Zechariah and Elizabeth, the shepherds and the kings, Simeon and Anna all of these had behind them a solitary life with God and were prepared for their special tasks before they found themselves together in those awesome encounters and events and, in retrospect, could understand how the paths left behind led to this climax. Their astounded adoration in the presence of these great deeds of God is expressed in the songs of praise that have come down to us.

In the people who are gathered around the manger, we have a analogy for the church and its development. Representatives of the old royal dynasties to whom the savior of the world was promised and representatives of faithful people constitute the relationship between the Old and the New Covenants. The kings from the far-away East indicate the Gentiles for whom salvation is to come from Judea. So here there is already "the Church made up of Jews and Gentiles." The kings at the manger represent seekers from all lands and peoples. Grace led them before they ever belonged to the external church. There lived in them a pure longing for truth that did not stop at the boundaries of native doctrines and traditions. Because God is truth and because he wants to be found by those who seek him with their whole hearts, sooner or later the star had to appear to show these wise men the way to truth. And so they now stand before the Incarnate Truth, bow down and worship it, and place their crowns at its feet, because all the treasures of the world are but a little dust compared to it.

And the kings have a special meaning for us, too. Even though we already belonged to the external church, an interior impulse nevertheless drove us out of the circle of inherited viewpoints and conventions. We knew God, but we felt that he desired to be sought and found by us in a new way. Therefore we wanted to open ourselves and sought for a star to show us the right way. And it arose for us in the grace of vocation. We followed it and found the divine infant. He stretched out his hands for our gifts. He wanted the pure gold of a heart detached from all earthly goods; the myrrh of a renunciation of all the happiness of this world in exchange for participation in the life and suffering of Jesus; the frankincense of a will that surrenders itself and strains upward to lose itself in the divine will. In return for these gifts, the divine Child gave us himself.

But this admirable exchange was not a one-time event. It fills our entire lives. After the solemn hour of bridal surrender, there followed the everyday life of observance in the Order. We had to "return to our own country," but "taking another way" and escorted by the new light that had blazed up for us at those solemn places. The new light commands us to search anew. "God lets himself be sought," says St. Augustine, "to let himself be found. He lets himself be found to be sought again." After each great hour of grace, it is as if we were but beginning now to understand our vocation. Therefore an interior need prompts us to renew our vows repeatedly. That we do so on the feast of the three kings whose pilgrimage and affirmation are for us a symbol for our lives has a deep meaning. To each authentic, heartfelt renewal of vows, the divine Child responds with renewed acceptance and a deeper union. And this means a new, hidden operation of grace in our souls. Perhaps it is revealed in an epiphany, the work of God becoming visible in our external behavior and activity noticed by those around us. But perhaps it also bears fruit that, though observed, conceals from all eyes the mysterious source from which its vital juices pour.

Today we live again in a time that urgently needs to be renewed at the hidden springs of God- fearing souls. Many people, too, place their last hope in these hidden springs of salvation. This is a serious warning cry: Surrender without reservation to the Lord who has called us. This is required of us so that the face of the earth may be renewed. In faithful trust, we must abandon our souls to the sovereignty of the Holy Spirit. It is not necessary that we experience the epiphany in our lives. We may live in the confident certainty that what the Spirit of God secretly effects in us bears its fruits in the kingdom of God. We will see them in eternity.

So this is how we want to bring our gifts to the Lord: We lay them in the hands of the Mother of God. This first Saturday is particularly dedicated to her honor, and nothing can give her most pure heart greater joy than an ever deeper surrender to the Divine Heart. Furthermore, she will certainly have no more urgent petition for the Child in the manger than the one for holy priests and a richly blessed priestly ministry. And this is the petition today's Saturday for priests bids us make and which our Holy Mother has enjoined on us so compellingly as an essential constituent of our vocation to Carmel.

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basicsofislam · 4 years

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ISLAM 101: Muslim Culture and Character: Embracing The World:

EDUCATION FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE

Introduction

The main duty and purpose of human life is to seek understanding. The effort of doing so, known as education, is a perfecting process though which we earn, in the spiritual, intellectual, and physical dimensions of their beings, the rank appointed for us as the perfect pattern of creation. At birth, the outset of the earthly phase of our journey from the world of spirits to eternity, we are wholly impotent and needy. By contrast, most animals come into the world as if matured or perfected beforehand. Within a few hours or days or months, they learn everything necessary for their survival, as well as how to relate to their environment and with other creatures. For example, sparrows or bees acquire maturity and all the physical and social skills they need within about twenty days; we need twenty years or more to acquire a comparable level of maturity.

We are born helpless as well as ignorant of the laws of life and must cry out to get the help we need. After a year or so, we can stand on our feet and walk a little. When we are about fifteen, we are expected to have understood the difference between good and evil, the beneficial and the harmful. However, it will take us our whole lives to acquire intellectual and spiritual perfection. Our principal duty in life is to acquire perfection and purity in our thinking, conceptions, and belief. By fulfilling our duty of servanthood to the Creator, Nourisher, and Protector, and by penetrating the mystery of creation through our potentials and faculties, we seek to attain to the rank of true humanity and become worthy of a blissful, eternal life in another, exalted world.

Our humanity is directly proportional to our emotions’ purity. Although those who are full of bad feelings and whose souls are influenced by egoism look like human beings, whether they really are human is doubtful. Almost everyone can train their bodies, but few can educate their minds and feelings. The former training produces strong bodies, while the latter produces spiritual people.

Our Innate Faculties and Education

Since the time of Ibn Miskawayh, human faculties or “drives” have been dealt with in three categories: reason, anger, and lust. Reason encompasses all of our powers of conception, imagination, calculation, memory, learning, and so on. Anger covers our power of self-defense, which Islamic jurisprudence defines as that needed to defend our faith and religion, sanity, possessions, life and family, and other sacred values. Lust is the name for the driving force of our animal appetites:Decked out for humanity is the passionate love of desires for the opposite sex and offspring; for hoarded treasures of gold and silver; for branded horses, cattle, and plantations; and for all kinds of worldly things (3:14).

These drives are found in other creatures. However, whether in their desires, intelligence, or determination to defend life and territory, these drives are limited in all creatures but humanity. Each of us is uniquely endowed with free will and the consequent obligation to discipline our powers. This struggle for discipline determines our humanity. In combination with each other and with circumstances, our faculties often are expressed through jealousy, hatred, enmity, hypocrisy, and show. They also need to be disciplined.

We are not only composed of body and mind. Each of us has a spirit that needs satisfaction. Without this, we cannot find true happiness and perfection. Spiritual satisfaction is possible only through knowledge of God and belief in Him. Confined within the physical world, our own particular carnal self, time, and place can be experienced as a dungeon. We can escape it through belief and regular worship, and by refraining from extremes while using our faculties or powers. We must not seek to annul our drives, but to use our free will to contain and purify them, to channel and direct them toward virtue. For example, we are not expected to eliminate lust, but to satisfy it lawfully through reproduction. Happiness lies in confining our lust to the lawful bounds of decency and chastity, not in engaging in debauchery and dissipation.

Similarly, jealousy can be channeled into emulation free of rancor, which inspires us to emulate those who excel in goodness and good deeds. Applying the proper discipline to our reason results in the acquisition of knowledge, and ultimately of understanding or wisdom. Purifying and training anger leads to courage and forbearance. Disciplining our passion and desire develops our chastity.

If every virtue is thought of as the center of a circle, and any movement away from the center as a vice, the vice becomes greater as we move further away from the center. Every virtue therefore has innumerable vices, since there is only one center in a circle but an infinite number of points around it. It is irrelevant in which direction the deviation occurs, for deviation from the center, in whatever direction, is a vice.

There are two extremes related to each moral virtue: deficiency or excess. The two extremes connected with wisdom are stupidity and cunning. For courage they are cowardice and rashness, and for chastity they are lethargy and uncontrolled lust. So a person’s perfection, the ultimate purpose of our existence, lies in maintaining a condition of balance and moderation between the two extremes relating to every virtue. ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib is reported to have said:

“God has characterized angels by intellect without sexual desire, passion, and anger, and animals with anger and desire without intellect. He exalted humanity by bestowing upon them all of these qualities. Accordingly, if a person’s intellect dominates his or her desire and ferocity, he or she rises to a station above that of angels, because this station is attained by a human being in spite of the existence of obstacles that do not vex angels.

“Improving a community is possible only by elevating the young generations to the rank of humanity, not by obliterating the bad ones. Unless a seed composed of religion, tradition, and historical consciousness is germinated throughout the country, new evil elements will appear and grow in the place of each eradicated bad one.”

The Real Meaning and Value of Education

Education through learning and a commendable way of life is a sublime duty that manifests the Divine Name Rabb (Upbringer and Sustainer). By fulfilling it, we attain the rank of true humanity and become a beneficial element of society.

Education is vital for both societies and individuals. First, our humanity is directly proportional to our emotions’ purity. Although those who are full of bad feelings and whose souls are influenced by egoism look like human beings, whether they really are so is questionable. Almost anyone can be successful in physical training, but few can educate their minds and feelings. Second, improving a community is possible by elevating the coming generations to the rank of humanity, not by obliterating the bad ones. Unless the seeds of religion, traditional values, and historical consciousness germinate throughout the country, new bad elements will inevitably grow up in the place of every bad element that has been eradicated.

A nation’s future depends on its youth. Any people who want to secure their future should apply as much energy to raising their children as they devote to other issues. A nation that fails its youth, that abandons them to foreign cultural influences, jeopardizes their identity and is subject to cultural and political weakness.

The reasons for the vices observed in today’s generation, as well as the incompetence of some administrators and other nation-wide troubles, lie in the prevailing conditions and ruling elite of 25 years ago. Likewise, those who are charged with educating today’s young people will be responsible for the vices and virtues that will appear in another 25 years. Those who wish to predict a nation’s future can do so correctly by taking a full account of the education and upbringing given to its young people. “Real” life is possible only through knowledge. Thus, those who neglect learning and teaching should be counted as “dead” even though they are living, for we were created to learn and communicate to others what we have learned.

Right decisions depend on having a sound mind and being capable of sound thought. Science and knowledge illuminate and develop the mind. For this reason, a mind deprived of science and knowledge cannot reach right decisions, is always exposed to deception, and is subject to being misled.

We are only truly human if we learn, teach, and inspire others. It is difficult to regard those who are ignorant and without desire to learn as truly human. It is also questionable whether learned people who do not renew and reform themselves in order to set an example for others are truly human. Status and merit acquired through knowledge and science are higher and more lasting than those obtained through other means.

Given the great importance of learning and teaching, we must determine what is to be learned and taught, and when and how to do so. Although knowledge is a value in itself, the purpose of learning is to make knowledge a guide in life and illuminate the road to human betterment. Thus, any knowledge not appropriated for the self is a burden to the learner, and a science that does not direct one toward sublime goals is a deception.

But knowledge acquired for a right purpose is an inexhaustible source of blessings for the learner. Those who possess such a source are always sought by people, like a source of fresh water, and lead people to the good. Knowledge limited to empty theories and unabsorbed pieces of learning, which arouses suspicions in minds and darkens hearts, is a “heap of garbage” around which desperate and confused souls flounder. Therefore, science and knowledge should seek to uncover humanity’s nature and creation’s mysteries. Any knowledge, even “scientific,” is true only if it sheds light on the mysteries of human nature and the dark areas of existence.

Family, School, and Environment

People who want to guarantee their future cannot be indifferent how their children are being educated. The family, school, environment, and mass media should cooperate to ensure the desired result. Opposing tendencies among these vital institutions will subject young people to contradictory influences that will distract them and dissipate their energy. In particular, the mass media should contribute to young people’s education by following the education policy approved by the community. The school must be as perfect as possible with respect to curriculum, its teachers’ scientific and moral standards of teachers, and its physical conditions. A family must provide the necessary warmth and quality of atmosphere in which the children are raised.

In the early centuries of Islam, minds, hearts, and souls strove to understand that which the Lord of the heavens and the Earth approves. Each conversation, discussion, correspondence, and event was directed to that end. As a result, whoever could do so imbibed the right values and spirit from the surrounding environment. It was as if everything was a teacher to prepare the individual’s mind and soul and develop his or her capacity to attain a high level in Islamic sciences. The first school in which we receive the necessary education to be perfected is the home.

The home is vital to raising of a healthy generation and ensuring a healthy social system or structure. This responsibility continues throughout life. The impressions we receive from our family cannot be deleted later in life. Furthermore, the family’s control over the child at home, with respect to other siblings and toys, continues at school, with respect to the child’s friends, books, and places visited. Parents must feed their children’s minds with knowledge and science before their minds become engaged in useless things, for souls without truth and knowledge are fields in which evil thoughts are cultivated and grown.

Children can receive a good education at home only if there is a healthy family life. Thus marriage should be undertaken to form a healthy family life and so contribute to the permanence of one’s nation in particular, and of the human population in general. Peace, happiness, and security at home is the mutual accord between the spouses in thought, morals, and belief. Couples who decide to marry should know each other very well and consider purity of feelings, chastity, morality, and virtue rather than wealth and physical charm. Children’s mischief and impudence reflect the atmosphere in which they are being raised. A dysfunctional family life increasingly reflects upon the child’s spirit, and therefore upon society.

In the family, elders should treat those younger than them with compassion, and the young should show respect for their elders. Parents should love and respect each other, and treat their children with compassion and due consideration of their feelings. They must treat each child justly and not discriminate among them. If parents encourage their children to develop their abilities and be useful to themselves and the community, they have given the nation a strong new pillar. If they do not cultivate the proper feelings in their children, they release scorpions into the community.

The School and the Teacher

A school may be considered a laboratory that offers an elixir that can prevent or heal the ills of life. Those who have the knowledge and wisdom to prepare and administer it are the teachers.

A school is a place of learning about everything related to this life and the next. It can shed light on vital ideas and events, and enable its students to understand their natural and human environment. It also can quickly open the way to unveiling the meaning of things and events, thereby leading a student to wholeness of thought and contemplation. In essence, a school is a kind of place of worship whose “holy people” are teachers.

Real teachers sow the pure seed and preserve it. They occupy themselves with what is good and wholesome, and lead and guide the children in life and whatever events they encounter. For a school to be a true institution of education, students first should be equipped with an ideal, a love of their language and how to use it most effectively, good morals, and perennial human values. Their social identity must be built on these foundations.

Education is different from teaching. Most people can teach, but only a very few can educate. Communities composed of individuals devoid of a sublime ideal, good manners, and human values are like rude individuals who have no loyalty in friendship or consistency in enmity. Those who trust such people are always disappointed, and those who depend upon them are sooner or later left without support. The best way of equipping one with such values is a sound religious education.

A community’s survival depends on idealism and good morals, as well as on reaching the necessary level in scientific and technological progress. For this reason, trades and crafts should be taught beginning at least in the elementary level. A good school is not a building where only theoretical information is given, but an institution or a laboratory where students are prepared for life.

Patience is of great importance in education. Educating people is the most sacred, but also the most difficult, task in life. In addition to setting a good personal example, teachers should be patient enough to obtain the desired result. They should know their students very well, and address their intellects and their hearts, spirits, and feelings. The best way to educate people is to show a special concern for every individual, not forgetting that each individual is a different “world.”

School provides its pupils with the possibilities of continuous reading, and speaks even when it is silent. Because of this, although it seems to occupy only one phase of life, school actually dominates all times and events. For the rest of their lives, pupils re-enact what they learned at school and derive continuous influence therefrom. Teachers should know how to find a way to the student’s heart and leave indelible imprints upon his or her mind. They should test the information to be passed on to students by refining their own minds and the prisms of their hearts. A good lesson is one that does more than provide pupils with useful information or skills; it should elevate them into the presence of the unknown. This enables the students to acquire a penetrating vision into the reality of things, and to see each event as a sign of the unseen world.

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everyaccentthesame · 4 years

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What is it to be a Dragon?

(This post contains some musings I’ve written to give me mental inspiration for a ‘Tyranny of Dragons’ campaign I plan to run. I wanted to get into the head of a Dragon, and understand what would be required to compel such a being.)

What is it to be a Dragon? To the two-legged smallfolk that cower in fear or desperately flee from the winged behemoths, terrors of the skies, dragons might as well be gods. Many have fallen to worship such beasts- Dragon cults, entire religions dedicated to one or more of these incredible creatures have sprung up across the ages. It has been remarked by many sages and observers, not least among the Dragonkind themselves, that should they so choose, Dragons could claim dominion of the lands, natural lords of the material plane. That they do not is something every mortal should be thankful for. Dragons make for terrible kings. Why they do not requires a deeper understanding of their nature.

What is it to be a Dragon? Imagine, if you will, being entirely self-sufficient. On your own, through the strength of your talons and the terrifying assault of your breath, you can provide yourself with any food you need, relying on no-one. Your thick hide protects you from the elements. Your wings give you mastery of the air, no far-off land or ocean is barred to you. Spears break against your skin, armour melts, swords shatter, men die when you exhale. The natural world is yours, no mortal creature, barring your own kin, can match you, can claim mastery over you. Imagine all this power, all this freedom. Imagine it not being enough.

What is it to be a Dragon? All Dragons hoard. Even the ones that the smallfolk mistake for being ‘good’. Some hoard wealth, great mountains of it. Some hoard knowledge, guarding grand repositories of it jealously. Some hoard history, hiding away ancient relics of great significance. Some hoard magic. Some hoard friends. Some hoard subjects. Some hoard slaves. How each Dragon hoards is unique. Some common trends appear based on the Dragon’s hue, but there is no clear rule. One might favour coins minted in a certain kingdom. One might like scholars trained in the art of combat. Another might favour the paintings of a certain artist and her apprentices. One thing is clear however- Dragons hoard what others create. They desire what beautiful things mortals create, because in truth, Dragons can only create one thing of any significance. Destruction.

What is it to be a Dragon? All Dragons are alone. A Dragon is fiercely independent, and indeed, they can supply all their base needs on their own. But this has another consequence. Save for those rare incidences where a Dragon might cohabitate with a chosen mate, Dragons are intensely solitary creatures. There is good reason for this, unlike more fragile creatures, Dragons do not need the support of a community to survive. Indeed, the only real threat to an individual Dragon, are other Dragons. This is an oversimplification of course- many things can kill a Dragon, and many things have. But from a Dragons perspective, such creatures are usually easily avoided, lacking powerful Draconic wings, or if the Dragon misjudges the capability of a foe, easily fled from. When a Dragon does die to a mortal or monster, others of its kind view this as an aberration- that creature must have suffered from some flaw that they did not. Weakness, stupidity, slowness- the arrogant draconic minds dismiss any possibility that they might share these traits with the deceased. The only thing a Dragon fears are other Dragons.

What is it to be a Dragon? By default, Dragons are Atheists, by the D&D definition of the word. They know that the Gods exist, they just don’t respect them. A Dragon has no need for prayer, or divine intervention. The Dragons don’t need the Gods, and usually the Gods can’t affect them, residing in planes far from the prime material, so the Dragons simply ignore them. This does, however leave us with a question: If the Dragons do not worship the divine, why are there gods of Dragonkind? Tiamat and Bahumut, alongside other, more obscure deities, claim to be gods of the draconic pantheon, yet few Dragons indeed worship them, and such Deities have turned to the mortal races as their emissaries and agents in the world. Dragons respect the strength of the Draconic gods, as they would the strength of another drake, but long ago abandoned them, when their Empire fell in a millennia long war. It is telling, perhaps, that the Dragons were the ones to abandon their gods, rather than the other way round.

What is it to be a Dragon? Dragons are proud. They exult in their raw physical and magical power over others. A Dragon might destroy a townhouse with a beat of its wings because it wishes to demonstrate that it can. Another might incinerate a Forest because it enjoys the thermals that such an activity creates. A Dragon might dominate a town because it enjoys the terrified mewling of the subservient folk or save a town from a marauding group of monsters because it desires their applause and adulation. Many ‘benevolent’ Dragons, even metallics, act as they do not due to any moral compulsion, but because they enjoy the praise that is heaped upon them for their acts. Some Dragons even seek to gain worshippers, believing that it is only right that they, the most powerful and deserving of beings, receive treatment normally reserved only for gods.

What is it to be a Dragon? Dragons possess within them the spark of the divine. Most never realize this, and never cultivate it, but under the right circumstances, these creatures can enter the ranks of the gods. Most famously in Toril, Tchazzar ascended to become a god-like entity, ruling over a city state and with designs upon a nation. Perhaps the draconic gods are just particularly powerful examples of their kind, and this, perhaps is why Dragons don’t worship them. A dragon does not seek to submit itself to another, it seeks to rule.

What is it to be a Dragon? Dragons do not share power. A Dragon is not content to exist in a subservient state. They seek to either be left alone, or to rule. When Draconic empires have existed, Dragons have competed for power and influence, acknowledging no-one among themselves as King or Queen. Unable to rule over each other without significant risk (a dragon that appears subservient is merely waiting for a moment to strike and claim its authority), Dragons that wish to rule, rule over humanoids.

What is it to be a Dragon? Dragons are smart. Some act as if they are little more than beasts, it is true, but such creatures typically do so by choice, spurning what they view as the ‘pathetic trappings of civilisations’ and embracing their feral side- the barbarians of dragonkind. They are smart enough to recognize their shortcomings as a species- though they rarely reflect on how they can apply to this analysis to themselves. Instead they have developed ways of working with other members of species without risking conflict. Ancient games that simulate conflict, such as the Xorvintaal, allow dragons to use the lives of others in games of intrigue and open warfare to settle disputes, without coming into open conflict themselves.

What is it to be a Dragon? Dragons have life-spans far longer than most humanoids, exceeding even that of the elves. The lives of most creatures appear short and inconsequential to them. When dealing with smallfolk Dragons tend to focus more on lineages or organisations than individuals, which become replaced so easily. It takes an exceptional humanoid to be remembered as an individual by a Dragon, much less respected. Dragons slumber for long-periods, guarding their hoards for many years as their bodies and abilities grow and develop, letting the rise and fall of nations and empires pass them by. A Dragon might not care for the individuals of a local township or city, but care deeply for the place itself, even if only for the entertainment and treasure it provides it. A Dragon may come to know a human family well, as it treats with successive generations of individuals, even if it fails to really distinguish the different family members from one another.

What is it to be a Dragon? Dragons are vulnerable. Dragons are the arrogant lords of the world. They are beings of blistering power and fury. They cannot create, but they can influence the rise and fall of nations, they can compel others to craft great works in their names. Yet for every Dragon of legend, there seems to be a Dragon slayer. A Dragon might be mighty, might be arrogant, but they know these legends too. And they fear death. So, a smart Dragon avoids causing undue trouble, and ensures its subjects or neighbours, while kept fearful of it, do not feel unduly burdened by its presence. Similarly, they avoid provoking more powerful Dragons, and may even make displays of respect or subservience to them. There is no true hierarchy amongst Dragons, but they do respect strength, and theoretically a might Drake, godlike in power, or even a god brought to the mortal plane, could compel them to serve, if only through fear.

It would take an exceptional humanoid to gain a Dragons respect. Think then, on what it would take for one to gain a Dragon’s service. Bribery, perhaps, could work, for a time. Magical compulsion is always an option, though risky- dragons have a ‘legendary resistance’ to spells such as Dominate Monster. Gaining a Dragon’s fear is perhaps the most difficult, and most reliable option then. Consider the Cult of the Dragon. Consider their leader. What could they have done to gain the allegiance of so many great drakes? What power could they wield? What wealth do they command? What promises have they made, and which can they keep?

What sort of being could a Dragon fear?

#tyranny of dragons #dragon #dragons #d&d #dnd #d&d5e #dnd5e #tiamat #the rise of tiamat #hoard of the dragon queen #everyaccentthesame

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melissawyatt · 5 years

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Answering the Critics of Tarsem Singh’s The Fall

(Previously appeared on my old tumblr. Reposting revised version by request:) A couple of years ago, I fell head-over-heels in love. With a movie. Specifically visionary director Tarsem Singh’s 2006 labor of love, The Fall. The first time I watched it, I was swept away by the visuals but confused by the story itself. Was it good? I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I sat down to watch it again and this time, I realized that it was a film told in the language of symbols. Once my brain unlocked that, the film absolutely blew me away. It rocketed to the top of my favorites list, which is saying something considering my top ten hasn’t changed in about twenty years and most of the films on it are more than sixty years old. I hadn’t been so transported by a modern film in years.

Not only that, but it has changed the way I view my role as a writer and storyteller, a quantum shift. (I’ll write more about that in another post later.) Needing to connect with the opinions of others, I searched out reviews on-line and was staggered by how poorly this film had been received by mainstream industry critics. At the time, it had only a 59% aggregate rating on Rotten Tomatoes (the rating has since climbed to 61% but only because some negative reviews have been deleted,) ranking it significantly below such cinematic treasures as Talladega Nights and Jackass: Number Two.

So I began to carefully read the negative industry reviews in an effort to understand what it was that the people paid to professionally understand film did not, in fact, understand about this particular film. And what I discovered was this: they are Philistines. Yeah, I’m sorry, but they are. There’s something very wrong when people who make a living watching movies almost willfully misunderstand a film that is all about understanding, provided you have a basic grasp of the universal language of symbolism and metaphor and creative narrative structure. And you would think a film critic would have something of a nodding acquaintance with those things.

What follows is my defense of the film against the most often-cited issues raised in those reviews. If you haven’t seen the film, this won’t make much sense. If you have and didn’t like it, maybe it will inspire you to try again. In any case, spoilers abound.

What you have to understand about this film first and foremost is that it is a testament to the power of storytelling. You can’t go in expecting realism--even the sort of realism that often grounds fairy tales and fantasies. You know why? Because stories aren’t really real. They’re how we help ourselves understand reality by turning it on its head in a space removed from ourselves where we can safely examine it.

So we know this is a story about stories. We also know that stories function through the language of symbolism and metaphor. This is how storytellers connect their own thoughts and feelings to those of their audience through shared experiences. I can tell you that a man is like an oak tree and you will understand that I don’t literally mean this man is an oak tree. But because, like me, you have also seen an oak tree, you will instantly have a feeling about this man that I want you to have. That is the language of story.

The best stories add to this a language of their own and require the audience to learn that language in order to participate in the story. This film is such a story and one of the criticisms stems from those who were either deaf to that language, weren’t aware that they were expected to pay attention to it, or were too impatient to do so. These are the critics who found the film to be “empty eye candy” when, in fact, it speaks a rich, symbolic language.

It’s not a difficult or obscure language and the storyteller (director Tarsem Singh) helps you to understand, if you are willing to participate. And because there is a theme here of shared storytelling, it is right that you should. The storyteller even tells you so with the defining lines of this film: “It’s my story,” the hero says. And the heroine counters “Mine, too.” It is a compliment he is paying you as well as a hearkening back to the very roots of story: the audience is part of the story.

In film, the storyteller makes use of images, visuals that help him connect the intent of his story with his audience. But that still requires willing participation. It still requires that you understand the language not just of words but of the things that he will show you.

So the director uses the camera in many different ways to direct you to see what he wants you to see and feel what he wants you to feel. In this film, our director/storyteller uses his camera as an open door into his vision. But he does not abandon you in this world of his. He stays with you, telling you what to notice. He even tells you he understands that you will not get all of it by making his heroine someone who barely understands the language around her. Like her, you will learn. But you have to listen to him and you have to remember.

Perhaps most importantly, you have to step away from the conventions of more realistic films and back into that language of story. Because in the real world and films that try so hard to ape it, randomness occurs regularly. But in symbolic story, nothing is random. Everything is important. And so it is, here.

Because we are in the hands of a virtuoso visualist, the wealth of symbolism contained in this film can be overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the images. That is a valid criticism but it’s what we call a high-class problem with a simple solution: watch it again.

At heart, this is a love story, but it is also a passionate love letter to storytelling. We are told this right up front, when our heroine Alexandria writes a love note. But love does not always lead us where we intend and like a butterfly, her note flutters through an open window and into unexpected hands.

Alexandria’s love note will appear again throughout the film, a reminder of its strength and power. And we will see her take up her crayons again later, as she literally tries to draw the hero out of his unhappiness. There is power in her creative expressions as there is power in story.

But back to those opening scenes. Everything is important and a potential symbol, and that includes Alexandria’s seemingly uninteresting costume. Notice that she wears a gray sweater and because her left arm is in a cast, one arm of her sweater hangs down. What does that remind you of? Maybe nothing just yet but keep paying attention.

When she meets Roy, the accidental recipient of her love note, she shows him her box of treasures and the first thing he draws out of the box is a small elephant. While elephants are universal symbols of good luck (you knew this, I hope), they are particularly so in India, where they are identified with water, of the greatest importance in a hot, dry climate. Water is the stuff of life. The Hindu god Ganesha is represented with the head of an elephant. He is the remover of obstacles.

As Roy begins to tell Alexandria his “epic tale of love and revenge,” he has stranded his characters on a desert island, a hot, dry place surrounded by water. (Deserts figure largely in this movie. The first shot we see in color after the black and white title sequence is a palm tree, indicating an oasis in a desert.) But the hero of Roy’s story, the Masked Bandit cannot swim and must be rescued by an elephant.

And so we have Alexandria, the baby elephant with her gray sweater sleeve trunk and her stubbornness, which we will see later. Obstacles do not get in her way. Alexandria arrives to save Roy from his desert island of despair.

See how easy this is once you think about it for a minute? And it’s all there, presented to you like the treasure box Alexandria carries. You only have to care enough to root through it and see what’s inside.

Let’s try another one: butterflies. Because they change from their earthbound caterpillar form to winged creatures of the air, butterflies are symbols of the soul. In the classical myth of Cupid and Psyche, Psyche is often symbolically connected with butterflies and her name is the Greek word for soul.

And this film is full of butterflies. One of the most often mentioned sequences is the transition from the iridescent blue butterfly to the Butterfly Reef where the bandits are stranded. But that is so much more than merely a cleverly beautiful camera trick. It’s deeply symbolic. Butterflies everywhere. Souls everywhere. Souls in peril.

Because that is what’s at stake here. Later on, it will be said outright, but for now, the storyteller is building intricate layers of symbolism so that when he comes out and tells you “Here is a soul in need of saving,” it will have the added depth of meaning and connection that art brings to life. By asking you to participate in “collecting” these symbols, the storyteller places his story into your hands through your shared understanding. You and the storyteller are collaborating. At that moment, it becomes yours as well as his.

But we’re not done with the butterflies. When the villain of the piece, Governor Odious, presents a rare butterfly to Darwin (one of the company of bandits), the butterfly is stabbed through the heart, and we learn that Roy’s heart has been stabbed through in much the same way.

Darwin himself wears an outrageous fur coat. Considered more carefully, the pattern of “eyes” on his coat mimics the defense mechanisms of certain butterflies.Later on, when Nurse Evelyn appears in the epic, she wears a gasp-worthy costume that again, can overwhelm with its artistry so that you might miss its symbolic importance. The fan-like screen of her headdress resembles a butterfly, and Darwin even gives voice to this. “Just like a butterfly,” he says.

But she is only “like” a butterfly. She is faithless, without a soul. Even in the “real world” hospital sequences, her caring is only superficial. The clue to this is when she can’t be bothered to retrieve Alexandria’s note when it goes astray.

When Alexandria stands before the bathroom mirror, she draws a butterfly on her belly rather than putting the lipstick on her cheeks as Nurse Evelyn did earlier, identifying with the soul rather than transient human vanity. (That scene is framed to perfectly reference the vanitas motif in classical paintings.)

Oranges are another heavily used symbol. Oranges are loaded with vitamin C. Vitamin C promotes healing. Oranges are delivered by the crate-load to the hospital, this place of healing, surrounded by orange groves, where Roy and Alexandria have come to recover from their falls. Other patients are seen consuming the oranges but never Roy because Roy is not healing. Alexandria, already associated with bright and hopeful things like butterflies and elephants, is such an exuberant messenger of healing that she throws oranges about. She has herself emerged from the very groves where oranges grow.

Let’s move on to another problem some critics had with the film.Other films have employed the conceit of having a real world frame story where one character tells another a story that takes place in a fantasy world. If you go into this movie thinking “Oh, this is going to be like The Princess Bride (or some similar film),” you will be confused. You might think that the epic sequences don’t make sense. That the epic doesn’t stand alone as its own story. That the epic, in fact, is not a very good epic.And you’d be right. But you would also be missing the point. The epic isn’t meant to be its own story. It isn’t meant to make sense. It isn’t meant to be—well—an epic. At first, it is just a bunch of nonsense this unhappy man is pulling out of the air to entertain this little girl. From Roy’s perspective, it begins as an idle diversion, develops into a manipulative tool and ends as a warped and dangerous weapon.

What you need to remember is that Roy is not a storyteller. He is a broken, desperate man. Physically and psychologically wounded, in pain and clouded by morphine, he strings together seemingly random elements from his “college man” background. His words grow into the vivid, sweeping images, colored by Alexandria’s imagination and her own experiences. The inside lid of her treasure box is the handbill of her imagination.That is what sets the structure of this film apart from those with which it is most often compared. The real world story and the epic are inextricably linked. They inform on each other. The epic reflects what is going on in Roy’s battered mind. As he falls apart, so does the epic.

Another frequent criticism is the five bandits and their lack of development as individual characters. This is an outgrowth of not understanding the role of the epic in the larger story and that the five bandits are not individual characters but instead represent different aspects of Roy’s fractured psyche.

Without realizing he is doing it, Roy reveals a great deal about himself through them.First, there is the Masked Bandit, who is of course the dashing hero Roy wishes he could be, who he tried to be. It’s a fantasy he can’t sustain when later in the epic and in the real world, Alexandria puts him too firmly in the position of hero and the Masked Bandit crumbles.

Then we have the Indian who has lost the only woman he has ever loved and has vowed never to look at another woman again. The Indian represents Roy’s broken heart.

Next is Luigi, the explosives expert, who represents Roy’s suicidal tendencies, which ultimately prove to be impotent. Note that Luigi’s bombs never go off until the end, when he still does not achieve the release Roy sought through suicide.

Otta Benga, the escaped slave, is Roy’s desire to escape the physical bondage of his disability. He loses his brother, his other half, in the way that Roy considers himself, as a paraplegic, half a man.

And then there’s Darwin. Darwin is Roy’s calmer intellect, his kindness and ironically, his spirituality. Among the bandits, he is the only one without a weapon. He stops Luigi from blowing open the door of the castle with a more thoughtful solution. He is the one to invoke God when the Masked Bandit attempts to execute Evelyn. And he is the one, through the Mystic (who represents Alexandria), to warn that swallowing the morphine tablets was a mistake. He is Roy’s voice of reason and he is the first to go when Roy starts killing off the bandits. In his final desperation, Roy must silence that voice. Darwin is the side of Roy we care about, the Roy we hope will win in the end.

So no, the bandits are not developed as individual characters because they are not individual characters. Like the epic itself, their function is to help you understand Roy.

The film takes the storytelling conceit to another level by allowing Alexandria to alter the epic. She is no passive listener or static receiver of story. She participates. She exerts her own influence over the story, at first in small ways and without understanding the significance, such as stating that she doesn’t like pirate stories and so Roy turns it into a story about bandits (inadvertently supplying him with a term and concept he uses later for his own purposes. “Be a good bandit.” Steal for me.) Or when she pushes for romance and kissing when Roy, heartbroken and betrayed, doesn’t want them. And going so far as to change the main character from her father (who she informs Roy—in the poignantly matter-of-fact way of children—is dead) to Roy, with whom she has fallen in love. Roy becomes her hero, though he is so wrapped up in his own misery, he misses the significance of this moment until it is too late.

Later on, when the story takes a turn that is too dark for her, Alexandria alters it in the most dramatic way, by inserting herself into it. At first, she makes a heroic effort—even so far as dressing herself in her imagination in the same costume as her hero—and it seems as though she might succeed. But even this stubborn little Ganesha is powerless when Roy succumbs to the three real morphine tablets he has swallowed (along with the placebos.) She can’t waken him and she must walk away.

This is where the epic shifts from the idea of shared storytelling to a battleground where the two of them fight for control of the ending. After her second fall, when Alexandria pushes Roy to finish the epic, he turns it into a weapon, using it to strike out at her and make her understand why he feels he needs to die, to kill the hero image of him he has unwittingly helped build in her mind. Her influence has become so strong, he is aware that she can alter not only the story he has been spinning for her but his own choices. He tries to silence her. In the epic, she is gagged and in the hospital, he speaks over the things she tries to tell him. But she has also become aware of the true nature of the epic and what is really at stake and she will not give up. Note here that the tables have been turned and it is Alexandria in the bed and Roy in a chair by her side, the storyteller roles reversed.

And that is what this film is telling you. We connect with each other through story and story can be more powerful than we can guess. There is a great responsibility we take on when we invite people into our stories, regardless of our agenda. Roy did not begin his epic believing or even hoping that Alexandria would save him by changing the course of his own story. But that was the unpredictable risk he took by letting her in.

Is it a perfect film? Of course not. There is no such thing as any perfect work of art. But you don’t look at the Mona Lisa and say “The perspective of the background on the left does not match the perspective of the background on the right. This thing is crap!” No. Why? Because you are transported by the creative power of the rest of it. And maybe you are even a little touched by its flaws. Perfection is achieved by machines. Flaws are human. Humanity is who we are, and that is beautiful.

So some of the writing is clunky, some of the supporting performances awkward, and something is a bit off in the climactic sequence. The most troubling problem is that of Roy’s motivation. The reason for his great despair is not established well enough to support the ultimate resolution. But I believe these flaws are born out of the creative passion of the storyteller, and I will take flawed, risk-taking passion over carefully calculated flatness or a string of polished CGI tropes any day. Beyond the justly celebrated dazzling imagery of this film, what it gets right is loving, generous, and human. It is a rare and unusual combination of flamboyance and bombast alongside tender intimacy. It is a love note in astoundingly beautiful gibberish that will reward you over and over if you take the time to learn its language.

#the fall #the fall movie #the fall 2008 #tarsem singh the fall #lee pace #tarsem singh #the fall 2006

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