#this is not meant tombe discouraging

[williamafton2030]

My opinion on Mimic and its implementation in lore

The Mimic is no longer a mystery to anyone so I'm just going to talk about who he is because everyone must know who he is (even more so when in a few months the anniversary of the boom that hit his revelation in Tales from the Pizzaplex with the story that bears the same name, The Mimic). Rather, I am going to focus on telling my personal experience with his introduction to the fandom and how he went from being a character I hated to being one of my favorite characters.

First I have to say that I was quite surprised by this plot twist because I did not follow Tales from the Pizzaplex and I had no idea what the stories were in them (this made me venture much later than this plot twist to read the history of GGY and knowing why they said that Gregory was Patient 46, but that is another story. The fact is that it was one day when I was even calmer that I came across a video that states that neither Glitchtrap nor Burntrap are William and explains his true identity and what the history of this new character is. I was very stunned because I could not believe that William was not one of these 2 characters when they had been apparently saying yes for years and I became discouraged and quite upset with this horrible retcon (or at least at the time I thought it was)

I went weeks without barely touching anything from Fnaf until the Ruin trailer premiered. I loved this trailer either for the entire horror setting it presented or for the Vanny Mask that brought us a great concept such as the VANNI network that I adore to this day. So what did I do? Well, I gave it a chance and I started to get interested in reading the Tales from the Pizzaplex stories or at least the two related to Mimic (The Storyteller and The Mimic)

I adored every bit of these stories and my hatred for Mimic, which had been very strong at the beginning, diminished considerably when I saw the potential he had as a villain and understood that it had not been a retcon. I understood that Scott had had this Help Wanted character in mind and the creation of Glitchtrap because the tears and drool he had proved it, in addition to his imitation of Tape Girl when we first entered the game, greeting us with that distorted voice. And of course because the scene of the tombs on the death screen finally made sense to me because William was dead, but his tomb represented in the center with that texture indicated to us that Mimic was imitating him and that he had him in the center like a king (This interpretation is not mine because several channels talk about it on YouTube but this scene finally made sense to me)

Another thing that changed my mind about Mimic when reading his story is realizing that he wasn't just a poor imitation of William for no reason other than killing people by imitating him. But Mimic for me is not only that and what seemed to be an empty character for me became a being who has an internal struggle due to the duality that exists in him where he wants to make friends but at the same time destroys and ends everything. the one he crosses paths with. In addition, it came "to life" so to speak since in the room of papers and drawings in the Pizzaplex we can find messages like "I can feel it." Although there was also the sadistic part like Glitchtrap and the part that hates being bothered as it is in the message "This is my home, leave"

All this made my affection for him notable but it wasn't until Ruin where I loved him even more (although poor Cassie didn't deserve it for everything she went through). I honestly loved that he appeared imitating Gregory's voice lines from Security breach like "The stupid door is not open." That seemed very macabre to me because it meant that Mimic spent the entire game watching what Gregory was doing, but at the same time I loved it.

The only thing that left me with a bittersweet taste was its introduction to the lore because they could have done better by giving more clues that we were indeed facing a new villain and it was not William Afton returning from the dead again. But for everything else Mimic is amazing and I really love its concept.

I sincerely hope that in future Steel Wool games they bring him back because I think he is a great villain and a great concept that gives a fresh air to the franchise.

Finally, I would like to point out that you should always give things a chance, even if you are not very excited about them because you may find things in them that you will end up loving. And above all, it is true that having Fnaf books is very expensive and not everyone can afford it, but you can read the stories or at least summaries, but above all the stories that you will not regret.

And this has been my personal opinion of the character of The Mimic. I have to clarify that this is my personal opinion and that if you don't have the same opinion as me, that's okay too since we each have our own opinions, all of which are equally valid.

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf mimic #fnaf security breach #fnaf tales from the pizzaplex #fnaf ruin #I need Mimic in more games #I love the concept and story of Mimic and I regret not having read its story from the beginning #but in the end I gave it a chance and I don't regret them at all #opinion about character

[specialagentartemis]

Okay I'm gonna be brave and admit I don't know in public so I'll see when/if you answer. What's the truth about taking noses off statues?

Genuinely: thank you for asking! There's no shame in believing something confident-sounding but wrong; the only shame is turning around and insisting that what you learned on tumblr is the truth and The Experts thus must be lying to you. Which is the opposite of what you're doing!

The thing about archaeologists taking noses off ancient Egyptian statues is so popular because it sounds reasonable. The noses of these statues were deliberately chiselled off; and 19th-20th century archaeologists did have a habit of refusing to believe that Black and Native American people in particular could have made such dramatic monuments in ancient times.

However, that's just not what's going on here.

Ancient Egyptians had a well-documented history of iconoclasm - the destruction of images in order to destroy their power. It was not an uncommon phenomenon for Ancient Egyptian pharaohs to destroy images and inscriptions of their predecessors in order to erase previous rulers' power and cement their own power. Thutmose III destroyed images of, and had stonemasons chisel out the name of, his aunt Hatshepsut to try to erase history of her rule to bolster his own; Tutankhamun and his successors defaced images of Akenaten and removed his name from king lists. Statues and images were widely considered to have an element of the spirit of the thing it depicted; that's why you get clay statuettes of servants in pharaoh's tombs. Thus, destroying an image meant disrupting the spirit of the thing it embodied.

A recent investigation into the missing noses on Ancient Egyptian statues suggests that this is exactly what happened. The statues were "killed" by Ancient Egyptian successors or upstarts removing the power of their predecessors and emphasizing their own legitimacy to rule.

In the 1st-10th centuries AD, Christian and Muslim people in successive power in Egypt did another round of destroying statues as pagan idols.

The Great Sphinx, the most famous Ancient Egyptian statue missing its nose, lost its nose long before archaeologists arrived (it was already depicted without its nose decades before Napoleon showed up in Egypt!) An archaeological investigation of the tools used to destroy the nose suggests 3rd-10th century AD. One Muslim historian from the 1400s wrote that in the 1300s a Sufi Muslim ruler destroyed the Sphinx's nose to discourage its worship by locals. Whether this is true is still not actually known.

But the fact that iconoclasm has a long, long political history in Egypt means that these noses were broken off long before archaeologists got there, and it's part of the history of those statues that archaeologists study - it wasn't done by archaeologists to hide the history.

#asks #linguini17 #archaeology #Ancient Egypt #genuinely thank you for asking and it IS brave to admit you don't know something and want to know more

[dalishious]

The Chantry vs. the Qunari

The Chantry and the Qunari are two large opposing forces in Thedas. At a surface level, it is easy to look at the Chantry as “good” and the Qunari as “bad”, when the player’s experience with each respective group differs greatly. Most NPC interactions are with Chantry followers. A great many codex entries are written from a Chantry perspective. There have been two major antagonists part of the Qunari—the Arishok and Viddasala—whereas the only Chantry-aligned major antagonist thus far in the games is Meredith Stannard; a character who the player may instead chose to support, until the very end when she has clearly lost her mind. However, a deeper examination of these organizations shows how hypocritical such bias is.

The Chant of Light and the Qun

This piece is not about the Chant of Light or the Qun’s teachings, but rather the religiopolitical organizations built around following them. How these organizations act though, is influenced in the mainstream interpretation of these beliefs. 

The Chant of Light is an account of and collection of teachings from Andraste, who is worshiped as the martyred prophet and mortal bride of the Maker. The Maker is worshipped as the supreme deity who created all, but abandoned the world due to mankind’s sin of breaching and defiling his heavenly Golden City. This event is also believed to be what started the Blight. The Chant of Light was originally a collection of songs in Ancient Tevene, translated to Ciriane (the now dead language of Orlais,) and then translated to the currently spoken languages of Thedas. In addition to these translations, Canticles have been added and removed by different authors over the ages. The canonical Chant of Light as of 9:40 Dragon is very different from its original version. What is shared of the Chant is not meant to be questioned or debated. When Leliana shared what she thought the Chant of Light was about, she was shunned by her fellow Sisters for an interpretation not aligned with what the Chantry strictly taught.

The Qun is a collection of teachings from Ashkaari Koslun, a philosopher who is not worshiped, but honoured as the founder of the Qun. Koslun sought a philosophic answer to society’s inequalities and unhappiness, and through travel, isolation and meditation, wrote the Tomb of Koslun. These teachings revolve around mastery of self and achieving worldly balance, and dictate all aspects of life to theoretically create a perfect society. It is unknown if the Qun has undergone any revisions through the ages. Though the original handwritten Tomb of Koslun still exists, it was stolen by Orlesians in the Storm Age, and depending on the worldstate, may still not be in the Qunari’s possession.

Neither the Chant of Light nor the Qun is an instruction manual for all the negative ways the Chantry and the Qunari use them for. The teachings themselves are not what makes these organizations corrupt, but how they chose to interpret them. The Qun in particular is written in a form of metaphorical, philosophical poetry that could be analyzed in many different ways. Unfortunately, the way the Chantry and the Qunari interpret the Chant of Light and the Qun is influenced by politics.

Iron Bull says that most followers of the Qun never know the entirety of it. They are only taught the parts that are relevant to their role in Qunari society, so it is only the priests who know the “whole picture”.  As said above, the Chantry has made many revisions to the Chant of Light over the years, crafting it as they want it to be known by declaring verses like the Canticle of Shartan dissonant. When asked about Shartan’s existence in the Chant of Light, priests will either lie, saying he never existed, or they themselves do not even know. Both the Qunari and the Chantry do more than discourage other interpretation of their religious texts, they restrict what is shared of them.

Political Control

The Qun teaches that society is like a single entity, and therefore must be guided in its entirety. It is a directive for all aspects of Qunari life, including political structures and decisions governed by the Salasari, AKA the Triumvirate. The Arishok heads the military, the Ariqun heads the priesthood, and the Arigena heads the labourers and essentially the general populace. The Salasari see to it that the Qun remains law, and the Ben Hassrath act as police to enforce this law. Brutally, when considered necessary.

The Nations of Thedas all have their own government systems, yes. However, Chantry law supersedes these systems, and the Chantry will go above the ruling of a Nation’s leader, should they feel inclined. This can be on a small scale, such as when the Templars attempted to arrest Anders, despite King Alistair or Queen Anora supporting his freedom among the Grey Wardens. It can also be on as large a scale as when the Divine ordered the Templars to attack the city of Kirkwall, because Viscount Perrin Threnhold was charging high fees from Orlesian ships entering the city’s harbour. This ended with Threnhold forcefully removed from office and arrested by Meredith Stannard, and the Chantry chose Marlow Dumar to be the new Viscount. Meredith was quick to threaten him not to disobey her, unless he wished to end up like Threnhold. As in the case of Kirkwall, the Chantry will go even as far as replacing a city state’s leader to maintain the real seat of power. How is such an action any different from how control is maintained under the Qun?

Gender & Race Discrimination

There are also parallels to draw between the Qunari’s belief that gender determines a person’s ability to perform a job and capability of leading, and the Chantry’s same belief.

The Qunari categorize each job as either a male, female or mixed job. However, mixed jobs are far and few between, with roles within those mixed jobs often being separated by a gender binary. This includes the Triumvirate, where the Arigena may only ever be a woman, the Arishok may only ever be a man, and the Ariqun is the only leader that could be either male or female.

The Chantry believes that women are the superior gender, and therefore men in the Chantry have a limit on positions open to them. At the top of the hierarchy is the Divine, who may only ever be a woman. (The Imperial Chantry of Tevinter believes and restricts the same, but with men as the superior gender.) The Chantry goes one step further in this, preaching that humans are the superior race. Non-humans are disallowed and from officially joining the Chantry (and yet, at the same time, still want them to follow it). At least the Qunari do not discriminate based on race this way. Race does not play a part in role determination.

Fear of Magic

The Qunari preach fear and loathing of magic, believing it can never be truly controlled. They refer to mages as saarebas, meaning “dangerous thing”, and treat them with horrific cruelty. Saarebas have their lips sewn together by a tamassran, bound in chains by an ashkaari, are given a mask that covers their eyes, and kept either on leashes like animals or fitted with a control rod held by their designated arvaarad. These control rods overtake their autonomy, akin to golem control rods, and appear to also cause great pain. When not used, saarebas are kept in pens like animals. Foreign mages that the Qunari capture are immediately rendered a mindless labourers using qamek (further detailed below).

The Chantry likewise preaches that magic is a curse to be hated and feared. They have their own prison system for mages in the form of the Circle of Magi, where mages suffer every form of abuse imaginable. As the arvaarad act as wardens of saarebas, templars act as wardens of Circle mages. The Chantry also has their own method of removing a mage’s autonomy, with the Rite of Tranquility (further detailed below). 

There is no true victory in arguing what is the lesser of two evils; to be a mage under the Chantry or under the Qunari’s control. Instead, both should be acknowledged as cruel and at least in part politically motivated. Mages are, after all, powerful weapons used in war by both sides. Because while open about their hatred of it, both the Chantry and the Qunari also see magic as useful.

Slave Labour

When the Qunari are unable to “re-educate” someone, because they are rebellious or because they are a foreign mage, they resort to a poisonous substance only they possess. This poison, called qamek, renders the victim essentially mindless, which they see as “freeing people otherwise beyond redemption.” These people, known as viddath-bas, are then put to hard, menial labour.

When Circle mages are deemed too dangerous or too weak—the criteria for such up to interpretation and abuse by the Templar Order—the Rite of Tranquility is used to strip mages both their magic and all emotions. This renders them malleable servants to the Circle, where they, just like qamek victims, are used to perform menial labour, and tasks like crafting and selling enchanted items for the Circle’s income. Both qamek victims and the tranquil lack the will to do anything aside from their set task, acting much like zombies. Both qamek and the Rite of Tranquility have been compared to lobotomies, with victims losing their mental capacity. This is taken advantage of by each respective system using qamek victims and the tranquil as essentially, slaves.

Conquest

Andrastians believe that if everyone follows the Chant of Light, the Maker will return to the world and bring about a utopia. Qunari believe that if everyone follows the Qun, this will create a utopia themselves. Both organizations have turned to conquest to force this onto Thedas.

When the Qunari first came to the main continent of Thedas, they did so with the goal of violently assimilating everyone into the Qun. Almost the entirety of both the Steel and Storm Ages were defined by the war between Thedas and the new invaders. At the height of Qunari occupation, they held control over nearly all of Northern Thedas, and driving them out took the combined efforts of the Chantry and Imperial Chantry. This war nearly drained every Nation’s resources to the brink of collapse, while the Qunari took the decimation of their ships and military without flinching. But when the Chantry turned to massacring the civilian Rivaini population, the Qunari withdrew. The peace treaty known as the Llomerryn Accords was signed by all save for Tevinter, who continue to battle the Qunari over the island of Seheron. Still in the Dragon Age, the Qunari are hated and feared across Thedas, considered to be a bigger threat than the Darkspawn by all save for the dwarves. Even those of the qunari race (as in the descendants of the kossith), but not followers of the Qun, are treated with animosity. And yet, the only difference between these actions by the Qunari and the actions of the Chantry, is that the Chantry succeeded.

The Chantry did not gain its followers through peace and friendship. It spread by brutal force, just like the Qunari tried to do. Kordillus Drakon founded the Chantry as part of creating the Orlesian Empire, and believed it was his divine duty to unite all of Thedas under the Chant of Light. The Chantry conquered their way through Thedas, murdering anyone who would not submit to Drakon’s version of Andrastianism. In doing so, they crushed almost all worship of the Old Gods, the Alamarri and Ciriane deities, and the Elven Creators. While there are some groups such as the Avvar, Chasind and the Dalish who still practice their ancestral beliefs, they do so against Chantry law, and exist as minorities on the fringes of society. The one and only above ground nation in Thedas that holds strongly to their ancestral beliefs is Rivain. The sheer astronomical size of this takeover outweighs even the real life spread of Christianity. The Chantry has just as much as blood on their hands as the Qunari do from spreading their religion, if not more.

Hypocrisy

The Chantry views the Qunari as heathen monsters, and the Qunari view the Chantry as archaic fools. This is despite there being far more similar between the Chantry and Qunari than different. Both chose to interpret their texts how it best suits their whims. Both exert political control using their religious beliefs and influence to do so. Both have unequal gender rights. Both spread hostility towards mages, while at the same time use mages as weapons at their disposal. Both create and maintain their own source of slave labour. And both have torn Thedas to pieces in the name of their beliefs. While both systems have different positives, there are almost no negative impacts not shared between them.

The Chantry and the Qunari are not so different, and that is not a compliment.

Sources

Dragon Age: The World of Thedas volume 1

Dragon Age: The World of Thedas volume 2

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights – Three Trees to Midnight

Dragon Age: Those Who Speak

Dragon Age Short Story: Paper and Steel

Codex entry: The Avvars (DA:O)

Codex entry: The Qun (DA:2)

Codex entry: History of Kirkwall: Chapter 4 (DA:2)

Codex entry: Viscount Marlowe Dumar (DA:2)

Codex entry: The Llomerryn Accords (DA:2)

Quest: Bound in Blood and Magic (DA:O)

Quest: Freedom for Anders (DA:O - Awakening)

Quest: Shepherding Wolves (DA:2)

Quest: Dissent (DA:2)

Dialogue with Leliana about her beliefs in Andraste and the Chant (DA:O)

Dialogue with Sten about mages under the Qun (DA:O)

Dialogue between Sten and Zevran about elves under the Qun (DA:O)

Dialogue with Leliana about the Chantry’s history of mage hatred (DA:I)

Dialogue with Mother Giselle about Chantry hierarchy (DA:I)

Dialogue between Iron Bull and Varric about knowledge of the Qun (DA:I)

Dialogue between an elf and a Chantry sister at Haven about Shartan (DA:I)

Dragon Age: Origins Tome of Knowledge – Qunari

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#dragon age #the chantry #qunari #chant of light #qun #da lore #meta

[redjennies]

i'm not trying to #discourse, but it's kind of frustrating that this is clearly only bc they took out the rest of the tomb takers. like as a DM i get that you want to balance the fight (and this just reinforces my feeling that lucien is a way easier takedown than they've been worried about) but i'd also want to reward their creativity (esp for a group historically bad at planning haha)

(this was in response to my annoyance last night with Lucien running away. again.)

yeah idk. I don't DM often and i have never in my life had to balance things at such a high level so I'm not really judging Matt for trying to make things still difficult after they nearly won. like a lot of the time I try not to criticize Matt's choices because I don't do what he does. but there have been more than a few moments where the set up with Lucien was obviously meant to discourage the party from engaging in combat and there's really only so many times you can pull that move before I start getting a little ";/ okay." like Lucien is always at the end of a hallway after a lot of draining combat encounters. Lucien is always interrupting long rests because the party has two clerics. like Obann got away a lot but it always felt more like it was because he and his party were a challenge not because the stage was set for yet another tense conversation about his goals. like I said I'm not judging Matt too harshly or anything, but it is something that if I were playing, I'd start getting weary of.

but I'm extremely biased because villains who constantly hold the heroes at gun point and monologue a lot are just going to get on my every last nerve. you get one (1) creepy monologue about how you're going to recreate the world in your image during a tense stand off for flavor. try to take any more than that and somebody better put an ax through this motherfucker's face. but on the other hand, i can see where a group of voice actors would like the roleplay aspect of constantly trying to get through to a potential Molly influence left inside and I really liked the character development of Beau telling Caleb to stand down. I just personally find Lucien tedious af at this point.

#cr spoilers #asks #the drama #(it's been a minute since i used that tag. new followers who dont like d*sc**rse should blacklist it.)

[camarilla-intuition]

Locked Tomb Daemon AU concept notes.

I’m leaving old concepts in these notes but crossed out, since I considered a couple options for each character. Contains only spoilers for Gideon the ninth, not Harrow. that will be a seperate post some other time!

Gideon: Lion? Strawberry tiger? Eagle? Bearded vulture for its bone Eatin. Big, gold and red, wants sun and space and freedom, Feral ish. He/him. Settles sometime in the normal puberty range, never thinks about it to much, because what is there to think about. but his settling does relate to their internal decision that they gotta get out of the Ninth for the second. Just as vocal with other people as Gideon is, which is odd to other houses where sometimes daemons just don’t address other humans.

Harrow: Cotton mouth? Weasel? Horned sea snake, something that doesn’t know what the sun can do for it, salt water, venomous, slow on land, faster in the water which they don’t know, also wears bone paint. Weird intense eyes. She/her. Spends most of her time coiled around Harrows neck. I might draw a little comic about her settling later? idk but its serious spoilers. She for sure settled early

Ianthe: oriental mini kingfisher? Small, Colorful, easily hidden? Blue headed hummingbird? Grey or Pied Butcherbird, Duller colors, surprising violence, corvid, song bird, makes symbolic sense out of her stabbing Nabs through. She/her

Coronabeth: bird of paradise or golden pheasant, he/him, constantly strutting into room ahead of her, grooming hair and other twos feathers in private. 

Naberius: Peahen Demoiselle crane? She’s Spurred and capable of fighting. Viewed as a matching set to the girls, iridescent feathers on neck. Less attention grabbing. Than Coronabeth but still pretty n vain.

Palamedes: wears a moth pin deceptively, long tailed weasel, stoat? Something with clever hands. She/her

Camilla: fisher cat, otter? Monitor lizard or Frill necked lizard? Also wears a moth pin. He/him

Abigail: ram, he/him,  

Magnus: mastiff or leonberger dog

Jeannemary: unsettled, Likes being a mimic of others based on the admiration she feels in certain scenes. he/him

Isaac: unsettled for most of book, likes being a hooved animal like Abigails, lots of pack species associated with fourth house. He/him. Settles into something maybe after the murder? uncertain. maybe beagle?

Judith: pony or working horse?

Marta: German Shepard? Gold retriever? Lots of practical working animals in second house

Dulcinea: Orchid mantis

Protesilaus: small Copper butterfly

These are stereotypical for seventh house. Easily mimic-able by Cytherea(will detail in harrow spoiler separate post)

Silas: a leech or tick spider monkey, douc, mangabey, White washed or albino. Freely handles colum’s daemon during soul siphoning. Not vise versa till right at the end maybe?

Colum: lab rat, spaniel type smaller dog?

Ortus: a shy Bull

Aiglamene: one eyed Horned Owl

Crux: a Shaggy Wolf or Coyote

World difference notes:

I’m not following the daemon gender=the gender of your romantic inclinations thing, just going with the feel of the daemons character.

Teacher and other first house constructs just don’t have daemons

People don’t bother identifying their animal species much, there are still the obvious, dogs are dogs and they have meanings like loyalty and companionship, but to most houses the difference between a wolf, a hyena, or a husky seem mostly behavioral that’s relegated to the individuals personality.... the exception is the 6th house who maintain a general knowledge of animal species and symbology of pre resurrection humanity to some extent.

Pal and Cam’s moth pins are not meant to last to long as far as tricks go, but do double as a kind of poker face, giving them a chance to read into the others daemons before people can see theirs. Also pretty common on 6th, where it’s not inappropriate or anything, but also discouraged to blatantly flaunt your daemon.

Sometimes its rumored that if you please God, he’ll tell you all about what your daemon Means. (this is where most of the 6th accounts come from).

There are stereotypes of daemons for each house, second is the most diverse but you’d see a lot of working animals, big ones are less a problem to daily life here than in some of the houses colonies. Third is known for ostentatious, haughty forms to match haughty peoples. Fourth, a lot of pack/schooling/family group animals. Fifth a lot of domesticated types. 6th seems to stay small with less fur or feather, more scales or other. Seventh is bugs, pretty ones esp. Eighth idk but i keep picturing paler colors. Ninth known for big sturdy things or guard dog types from its Cavs, and creepy crawlies from its Necros.

Rumors are that each house has some way to control the types they’ll settle into but its largely false. Eighth and Sixth probably get the most of it.

Dust is not a term used here probably died with Earth or fell out of fashion. Thanergy and Thalergy still the working terms, Sin is less of a prevalent theme, I’m thinking maybe they see Settling as a small death process?

#Gideon the Ninth #locked tomb trilogy #some sketches #long post #read more #Daemon Au #seperated into a list section of just characters with what daemon they'd get #in my opinion at least! #and a world ideas section towards the end #couldn't get this outa my brain so here it is everyone

[pamphletstoinspire]

Before Advent Begins, Prepare Your Heart for a Prayerful Season

The world continues its rush toward commercialization and materialism. It’s the glut with which we are all familiar: Christmas, according to secularist views, begins the day after Halloween now and involves all that glitters. 

Where does that leave those of us who are parched for the Living and Triune God? It’s one thing to acknowledge that we don’t have to participate in the world’s celebration of the holidays, but it’s altogether another when we put it into practice.

This year, I’d like to invite you to focus on one commitment as we begin another liturgical year: prayer. I have selected four weekly Advent themes below, along with a brief reflection, to breathe new life into how we think about prayer and how we can move through the short season in simple but practical ways.

First Week: Silence

“The silence of the crib, the silence of Nazareth, the silence of the Cross, and the silence of the sealed tomb are one. The silences of Jesus are silences of poverty, humility, self-sacrifice, and abasement; it is the bottomless abyss of his kenosis, his self-emptying.”

Robert Cardinal Sarah, The Power of Silence: Against the Dictatorship of Noise, 100.

We begin with silence, because God exists there. He speaks to us in the quiet moments, in the recesses of our hearts. All around us, and perhaps even within us, we encounter chaos and confusion. Advent beckons us to listen, to return to the Source of all we are and all we have.

When we take this week to meditate in silence and upon the silence of Nazareth through Calvary, we will learn a great deal about who we are meant to become – without pretense or fanfare, without verbosity or busyness. The invitation this week is of self-emptying as an offering to the Christ-Child we will welcome anew into our hearts and lives soon.

Second Week: Hope

“If you seek a spark, you will find it in the ashes.”

—Elie Wiesel, quoted in Miriam Greenspan, Healing Through the Dark Emotions, 156.

If we look to the world, we will be filled with its hopelessness. Even for those of us who try to remain faithful to God, it is not unusual to find ourselves feeling discouraged and emotionally deflated. Where do we find our hope in such dark times? Our lives are filled with uncertainties and upheaval.

We discover the light in that tiny spark of hope by digging for it relentlessly in the daily mess. All that is lost and burnt out – the ashes – still carry something new, a way out or a way in, a promise. That is the gift of Advent, that we await the promises that arise out of the ashes.

Third Week: Peace

“Give us peace with Thee, peace with men, peace with ourselves. And free us from all fear.”

Dag Hammarskjold

If we truly want to acquire interior peace, we must begin with freeing ourselves from all attachments to that which leads us away from God. The tiny infant Jesus who saved us, first by choosing to be born a human, is the only One to whom we should turn when we are crippled by fear and consumed with worry.

When we are free from fear, there is space within us to be at peace with whatever transpires in our lives. And we need not have answers, only tranquility to live with and in the midst of the questions.

Fourth Week: Joy

“Two of the greatest joys experienced are the joy of being different from others and the joy of being the same as others.”

Henri Nouwen, Our Greatest Gift: A Meditation on Dying and Caring, 21. As we near the end of preparing for our Savior’s birth, the anticipation of welcoming Him grows each day. We learn that every ending bears upon it something new. Often, it is the old thing that takes on a new form. But sometimes, even in any sort of loss or death, God surprises us. Perhaps this Christmas, God wishes to surprise you with an unexpected blessing or answered prayer.

Rejoice that your life is yours alone, yet you are still One with Him and His Mystical Body, the Church.

BY: JEANNIE EWING

#advent

[shy-marker-pliers]

illinois x reader soulmate au (pt. 1)

tagging: @lamiasluck and @parental-tendencies

Everyone has a red string. it’s just a fact. some people have multiple, actually. that string, it connects them to their soulmate. or soulmates. everyone has a person or some people that they’re meant to be with, platonically, romantically, or both. the string can never break, only fray or get worn, and that rarely happens. after all, what reason would you have to fight with your soulmate? anyway, my point is that the red string is just our reality. everyone has a red string.

oh, how i envy them. 

you see, I'm not everyone. As far as i know, i’m the only person who doesn't have a red string. i first learned about the string in kindergarten. you can only see your own string, not other people’s, so i hadn't known about it, since i don't have one. when the teacher opened the lesson by saying, “see that string tied to your finger, everyone?” I stood up and announced that I didn't. the teacher got a look on her face like I was a crazy person. She told me to be quiet for the rest of the lesson.

That was when I learned that I was different from everyone else. The teacher called my parent/parents/guardian in that evening to tell them what I had said. they asked me if I was joking. even at my young age, i knew how heartbroken they would be if i told them i wasn’t, so i said yes.

That's how it’s been my whole life. whenever someone asked about my soulmate or where they are, I just smiled and pointed north. but i wasn’t smiling on the inside. how was it possible that everyone in the universe had someone they’re meant to be with except for me? it just wasn’t fair! while the other kids followed their strings as far as their parents would let them, i sat alone.

when i grew up, it only got worse. all my friends were planning road trips to find their soulmates, some had even gotten their parents to let them get plane tickets in search for them. i always used the excuse that i was too busy with work/school and didn't have the time. i'd find my soulmate later. it was all lies, of course. in fact, i was studying to be an archaeologist so that i could travel far away from the place that had made my life miserable.

it was on an archaeology trip that i met illinois. or at least, that’s what he called himself. honestly, i didn't even know if his parents were just really bad at names or if he called himself that to seem cool. anyway, it didn't work if the latter was true. in all honesty, he was a huge doofus. 

the day we met, i was in Cairo, Egypt excavating a tomb with my group. we had all made sure to stick together, but i needed a water break, so i walked off to the side of the site to take a drink. that was when i fell in the pit.

evidently it was some kind of trap to discourage grave robbers. and what is archaeology but grave robbing with a purpose? so, i was trapped. i shouted for help, but the others had no idea how to get me out, and no one had brought rope. just super, right? anyway, after that disaster, i started to look around for an exit, or at least a path of some kind. i found one, in the form of a strange round stone in the middle of the floor. curiously, i stepped on it. lo and behold, a secret door opened to a hall lined with torches.

i grabbed a torch for myself and lit it using the lighter in my pocket. then i began to explore. i was careful to watch my step, but i must have triggered a trap because before i could blink, a huge log was swinging at my head.i closed my eyes, but no impact came. instead i was literally swept off my feet. when i dared to open my eyes, i was in the strong arms of some indiana jones wannabe.

“well hey there handsome and/or beautiful.” he said with a wink that was strangely accompanied by the sound of a whip cracking.

i screamed and punched him in the face.

he dropped me and staggered back a bit, then brought his hand up to touch his nose, which was now bleeding.

“damn, you pack a punch, don’t you?” he said as he wiped his face.

“who the hell are you?”

“the names illinois, pleasure to meet me. and you are?”

“y/n.”

[herenortherenearnorfar]

Three Swords Bàoshān Sànrén Brings Home With Her (And One She Never Will)

on ao3

Bùjiàn <不见>

To the world she is a ghost. 

No one of merit (if you define merit as the great cultivators do) has seen Bàoshān Sànrén in over a century. 

Even before she retreated from everything, she was of a hermetic nature. She preferred the company of stone to that of people, preferred her own thoughts to the demands of society. For a while she lingered with the Lán because out of all the sects they best understood what it meant to be world weary. For a while she even thought she had found a match, someone who could pull her out of her shell, make her corporeal and real, someone who made issues of clan and family seem worthwhile.

Then Lán Yì fell to recklessness, and Bàoshān Sànrén disappeared again. 

That night in balmy Wú was the last time she drew her sword. 

The little girl she once was, before the title Sanren or the name Bàoshān, named it Not-Seen because it sounded like Not-A-Sword and that appealed to her childish sense of humor. In the dawn of cultivation, when there were a dozen emperors and a hundred little wars, the ability to laugh was a blessing. Besides, her classmates had always mocked her for her withdrawing nature. Wasn’t humility a virtue? Wasn’t introspection, self-reflection, an invaluable quality?

The sword smith was a simple man, whose works would not go down in history, whose gifts were not exceptional or rare. He gave careful attention to each new blade, however, and for her he took especial care. Perhaps a god came to him in a dream and told him this sword would outlast all his others. Where the blades he made for her classmates would rust away on battlefields, Bàoshān Sànrén’s would endure. 

Plain black and grey trappings, shagreen leather and camphor wood, a refrozen-ice fuzziness to the metal that made all reflections in its surface waver. A simple sword. A forgettable one. One for the ages but not for the story books. 

It is dependable, it serves well, and in some lost years it is the only living creature she knows. 

When she first gained wings so many years ago it lay in front of her, a companion in her meditations. When she decided to stay on earth, keep her unchanging body and remain a differentiated object (a long lasting one, preserved by the flow of energy and the knowledge of the universe) rather than a sylph, invisible to men, she chose with her blade in her hand.

Now she is a teacher, on a mountain far from the wars of others. Now she keeps her sword hidden in an old tree trunk, where her students can not find it. They do not need to learn of swords or killing, they can practice with wooden facsimiles and never hear the song of steel. Sometimes she’ll use it to beat carpets or stir their laundry. There is more use for sticks on her mountain than for blades, and she is so proud that she has made it so. 

When she does step foot off the mountain (to gather up those unfortunates she can bring away) she sheathes it in a walking stick and never draws it. A precaution that never needs use.

There is enough blood shed in the mortal world, why contribute to it? No thief or highwayman poses a threat to her. She no longer associates with those few cultivators who might be able to match her. Their way of life makes her tired.

Bùjiàn stays hidden, its blade growing dull, its spirit sluggish. 

The sword is not a sword. Bàoshān Sànrén disappears. 

Mínglíng <冥凌>

Yānlíng Dàoren is the first of her students to wish to rejoin the world that threw him out and she is so, so proud of him. 

She invites a sword smith she knows, the greatest in the province, to visit the immortal’s peak and make a blade for her fledgling soon to fly.

All the children, young and old and withered (too many of her students live and die on her mountain, for immortality is not a bar many can reach) gather round as the master builds a blast furnace out of clay and fills it high with charcoal and stones. The spritely ones take turns on the bellows, eager to help their brother, who is meditating deeply in front of the forge. 

The blade takes shape slowly, by cold blast and icy river water, until at last it sits in Yānlíng’s hands. 

He thanks the swordsmith profusely, as is only right, and when asked for a name for the weapon pretends to give it ample thought. It’s a silly show of contemplation when Bàoshān Sànrén knows he’s had a name in his heart for weeks.

The Chǔ Cí has always been his favorite text. There are few books on the mountain as visiting the booksellers has not been highest among her priorities for the last few decades. In the long winter months her students learn to recite those texts they do have access to out of boredom as much as duty. The little ones chase each other around, tripping over lyrical verse, and Yānlíng holds them upside down and corrects their pronunciation for he is the cleverest young man she’s ever known. Out of all the poems, he likes Guóshāng the best, a fact that worries her though she knows she can do nothing to change his nature. 

Respecting his teacher’s sensibilities, he chose his sword’s name from the Dà Zhāo, the Great Summons. A good song about beauty and the joys of the world, the pride of which is softened by the fact that it extolls a kingdom long destroyed. 

The name however… the name concerns her. 

He names it Deep Ice, after the thick sheets of permafrost that coat the mountain they have made their home, after the river caves he loves to explore and the cold that never bothers him. (What cruelty that her adopted children all hold a bit of Lán Yì’s character, and that Yānlíng Dàoren bears the greatest part.) It is a bit of affectionate narcissism as well, the first character means underworld where the second character of his name means tomb, and the last characters of both are homonyms. Shǎngfá would have been more authoritative, Guīlái more optimistic, yet there’s a presumption to both that feels off putting. Of all the choices in the Summons, Mínglíng is the strongest. It fits. 

It worries her how well they are suited, heavy name and heavy boy. She doesn’t like to send him away with a sword bearing the name of the underworld. She doesn’t want him to be destined for cold caves and poor choices. It exacerbates the dread that has been building since he came to her and said he wanted to go and put the world on a better Way. 

The doom that sits upon her students has not yet been made clear to her. Old and experienced as she is, premonitions still creep up on her long before Yānlíng finally bids farewell, his black-ice sword in hand as he bows his last. 

Against his white robes it looks like a gash, like a slash of ink cutting through his pale back. 

As a way of discouraging her students from returning to the world, the depravities of which she knows too well, Bàoshān Sànrén has told them that if they leave her and her mountain they may not come back. 

With her edict in mind, she does not expect to see him or his disquieting sword ever again. 

Long after the stories of his ruin and death have come and gone, after she has mourned once and moved on from the student she could not save, it comes back to her in the hands of a Lán disciple who claims he has been searching for this mountain for a long time. 

She makes it a point to not let any of the great clans know where she lives, and she is going to have to move after this, but she doesn’t mind too much. With him, he brings her students ashes and his blade, blood-rusty and battered and still a piece of his spirit. The white scabbard and patinated metal trimmings, the delicate engravings of ancient warriors locked in battle, the details are obscured by damage but still visible if you know what the original looked like. When she tries to draw it she finds it sealed against her hand.

“We thought if anyone could put his spirit to rest it would be his teacher,” the Lán disciple says. “Soul settling rituals were performed but our grandmaster says it is best not to underestimate a student of Bàoshān Sànrén.”

He does not say, “This is a gift, because you love our clan once and it has only been three generations since then. Some people still remember.”

The Lán are still foolish, like the rest of them, but they are kind. 

Burial rituals are simple among her students. They ensure the ghost is settled and all the manifold spirits of the body find their proper place with talismans and small rituals, burn flowers and incense, and pile rocks to keep the animals away. There’s no need to linger on the dead when those who die in Bàoshān Sànrén’s care usually do so as part of a grander spiritual plan. 

Yānlíng’s death is sudden and messy, cannot be reversed with great magic or healing that borders on resurrection. His body was cut by a thousand swords and he was burned in the presence of dozens of cultivators. Any spirit that remains would be a furious, resentful thing, ill-inclined to cooperate with the gentle coaxing of her usual rites. 

As her students pack up their lives, she makes her way down into the deep, cold caves he loves. When she reaches the fast flowing underground river full of transparent blind fish, she knelt. Bit by bit, careful not to overload the delicate chemical balance of the water, she feeds in the ashes, lets the river take them away. 

The sword she keeps on a high shelf above their book collection. It’s so solidly sealed in it’s scabbard that even the most mischievous student couldn’t get into it, and it serves as a warning to those who might think the world wants them. 

Her sorrow when she looks on it is for her pupils, past and present and future, and for the troth that was betrayed. When he left he promised not to return. 

Jīngdōng <經冬>

Cángsè’s sword-name doesn’t come to her attention until after the woman is dead. 

This student, the second to leave her, the first who she knows for certain will come to no good end, walks off the mountain armed with only a stave. There will be no more swordsmiths in Bàoshān Sànrén’s glade. 

Instead she gives her a recommendation for a good weapon maker nearby, and tells her to stop there before proceeding to Cloud Recesses. It has been many years but if she’s lucky the Lán will still have some respect for Bàoshān Sànrén’s name. 

Her darling, brave girl bows, then embraces her tight, then turns and walks away. 

Many years later rumors of Cángsè Sànrén’s death reaches the mountain and Bàoshān Sànrén goes to confirm them. She makes her students swear not to return, she makes no promises about not following after them. It’s not about salvation, she tells herself, it’s about resolution. Cángsè’s fate is out of her hands but at least this time she can make a reliable account to her brothers and sisters, so they know how their wandering sibling fell. At least this time she might be able to bury the body before it’s burned. 

Parents aren’t supposed to bury children, but they are not truly her sons and daughters and she’s an immortal. Any filial duty they might have to outlive her is nullified, and she is left with a grief somewhat assuaged by laying them to rest. Though she is empty of desires that doesn’t mean that she’s empty of regrets, or of love. 

Staff in hand she follows stories of Cángsè Sànrén southeast, between Yílíng and Méishān. There she hears that Cángsè and her husband (she married some years before) and son (a newer revelation) stopped in town for the season to cleanse the ever tumultuous region. Burial mounds do not make for good neighbours. After a particularly dangerous band of bandits had been spotted in a nearby farming village, they stopped coming to buy groceries. No bodies had been found but there were hills near the village where law-abiding living humans dared not walk, so there had been little real investigation. 

Bàoshān Sànrén knows when something is being hidden from her. She pushes harder with her questions and eventually a smalltime peddler in a pub cracks and admits that the donkey the couple kept trotted into town, half dead and carrying a criminal with a slit throat. They’d thrown the body in a ditch and kept the donkey. 

“What of the child?” she asks, because even if she can’t save Cángsè she can help her son. Orphans are in Bàoshān Sànrén’s purview. 

“Dead or ran off, we haven’t seen him. He was a quick little thing and knew the roads so he might have made for the city.” The man’s eyes make it clear he cares little what happened as long as it is no longer happening in his town. 

Saving that information for later, she goes to explore the hills. 

It takes some hours to find the bandits hideout, deep in the foothills of Yílíng, though all she has to do is follow the traces of resentful energy that hover aromatic in the air. They have, had, a well disguised and well supplied cavern that reminds her of the burial mound’s landscape a few miles away. Maybe all places filled with dead men look the same. Instead of the handful of desperate men on the run she’d been warned of, she finds three hundred corpses, a small army of evil-doers hiding behind the reputation of Yílíng, disguising their crimes as the attacks of fierce corpses and hungry ghosts, living off the shunned land as well as the terrified people. To aid in their deception they have a handful of ghouls chained in wicker cages or locked in talisman pots. Clever. They’d need some cultivators among their number for that. 

Cángsè and her husband’s heroics would have cut them off, made them desperate, until they were driven out into the open. Realizing that they were facing humans but not fully grasping how many their enemies were, they had charged forward recklessly. 

They died for it, had bled out surrounded by enemies, lacking even the comfort of each other. Bàoshān Sànrén discovers their bodies on opposite sides of the cave, facing each other but separated. 

Perhaps if they’d faced only normal bandits they could have survived but there’s at least one Niè saber pulsing furiously among the bodies and the man (what was Cángsè’s husband’s name? Wèi?) is caught in a spelled net. Exiles, rogues, and wolf’s heads. Cultivators taught their magics recklessly, and good people paid for it. 

It will take a while to put all these bodies in the ground, even with her skill, honed over centuries, at burying bodies. This close to Yílíng, they’d only make trouble though, so Bàoshān Sànrén rolls up her sleeves and goes to work. 

She saves her student and her student’s spouse for last. After washing and straightening the bodies, she sets their swords by their sides. 

The man, a servant of one of the greater clans if she recalls correctly, has an easy enough blade to identify; the purple tassel matches the purple stripe on his robes and the pommel bears dragonflies and lotus flowers. 

Cángsè’s blade surprises her. To start with, it’s pinning a dead body to a wall. How lethal her child became, out here among the howling monsters. It looks different than she expected too. Whenever she imagined her errant student she had privately conjured up pictures of a sword like Yānlíng’s, or Bàoshān Sànrén’s own. Stark, neutral colors and clean lines. When she moves Cángsè the scabbard she discovers beneath her corpse is lacquered a bright, new green. Too vibrant to be called jade and too pale to be mistaken for foliage, it reminds her of the newest buds on a pine tree or the sticky color of a caterpillar. Enamel insets of the same hue dot the guard, pops of springtime in a setting of silver. Engraved into the base of the blade, below a branching needle pattern are two characters; Enduring Winter. 

(“Away from home, I was longing for news”)

Now it’s summer and Cángsè is dead. 

Swords have spirits, it’s true, but they rarely communicate as humans do. There are many things that are alive and do not speak, or do not think in the manner of people. Like a wild horse or a barn cat, they follow their own rules. Unlike an animal they do not tire or grow old, or mourn the passing of the years. Their loyalty is absolute, however, and their intentions are easy enough to read if you know the signs. 

As she goes to lay the blade in the open grave next to her student, she feels it shiver in her hand. “Not eager to be buried then?”

There’s no answer. It’s a sword. 

“I suppose I can take you back up the mountain.”

It has been too long since Yānlíng. Too many of her students are curious about what happens in the places they left. A reminder of their sister, dead before thirty, and the live steel that took her to her doom will serve them well. 

She vacillates over whether to leave a grave marker. When you have lived centuries, such motions seem pointless. A stack of stones, a carved plank, how long do they last? All tombstones are quickly swept away especially when you die as Cángsè did, alone in the woods, with few people to wonder where you went. 

Let memory and the records of history fall where they will, cast her as a villain or a heroine, or forget her entirely. Bàoshān Sànrén bowed out of that world long ago. She won’t provide fodder for the grindstone. She won’t do anything. 

She does look for the boy. To spirit away the abandoned is a course of action she’s long stood by, because in the end they too are forgotten. With Bàoshān Sànrén they can live long lives away from those who discarded them.

A week of searching proves pointless. She doesn’t even know his name and there are too many lost and hungry children in the towns around Yílíng. 

With the spring green sword strapped over her back and a promising orphan girl from Xiāotíng (who has Cángsè’s eager smile and mischief) holding her hand, she begins the journey home. 

Shuānghuá <霜华>

It’s many years before she encounters Sòng Zǐchēn again. He is polite enough not to return to her mountain after his surgery and recovery. Even when she hears word of a tall cultivator in black asking desperately after Xiǎo Xīngchén, he stays away from her doorstep. 

Time passes, the rumours ebb and flow, and she learns in bits and pieces what a terrible fate befell the latest of her delinquent disciples. 

Poor Xīngchén. His nature was so very good, more trusting than Cángsè, more forgiving than Yānlíng. The first of her pupils to surprise her with his determination to go out into the world, the first of her pupils to betray her (because he loved too much for rules or promises). Bàoshān Sànrén knows the spirit is hardy and the soul can never be truly broken. She’s lived with ghosts and raised the dead, she knows that Xiǎo Xīngchén carries on. Shattering is still a painful ordeal. It doesn’t take Lán spirit songs to know that the part of him that remains is diminished and suffering. 

She can grieve for that. She can grieve for all her laughing winter children, who went to lower altitudes and melted away. Though the water they were made of has only changed shape they are beyond her now.

Even hurting for Xiǎo Xīngchén she doesn’t seek his friend out. They are both immortal now, or so she’s heard, and they’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other. Why force meetings that are already inevitable? 

Inevitable it does prove. A decade after Xiǎo Xīngchén leaves home for the second time, she comes across him in an abandoned house by the side of a mountain road. When the hailstones outside finally drive her to shelter, she discovers him already settled inside and huddled by a fire. Understandable, without blood to warm the body a corpse would have to be more careful of frostbite, whereas she has not felt cold in many years.

They are both travellers, her intermittently, him full-time, so it’s not extraordinary that they should stumble over one another. It is lucky that it should happen here, in private, rather than in the bustle of a city or a roadside inn. 

If there were other people around, people of modest means, they might feel they had to keep their voices down. 

He has harsh words for her, and she bears them. She doesn’t make him face his regrets, even though he wears them openly. It falls on the older of their pair to demonstrate restraint. Neither does she hide her expressions (it’s been years since she’s worn any face except the one she was born with) and after he accuses her of driving Xiǎo Xīngchén away, driving him to his death, her grief shows clearly enough that he falls silent. 

Sòng Zǐchēn never seemed like a man much given to loud rage. His outburst is an exceptional event, driven by their forced proximity and the anguish that threatens to overfill him. In the aftermath he apologizes, helps her settle by the fire, and offers some of the scant rations she carries.

It’s not difficult to respond in kind, to be cordial to a polite man whose eyes she ripped out of his skull. What does prove troublesome is how her own eyes keep drifting to the white sword strapped to Sòng Zǐchēn’s back. 

The story of Xiǎo Xīngchén was also a story of his sword, stolen and misused and rescued too late. She learned its name long ago. Shuānghuá. Her own fault for raising children on the clearest mountain peaks and then being surprised when their first thoughts are of the cold. 

When Xiǎo Xīngchén came to her, returned to her desperate and carrying his friend, she paid the sword little attention. Now she cannot help but note the elegance of the piece, the clean lines and floral details. Swords like this are made for the young lords of the cultivation world, chased with silver and spells. 

“May I?” she asks, and Sòng Zǐchēn knows what she wants. He unsheathes the sword in one clean motion and hands the bare blade to her. 

There is no protest from the sword but no recognition either. Anything she taught Xiǎo Xīngchén was far outweighed by what the world showed him, pressed on him at knife point and painted on him in blood. By the time he died he was a far cry from the hopeful boy she raised. 

“It’s a lovely sword. Do you mean to keep it with you?”

“Until I can give it back to Xīngchén,” Sòng Zǐchēn says, voice flat (though perhaps that is the insensitivity of vocal cords long dead). 

She hands it back. “Thank you. For taking care of him.” When I could not, when I would not. Given the difference in age between them it would be improper to bow but she does incline her head. 

After what has been done to her children, it’s good to know this one lies in safe hands.

The logs in the fire shift, sending up sparks. “... His soul? Could you mend it?”

“Not anymore than I could keep him from walking off the mountain. Be patient,” she advises, “You are a more permanent fixture in the world now.”

“Like you.”

“Yes. It is not a happy path but it can be peaceful. When you understand what you cannot change and acknowledge what you have always known, you find yourself at one with your surroundings.” Seeing friends make terrible mistakes until it can no longer be borne. Collecting children. Collecting legends. Collecting swords. Never calcifying but never exerting undue influence. Knowing that all things are part of a whole.

Sòng Zǐchēn is well on his way to being a proper earth immortal, albeit by a roundabout route, and Bàoshān Sànrén is glad to have his company, glad to have another person to settle swords on. 

She leaves Shuānghuá in safe hands.

#baoshan sanren #cangse sanren #xiao xingchen #song lan #the untamed #fanfic

[themightyfoo]

Into Eternity, a 2010 documentary by Michael Madsen on the Onkalo nuclear waste storage facility in Finland. This is a fascinating documentary that goes beyond our current nuclear waste storage problem to address the problem of how to communicate with our distant descendants 100,000 years from now. How do you warn people in the deep future of the lurking danger without making it sound like you're lobbing empty-threat curses at would-be grave robbers in a futile effort to keep them from plundering your tomb's treasure?

This film where I first heard the term "hostile architecture", describing one plan to surround the site with mazes of uneven sharp spikes to discourage exploration.

Here is a sign created to warn people. It illustrates the problem: in the first place, the physical sign won't last a hundred years, let alone a hundred thousand; in the second place, who knows how it will be interpreted? It could mean that an object buried here will confer the blessings of a Sun God that will banish death and bring immortality to the bearer.

The inscriptions read,

This place is a message… and part of a system of messages… pay attention to it! Sending this message was important to us. We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture.

This place is not a place of honor…no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here… nothing valued is here.

What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. This message is a warning about danger.

The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours.

The form of the danger is an emanation of energy.

The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.

The danger is to the body, and it can kill.

The danger is in a particular location… it increases toward a center… the center of danger is here… of a particular size and shape, and below us.

Honestly, this is a terrible warning. It uses too many different words and too many complicated words for anyone to translate, and barely makes sense even to native English speakers of our own time. I would have limited the warning to the most common words in English and conveyed the gist of the message even if that meant simplifying a few details, like so:

This is a warning! There is a dangerous poison buried below this place.

We were a powerful people. In our pride we created this dangerous poison that made us sick and killed us. It will still be dangerous in your time. If you dig here it will sicken and kill you and all your people and all your animals.

We buried this poison to protect ourselves from it. This poison has no value. It cannot be controlled or used for gain. This poison will make you sick and kill you if you try to use it.

This is not a place of honor. There is nothing of value here. Shun this place. Do not live here or disturb this place or you will release the poison. It will make you sick and kill you, all your people and all your animals. Pay attention to this warning!

#nuclear #science criticisms #physics #hostile architecture #history #wonder #vishnu destroyer of worlds #nature bats last

[nebula-starlight]

Sepsis (Part 11: Prison, Pt. 2)

When Nethreis started to rouse back to consciousness, he felt warmth beside him and instinctively curled up to savor it. Perhaps it was Igna resting with him? She had seldom done it but when she had he had felt so safe and protected. She’d always hum a song under her breath, stroking his scales with a light, feathery touch. He was safe… 

“Nethreis?” The warm thing beside him nudged him and he growled, not wanting to open his eyes. His chest felt weird and sleep had always helped whenever he felt off. Maybe they would leave him alone? 

“Go away.” He rumbled, twitching as something moist touched his beak. That seemed to be enough to get him to open his eyes and look. 

Versi lay next to him, bleeding from a gash on her forehead. Even still he noticed she smiled when he looked at her. Had she woke him up? Was why he felt safe because her soul resonated like Igna’s?  

“I was making sure you were okay. I don’t remember what happened….” 

He lifted his head, looking around. They weren’t in the Council’s chambers anymore, instead laying on various blankets and pillows in an otherwise empty bedroom. Nethreis scowled, realizing he too couldn’t remember what happened after Magnus had risen in the air and…. 

“Hey, it’s okay… Look at me. We’re safe… Focus on me.” 

Her voice came and went as he blankly stared off, hit with a sudden remembrance of the stone cell that had almost been his tomb. Why were they on blankets? He didn’t deserve such items of comfort. Just raised to kill… to be a warrior. Downtime was a luxury he could not afford. It meant more tests, more pain. 

Something was touching him, restraining him. He shook his head, trying to free himself. No more tests! Where was Igna? She would protect him. 

“Nethreis! Focus! Come back to me.” Versi did not let go, even as he squirmed and shifted and struggled to get free. 

“Mother! Where is Mother?” Panic was gnawing at his thoughts, thinking his wings were chained. His pupils shrank, becoming barely visible against the red of his irises. 

“Snap out of it!” Her claws dug into his scales on accident, causing him to inhale as the pain registered and then started coughing. “Were you not breathing? Are you okay?” 

“It… It happens. Brain drifts. Memories of past. Stop responding.” Between gasping for breath he spoke, unaware until he tried to move that was she kissing him. Realizing it, he froze, staring into her eyes in utter shock. 

“I know I should have asked but I was scared I’d lose you. And after all you’ve done to help me.” 

“Sorry no needed. I…” He blinked, returning the kiss. “I understand you. Your words. How?” 

Versi gave him a look of equal confusion. “I don’t know. But I can understand you. Maybe….?” 

He pointed with a forepaw to her chest, flicking his tailtip. “Chest weird? Hurt?” 

“Yes it does. Yours too?” 

Nethreis nodded, lifting away his beak to stare into her eyes. Those beautiful soft yellow orbs… It took her repeating the question for him to realize that she expected an answer. 

“I… Yes….” He blinked, taking in the room again. With its plain walls and the floor covered in seemingly spare blankets. 

“Bet this belongs to a friend of mine. I don’t have many friends but since starting to live on the streets some of the others have offered to house me. I should go see where we are…” 

“Be careful.” 

She nodded, getting up and leaving the room. He watched her go, scowling slightly as he struggled to understand something that plagued him since he woke. What made her soul remind him of Igna? It made no sense why it would. They were two different spirits after all. Was he just that lonely? Granted he had known his caretaker since he could remember… and it hurt just as much not having her there with him. 

He hadn’t even thought much about her after the first night he stayed alone. Now all of a sudden, after encountering the shy spirit he’d saved again, why was Igna on his thoughts seemingly out of nowhere? 

“Hey… you okay?” Versi returning made him flinch, looking up at her abruptly. “We can stay here as long as we need to.” 

Nethreis rose, gaze flickering around the room again. “I should go…” 

“Don’t! Please… You should rest.” 

“Cannot. Rest no allowed.” 

Versi snorted, pulling him in close. “Yes you can. You’ve saved me twice now. I want to know about you… how I can help you in return.” 

“...Fine.” He sat down, reluctantly obeying. “I no speak tongue.” 

“So I can tell.” She sat beside him, laying her head on his shoulder. “I can teach you.” 

“You teach?” Nethreis looked at her, feeling something flutter deep inside him. 

“Mhm. I can try. What about the Council? Should we lay low for a bit?” 

“You can. I work. Make money. Buy home.” 

Versi shifted her head, laying her tail on his to discourage the idea of him getting up. “You don’t have to….” 

He gave her a look. “You feel? We no apart.” 

“You still shouldn’t strain yourself. Please… for me?” 

Nethreis’s gaze softened, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his jaw. “For you… anything.” 

Versi nodded, satisfied with the answer. By the time he sensed something was amiss, small pink dust was being blown into his face by someone he hadn’t seen enter. He tried to turn to see who it was but his balance shifted, causing him to collapse as the mysterious powder took effect. She caught him, bringing him down safely onto the blankets as consciousness fled from him. 

“I apologize but you wouldn’t have slept without aid. This way I know you are safe if only for tonight. My friend will watch over you, I promise.” 

#sepsis #nether #versi

[snazzy-suit]

Hotel Boss Ghost Headcanons - Part 3

Part 1 - Part 2 - (Part 3)

What’s that? You want...MORE headcanons? Oh geez, I hope you’re sure about that

===

Ug

Not much is known about Ug (honestly, that’s probably not even his name) other than he came from a tribe of hunter-gatherers. It is during one of his hunts that he meets his end. Ug and his fellow tribesmen were tracking a herd of mammoths on that fateful day. They eventually caught up to the herd, and just when they were about to ambush their target, a Tyrannosaurus-Rex came barreling onto the scene. It wasn’t the apex predator that brought about Ug's demise, however (not directly, anyway). The mammoths panicked and fled their hunter, causing a stampede. Ug, unable to get out of the way in time, was trampled in the chaos.  

Other Headcanons

Ug is not the oldest ghost in the hotel (in terms of when they died). Dinosaurs aren't extinct in the Mario-verse, so I don’t think it’s a stretch to say there are neanderthal-esque humanoids that also still exist in modern times.  

Ug lived in a part of the world that seems frozen in time—a place housing ancient creatures from eras long past that, in our world, would have never interacted. Dinosaurs, mammoths, sabretooth tigers, neanderthals, etc.

==

Clem  

Clem was a contract mechanic that worked for some of the largest corporations of his day. He was a hard worker that completed his jobs quickly, efficiently, and without a fuss. Clem was satisfied with his lot in life. He went with the flow and never complained, though he really should have done the latter. Clem was often subjected to the most unsafe work environments imaginable—conditions that would give OSHA inspectors a stroke if they were privy to it—but he never said a word. Whether his silence was from fear of having his contract terminated or not really knowing any better is up for debate. Whatever his reasons, Clem's career ended in tragedy when an on-the-job accident eventually took his life.

Other Headcanons

Clem’s work ethic took a turn for the lazy in death. But after the way he was taken advantage of in life, who can blame him?

==

Serpci  

Serpci was born during a troubling time in her kingdom’s history. The neighboring lands were experiencing horrible drought, and tensions were rising as water became more and more scarce. Her kingdom was by no means spared from hardship, but the river that cut through their land quenched her people’s thirst and allowed for the growth of crops—even if the yield was meager, it was enough to keep the people from starvation. By the time Serpci took the throne, conflict had broken out between the neighboring kingdoms. Serpci closely guarded her land’s borders as they grew more and more dangerous. Eventually, she closed them altogether. Her efforts to keep her people out of conflict would prove to be futile.

Invading forces were looming on the horizon, and Serpci realized she could no longer ignore the growing threat. She amassed an army and met the invaders at her kingdom’s borders. Better equipped and with greater discipline, Serpci’s forces easily repelled their would-be conquerors. Her people’s success was short lived. When the invaders returned, the young pharaoh felt she had no choice but to ensure their complete demise. Just as before, her warriors pushed back the enemy forces, only this time, when they retreated, Serpci pursued them beyond her kingdom’s borders. She lead the charge, eventually catching up to and surrounding the fleeing army. In the heat of battle, no one saw the rapidly approaching sandstorm until it was far too late. With nowhere to seek shelter, both armies were consumed by the dessert tempest and buried alive. Very few survive the ordeal—Serpci is not one of them.

Other Headcanons

When she was an infant, her parents awoke one morning to find a deadly cobra coiled in her crib. They were (understatedly) terrified for her safety, and while they and their servants fretted over how to safely retrieve the child, she—to their growing horror—awakened and began to curiously reach out to the snake. Instead of biting her, the cobra patiently allowed the infant to pat its scaly body. It eventually slithered out of the crib, leaving an unharmed infant and a room full of stunned adults in its wake. Many similar encounters with snakes would continue to occur, and when the time came to name their daughter, her parents decided on Serpci—after her unusual sway over serpents.

Serpci’s body was never found, and thus, was not given the proper mummification and burial of a royal. Without the preparations needed for the afterlife, Serpci’s spirit could not rest. The pyramid we see in the hotel is a reflection of the tomb she was denied.

==

Nikki, Lindsey, and Ginny

The triplets first got their taste of magic when they saw a magician perform at one of their friend’s birthday parties. They quickly fell in love with the art, and immediately began studying the craft themselves. Their parents initially humored their interest, thinking it to be a phase the girls would soon grow out of, but when the children’s passion showed no signs of waning, they began to actively discourage it—especially when the triplets expressed a desire to one day turn it into a career. They didn’t allow their parent’s lack of support to dampen their dream. When the girls felt confident enough in their abilities, they began putting on shows at their local community theater.  

Nikki, Lindsey, and Ginny were quite talented for their age—pulling off illusions that were meant for those with twice their level of experience. Audiences of all ages were wowed by their skill, but no matter how well the triplets did, their parents never shifted their stance. They never came to a single performance. As much as the girls tried to hide it, their parent’s complete dismissal of their passion was a huge blow to their sense of self-worth. In a last-ditch effort to earn their parent’s approval, the sisters decided to try something they felt couldn’t possibly fail to impress them: real magic.

After a brief, but successful, dabbling into simple spells, the triplets felt they were ready to try something bigger. Practice sessions went well, but on the night of the big debut, things went horribly, horribly, wrong. A mistake caused one of the spells to violently backfire. As inexperienced as the girls were, they were unable to contain it, and were consumed by the blast.

Other Headcanons:

The triplets are desperate for validation, especially from adults they admire. If you express even the slightest interest in their magic, they will latch onto that support like little leeches, and you’ll be hard pressed to make them let go.

===

Part 3 got away from me toward the end, let me tell ya. These weren’t supposed to get so detailed and yet, here we are. Just wait until you see the fourth and final part—it’s stupid long (to me, anyway).

#Luigi's Mansion 3 #Ug #Clem #Serpci #Nikki Lindsey and Ginny #Hotel Boss Ghosts #which of the next four ghosts do you think I get carried away with? #is it the pirate shark? #the gym rat? #the disc jocky? #or is it...Her? #place your bets now! #you might be surprised #I know I was #sort of #but not really #Hotel Ghost Asks #LLoG AU #LLoG Asks #suit speaks

[sabrinasgrimoire]

Beltane Series: Walpurgisnacht

Walpurgisnacht or Hexennacht is celebrated from the eve of April 30th to May 1st. This is a traditional Germanic festival associated with witches. “Hexe” is the German word for “witch”, and “nacht” is the German word for “night”. So, the name translated to “witches night”. It’s more common name, Walpurgisnacht, is associated with the Christian feast of Saint Walpurga. This is a night that has striking similarities to the modern Halloween. On the Wheel of the Year, it falls exactly opposite of Samhain, making it the perfect time to feel the thinning of the veil and celebrate traditions of this time. In this essay, I will be covering both traditions.

It is common knowledge that the early European peoples celebrated the coming of spring. It meant the long winter was over, and abundance and warm weather were soon coming. In German folklore, it is said that witches and warlocks also welcomed the coming of spring by flying around Germany on broomsticks. On the eve of April 30th, they met on the highest peak in the Harz Mountain where bonfires would be lit and a ceremony took place to welcome in the spring. This peak is called Blocksberg Mountain, and has long been associated with witches in Germany. It is more than likely that these “witches” were simply pagans looking for a secluded place to practice their religion in peace, away from the prying eyes of the people and the church.

Over time, these traditions shifted. What once was a ritual to welcome spring, became a ritual to chase away evil spirits. You see, the villagers were afraid of the witches up in the mountains. They believed that witches and evil spirits travelled through the land on this night with ill intent. This is the parallel to the thinning of the veil at Beltane, exactly 6 months away from Samhain when the veil between worlds is the thinnest. In order to chase away these witches and bad spirits, the men of the village would make as much noise as they could to scare them away. This involved shooting shotguns, banging pots and pans together, and any other number of noisy activities. They also lit bonfires to light up the night, and discourage spirits who were sensitive to light from entering their village. Sprigs of foliage were blessed and hung above doorways to block the evil spirits from entering, and traditional bread and honey was left at the edges of town as offerings to the hellhounds.

So why was April 30th such an important night? Well, Pagan and Christian customs seem to have been tangled together. In medieval times, April 30th was an important half-way point that marked exactly 6 months until All Saint’s Day, which is the Christianized version of the pagan sabbat Samhain. This was an extremely important date for pagans, and was called the festival of Beltane. This was not to last, and the Christian church imposed a new holiday over Beltane, which was supposed to help the pagans convert to Christianity. Instead of the ancient Beltane, they honored Saint Walpurga, and called in Walpurgisnacht.

So who was Saint Walpurga, and why was she so important? She was born in Devonshire, England in 770AD. When she was young, she was sent to Germany as a missionary, and quickly became the abbess of the convent in Heidenheim. During her time here, she baptized many pagans into the Christian church. After her death, it is said that a healing oil began seeping between the stones of her tomb. This was the miracle that transformed her into a saint, and her body was subsequently split into many pieces and sent throughout Europe as relics. Because she died on May 1st, this is the day that became her holy day, and the eve of May 1st is when her feast was celebrated. She is known as the patron saint of coughs, sailors, hydrophobia, and storms. Many Christians in the Middle Ages also prayed to her to shield them against witchcraft, which was especially associated with her feast and the traditions of the day.

It is interesting to look at the similarities between Saint Walpurga and pagan traditions as well. Saint Walpurga’s symbols are grain, dogs, and the spindle. These same symbols are found in pagan tradition. Grain is a traditional symbol of the harvest, dogs are considered traditional familiars for Germanic Goddesses, and the spindle is associated with Frau Holda from the famous fairy tale. This made it easy for pagans unwilling to convert to say they were honoring Saint Walpurga, when instead they were honoring the old Germanic Gods. Though the Christian Feast of Saint Walpurga had different beliefs than the pagan traditions, there were other striking similarities. For one, the tradition of hanging sprigs of foliage over doorways was observed by Christians as well as pagans. Though some traditions remained the same, most of the Christian ones were different. People often made pilgrimages to her tomb in Eichstätt, where they would purchase vials of Saint Walpurga’s oil.

Now let’s talk about some of the customs of Walpurgisnacht. These traditions are very similar to those of Beltane. After the long, cold winter, it is only natural that the coming of spring should be celebrated. This was especially important to early Germanic peoples who lived in a cold place in the world, where winter carried with it a serious risk of death. To welcome back the warmer part of the year, they built great bonfires, and partook in a lot of song and dance reminiscent of that around the maypole for May Day. There are however, a few traditions not reflected in those of Beltane. These are the ones I find to be the most interesting! Remember when I said that this was also considered a witches night? Well, it was tradition to ride broomsticks between balefires or jump over them. It was also a time to burn old brooms in the fire. This is possibly the origin of the myth that witches fly on broomsticks. Anything old or broken was also burned in these fires, symbolically and physically cleaning the old energy from the house. Straw likenesses were created and adorned with illness and other bad things and symbolically burned in the fires as well, ridding the person of these bad things in their lives.

Though these were the traditional Walpurgisnacht traditions, they have changed once again with the times, and modern celebrations look different than they once did. The major difference between this celebration and the Christian celebration is that it is secular, and no longer associated with the Catholic Saint Walpurga. The fear of witches has been largely dispersed in modern times. More and more people are embracing witchcraft either through practice, media, or any number of different ways. With this new view, Germany’s celebration of Walpurgisnacht has turned into a sort of second Halloween in Germany. People come to the Harz Mountains dressed as witches, warlocks, or other magick wielders. Here, they dance and celebrate alongside others and large bonfires. The largest celebration is held in the Hexentanzplatz, which is a plateau near the town of Thale. Though this is the largest celebration, Walpurgisnacht is celebrated across Saxony.

Southern Germany sees Walpurgisnacht a little differently. Here it is seen as a night of pranks, kind of like April Fool’s Day in America. In Finland, Walpurgisnacht is called Vappu, and is one of the country’s most important holidays. It was originally celebrated here only by the upper class, but quickly trickled down and became especially popular with university students. In Berlin, Walpurgisnacht is a traditional night to start riots and protests, as it is closely associated with the German Labor Day. These protests usually begin in the Mauerpark where the remains of the Berlin Wall sit on display as a reminder. This is a new association with Walpurgisnacht, but an important cultural association to the German people.

Unfortunately, the negative connotations of Walpurgisnacht are still present in some cases. In the Czech Republic, this night is known as “Paleni Carodejnic”, which translated to “Burning of the Witches”. Though there is no actual burning of witches, the negative connotation remains. It is tradition here to build bonfires as well and burn images of witches throughout the night.

Walpurgisnacht appears many times in famous literature. The first instance introduced the myth of the witches, and was called “The Blocksberg Performance” by Johannes Präetorius. After this first introduction into mainstream entertainment, Walpurgisnacht found its way into other literature and music. The most well known reference is Goethe’s play “Faust”. Walpurgisnacht is the name of a scene in part one of Faust and part two. Other famous examples of Walpurgisnacht in literature include “The Magic Mountain” by Thomas Mann, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” by Edward Albee, and “Dracula’s Guest” by Bram Stoker.

Obviously, there are many traditions associated with Walpurgisnacht. It is especially pertinent to those of us who practice witchcraft due to the rich history of pagan and witch traditions on this night. This is just another way to further celebrate Beltane and the welcoming of spring. Modern witches can use this night to feel more witchy and to connect to their pagan and witch ancestors.

Works Cited:

Melanie Marquis (2018), Beltane: Rituals, Recipes, and Lore for May Day, Llewellyn, Fourth Edition, Print, Pages 39

Raven Grimassi (2001), Beltane: Springtime Rituals, Lore & Celebration, Llewellyn, Print

Various (Various), Walpurgis Night, Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walpurgis_Night

Karen Anne (April 28th 2017), What is Walpurgisnacht? And How Did an English Nun Become Associated with Witches?, German Girl in America, https://germangirlinamerica.com/what-is-walpurgisnacht/

DHWTY (November 9th 2018), Walpurgis Night: A Saint, Witches, and Pagan Beliefs in Springtime Halloween for Scandinavia, Ancient Origins, https://www.ancient-origins.net/history ... ht-0010965

#walpurgisnacht #beltane #fire #book of shadows #grimoire

[pastorjdo3]

Do you Love Me?

When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” “Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.” Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.” John 21:15

I was caught by the words of our Lord to Peter, “Do You Love Me?” I thought, what a relevant question today. It’s the same question I have had to ask many friends (avoiding the itch to put the word friends in quotations). Watching the truth spew from their hearts onto their timelines has been a painful experience.

These are people that I have shared intimate moments with. Some on the football field, others in marching band, some in organizations, others in clubs, some are alums from the same school, people I have shared money and invested time into building a relationship with. People who I have dinned with, sat by the hospital bed with, counseled their marriages, cried at their funerals, brought gifts to their family birthday parties, spoken at their graduation celebrations answered their calls in the wee hours of the morning, and hopped out of bed and in my car to talk them off of the ledge. Some of them are people who I have worshiped with, prayed with, fasted with, studied with, served with, traveled with and suffered with. By now, surely, I should be able to say the word friend without quotes.

In all honesty, when confronted, much like Peter they all claimed that their love and friendship for me was true. They reaffirmed our bond and gave implication that they would draw their sword as well, and would fight for me and defend my innocence. They gave the illusion that they would be one that would speak up if needed, but honestly many meant they would speak up if they: 1. Knew they could make a difference and 2. Knew their circumstances wouldn’t be impacted.

Peter Stands before Jesus as one who Bowed down

Peter now stands before the Lord and hears the question “Do you love me?” The one who spoke so powerfully and confidently about who Jesus was. While others were confused, Peter was confident that He was the Messiah. While others walked in doubt, Peter strode in faith. Peter saw his sick mother healed, saw the transfiguration, witnessed Lazarus come out of the tomb.

Honestly, all that means nothing if he answers this question wrong. The way he answers this question will determine what he does with what he knows and what he has seen. The answer to this question is beyond words. These words can’t just be spoken like before. These words must be an accurate reflection of what’s in your heart, because they will be tested. Peter found that it was not just enough to say the right thing, He would have to have the courage to stand for what was right. And to date, he had now faltered.

Peter, “Do you love me?” While Peter was insulted and probably thought this was a needless question, Jesus asked this question to him 3 times, and allowed him to answer each time. Peter showed love and courage in the garden cutting of the ear of the soldier that came to get Jesus, but then watched from afar as He was wrongfully convicted and sentenced. He witnessed the conspiracy unfolding to set the stage for Jesus impending death by crucifixion’s. He watched as Jesus said not a mumbling Word to gain His Freedom, and Peter in turn didn’t say a Word that would Liberate Jesus or Implicate himself. Knowing what was in store for Jesus, He decided the preserve his own life and hid his love for Jesus deep down in his heart.

Confronted three times by the woman,

Peter knew the danger of being a Jesus Lover.

Are you a Jesus Lover? Peter knew that his confession of love or concern for the life of Jesus could bring his life to an end. As opposed to taking a stand, he remained quite and did his best to blend in with the masses. He became no better than all those who had benefitted from Jesus’ healing ministry, deliverance ministry, benevolence ministry, food ministry, teaching ministry, prayer ministry, and preaching ministry and chose to watch an innocent man suffer at the hands of guilty men. Though he didn’t lay down palms, or cry out crucify him, he joined the chorus of silent voices that agreed with the crowd by finding safety in its numbers.

Peter wasn’t ready to die, let alone die for Christ!

Jesus was ready to die for the world! Peter was not ready to die, and he most surely wasn’t ready to die for someone else. Peter went from disciple to crowd and now he stands face to face with the creator and is questioned about his love and loyalty to the covenant that has been established. The many things that must have gone through the mind of Christ as He stood there with His friend. The one who had already given his word that he would not betray him, now stands before him and gives another oath to replace the one he had broken. Jesus knew before His death, Peter’s word were only as strong as his circumstances, and now His prayer would be that Peter’s word would become their bond.

I and many others now stand in a similar place. We have heard the oaths all too many times. We been loving and made ourselves vulnerable. We have taken the risk to build relationships with those whos history has left many questions unanswered and wrongs unresolved. Though their word was given, the fear for their own demise and a self preservationist mindset overshadowed what they knew to be true, and as opposed to marching for justice, they stormed with the crowd. As opposed to speaking up for truth and equality, they aligned with those who desired to keep their foot on the scale of justice, giving the illusion of equality and justice.

So what is Jesus to do? He knows that Peter loves Him, but is aware that Peter loves his own life more than he values the life of Jesus. He has not yet realized that to die in Christ is to gain. He is unaware that He must pick up his cross and die to self daily. What should Jesus do with Peter? He knows from Peter’s previous response that there is always the chance that Peter will be friend until those around him become unfriendly because of his association with Christ. Honestly, many of us have the save fears, and live with this awareness. We know that our relationships are genuine with many, but understand the power and fear that can be imposed by a crowd. While we have seen people’s natural fight or flight response, we are also aware that many can be made to feel helpless to the point of agreeing with those who are aligned against right for fear of not living past the night.

While Peter followed at a Distance, John stood at the Foot of the Cross

I suppose Jesus was encouraged by the fact that He peered down from the cross and saw John. Maybe seeing someone stand by Him at the cross? Maybe He recalled the moment Peter received revelation? Maybe He was simply honoring His Word to build upon Peter?

This is where so many of us stand. We have to focus on the voices that raised for right, and not the voices that cried out against what was right. We have to listen to the harmony of love and unity, and not be discouraged by the deafening silence of those who love for everyone to speak up on their behalf but are silent when its time to speak up for others. We must engage those who denied their love for us; fearful of being labeled a Jesus Lover, and focus on those who marched in the streets, and confronted every “Karen” they saw. We have to focus on the maturity displayed by the friends that have been enlightened and give those who have embraced darkness a chance to once again live in the light of truth.

Honestly, we don’t know what Jesus was thinking or feeling! But we are aware that Jesus gives Peter another chance. He reaches past the past, and lives in the present. He acknowledges yesterday, but gives Peter an opportunity to live a different future. He chose not to condemn Peter, but chose to restore Peter. Despite what Peter deserved, Jesus spoke from what he contained. His words to Peter were firm, but were saturated in mercy, glazed in grace and filled with love. Jesus allowed Peter’s Word to have weight. He formed a new covenant with Him and affirmed His confidence in Peter by taking his word as truth, and committing to live in covenant with him.

Brothers and Sisters, we must do likewise. Back to Work! While there is something to see here, we can’t get stuck here. We must acknowledge evil and treat these ugly moments like an active crime scene. We must study it. We must learn from it. We must grieve from it. We must grow from it. We must reveal the work of the adversary and bring justice those who have suffered, and be compassionate and understanding as they start the road to healing. We must sure up our communities, and build up our families. We must shine the light in the darkness as opposed to being paralyzed in fear that darkness could rise again. Honestly, light dispels the darkness, it doesn’t destroy the darkness, thus in order for us to keep darkness from covering the room, we must all continue to shine.

I guess I should end this by asking, “Do you love me?” Regardless of your answer, like Christ to Peter, you can be assured that I love you, and if need be, will forgive you. Just make sure you do likewise!

#PastorJDO3 #InternetPastor

#racism #hatred #bigotry #friendship #friends #justice #injustice #pastorjdo3 #ogletree #vuu #christianity

[kaibacxrps]

// Headcanons dump for Set, I’ve been meaning to talk about for awhile:

The reason why Set shows up in the afterlife as a young man, rather than what he actually looked like when he died, Has everything to do with Atem’s memories of him. The Afterlife, is meant to be his reign. Meaning that everything in it, has an odd resemblance to what things used to look like before the battle against Zorc.

This caught Set by surprise, when he woke up in that world with that appearance. Even though he retained, all of his memories.

Despite  being a pharaoh in life, he is treated and seen by everyone else as a priest. Reinforcing the idea, that he really wasn’t meant for that role in his life.

There are historical records about Set, his mummy exists and is out there in the world. Thankfully, his tomb and body weren’t robbed on top of enduring the time’s passage.

There are many texts and writings on his tomb’s walls, written by his children and descendants honoring/praising him and his feats in life. Most of them were done by his oldest son, the one that succeeded him for the throne - his father was a huge role-model to him, and he sought out to follow his steps and live up to him;

The boy hoped meeting with Set in the afterlife, but alas it wasn’t meant to happen. His soul moved on, to his next incarnation;

Here’s a small correction to my info for Set:

He joined the court as a priest, at the age of 16. Truly living up to the title of, the youngest priest in it.

Egyptians had strong beliefs about doing any damage to one’s body, this means that executions that involved the destruction of a body were reserved, only for extreme cases (do a quick search on AE’s executions, death sentences and you’ll find better explanations for this). Taking the role of an executioner at such an young age, definetely had it’s effects on Set. For awhile, he had developed more violent tendencies and was showing interest in more gruesome methods to kill the prisoners. It was something heavily discouraged by the entire court, especially by Aknadin.

Eventually Set grew out of it- matured up, and slowly let go of those ideas - he acknowledges the absurd of the ideas/thoughts he used to have.

#ooc / #| セト • priest set • headcanon | #Set @ his past self like: now that's whAT I CALL EDGY

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹embroidered hearts➹(ps4 peter parker x reader)

Requested by anon➝  hi! idk if you’re taking requests right now, but if you are, do you think you could write something for ps4 peter parker? maybe like a friends to lovers thing. thanks!

You just... really liked to disappear, huh? To vanish, slip from his fingers. Except that this time Peter found you, caught you before you left once again, which may have just been exactly what you needed.

word count: 2.7k

a/n: holy wowowow, this isn’t a false alarm, y’all-- i actually posted! i’m sososo happy i finally did, and i’m really sorry about how long it took me to do so. school drained all my motivation but exams just finished this friday so i decided to get this done once and for all. i’m shocked that i finally liked something i wrote this month, it’s progress (’: anyway, here’s something for 1 pretty boy whom i love very much, i hope the nonnie who requested it likes it! (: also i had a terrible allergy while editing this so if there are any mistakes pls know that it’s hard to write while sneezing every five seconds. hope this week is great for you bc u deserve it, ok, ily that’s it adios (last thing lol, expect some noir stuff next and that beter sequel eye emoji)

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes since you told him you were going to the bathroom with a wavering smile, and you were nowhere to be seen. Peter set his empty glass of water on the table for the third time— God, he experienced a déjà vu that left him stumped and everything, and as he watched the crystal liquid stream from the pitcher, he could also sense his bladder protesting against all the suffering he kept putting it through. Nonetheless, he simply thanked the waiter for the refill, or else he was sure that if he didn’t continue drowning himself, the disquiet abounding in his system as a result of your unknown whereabouts would strangle him with its unnerving claws. Perhaps the entrance dish bombarded your stomach (if so, then he hoped you were alright), or the toilet devoured you and swallowed you down the drain. Two-year-old him never trusted the porcelain seat, after all (it... was an actual fear of his, actually). However, past all those justifications and silly fears, he knew something wasn’t right, for there existed no chance you’d simply vanish just like that after the anxiety for tonight nearly eroding you alive, and you wouldn’t surrender an opportunity for a promotion... right?

He scanned the party room, through the many dresses and tuxedos either standing by still or swaying together, awkwardness raining over and staining his skin when he recalled he was the last remaining person in the table after everyone else retired to chat with other fancy people. He surely didn’t fit in that category, neither was he acquainted with anyone — he wasn’t even invited, for crying out loud, rather you were the reason for his attendance; still, you weren’t there. He considered possibly checking the bathroom to make sure you seriously hadn’t died, because you weren’t answering any of his calls and... oh, no.

Your boss walked on stage and tapped the microphone, a muffled thud reverberating through the speakers. “Good evening, everyone! I’m glad the night’s been such a lovely one, I hope you’re all having a great time.” The man — Peter couldn’t remember his name, honestly — spoke, a charismatic grin that paraded his astonishing dental care on his face. Though no alluring smile impeded Peter from panicking further or his limbs from driving him out of his chair and into the tight space in between a cluster of intimidating guests, looking identical to a little kid who couldn’t find his parents at the supermarket.

“Where are you, Y/N?” He muttered to himself, a question he’d reiterated in his head far too often for the past seven months. A haze of amazement and disbelief encompassed his brain when you called him to ask to come as his date— all he could do was blink, his throat clogged up and his heart so unbelieving as if you died and had risen from your tomb, but you might as well have and he wouldn’t have even known, because it’s what it seemed following such a tediously long time of dead silence, of not seeing that lopsided grin of yours, of nothing. It should’ve pushed him away, if anything, although how could it? How could his stunned little heart let you go after you’d embroidered yourself into it, sewn the threads, a perennial string that led back to you, the first day you met? And yet you still gripped it closely, unwilling to detach as he desperately dialed your number again, his stomach diving faster down to the Earth’s core whilst your boss’ speech went on and a high-pitched beep rang in his ear. ‘The person you have called is unavailable right now...’ Not a good sign. No, most definitely not.

“However, I’d like to invite on stage a person who we appreciate greatly in the company,” ‘The person you have called is un—’ Peter hung up, over that goddamn message that always appears to torment him, and grimaced as your boss studied the crowd with proud eyes. “Please, a big round of applause for Y/N Y/L/N!”

The room exploded with sophisticated cheering, but it declined gracelessly, the clapping stuttering, fully ceasing when the moments dragged on and no one entered the spotlight. The leader squinted, visibly distressed, brows perplexed as he leaned closer to the lady beside him. “Y/N... did make it tonight, correct?” He whispered too loudly, gossip escalating in the audience. Peter bit his lip, stepping back closer to the exit door until a rough hand clutched his sleeve. 

“Hey, you’re Y/L/N’s boyfriend, right?” An older man with fuming blue eyes and a bald spot questioned, spit flying but thankfully not anywhere near Peter who sputtered, chest warming up when his tongue failed him, became tangled in his mouth.

“Wha... n-no, we’re just friends—”

 “I don’t care. Listen, if that idiot is not here right now then I’m gonna be in deep shit.”

Peter’s brows furrowed with anger, “Hey, shut up, man— Y/N’s not an idiot.” He snapped, but the guy barely flinched and rolled his eyes as he let go of the taller young man. 

“Just do something!” He hissed, equally as bitter and prodding his chest before disappearing into the crowd.

Peter opened the double doors and sped down the hallway straight to the bathrooms with a sour mood; however, before he knocked, a figure outside the window captivated him and calmed his hammering heartbeat. It... couldn’t be you. Why would you be out there? He surveyed the area, and when he saw no sign of another person or any security cameras, he unfastened the window’s lock and slid it open.

Could he have gone outside like a normal human being? Yeah, sure, except that— first — where’s the fun in that, and second, he didn’t want to walk all the way to the other side of the building— it was an emergency, or at least that’s the excuse he’d use if anyone caught him as he landed softly on the grass. It was indeed you, he realized, sat on a bench, observing nothing in particular unless the building under construction across the street held any trace of beauty in your eyes. He stopped a few feet away from you, mouth twitching. “Is this seat taken?”

You almost jumped into space and out of orbit, your neck whipping around, large frightened eyes gradually lightening when they took him in. There it was. That lopsided grin, unchanging from when you were a sophomore in college apart from the darker under eye circles. And there was his own shy smile, too, accompanied by the blush that stained his face, like red wine spilled over a tablecloth. “Yes, actually, by my imaginary friend Pedro.” You patted the area beside you, on the supposed Pedro’s knee, and he sneaked his hands inside his blazer’s pockets, feigning disapproval.

“You exchanged me for a Pedro?”

“He’s a nice guy.” You giggled as he sat down next to you, your stare fixed on your lap. “Let me guess: I messed up the night and that’s why you’re looking for me.” You said, playfulness faltering and insecurity peeking its head in, and he noticed how it sculpted your expression and body language with its discouragement. 

“Not exactly, no. I was still going to look for you, but a jerk who called you an idiot really needed me to do so.” He grumbled, irritation returning as a combo along with remembrance of the incident. You didn’t reach, though; you solely raised your eyebrows, unruffled, your friend more afflicted albeit he wasn’t the one who was called an idiot. 

“A short guy that kinda looks like an odd mix between John Stamos and Danny Devito?” You queried. Peter rebuilt the man’s appearance in his head, and you had to laugh at his raw shock when he recognized the accuracy of your comparison. He... really did look like that, seriously, it’s the most bizarre combination you could think of. “Yeah, that’s Jonathan. We’re not exactly best pals.”

“I kinda figured that out, Stavito didn’t look so happy.” A smile flourished on his countenance as quickly as a match is set alight after you cackled, your hand flying up to your mouth to mute your laughter.

“Stavito? Man, now he’s gonna hate me even more because I’m never gonna stop using that one.” You shook your head, rubbing your crinkled eyes. He hummed, loosening his tie, wearing a crooked grin that you fathomed meant incoming pain for you—

“He’s gonna stab-ito you!”

Jesus Christ. You let out a drawn-out breath and picked up your legs, expression similar to a parent seeing their kid’s report card. “I hate you. This friendship’s on hold until further notice.”

“It was a great pun!”

“Was not.” You objected, although both of your bodies shook with hilarity. He looked at you, the moon painting silver strokes on your tranquil frame, the delight in him for just being by your side too much that his stare lingered; though not for long, for your attention strayed up to him and his eyes immediately shifted down to his hands, his leg restless, bustling.

“Why are you out here? We could’ve left if that’s what you wanted.” He said, brows knitted. You changed to a cross-legged position, rolling your lips.

“I originally was just going to take a five-minute stroll, but once I sat down here, I just couldn’t go back inside.” You confessed, shrugging. Gloom reemerged, drooping the corners of your lips, striking a spike of ice in your gut— the frost trickled up and down your body, goosebumps of sorrow growing over your skin. “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible friend. Jonathan’s right: I am an idiot.” You whispered.

He held in his breath, blank on what to say. “Why would you think that?”

You snorted, expression unamused. “They’re facts, Pete. Good friends don’t just… fall off the face of Earth without a warning.”

“I’m… sure you had your reasons.”

“They weren’t good reasons, though. I should’ve at least told you something. But I bet it was nice to get a break from me, huh?” You joked, hurt and self-doubt seeping through your voice.

He frowned, immediately denying with his head. “Why would I want to get a break from you? Y/N, we don’t even get to see each other that much. If anything, I…” He halted, gulping. “I-I want to see you more.” He admitted quietly.

Your bewilderment was dim but still present as you ran your hand up and down your arm. “You’re dumb. You could spend your time with people who are actually great but you want to spend it with me.”

“Yeah, well, if I am dumb so what? I still wouldn’t change my mind.” He argued, a line in between his brows. You sighed, sliding down the metal seat, your eyes shut as you tilted your head back. 

“Peter, stop, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do, though. I mean, yeah, it… it hurt a bit,” Peter raised one shoulder, aware that it hurt more than just ‘a bit’. “I thought you decided to break contact, but it’s okay, really.”

“Give yourself some love, it’s not okay that I hurt you like that.” You momentarily put your hand on his, repentance etched on your features. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“We’re talking again, though, that’s all that matters.” He brushed you off, raising up to his feet. The guilt still held you, played with you like a doll, but the reassuring quirk of the corner of his mouth somewhat relieved it. “We should go back inside, don’t want you catching a cold or Stavito getting fired.”

“He’s not gonna get fired, he’s just way too over dramatic.” You grunted, showing your clear distaste for the John Stamos and Danny Devito love child. Peter lent out his hand but you blinked at it, chuckling uncomfortably. “Don’t you rather stay out a bit more? The sky looks great tonight— I can see a few more stars than usual.” You pointed at the dark blanket of nebulae and astral bodies. He glanced up, close to dropping to the ground to inspect the night sky until he heard the stifled music from the party.

“We can stargaze once the event’s over.” He promised, gesturing with his head to the building. It was then when he distinguished the dread in your eyes.

“...Are you sure you don’t want to do it now? What if it gets too cloudy?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is everything alright? Why don’t you want to go back in there?”

You tried to utter another excuse, but you couldn’t. The ire at yourself made your hands tremble, set your mouth in a hard line as you were incapable of looking right at him, the humiliation far too much.

“I hate my job.”

Peter sat back down, staring at you, his expression sad. “You know, I spent the entirety of high school and started college with this idea of what I wanted my future to be like. But now that I did it, now that I’m actually there, I’m so… bored with everything. I don’t know what to do. Like, what am I supposed to do now? Go to work and what else? Because if that’s all there is to my life, I don’t know why I should even bother with it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Peter what am I doing?” You scoffed, scowling. “Look at me: what the hell am I bringing to the world? You’ve got FEAST, and just got that job with Otto Octavius— you’re… so amazing and will do so many great things. The world needs you. I need you. We all do.” You mumbled, voice breaking.

His sight gravitated down to your lonely hand that rested so near to his, that had the string running from his heart encircled around its ring finger, beckoning him closer. His fingers reached out slowly, hesitantly, with great fear. But he wound up grazing your hand, and then he fully wrapped his own around it— around the artist that sewed a handiwork of untouchable adoration into him. “But what if I...” He began, struggling to come clean. “What if I...” He saw your anticipating gaze.

“I need you, too.” He whispered.

Your view averted down to your linked hands and then up at the boy unknowing that he, just like you had to him, had tailored a piece of himself in you long ago. You hugged him. Crumbled, snuggled deep into him, allowing yourself to accept that hand reaching out to you, to surrender to comfort. He hugged you back with as much gentleness and warmth, his chin on top of your head. “You should give yourself some love, too.” He murmured and you let out air through your nose, agreeing with him. “You’ll find your way because you’re incredible, alright? I just wish you could see that.”

Seven months weren’t eons, Peter acknowledged, but perhaps they could be; perhaps they were enough to view everything differently, past that veil that cloaked his eyes, past the doubt and uncertainty, because there was something distinctive in your familiar smile when you pulled away. Something unusual as you sat straight, your eyes drifting sideways to him. “I guess we can help each other with that self-love thing.” You suggested.

He got the hint in your voice, and all of a sudden, he figured out what that something was; but he didn’t want to accept the truth that crashed against him when he realized that it wasn’t new. No, it’d been there all along.

He could try to believe.

“Maybe we could, uh, we could go out for dinner some… some time. Get started with some good food, y’know…” His tone was quiet and he couldn’t have resembled better a nervous teenage boy asking his crush to dance on prom night as he wrinkled his nose in embarrassment.

You faked a cynical expression, despite already knowing the answer in your soul. “Some time?”

“Or never, if that’s what you prefer.” He laughed tensely, his eyes growing wide when he turned his head and cursed at himself internally. You smiled to yourself, moving a strand of hair out of your face.

“How about tonight?”

“Tonight? Like…” He checked his wristband, only to remember it wasn’t a watch. “...tonight? What about the event—”

“Forget the event,” You stood up, and now you were the one stretching out your hand to him. “C’mon, let’s look for some restaurants because why not, am I right?”

Peter clutched your hand, the contentment a welcomed compensation for all those months of not seeing you.

“Yeah, why not?”

#ps4 peter parker x reader #spider man ps4 x reader #spider man ps4 #insomniac spider-man #peter parker x reader #ps4 peter parker one shot #ps4 peter parker imagine #fem!reader #male!reader #gender neutral

[dxmichelle]

The 12 Days of Fic-Mas (Day 4): The Visit

Summary: Yugi travels to see an old friend.

The only one who knew he was going was his grandfather. If he told his friends, they would just insist on making the journey with him, and in any other situation? Sure, the more the merrier. But this time, he wanted to go alone. And if he had to see the disappointment on his friends’ faces, he would have given in out of guilt in a heartbeat.

He met the Ishtars at the airport, and held the strap of the bag on his shoulder a little tighter. They didn’t talk much on the long drive other than idly catching up with what everyone else was up to.

Yugi was surprised that they didn’t drive to the site of where the Millennium Items were laid to rest, though, he did remember the tomb entrance did collapse after Atem passed through the doors to the afterlife. Nor did they go to the place where he and the others, with Shadi’s help, entered the Millennium Puzzle to help Atem save the world. Again.

Instead, they stopped at the entrance to a nondescript tomb.

“Is this it?”

“It is,” said Ishizu. “Will you need a guide?”

Yugi shook his head. “I don’t think so. …In a way, I’ve been here before.”

Marik handed him a torch and stepped back. “We’ll wait here for you.”

“Oh,” said Yugi, “Well…I might be a while.”

“It’s fine,” said Ishizu. “Be careful, and take as long as you need.”

Yugi took a deep breath and started the journey down. It took less time than he initially thought to get through the first chamber, and was surprised at himself that despite not remembering where all of the floor traps were located, none of the giant serpent statues along the walls shot their poisoned needles.

Were all of the darts deployed by visitors in the past? By the tomb keepers that had come through recently? Was he just lucky?

Or…a fleeting thought passed through his mind. Was his presence detected, and he was allowed safe passage?

He waved the idea away. The magic was gone.

Wasn’t it?

Yugi continued onward, down the stairs and into the next chamber. The passage maze along the chasm was exactly as he remembered it, though the armed statues weren’t in the same places.

He stole a glance behind him. The spike wall was naturally reset. Knowing where the pressure switch was on the floor meant he could pass without activating it, alleviating the need to hurry across the pit.

Yugi looked down at his feet and then across the field before him. The first statue was about ten paces away. He hesitated a moment and then inched his right foot forward, drawing it back almost immediately once he saw the sword-raised arm of the first statue shift ever so slightly.

Any lingering idea that the traps would just let him pass instantly dashed.

Good to know, he said to himself. They still work.

It was a wonder the tomb keepers managed to get through that room at all, knowing the cargo they carried at the time.

Left foot forward, one step at a time, until he reached the other side, and onwards through the next room. Grandpa had mentioned how his guide through the tomb had betrayed him here along the bridge all those years ago, and somehow he was saved by the Pharaoh’s spirit, though he didn’t realize it at the time.

The far end of the chamber housed an empty pedestal, but Yugi’s focus was what sat just behind it.

Grandpa had made it sound like no one else had managed to get this far into Atem’s tomb before he did, so Yugi only had to wonder where this particular artifact was actually found. Was it earlier on in one of the smaller chambers? Or in another place entirely. Ishizu never made mention if tombs to any of the other members of the court were found.

Shifting the bag off of his shoulder, Yugi set it on the ground beside the pedestal and sat down on the floor of the room, staring up at the massive Tablet of Memories. He reached into the bag and pulled out the small golden box that once housed his Duel Monsters cards, and more importantly, the pieces of the Millennium Puzzle.

He placed it carefully in his lap and looked up at the carving of Atem on the tablet, forever poised in battle.

“Hi Atem,” Yugi began, “It’s…it’s been a while.”

He sighed. “I know that you can’t really hear me. That’s okay. I know that you’re out there, in your Afterlife. I just wanted to talk. Grandpa said he used to do this sometimes at his father’s gravesite. And, well, this is the closest I’ll have to doing the same thing…. I won’t stay too long – I know you’re finally at peace now, and don’t want to disturb, but I thought I’d just give you a quick update on things, in case you were interested…”

He ran a finger along some of the etchings on the golden box. “It’s been…two years now. Grandpa is doing okay. Moving a little slower, but at his age, I can’t blame him. He went off last year with Professor Hawkins to oversee a dig in South America. His last hoorah before he officially resigned his archaeology hat and settled down in the shop. We were all worried, of course. You remember the last time he went off, and we had to save him from that weird pyramid. But no, he came back safe and sound, and more than a little sunburnt.

“Joey is doing great! There’s something new starting soon. A dueling “Pro-League” and he’s almost got himself a sponsor. It’s not set in stone, not yet, but so far it looks promising. And he could use the break, with him out on his own now.

“Téa is off in New York studying dance. We weren’t able to go visit her, but she brought back a recording of the production she was in. She didn’t have a large part, not in this show, anyway, but it was really cool to see! It’s really exciting to see her living her dream!”

“Tristan’s been helping out at his dad’s factory. He’s saving up to open a garage soon. I think he takes more care of his bike than himself, if that makes sense. But at least he and Duke have stopped fighting over Serenity. …At least I think they have. We don’t see her around too much. She still lives with her mom, and they recently moved a little further out from Domino. She hasn’t come back to Domino since the Battle City tournament, but I know Joey took the train up to see her a few months ago.”

Yugi leaned back, his hands pressed against the cool floor, trying to think of who he hadn’t mentioned yet. “Oh! Kaiba and Mokuba have opened up their second Kaiba Land park! It’s just like the first one, just a little smaller. I made sure to get on the crazy coaster, just for you.” He smiled at the memory. Atem hated that ride. “The one where the Puzzle almost fell off while we were upside down. That one’s at the new park, and it goes faster. It’s great!”

Yugi shifted one hand back front to open the golden box, and then stopped. “I know you’re wondering – but no, Kaiba still hasn’t beaten me yet. I don’t know if he’s getting discouraged – ludicrous, I know – but he doesn’t take part in tournament duels all that much anymore. Téa thinks he’s too busy, and I have to agree with her. There’s a lot on his plate now. But if I had to guess, I think it’s because you’re gone. I mean, I’m still here, but you were his real challenge. I’ve noticed that if I’m not dueling, he’s not dueling.”

Yugi smiled up at the tablet. “I know you’re going to ask too – I’m fine. A bit lonely at times. You would think that wouldn’t be the case, if anything, we’ve all gotten closer over the years, even if some of us aren’t always at home. But…it’s like something’s missing. I can’t quite put my finger on it…”

He narrowed his gaze up at Atem’s profile. “Don’t go blaming yourself for leaving though! Your soul deserves to be at peace after all those years of being trapped in the Puzzle and having the weight of the world on your shoulders! I…I just got so used to you being here, that sometimes it still takes a little reminding that you’re not sharing thoughts anymore.”

Yugi waved his hand dismissively. “But enough about that. I have some exciting news for you. I don’t know if you remember, or if I was considering it before you left, but that strategy sphere game? I made a mockup of it. Mokuba was all over it, showed it to Kaiba, and there’s a real chance that he might put it into production. I’m heading to Kaiba Corp next week and the two of us are going to sit down and play it.”

He laughed. “It’ll be a bit weird, to be sitting around at a table with no cards or fancy dueling holograms. But it’ll be nice. I’m looking forward to it. I have a feeling he was going to move forward with it even without playing it himself, but sometimes he’s still hard to read.”

Yugi kept going, rattling off the news of anyone and everyone that they came across. How Mai was dueling again professionally, but still hadn’t returned to Domino yet, to Joey’s dismay. What Rebecca was up to now that she was just about finished with college. How Duke’s shop was faring, and that Mako managed to get his boat after years of saving from his job at the aquarium….

Finally, Yugi looked down on the golden box, and he frowned slightly. “…And with that…brings me to my visit. I don’t know if you were aware, I mean like truly aware, but ten years ago today, Grandpa gave me this box full of puzzle pieces…”

He leaned back against his hands again. “I think…if child-me knew just how much utter chaos we would get into by putting the Puzzle together, I’m sure I would have buried this box somewhere in the back of the shop where it would never get found. But then…I wouldn’t have met you. Joey and I wouldn’t be friends – maybe – and…well, you’d still be trapped.”

“Speaking of friends…” Yugi tilted his head, still focused on the box. “I’ve sought all sorts of advice about this…. Joey and Tristan – they think this is a mistake. Haven’t been able to talk much to Téa over it, but I was surprised Kaiba was on my side. We talked for a long time actually. You’d be surprised….”

He shrugged, and then hoisted himself up off the floor. He hesitated, a moment unsure, before carefully placing the golden box on the empty pedestal.

“We think it’s best that the Egyptian Gods remain here, watching over this place. I know that the Shadow Games are gone now, and so are the Millennium Items, but as the most powerful cards in existence, I don’t want anyone trying for them anymore. Too many people got hurt trying to collect them. And I don’t want to risk someone finding a way to bring all that magic back.”

Yugi folded his arms across his chest.

“I know, Pharaoh. This is a really big decision. I didn’t come to it lightly. And I know we always kept our cards in this box, but I think…giving the Gods their proper resting place in a way puts them at peace too….and I think, after all this time, they deserve it as well. And I don’t see a better place than here. They were yours to command, after all.”

Yugi removed the lid to the box and glanced inside. Four cards lay along the bottom.

“There’s something else…I told Pegasus what had happened. With the last Shadow Game, and how you moved on. I…also consulted him about what to do with the God Cards…and he was of the same mindset as Kaiba. Anyway…he made us something.”

He pulled the fourth card from the bottom. “I told him about your past, and about a week ago, he came to visit – I know, Grandpa nearly had a heart attack when he showed up at our door. But he had a special card for us. It’s made to work alongside Dark Magician, and I’ve put it in my deck. But he made another one, for you, so in a way we’ll still be connected, even though we can’t communicate anymore.”

Yugi cradled the card close to his chest and looked up at the tablet again, his heart heavy. The other reason for his visit...and it hurt to think about it.

“…I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to come back here. Marik said the tomb keepers who moved the tablet down think some parts of this place are a bit unstable…it may not be safe for much longer…”

He was honestly surprised that the Ishtars let him down in the first place. 

“I was shocked then that they decided to put the tablet here, but I suppose, now that your mission is complete…there’s no need to keep it anywhere else. Pharaoh Set created it to bring you home, after all. Or so I think – that’s what Ishizu believed. And…a part of me was thinking…maybe it is best to let it all fade away.”

He sniffed suddenly, and wiped away the tear forming in his eye. “But, you know? Despite everything that’s happened since I finished the Puzzle? I’m grateful for the chance to have met you, and I’ll really cherish the time we had and the adventures we went on. Time will move on, memories may fade, but you will always be my dear friend.”

Yugi smiled, and looked down at the card in his hands. Palladium Oracle Mahad. He gently placed it back in the golden box and replaced the lid before turning back to the tablet, taking a long sweep over the entire thing, committing as much of it to memory as he possibly could. The Puzzle at the top with the Gods, the Blue Eyes and Dark Magician, Set and Atem…all the way down to the worn, jagged edges along the bottom and the cartouche where Atem’s name used to be.

“Good-bye Pharaoh…rest well.”

#12 days of ficmas #michelle writes fic #yugioh #ygo #yugi muto