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ultimateinferno · 1 year

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I know the Zelda Timeline is hardly the most popular thing out there, but for me, it's always been endlessly fascinating. Everything is the same. It's all different. It's linear. It's cyclical. It branches and twists and comes back together. It disregards its predecessors. It can't let them go. It thrashes against change. It can't stay the same.

Every game is a reboot.

But they're also not.

I think the story of The Legend of Zelda is the epitome of narrative doublethink. In order to truly buy in, you must accept the simultaneous facets that none of the games matter to one another and that they all do. They're the same story. They're absolutely not.

The thing about the timeline, to me, by being both codified and nebulous, is what ties this cow tools of a narrative together. It's a puzzle without a box. It's total fucking nonsense, but so is reality. Things won't ever truly make sense, but what if they did. What if we took it from a new angle and... hmm. No. That won't work

Or maybe...

Ultimately, the Zelda Timeline is quite simply a farcical creative writing prompt. A dare. A challenge. To take these pieces not designed to fit together and give them order. Do the writers themselves care? Absolutely not. I do, though. So fuck it.

#zelda #the legend of zelda #tloz #loz #legend of zelda #ocarina of time #oot #breath of the wild #botw #a link to the past #alttp #tears of the kingdom #totk #like honestly its not really that confusing for me at large but patching up the holes is half the fun #no other series really has that ''everything is the exact same and also completely different''#it scratches the parts of my brain that likes to piece together stories and worldbuilding #and also the part that likes to piece together science #like call this pretentious but real life is fucking nonsense too #this one is just a controlled environment

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worldhistoryfacts · 5 months

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Buddhist artists didn’t limit themselves to footprints — a number of symbols cropped up to represent the Buddha, many of them pretty creative.

In some cases, artists used the dharmachakra, or dharma wheel, itself. In addition to representing the cyclical nature of existence, the wheel was full of meaning. Its roundness represented the perfection and completeness of the Buddha’s teachings; its spokes stood for the important concepts of the religion (i.e., eight spokes for the eight noble truths), and its hub represented the key virtues of Buddhism. We often see worshippers adoring the wheel in lieu of the Buddha, as in this example from the second century BCE:

{Buy me a coffee} {WHF} {Medium} {Substack}

You can see more fascinating Buddhist art here:

#history #ancient #india #art #tree #buddhism #religion

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luaveltarot · 1 year

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Puzzle pieces that describe your future spouse-

Pick a snap

(1-4 from left to right)

CALM AND CENTRED

Casual

Reputed

Cyclical, someone with whom you shared on and off, highs and lows of life

Crush

Frank, candid or open during conversations

Like to paint, an artist

Does not believe in organised traditions or religions

Peaceful

Craiova

Profession- Doctor, Nutritionist, Gym trainer,Banker, Finance manager and Mathematics teacher.

Quotes -

“Everything is better with you, everything has been better since you.”

“Your eyes stole all my words away.”

2. STRONG AND RESILIENT

Like to try different cuisines

Countryside, rural place

Biblical

Cardinal sign (Aries, cancer, libra and Capricorn) Rising

Clever and intelligent, notices the minutes

French, Mexican, German and Irish

Crazy

Brandon Crandall (name could resonate for a few)

Grandma vibes (ik it’s weird but it could mean that they are worse beyond their age)

Meet him when he’s burning junk

Praised by people

Quotes-

“You are my favourite feeling.”

“No relationship is all sunshine but two people can share one umbrella and survive storms.”

3. SAFE AND PROTECTED

Tan skin (caramel)

Into high brands, buys a lot of things from statement brands

Heavenly voice

Beaming personality

Logical

6th house energy; good routine, fitness and healthy diet.

Balance personality

No expectations from others, set boundaries

Pink

Penguin, gentle, loyal creatures who are devoted to their mates

Bachelor

Juno energy, wants to commit for the long haul and fiercely loyal

Aquarius Venus

Quotes-

“I just want to be loved and f***ed by you. For the rest of my life.”

“I’m a hopeless romantic with a dirty mind and high standards. I want to be treated like a lady in public, ravaged in private and wooed for eternity.”

4. MAKE A WISH

Travel (profession related tours)

Libra mercury

Loves their sister

Words meet their action. What they say, they do.

Active (also I’m getting strong arms and legs)

Bull(could be a taurus), protective, patient and will compromise for you

Currently they are not in a good position mentally, something holds them back from being the best version of themselves

Six number

Buddhist bell; signifies wisdom and skilful

Morning person

Quotes-

“No matter what the day brought for us. I want you to know that I’m always here for you to share your worries celebrate your victories and just talk. Sweet dreams my love!”

“It’s the connection we can’t explain.”

#tarot #divination #tarot reading #witch #witchy #future spouse #tarot witch #spiritual #pac #pick a pile #pick an image

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obscurecharactershowdown · 9 months

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Semi-Finals

[image ID: the first image is of Stag Malinay, a young man with auburn hair and yellow-orange eyes. he's wearing a black shirt, black pants, and black, lace up knee high boots with belt straps. he's sitting on a red and gold throne. beside him is written his name, "Stag Malinay." the second image is of Granger, a girl with green eyes and short, wavy or curly black hair. in her hair is a red hat or ribbon. she's wearing a black turtleneck sweater, blue overalls, and a green coat. end ID]

Stag Malinay

Very self confident, bisexual manwhore with a troubled background he doesn't like to talk about. Said past is the cause of all his anger issues which he regularly takes out on the MC, initially. They become friends later, so it's okay. Also, he has a Tumblr account! @stagmalinay, run by me, the author. Can't really get more obscure than only selling a few copies of my entire book so far. [additional propaganda 1] [additional propaganda 2] [additional propaganda 3] [additional propaganda 4] [additional propaganda 5] [additional propaganda 6] [additional propaganda 7] [additional propaganda 8] [additional propaganda 9][additional propaganda 10] [additional propaganda 11] [additional propaganda 12]

Granger

so granger is the main character of the indie game "NeverHome" Chapter one, which is only $1 on Steam, is called NeverHome: Hall of Apathy. if ur a fan of young protags being put in RPG maker horror games, then this is the game for you!! so granger is just that… she wakes up to find herself in a strange, hostile world. she, along with the friends she makes, must solve the various puzzles before them while creatures are out to kill them… and along the way they can uncover the secrets of these never ending halls… her dynamics with the cast is also super fun… each character gets their moment or moments with granger. and what's so cute is that there's unique art for each pair that highlights the fact you cant get through these halls alone!! she also has her own theme song!! here!! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_vwtmIj5cw it's called cyclical tragedy AND HERE IS AN ANALYSIS OF THE THEME!! MUSIC THEORY!!! written by my good friend @HIEMIOLA "cyclical tragedy" embodies the protagonist, granger, through the music theory behind the track and ties itself back into the main track as well. to begin with an overview of the track, the key is D minor and hte time signature is 3/4. the piece begins with a broken minor third starting from the tonic. that is, it begins on the main note and moves along the main chord, D to F. the next set of notes are C to E, which is shifted down a step. the phrase repeats again, this time D to F, then G to E, which is an inverse movement from the original sequence. even in this first part, we could tell that the protagonist begins from square 1 with a simple pattern, then tries it again when it works. however, the inverse breaks that expectation of repetition, thus showing the diverse variations of solutions she comes up with using just the tools she has (the two notes moving in thirds). just like the game, she is given a handful of objects as well as a knife to defend herself and solve the mysteries of the world she exists in. with her creative uses of the items given to her, she continues on her way through the plot. we will keep moving. the melody begins. true to the title of the track, the melody cycles around the same beginning note, D, that she always returns to at her square 1. this is a nod to the save states she is allowed to keep to make sure that we the players don't lose the game, but it also references the health bar that appears as a circle around her avatar. the melody, mapped out, is also moving in an up-down wave movement across the sheet music. granger is creative with the knife she has and the quest items she obtains throughout the story, but she is not entirely reckless. rather, she knows when it is time to return to the safe rooms to rest. to time her returns requires skill because she must run to cover without being caught by varying her path so the enemies don't corner her as she tries to return to the room. most of the time, she is successful, shown through the consistent return to the beginning note. let's keep going. i would like to turn your attention to the main theme briefly. in the bass notes, you can hear arpeggios and outlined chords. this makes up the bulk of the accompaniment in the main game theme. [mod note: the rest of the essay, and some more propaganda, is continued under a cut because tumblr will not process more text than this in an indent. sorry to split it up, please continue below for the rest of the essay and additional propaganda!]

the third variation of granger's theme also has arpeggiated chords in the accompaniment while the melody features broken chords. at this stage, the pattern switches to eigth notes instead of the quarter notes at first. with greater movement and heightened senses, she runs throughout world and befriends other people, thus interacting further with the environment. while she isn't exactly someone we would call open, she is respectful to the people she first meets and has no problems with asking them for help when she needs it. because of her openness to working together, she speeds up her progress by asking for aid at obstacles that would be too difficult for her to overcome on her own, such as asking a teammate to break things, move things, or reach into smaller holes. fusing the main theme elements with her own theme marks this step as the inciting incident that sets her on the path to escape from this world. we'll continue.

continuing the same part, we hear some secondary fifths. i'm not entirely sure if this is what you call it, but it is a nod to the parallel key, D major. depending on what theory class you take, this could also be considered the other half of the key. i dont know how else to describe it, but i digress. these are glimpses to different dialogue options she could take, glimpses to a different key or a different ending. because this game only has one chapter ending so far, we are unsure of what other paths granger will end up in; we only know that there are certainly other endings she will experience, only to begin the cycle again when the save state is loaded for players to reach another ending. both A major and G major are chords that signify different choices that may lead her elsewhere only for her to return back to the tonic or main note, D. despite this, she keeps going, as will we.

at the midpoint of the track, we see a quick shift in patterns. instead of upward leaps in the notes, the melody falls in stepwise motion. true to the plot, this is another turning point of the game when she is forced to make a choice: continue or stop. after facing the spoiler event, her once determined personality is challenged as she struggles to keep herself and her team together. despite being the headstrong protagonist who spearheaded solutions, even now she finds herself doubting and taking smaller steps, smaller risks.

even after all of this, she rises to the challenge as the melody returns to its beginning sequence. true to a protagonist she gets up again despite the events that transpired and keeps her team moving in their lowest points. the thirds return as she finds more objects to solve more puzzles to open more rooms to save more friends. this repeating part of the track only solidifies her resolve as the piece ends with a broken chord in the main key, her key, of D minor. despite everything that transpired, she stayed true to herself."

the game is also so, so charming with the art, music, and story made by the same person… its so clearly loved and full of passion!! i love listening to the game's ost on occassion!! since it's all on youtube!

ok one last thing thing!! on may 8th, the game hit 100 downloads (on both steam and itch.io). you can see the creator of the game celebrate that with this lovely drawing of granger: https://twitter.com/NeverHome_Game/status/1655761270694633472

so at most, only a bit over 100 people have played the game… id like to say that makes it obscure!!

anyways granger and neverhome!! we love to see our protagonists put in horrific situations and isn't she super cute with a lil bow on her head? she is my daughter…

[additional propaganda 1]

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#obscurecharactershowdown #obscure poll #semi finals #stag malinay #krystar first fragment #solarsavoyart #granger neverhome #neverhome

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linkspooky · 1 year

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JUJUTSU KAISEN, CHAPTER 214 THOUGHTS

Hana's death could be read as the destruction of innocence. The pointless suffering that is inflicted again and again by life. Just like the audience, the characters in Jujutsu Kaisen are always suffering too. Sukuna and Yuji clash this chapter, and so do their world views. While they seem like opposites they're actually talking about the same thing. How do you live in a world full of suffering? Why do you live in a world full of suffering? What's the point? Yuji and Sukuna are both puzzling over and trying to answer this question, but they're arguing from completely opposite points of view.

They represent two ends of the extreme, one of the side of the weak, and one on the side of the strong. Understanding their points of view can help understand their characters, more underneath the cut.

1. Samsara

Samsara in BUhism refers to the cycle ofrepreated birth, mundane existence, and dying again. Samara is considered to be dukha, suffering, and in general unsatisfactory and painful. More or less from a budhist point of view suffering is always inherent to life no matter how noble a life one tries to lead. The rude of suffering in this thought comes from ignorant desires and fears that all people have.

To borrow a panel from another manga (Tokyo Ghoul, if you read my blog you might have heard of it) the budhist view is essentially life itself will always have suffering and the only way to escape suffering is to eventually escape the cycle of death and rebirth entirely.

"Suffering is inherent to life" a depressing thought, but true nonetheless. There's no such thing as a life without pain or sadness. The cycle of karma is represented in many ways in Jujutsu Kaisen, such as curses which must be exorcised over and over again by sorcerers. No matter how many curses are exorcised, they all eventually reform, which traps sorcerers in this cycle.

Geto's downfall and madness even comes from being worn down as a part of that cycle, and the extremes he's willing to go to our driven by a desire to break free or end that cycle permanently. The curse he's exercising in that panel is the same face as this classic depiction of a thangka showing the bhavacakra, the five cyclic realms of samsara in budhist cosmology. It's the creature at the top of the wheel with the third eye opened.

Curses are created by desires and negative human emotions the same way the sufferig inherent to life in budhit cosmology is created by sins like ignorance and desire. Now, this chapter we have Sukuna, a curse, and Yuji a human who are both aware of the suffering of life and their two completely different responses to it.

2. The Myth of Sisyphus

Yuji's shouting at Sukuna almost comes off as naive. Yuji's basically just yelling "Why can't everyone just be nice?" I just said that Yuji and Sukuna are both responding to the suffering inherent to life but Yuji doesn't even seem capable of comprehending why that suffering exists. To borrow my friend @theanimepsychologist's words.

Theanimepsychologist: It's also kind of infantile of him to ask "why can't you just live without causing suffering?" As though he can't fathom that suffering is a normal aspect of life. Very pisces of him to just want to alleviate suffering.

Gege said in a world where jujutsu sorcerers didn't exist, Yuji would be a fireman, not a policeman. Which is important discussion, because Yuji is entirely focused on rescuing people, he doesn't really think of dealing out punishment. However, as a Jujutsu Sorcerer it's fortunate Yuji is dealing with curses who are just abstract embodiments of negative human emotions that are for the most part chaotic evil. Like, what would Yuji say exactly if he was just facing a normal human being?

To borrow from another manga again, what if he was facing a villain like Shigaraki Tomura, someone who has suffered all throughout his life at the hands of other people, and inflicts suffering in return, but also has a goal of destroying society because he sees the society that rejected him as the source of that suffering. Yuji, conveniently only fights curses who's nature it is to eat humans and consume human misery for no specific reason what would he say exactly if someone had complex nuanced reasons for what they do.

All of this to say while Yuji has good intentions, his views are in the extremes of black and white. Arguably, and this is where the foiling comes in his views are as black and white as Sukuna's, he just sits on the opposite end of the spectrum. They are both unequally able to see nuance or shades of grey in reality, Sukuna just sits from the perspective of the strong, and Yuji from the perspective of the weak.

I'd argue that Yuji doesn't actually want to think of the complexity of the world around him at all. He doesn't even see that humans are equally capable of inflicting suffering on other humans, or that say structures that are constructed by humans, like say the legal system that made Higuruma suffer, or the sorcerer society around him can also make humans suffer. Yuji's so fixated on exorcising curses and looking at doing nothing else because it conveniently plays into this black and white narrative he has.

Yuji's views are, surprisingly nihilistic for the hero of a shonen manga. If he sees life as nothing more than exorcising curses, if there's no deeper meaning to it then just doing his job then why is he even living in the first place? The answer of course, is that he's not really trying to live.

Let me bring out handy chart to explain my point.

Existential nihilism is the philosophical theory that life has no instrinsic meaning or value. With respect to the universe, existenital nihilism suggests that a single human or even the entire human is insignificant, without purpose and unlikely to change the totality of existence.

The Myth of Sisyphus written by Albert Camusb begins with what has become the most famous opening sentences in literature and philosophy.

"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether or not life is or is not worth living amounts of answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest - whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories - comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer. And if it is true, as Nietzsche claims, that a philosopher to deserve our respect, must preach by example, you can appreciate the importance of that reply, for it will precede the definitive act."

The Myth of Sisyphus itself basically represents the same concept of Samsara. Sisyphus pushes the bolder up the hill, it falls down, then he pushes the bolder back up the hill again. People live, die, and are reborn again. Jujutsu Sorcerers exorcise curses, only for those curses to reform, and they have to exercise them again.

Yuji's views are as nihilistic as Sukuna's. Sukuna doesn't see a point or reason for weak people to continue to live. Yuji isn't trying to live either, nor is he trying to create any meaning for his own life.

3. Hedonism

Sukuna is an inherently hedoinstic character. He has a giant mouth on his stomach. He is a walking appetite. His domain expansion is based around cooking. His only servant / ally Ura Ume was a really good cook. If the concept of samsara argues that all evil in life comes from worldly desires (like gluttony eating more than you need to survive) then Sukuna as a curse represents that evil he spreads suffering because all he does is consume, consume, consume.

One important difference is Hedonism is a lifestyle, whereas Nihilism is a philosophy. Sukuna's views are similiar to Yuji's, life is just suffering for the weak, and he doesn't really see any meaning in extending that life if you are weak. However, his hedonistic lifestyle is a response to that nihilism.

Pleasure plays a central role in all forms of hedonism; it refers to expereince that feels good, and contrasts with pain or suffering. Psychological hedonism is an empirical theory about what could possibly motivates us: all our actions aim at increasing pleasure and avoiding pain. This is usually understood in combination with egosim, i.e. that each person only aims at their own happiness. It probably doesn't need to be said that Sukuna is an extremely egotistical character.

If you accept nihilism as truth, the world has no meaning, people suffer for no reason, than hedonism is one possible logical conclusion, live your life minimizing suffering and seeking pleasure. This is basically what Sukuna says.

People, especially weak and miserable people should spend their lives stifling their misery, and numbing themselves down by avoiding pain rather than trying to seek more.

Sukuna is also equally asking the same question that Camus asks. The basic question of all philsophy is whether or not to shoot yourself. The same way Yuji doesn't see a point in himself living, Sukuna sees no point in weak people living.

Ironically, when it comes to drowning your sorrows as Sukuna suggested, Nietzsche was against that.

He only ever drank milk and avoided alcohol. The idea went to the heart of his philosophy: "There have been two great narcotics in european civilization. Christianity and alcohol." He hated alcohol for the very same reasons that he scorned christianity, because both numbed pain, and both reassure us that things are just as fine as they are, sapping us of the will to cahnge our lives for the better. A few drinks offer in the transient feeling of satisfaction that can get fatally in the way of taking steps necessary to improve our lives." [SOURCE]

Sukuna sees no point in self improvement or struggle to get stronger, the weak will always be the weak, the strong will always be the strong. His views are equally as black and white as Yuji, because he divides those two groups into rigid boxes that will never change. His views even reflect Geto's just a little bit, defining sorcerers and normal humans as two distinct categories with no overlap, sorcerers are strong, humans are weak monkeys.

The weak aren't even worthy of living in Sukuna's eyes, and Geto wants to exterminate the weak non-sorcerers. Sukuna even reminds me of this passage from the JJK light novel.

"To live for the purpose fo being yourself, and for that goal, Geto could only continue to pursue his twisted dream, drowning himself in the curse that lies in the gap between ideal and reality. This was the final confession of a man who could only choose to warp himself, who had erased himself in the pursuit of his goals."

Sukuna, like Geto is a powerful sorcerer who became a curse in pursuit of his goals. Sukuna, like Yuji despite how self-aggrandizing he is, despite how egotistical seems to have no sense of self like Yuji. He does everything for himself of course, he has an overpowering ego, he has strong desires that he lives for... but rather than satisfying those desires, and being the strongest, does Sukuna really live for anything or have a reason for what he does? What are his personality traits besides... strong? He has no friends besides loyal servants. He just eats, and eats, and eats and then what? It's just another cycle, like Geto consuming curses only for more curses to be born, like Sispyhus pushing the boulder up the hill. This is how Sukuna reflects Yuji, because he's not trying to create any meaning for his life either. He's also trapped in the cycle. They are at opposite ends, Yuji is "Weak" while Sukuna is "Strong" but they both have the same nihilistic views. They're both still stuck in the same cycle.

#geto suguru #gojo satoru #sukuna #yuji itadori #ryomen sukuna #jjk meta #jujutsu kaisen meta #jujutsu kaisen theory #jujusu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen spoilers #jujutsu kaisen 214 #jjk 214 #jujutsu kaisen 214 spoilers #jjk 214 spoilers

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thecranekick · 8 months

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the way ralph always calls lawrusso the perfect yin-yang……the way johnny is absolutely the perfect good in the bad……..daniel being the bad in the good……. they literally are THIS ☯️ like! literally!! always drawn to each other always circling always inevitable i am sick!!!……when they are at their strongest they have some of each other’s qualities in them……two complementary forces that make up everything……all things exist as inseparable and contradictory opposites in HARMONY!!!!…. johnny being the yin…(feminine energy (i believe in this so strongly. part of my unwritten johnny lawrence thesis) (fights emotionally, strong-willed, doesn’t let it go until it’s finished, cyclical emotions, wants to take care of, etc), dark, softness, water, moon, valleys, all things just soft and beautiful, provides spirit, represented by the color orange (close to red btw), tiger!!!??? a broken line?!?!?!?…daniel being the yang…masculine energy (fights to protect, defend, etc., confident, outspoken, expressive, ambitious, likes having control) light, fire, sunshine, warm, mountains, provides FORM to all things?!?! HELLO? represented by the color BLUE!!?? a DRAGON???????? they were born from chaos but exist in harmony, and when they’re out of balance that’s when thing go wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! it writes itself. also the juxtaposition of daniel’s training being all ~balance~ and defense only, etc., and his personality is entirely offense when it comes to anything but fighting??? and johnny’s training is no mercy, fuck you, etc., but what that’s covering is DEFENSE!!!!! he’s always on the defense, he even said he can’t let his guard down, all of that bs he puts on is a front for a scared helpless little boy trying to survive!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! he’s generally quiet and less sure of himself etc!!!!! we see this especially in s1 when daniel is more kind of the instigator and johnny's just trying to run cobra kai and be left alone. also, not to mention the obvious…..the bright blond hair and blue eyes w the dark hair and dark eyes, johnny being perfectly bigger than daniel they literally FIT! TOGETHER! like a puzzle!!!!!!!!!!!!! screaming crying sliding down the wall standing in traffic etc

#long post sorry i have Feelings #lawrusso #cobra kai #johnny lawrence #daniel larusso #*

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hexora · 5 months

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Seashell Divination Kit: A Refined Collection of Consecrated Seashells for Spiritual Inquiry

🌟 The Essence of Seashell Divination:

Seashell divination is an ancient practice that harnesses the elemental forces of the ocean to illuminate inquiries of the soul. The Seashell Divination Kit offers a refined and purposeful approach to this age-old tradition, providing seekers with a channel to access profound insights and attain clarity on matters of importance. Each shell within the collection serves as a vessel for the boundless wisdom encapsulated by the vastness of the sea.

🐚 The Significance of Each Shell:

Conch Shell 🌀: Emblematic of life's eternal spiral, the conch shell is a symbol of cyclical renewal and spiritual evolution. It is a venerable guide for those seeking transformation and a deeper understanding of their spiritual journey.

Cowrie Shell 🐚💰: Revered across cultures for its association with prosperity, the cowrie shell serves as a conduit for energies related to abundance, wealth, and the manifold blessings that life bestows.

Scallop Shell 🌸: Radiating with the essence of love and beauty, the scallop shell imparts insights into matters of the heart, relationships, and the pursuit of harmonious equilibrium.

Auger Shell 🔍: Characterized by intricate spirals, the auger shell serves as a key to unlocking hidden knowledge and solving enigmatic mysteries. It is a beacon for those seeking to expand their awareness and unravel life's intricate puzzles.

Clam Shell 🧘‍♀️: A symbol of inner peace and tranquility, the clam shell offers grounding energies, aiding in meditation, mindfulness, and the cultivation of serenity amidst life's complexities.

🌊 Guidance for Utilization:

Establishing Sacred Space: Prior to engaging in the divination process, create a serene environment conducive to spiritual introspection. Light candles, burn incense, and establish an atmosphere of reverence.

Intent Clarification: Articulate your intentions clearly, opening your heart to the profound guidance the seashells are poised to impart.

Discernment of Shells: Trust your intuition as you select a shell from the collection. Each shell resonates uniquely, responding to the energy of your specific inquiry.

Interpreting Symbolism: Delve into the symbolism inherent in the chosen shell, allowing its energy to communicate answers through intuitive insights, subtle impressions, or vivid visions.

Expressing Gratitude: Conclude the divination session with a gesture of gratitude towards the sea, the shells, and the cosmos for the profound insights bestowed. Acknowledge the interconnected nature of existence and integrate the acquired wisdom into your daily life.

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mysticstronomy · 11 months

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WHAT WAS BEFORE THE BIG BANG??

Blog#304

Saturday, June 10th, 2023

Welcome back,

In the beginning, there was an infinitely dense, tiny ball of matter. Then, it all went bang, giving rise to the atoms, molecules, stars and galaxies we see today.

Or at least, that's what we've been told by physicists for the past several decades.

But new theoretical physics research has recently revealed a possible window into the very early universe, showing that it may not be "very early" after all. Instead it may be just the latest iteration of a bang-bounce cycle that has been going on for … well, at least once, and possibly forever.

Of course, before physicists decide to toss out the Big Bang in favor of a bang-bounce cycle, these theoretical predictions will need to survive an onslaught of observation tests.

Even earlier, this thinking goes, at some point our entire universe — all the stars, all the galaxies, all the everything — was the size of a peach and had a temperature of over a quadrillion degrees.

Amazingly, this fantastical story holds up to all current observations. Astronomers have done everything from observing the leftover electromagnetic radiation from the young universe to measuring the abundance of the lightest elements and found that they all line up with what the Big Bang predicts.

As far as we can tell, this is an accurate portrait of our early universe.

But as good as it is, we know that the Big Bang picture is not complete — there's a puzzle piece missing, and that piece is the earliest moments of the universe itself.

That's a pretty big piece.

The problem is that the physics that we use to understand the early universe (a wonderfully complicated mishmash of general relativity and high-energy particle physics) can take us only so far before breaking down.

As we try to push deeper and deeper into the first moments of our cosmos, the math gets harder and harder to solve, all the way to the point where it just … quits.

The main sign that we have terrain yet to be explored is the presence of a "singularity," or a point of infinite density, at the beginning of the Big Bang. Taken at face value, this tells us that at one point, the universe was crammed into an infinitely tiny, infinitely dense point. This is obviously absurd, and what it really tells us is that we need new physics to solve this problem — our current toolkit just isn't good enough.

To save the day, we need some new physics — something that is capable of handling gravity and the other forces, combined, at ultrahigh energies. And that's exactly what string theory claims to be: a model of physics that is capable of handling gravity and the other forces, combined, at ultrahigh energies. Which means that string theory claims it can explain the earliest moments of the universe.

One of the earliest string theory notions is the "ekpyrotic" universe, which comes from the Greek word for "conflagration," or fire.

In this scenario, what we know as the Big Bang was sparked by something else happening before it — the Big Bang was not a beginning, but one part of a larger process.

Extending the ekpyrotic concept has led to a theory, again motivated by string theory, called cyclic cosmology. I suppose that, technically, the idea of the universe continually repeating itself is thousands of years old and predates physics, but string theory gave the idea firm mathematical grounding.

The cyclic universe goes about exactly as you might imagine, continually bouncing between big bangs and big crunches, potentially for eternity back in time and for eternity into the future.

Originally published on space.com

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, June 14th, 2023)

"WHAT IS VACUUM DECAY??"

#astronomy #outer space #alternate universe #astrophysics #spacecraft #universe #white universe #space #parallel universe #astrophotography

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suchawrathfullamb · 5 months

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Will Graham’s Journey Through the Stages of Subjectivity

The Maze of Bewilderment

Upon our introduction to Will, he finds himself ensnared within the complex labyrinths of self-doubt and introspective quandary, termed the Maze of Bewilderment. This stage symbolizes a character's desperate endeavor to extricate themselves from a distressing entanglement, akin to navigating the confounding pathways of an actual maze. The repeated collision with metaphorical walls manifests a relentless quest for resolution, the failure of which induces a mounting sense of anxiety and fatigue. Prolonged immersion in this psychological construct threatens the character's mental equilibrium, with overexposure leading to a perilous descent into madness.

Notably, Will's cyclical return to this metaphorical maze delineates a character perpetually embroiled in puzzling circumstances, revealing an ongoing struggle to grapple with situations that challenge his understanding of self and reality. This recurrent revisitation signifies a profound thematic portrayal of a character mired in recurring dilemmas, constantly confronting situations that confound his grasp on identity and meaning.

The Forest of Revelation

Will's sojourn within the Forest marks a pivotal juncture, notably encountered at the beginning of season one, where finds out the truth about Hannibal and Abigail. This realm becomes Will's dwelling ground for a significant portion of the season, embodying a stage wherein a character embarks on a quest for truth. The forest, untouched by human interference, symbolizes a realm of pristine purity, housing the unadulterated essence of reality. It exudes an aura of both mystery and grounding, providing an environment where the most crystalline manifestations of truth reside.

Within this setting, characters confront revelations that can either offer solace or evoke fear, determining the trajectory toward the subsequent stage based on their reactions to the unearthed truths. Will's return to the Forest in Season 3, this time seeking insights into Hannibal's past to unravel his own psyche, illustrates a profound interplay. Hannibal, essentially Will's arboreal counterpart, becomes the locus of self-discovery, challenging him and serving as the catalyst for introspection.

In the narrative, the Forest serves as a metaphorical counterpart, where a character's journey through another individual, akin to a living forest, surfaces truths that either foster transparency or compel a confronting of one's innermost self.

The Cave of Despair

Will's descent into the Cave follows the harrowing aftermath of Mizumono's events and resurfaces at the end of Digestivo, when he rejects Hannibal. This desolate cavern marks a stage where a character retreats upon losing the profound meaning once gleaned within the forest's revelations. A sense of coherence that previously defined their reality now dissipates, leaving an emotional void compelling them to withdraw into the depths of despair.

The Cave represents a haven for characters overwhelmed by the loss of once-held truths. In this desolation, the character seeks solace in grief, withdrawing from the intricate tapestry of interconnections with others. Prolonged stays within this space often correlate with a character's descent into melancholy or a disconnection from their counterparts, fostering an inward-turned and self-centric existence.

Will's relationship with the Cave differs from other characters. He exhibits an avoidant tendency, shying away from this realm. His inclination leans towards navigating the Maze or dwelling within the Forest. His avoidance stems from the fear of what his vulnerable emotions mean. Will's penchant for dismissing these feelings propels him towards more active stages, evading prolonged immersion within the despair of the Cave, where a character actually allows themselves to fully be present in the empty sadness of loss.

The Garden of Tenderness

Will's fleeting encounters within the Garden, notably experienced during their reunion in the Gallery, serve as brief interludes of emotional respite. Characters, akin to Will's experience, stumble upon this sanctuary inadvertently, triggered by the profound encounter with love. The Garden emerges not as a deliberate destination but rather as an accidental haven, ushering moments of tenderness and emotional vulnerability.

Will's brief moments within this idyllic space highlight his ambivalence toward passive stages, stemming from his struggle with asserting dominance and grappling with vulnerability. Despite moments of tenderness and confession, Will's tendency to withdraw swiftly underscores his aversion to sustained vulnerability.

Another fleeting instance within this serene realm occurs before the cliff, or in the deleted scene where he seems peaceful in the mind palace, with Hannibal. The Garden, a symbol of unity and connection, eludes active seeking, requiring surrender for its discovery. Will's hesitant and evasive approach aligns with this notion, as the sanctuary manifests only upon acknowledging his inherent nature and recognizing its beauty, leading to a reprieve from the inner turmoil.

#i made this up #this is irrelevant #but i felt like writing analysis lol #hannigram #nbc hannibal #hannibal #will graham #hugh dancy #murder husbands #hannibal lecter #mads mikkelsen #hannibal meta #hannibal analysis

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yiga-hellhole · 5 months

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TWILIGHT FOREST, TWILIGHT KING: CHAPTER 16

the next chapter is live! does the promo art look a little familiar? :3c

Ghirahim is forced to face his mistakes. Perhaps he'll make a couple more.

again thanks to @bulgariansumo for proofreading!! additional credits go to twilit conlang and the enochian decoder. you'll have to do a little puzzling this chapter if you want the full context.. heehee

ao3 mirror

cw this chapter for referenced mutilation and self-neglect

It was a fool’s errand, but one only he could dare to run. Ghirahim made his way through the Temple as if mounted on tracks, heading right for his Master’s offices. He knew he’d be angry. That he wouldn’t care for his company and, by all means, could put him right back in the crate where he came from. Yet, at that moment, that kind of absolution was all that could bring him peace. After the buzzing that haunted his mind the past few days, he felt the wrath of his Master would at least set him straight.

A knock at the door, a grumble allowing him entry. Ganondorf was working documents at a great, dark oak desk, framed by the reds of a roaring granite fireplace behind him. The same gold filigree that seemed to spontaneously grow throughout the Temple sprawled here, too, fanning out across the furniture like twisting vegetation. Ghirahim’s entry was not acknowledged any further, leading him to the nerve-wracking decision to approach him on his own accord. He padded across marble, across tapestry, until at long last he stood beside the Gerudo. His dark bronze skin was lined with fatigue, though it was an indulgent one. Ghirahim didn’t need to touch him to confirm the divine power that now surged through his veins. Shreds of mortality were stripped from him that fateful battle upon claiming the Triforce of Power; now, simple concepts like ‘hunger’ and ‘exhaustion’ only held their truest value in nostalgia, lingering to commit to a humble memory until he needed them no longer. All that power and Ghirahim had disappointed — no, enraged him. Somehow, remorse had to be conveyed, lest his loyalty be questioned. But before he could speak, his knees buckled. He fell forward, grasping at the fabric of his clothing to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. It was pathetic. And pitiful. And somewhere, he was thankful for it. To faint into him was a far more succinct way to beg for forgiveness than any words could have conveyed. The Demon King looked down at him and let him stay.

For a while, they remained silent. Ghirahim kneeled beside his Master’s seat, his cheek and folded arms resting on his thigh. Perhaps this was the mere quiet before the storm, simply lying in wait while Ganondorf thought of a suitable punishment, but he didn’t care. The fireplace cast him in an amber light, warming his skin but incomparable to the heat Ganondorf sent through him.

His eyes fluttered shut and he let his force surge through him. Like a cyclical breath, golden power entered his body, sparked in his core, and flowed back out. Lights danced behind his eyelids, deep magenta Malice joining hands with shining stars and weaving together into one single glorious aura. It was so, so familiar, but so far from him he could cry. The vague impression this embrace gave him was nothing compared to the tidal wave he felt when Demon hands clasped around his hilt and encouraged him to kill.

His eyes lazily creaked back open when Ganondorf began to speak, still not looking up from his desk. “I trust that this warning will have sufficed, Lord Ghirahim. My patience is running thin.”

The scratching of the quill halted. Ganondorf was considering his words enough to pull his concentration from his work. “I have tolerated petty distractions and selfish ambitions. I have allowed you your whims, yes, for I find nothing as distasteful as keeping reputable men on a leash.”

“It is your duty to understand that I did not hire you for you to act as my disobedient pet. What I will not allow, is for your reckless behavior to lead to failure. ”

Ghirahim winced at the resumed sounds of quill scratching on paper. The sharp noise and his scolding combined enough for it to feel like the words were being scratched into his skin.

“I will not let you down again, My Master. I only hope that you understand my plight. Disobey you, I would never, but I cannot help what I was forged for.”

“You are crossing a line, Demon Lord,” Ganondorf growled, lip curling as he tapped his nib irritably against the parchment. “I will not repeat myself. Your failure to set your ambitions aside poses threats to my army. Threats which I will suffer no longer.”

Ghirahim stiffened. Indeed, Ganondorf could not have made himself any clearer and should not have had to. He clutched him, pressed himself against him fearfully as if he were not the source of that fear.

Something warm placed itself on his head. His Master was stroking his hair. A sigh puffed out of Ganondorf. The contact and the almost wistful noise were enough to make Ghirahim melt to the touch. “Perhaps… When this war is over and the throne is in my hands, I may consider returning you to my scabbard.”

A perhaps, a maybe, a promise not to let him defend him in the glory of war, but to be strapped at his hip as an emergency measure. It was humiliating, teeth-grittingly so, yet to his frustrations, he felt a fluttering feeling in his gut. In the end, knowing he would be wielded made him happy, no matter the circumstance. Ganondorf was a deliberate man, organizing him carefully among his now many commanders, whereas Demise would have seized him long ago. Ghirahim huddled himself tighter to his leg, closing his eyes again under the comfort of fingers stroking through his locks.

No, he wasn’t Him. But he was Demise’s promise. So long as that Kingdom stood firm, there would be those who opposed it. To Hyrule, it was a curse, but to Ghirahim, it was his grounding beacon. If he could not serve his true Master, then he could join those who shared His Hatred and inherited His power as the torchbearer. It was all a weapon could do — what a weapon should do.

He had a purpose and he lived to fulfill it. There simply wasn’t room for anything more, nor did he have the right to wish for it.

Face digging into the fabric of his breeches, he swallowed down the lump that formed in his throat.

A rapping at the door interrupted them. Someone outside cleared their throat briskly, and from that sound alone Ghirahim recognized who it was. He had to restrain a sigh.

“Milord, you have received correspondence from the Deku Lordship in the north,” announced Yuga from outside the room. “Shall we review it together?”

Ganondorf craned his head to face the door, then glanced back down at Ghirahim from the corner of his eye. “You are dismissed. I trust you to see to the trainees for today.”

His body was sluggish and hesitant to pull away from the warm comfort of Ganondorf’s lap, but his spirit was firm in its obedience. Ghirahim rose his head with a nod, gazing up at him one last time. Before Ganondorf could bid the sorcerer beyond the door to enter, the sword spirit had already blinked away.

—

Of course, he didn’t have to attend to his duties for long. His relentless drilling of the Demon King’s lower-ranking commanders had made fine warriors out of many of them. The training fields beyond the Temple’s vast gardens were occupied by hundreds, be they demon, Gerudo, undead, or aberration, all equally eager to show off their skills before their esteemed lieutenant. Pride surged through him as he walked through the sparring masses. He was far too busy enjoying the fruits of his labor to notice all the distasteful displays of footwork and clumsy swings among the common soldiery. His commanders were immaculate: elegant and deadly; quick to punish. There was hardly any need for him to intervene in their training. If he did, it was only ever for his amusement. Yes, every single one of these small-fries, he’d left them in good hands.

They were holding up just fine without him.

That realization was subtle at first, budding as a comfort and as proof that he had instructed them well. Watching from the sidelines, his foot began to tap onto the trampled dirt with a nervous tic the more he saw the commanders swoop in to correct their pawns. Had they done this the entire time, with such efficiency, in his absence? He felt branches grow, tendrils, bearing thorns and pointed edges that dug into his pride the longer he stood and watched. He couldn’t stomach it. A being made for combat should not merely watch as others have all the fun. The Demon Lord was many things, but redundant, he was not.

Before he knew it, he’d pulled one of his commanders aside, and barked the command to clear a path for them. Eyes were on him again, feeding a ravenous desire to be marveled at, as he pulled his sword on living armor almost twice his size.

Demonstrating footwork and simple strikes would have been wasted on such an opponent. He went straight for the jugular. Before long, the monster's parrying grew more and more frantic, and he drove the two-ton menace back with each slash and jab of his obsidian blade. He could feel the training sword chip and scratch with every strike, screeching and groaning under the force of his jabs. No longer could the Darknut keep up. Ghirahim was hitting armor, leaving scratches and dents, kicking at joints, and piercing through gaps. Piercing, piercing, carving, something soft, something-

An ethereal cry came from an otherwise empty helmet, and with a puff of smoke, the commander’s arm fell to the ground with a hollow thud and rattle.

Ghirahim paused. His sword faded from his hand in diamonds. The whole training field was silent, then, for a moment, until some began to cheer in morbid delight, others whispered among one another. His defeated opponent merely held his arm in his remaining hand, somewhat dejectedly trying to reattach it but failing to do so.

An example was set, he supposed. His place in the hierarchy was justified and reinforced. Yet, he couldn’t find any satisfaction in it. How strange. Wanton violence never failed to invigorate him, yet this time, he just felt more bored than he did before. So, he turned, offhandedly gesturing for a Poe on the sidelines to tend to the duelist’s injury, though he didn’t bother to look behind him to check if they did. With his departure, their little arena quickly dispersed, and the training field was back in formation like he’d never disrupted it.

Once again he returned to the halls, staring out the ceiling-length windows to keep an eye on the little specks of soldiers from afar. How dreadful it was, to have nothing to occupy oneself with! Ghirahim sighed, seating himself on the windowsill. He gazed out over the mansion’s property, though he registered very little of what he saw. It was simply staring for the sake of staring, passing images through a blank mind. The outside world began to tire him as the first drops of rain tapped on the window before him, gently ushering him out of a self-inflicted trance. He perked up and instead turned his attention back to the hallway, where his eyes landed on a painting he could swear wasn’t there a day or two earlier. It bore a purple frame, matte and dark as if absorbing every bit of light and obliterating it for the crime of taking away from the figure depicted inside. Surrounded by a haze of swirling violets was a young woman, perhaps sixteen-to-nineteen years of age (though, mortal lifespans always puzzled him). She looked eerily familiar, now that he paid attention to it. In some ways, she reminded him of the Spirit Maiden and every incarnation before her, but some things were drastically different. Her hair was dark and wavy, and her eyes held fatigue and sorrow no frightfully optimistic Zelda he’d known could ever carry. Whoever she was, her painter held a fondness for her. Having been at the other end of the easel, he knew how the Lorian Sorcerer could fuss over her models, how she’d preen their hair and scold any slouch. The tired yet endeared smile Ghirahim had carried then, was reflected on this girl, too, and it had been immortalized affectionately on the canvas.

Yuga. Perhaps she was up for company today. With some luck, he’d get another portrait or two out of it. The atelier wasn’t far. He hopped down from his seat and winked out of view, leaving that strange, purple girl in her own company.

Ghirahim arrived at the painter’s workshop to find it unoccupied. He supposed with a sigh that the Demon King must have been keeping her busy. That left him with more time to waste than he’d care for. Well, there wasn’t any harm in looking around. He’d known Yuga’s atelier back at Gerudo Palace, but he hadn’t yet displayed himself lavishly in this one, surprisingly enough. Much to his amusement, he found it laid out as a near-carbon copy of her other atelier. There was a wooden cabinet, though a touch smaller, with little labeled drawers that held her countless pigments. The place was a mess of props, curtains, and sketches, though most were covered to protect them from the sun, should it peek into the room. For this atelier was a bright place. Whereas the atelier at Gerudo Palace was more shrouded in darkness, keeping out the merciless desert heat, this room faced the West with tall, floor-to-ceiling windows, fashioned with rose mosaics at their pinnacles. It was certainly lived in — right at her little balcony, Yuga put up a chair, where a piece of parchment and a handful of oil pastels left behind the hints of an idyllic spare time picture. This must have been where she’d sit to paint the sunset, Ghirahim figured.

All very fascinating, to poke around somebody’s business while they’re not present, but he’d much rather speak with the person than consult with images he’d conjure of her in his mind. He turned back to the center of the room, where bright, red-and-gold curtains hid away an easel that stood before a podium. Making his way over, he found a canvas, perhaps an arm’s length, covered by a white sheet. His eye fell on the podium first, finding it set up with a luxurious embroidered curtain for a backdrop, and a small still-life next to a similarly concealed piece of furniture.

Someone had been posing there. An initial spark of annoyance lit in him when he realized there were only a few candidates for her to paint, and that it hadn’t been him. Before he could decide which option ticked him off more, his eye fell on a collection of sketches that had been pinned to the wall beside him. The sight of a sharp, aquiline nose, and a well-groomed beard instantly made him whip around and grip the edge of the sheet. Something in him fumed and thrummed. Whether it was with rage, jealousy, or fear, he could hardly distinguish, but it drowned out any polite hesitation that kept him from peeping and forced his hand to rip the covering clean off.

White fabric shook, billowed, and fluttered in the air as if frozen there, before it flopped lifelessly to the ground, dropping from an enraged fist that lost its strength. Ghirahim’s core sank at what he saw on that canvas.

The room was silent, save for the insistent pattering of rain on the windows, but Ghirahim was deaf to it all. Captured in paint was an image of his Master. Ganondorf was splayed comfortably on the scene on the podium, boots casually kicked off on the ground, but his powerful form still inspired grandeur. Yet, there was an intimacy to it. His provocative smirk and the subtle spread of his legs were inviting. The way his undershirt flared open at the chest suggested that the invitation had been accepted more than once. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the subtle scarring between calloused fingers, and the shimmer of his jewelry… Such details would have been lost by any who hadn’t been able to see him up close — to touch him — yet here they were, depicted flawlessly.

What shattered within him wasn’t mere childish jealousy. The whole foundation of his being began to crack and wobble. He’d wasted too much time. Nights he spent in the arms of a stranger should have been spent where he belonged. An ungrateful, frivolous wretch he’d been for dancing around his purpose. His habit, his curse, to repeat the same mistakes had cost him dearly. Now, the one he’d devoted himself to… No, who owned him, had chosen the company of someone else.

Listlessly, Ghirahim hung the sheet back over the painting, not caring if it was affixed properly or not. He could bear to look at it no longer, and so he turned from it.

His feet dragged him back to the window, drawn by the trails of raindrops racing down the glass. Their little rivers split and joined endlessly, rearranging themselves at the mercy of the deluge. Such a horrid little reminder of how his fate had been toyed with! One little droplet had gotten in his way, and now he’d veered off course. Dropping himself into whatever seat found itself below him, he peered out into the distance, drowning his sorrows in the roaring sounds of the rain. The vines and thorns that crept their way up to the window were beaten in the downpour, removing them from their last shreds of vibrant life. How gray that garden looked without its petals.

When Yuga returned she encountered him lying on the couch across his easel. It was covered by a sheet, presumably to protect it from dust, but Ghirahim knew it was the very same one from the painting. It smelled just like their King. He’d even found one of his hairs caught on the thin white fabric. He draped himself on there, sleek white and glittering, yet desolate as a discarded bridal veil, face tucked into the nook of his elbow. Peering past his lashes, he found Yuga looking quite peeved. He could only guess the painter saw how the cloth covering her painting had been moved, and now knew her secret was out.

“I see you’ve taken the liberty of letting yourselves into my private affairs,” Yuga said with a tilt of her hips and her arms crossed.

Ghirahim narrowed his eyes. “Private affairs,” he mocked. “I am his Blade, Yuga. An extension of his being. There is nothing ‘private’ you can have with him, without my involvement.”

Yuga scoffed as if it was a bluff. Ghirahim’s eye twitched subtly behind the curtain of his bangs. It never should have been a bluff; yet in this world, it was. The Lorian spoke. “Is that so,” she sneered, hands at her sides. “Then what’s that sulking on my set for? Surely you didn’t discover anything new.”

Such a despicably smug attitude! He supposed that when walking into the lion’s den, he needed some way to get the upper hand. Oh, yes; he could think of a thing or two that could sweep her feet out from under her. “What is he to you? You glue yourself to him as if you have any right to belong there. If you think Master is taking applications for pets, you’d be sorely mistaken.”

Her lip twitched in annoyance, but her poise remained firm. “Ganondorf is my Muse. That is all you are entitled to know.”

A non-answer, but he’d gotten under her skin. To the sorcerer, just about anybody with a pretty enough face around these parts was a Muse. The Demon King’s army just so happened to be a lush garden of supernatural and powerful beauty, ripe for the picking. At least, that was the picture he’d gotten of her. To be at the receiving end of her curt, blunt responses meant he was getting close to snapping her flimsy patience.

After glaring him down for another few seconds, her fiery gaze fizzled out into bitter ash. She had the clear intent of making some jabs of her own. “Zant. What did you do to him?”

Ghirahim jerked his head up with a scowl. With just the uttering of his name, Yuga just had to remind him of what he managed to stave off the past few days. He’d banished any thought of the Twili, locked them away, and swallowed the key. Now, with scorched brown eyes squinting so fiercely at him, he could feel that blasted key crawling its way back up his throat. “To him?” he hissed. “How presumptuous of you. I’ll have you know I long decided to let that distraction slide. I’ve nothing to do with whatever he’s moaning about.”

Yuga bit back instantly. “Don’t feign ignorance on me now, boy! I send you to go talk with him, and all of a sudden, we don't see hide or hair of him for days on end? You did something,” she spat, accusing a manicured finger at him and staring him down. When he refused to answer, she clicked her tongue. “… Go on! You’ve already pried into my business, so in turn, I shall pry into yours. Tell me!”

He shifted uneasily in his seat in response. Chin propped on his hand, he turned his gaze out the window. “I fail to see how his fickle mental state is my problem.”

His deflection was met with shrill, bird-like laughter. “That’s rich!” Yuga exclaimed. “For months, you’re all over each other, and suddenly, he’s no longer your problem?”

The gray outside world was doing absolutely nothing to distract him. Again he shifted, pulling his knee in to tuck himself closer to the armrest. Such a reminder was unwelcome, and he took it as more of an accusation of his negligence to his duty, than any perceived slights to the Twili. He squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, hiding himself from her gaze with his hair.

Wood creaked, the sound of feet walking up on the podium. Yuga’s voice mellowed some, but behind that restrained softness, anger still lurked. “… Is that what this is? Did you break up?”

“There was nothing to break up,” Ghirahim snapped back through gritted teeth.

Yuga groaned, tapping her foot on the floorboards before making her way over to him. For just a moment, he peeped at her through the gaps in his hair, but the unrelenting, gargoyle-esque snarl quickly made him reconsider. She ran her hand down her face in exasperation, dramatically yet with great care not to smudge her make-up. “I may be the last person in the world to be saying this, but… Ghirahim, you can’t simply up and walk away. You know how he is!”

He wanted to struggle, to object to her accusations, but he found no words coming out. And even if he had any, they’d have no room to squeeze between her ravings. She dropped down on the couch next to him and sneered her plummy little ultimatum. “There are two options here. Either you reel him in, or you let him swim. All this leading him on is just cruel.”

“Cruel!?” To think he cared about such a thing! It was laughable. He couldn’t decide whether the hilarity lied in the accusation with him as its receiver, or for the accusant to be Yuga, of all people. Nevertheless, he felt eager to shed himself of blame. It sloughed around him like shedding skin, and he wanted rid of it. He turned to her with a frown. “I’ve made myself perfectly clear to him. We are high-ranking commanders. That Zant wishes to fall apart over juvenile pass-time has nothing to do with my decision to-“

“You are a commander in this army, indeed. You are also an adult,” Yuga hissed with a jab at his collarbone. “Now how about you act the part, and go on over to him to settle this? Without Zant, our forces will suffer. His feebleness gets him killed, and it would be your fault.”

Such insults he would not take! Ghirahim smacked the hand at his chest away from him with the air of dismissing an insect. Blame still stuck to him, sewn back on by bony hands with something almost unprecedented. Guilt.

The quarreling pair stayed locked in an exchanged scowl, and though it hurt his pride, he was the first to break away. To argue with her was a pointless affair, especially when their points of view came from such different worlds. He swept his cape around his shoulder and rose from the couch, offering Yuga nothing more than a curt nod to announce his departure.

Nevertheless, she had one more sneer to give before he left. “The nerve you have to stick your nose in my business when your own affairs are in such a state… Out of my workshop! I’m fed up with you, Demon Lord.”

She didn’t even have to ask. For once, he opted to leave a room through the door, if only for the chance to slam it behind him.

—

Once again, he found himself passing through the hallways of the Temple. Normally, he was perfectly capable of keeping petty ponderings at bay. Those times, though, he’d at least had a distraction. With nothing but the foggy, looping interiors of Cia’s mansion to occupy him, his mind circled as much as the tiles below him.

Yuga was right in that the mansion had seen very little of the Lord of Shadows since that day. From his lingering in the hallways, Ghirahim hadn’t seen Zant leave even once. The only sign of life coming from that decrepit room was an occasional servant that either came to deliver or retrieve a stack of documents, exchanged with a pallid hand slipping through a crack in the door.

It was puzzling. Ghirahim expected him to sulk, certainly, after his unspoken rejection. But alongside Zant’s habits of holing himself up, he’d also expected his token sounds of wailing, in torment of the ghosts of nightly visitors. Yet, there had been nothing but silence. He couldn’t imagine him dreaming quietly in a state of tantrum. Perhaps he hadn’t slept at all.

The thought alone made him grit his teeth. Zant hadn’t eaten — certainly, the man’s reptilian appetite wouldn’t kill him with a few days’ break — Zant hadn’t slept. He was wasting away in that room, interrupting his self-pitying only to pour over his duties. And anyone aware of it had the gall to blame him for it. Undoubtedly including Zant himself. It was infuriating. It was sickening. It left a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow and an icy pit in his core that wouldn’t thaw, no matter how much he paced there in an effort to summon enough burning rage to melt it all away.

Of course he wasn’t responsible for this. All this time, Zant had ignored the realities of the one he’d gotten so charmed with, forgotten that it could only ever be temporary. Ghirahim wasn’t his to take, for he belonged to another. Certainly, the Twili had tried. He’d coaxed him into unfamiliar waters, luring him to plunge into the depths with him until their affection alone could warm that strange, cold abyss. But no matter how he’d toyed with such distractions, and how he’d snagged him, the leash of destiny kept tugging firmly at his throat. And he adored that leash, he’d worship it and let it drag him back to kingly hands even if it wore down to a single thread. He’d made a promise to Demise, then, an oath older than the lands themselves.

Yet his feet took him elsewhere. While dwelling in his mind, he’d kept walking and ended up at the end of the hallway leading straight to the lieutenants’ chambers.

He had almost forgotten. His collar was fitted with two leads.

With separate ends tugging at him at once, Ghirahim was forced to weigh his options. His instinct drew him to the obvious and forced him paces back. He knew who was meant to hold him, who was Demise’s worthy successor. Ganondorf had, in his own words, ‘spoiled’ him. The shreds of affection he’d given him were precious, unprecedented in their fondness. This Demon King was kind, in his own way, but no matter how much he indulged those needs for closeness, he’d denied his greatest need of all. He would not wield him. Perhaps when that incarnation had split his power off for his servant, that with it went the part that wanted him.

Ghirahim could deny it no longer. It was all too meager compared to what Zant had showered him with. For every minute Ganondorf spent with him, the Twili had given him hours. Zant threw himself at him with blind trust time and time again. Doing so once would have been stupidity, but to repeat it could only mean a desperate cry for affection. Where one man had cast him aside in a wooden box, the other grabbed hold of him fiercely and eagerly, only to let go if all his fingers were amputated. With all sensibilities, Zant could have been a simple, power-hungry lunatic, eager to get his hands on a legendary blade. Yet, somewhere, he indulged in the thought that Din had smiled upon him for once, and Destiny had meant for him to be wielded by hands that loved him just as rambunctiously as he would love them.

They were mere fantasies, wishful thinking, and he felt thunder rumbling in him for the blasphemy of it all. But, oh, Hell’s Realms. Zant was a mortal man, after all. Ghirahim decided he could afford to pretend a little longer.

Yet, as he stood before the doors, he couldn’t think of how to proceed. Was he to knock? Call out for him and await his response? It wasn’t that he was afraid, but he was in haste. Every second he’d spend dawdling at this door made the risk he’d turn and run greater. Childishly, shamefully, he was clutching the feeling that raced in his core, of how he desired to see him and test what mortal affection meant. He didn’t know how long he could stave off the sense of duty he barred away, for it already started growling in the back of his mind. Were he to announce his arrival, he saw a baffling chance that Zant would reject him. If there was anything he would not do, it was beg.

He fell into old habits as a result. He snipped his fingers and appeared at the other side of the door.

Frankly, the door should have been a hint. Unlike the other lieutenants’ chambers, this one had been bare, lacking in the personal touch Cia had given to each of her underlings. It suddenly struck Ghirahim that before this, Zant had never been to Cia’s dwelling. She’d revived him, certainly, but had let him reign his terror in the Twilight Realm only. There hadn’t been a need for him here, and thus, no chambers. The Usurper King was staying in a spare.

The inside was pitch dark. Thick curtains were nailed to the walls where windows must have hidden behind. Not a speck of light entered from the outside — Rather, the only light seemed to come from Zant himself. A dim glow of burned gold shed light on the little furnishing he had, their contents spilled on the floors. Darkness ruled so thoroughly here, it was almost thick enough to taste, bitter and dry like a furnace fire.

It was the sound that alerted him to the shape draped on the bed. A droning hum blared from it, but through the noise, he could hear breathing, raspy and soft. The room was as viciously rejecting him as he rejected it, kept only at bay by the wafts of teeming Twilight radiating out from him. He did not belong here. The Temple was making it known.

Ghirahim’s presence hadn’t been noticed yet. How could he have been? So quiet and small was he amid this brewing storm of shadow. He bit through the vertigo and spoke. “Zant.”

The breathing stopped with a gasp. Zant’s figure stirred, shifted, and rolled over to push himself upright. Slowly, and heavily, as if rising from water, he uncurled his spine bit by bit to sit with a hunch. Glowing eyes turned to him, surfacing from a pure black silhouette. “Entering without my permission,” Zant replied, his voice an eerie calm. “Have you come to berate me again?”

If he had prepared any words in his mind prior to facing him, he couldn’t recall them now. But what he could remember was confusion, a feeling that drifted in him like a passing ship every minute they spent together. An idle curiosity about Zant’s infatuation with him became all the more troubling when he realized it became mutual. He knew attraction, he knew lust, he knew devotion. The intricacies of mortal attachment were entertaining to him from afar, how the Twili could amuse and comfort himself with something more fleeting than the beat of a wing. But he was never prepared for it to be infectious. Berate him, no. Perhaps it would be cathartic in the heat of the moment, but it would get him no further. He wanted answers, so perhaps he could know what to do with the guilt that ate at him. If he could do anything at all.

“What do you want from me?”

It was a laughably simple question. A stupid one — not in its simplicity, but in how it laid him bare. It bared every card he had, boldly displaying his insecurity. He knew what Zant wanted. He simply wanted to hear him say it, so in the meantime, he could think whether he could squeeze his way out of what reciprocation would ask of him.

Zant saw through him at first glance. A sullen laugh shivered its way out of him. “You have left me here to rot this long, and this is how you come to greet me?”

He froze where he stood. Thinking back on the times he’d clicked his tongue, curled his lip, or frowned at him, he wondered where his past self had summoned all that nerve from. Looking at the gaunt, shadowy shape, drowning amidst the expanse of his flowing robes, he couldn’t think of a single contort.

His silence was met with a softening gaze. “… It’s strange, Ghirahim. I’ve mulled over it for days, growing bitter ever still. I thought I would be angry with you, should you come knocking at my door, but…” Zant’s voice hitched and shook, tripping its way past a lump that matched his own. “Now that you’re here, I can only feel glad to see you again.”

Just like that, he was moving again. He expected to feel the leash acutely, but something else pushed him forward. Whatever force propelled him forward was an indulgent one. Drawing ever closer, the Twilight parted for him, lifting the dark on the silhouette of his Twili. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. He noticed it when first entering, but thought it only a trick of the light. Zant reached out for him, taking his hand to stroke his palm with his thumb, but no amount of cooing and fondling could distract him from what froze him in cold horror.

An unfamiliar asymmetry drew his gaze. At the second fin from the tip, his right ear had been cropped down.

Eyes pried wide open, and mouth slightly agape, Ghirahim sat next to him. Not merely as a plea for intimacy, but because his legs wouldn’t hold him any longer. In an instant, he remembered. The blade to his ear, the pain of shame far greater than that of steel carving through false cartilage. How a hand big enough to engulf his entire head then reached out, and rubbed at the fresh, bleeding injury almost affectionately, as if the pads of His massive fingers might cauterize the wound. He remembered hoping that they never would, that he could keep bleeding ichor into His hands forever and stain Him deep enough to rival midnight’s black.

But most of all, he remembered the fear.

Zant, too, would have had to conquer that alone. He couldn’t explain the pit that thought left in his core.

The runes on his forehead glowed softly, blinking with the rhythm of the circles Zant rubbed into his gloves. Zant didn’t meet the eyes that stared at him with such cold desperation but spoke nonetheless, his voice deep and dusty like one that would haunt a crypt. “You have been darkening my doors for days, Ghirahim. Do not look surprised. No shadow can be cast near me without me knowing about it. Yet, all this time, you avoided entering. What changed?”

Now, Zant’s eyes flitted up to look at him and they wouldn’t release him. Ghirahim steeled his nerves against the sorrow that shook him just earlier. “What changed is that I’ve figured out the source of my confusion. You haven’t answered my question.”

It was bold to demand things from him, bold enough to offend him. Zant released him from his gaze again, and the hold on his hand loosened. “Neither have you mine, not directly. We are talking in circles. I don’t care to be the first to listen.”

He fought against the weight on his shoulders, tried to convince himself it wasn’t guilt, and lost. Once again, he left a debt unpaid, an imbalance in their dynamic. He’d forgotten too quickly about how Zant offered to right his own wrongs mere days before. The least he could do was acknowledge it. “… I’ve hurt you.”

“You have,” Zant stated gravely before he could even fully finish speaking. “You’ve toyed with me, led me to great heights only to push me off of them. But you were not the first, and to hope for you to be the last would be wishful thinking.”

It was Ghirahim’s turn to grasp his hands. Were he to let Zant retreat further, he would lose the thin threads he had left to hold on to. If anything, he wanted to chase his curiosity, though he didn’t dare to think of where it would lead him. “I know, and I have hurt you, which is exactly what vexes me so. Everything we’ve done and said is against my nature as a sword, and you know this as well as I do.” He paused for a moment, trying to gauge Zant’s reaction, but found his face hollow of intent. “Yet, you continue to pester me, even if it hurts you so, and I can no longer trust your intentions. I’ve come to you today because I need answers.”

Zant let out a short laugh, teetering on the edge of scornful and intrigued. “Answers, hm… And this is your way of getting them? To barge into my room, pout with confession, and ask for forgiveness?” He shook his head, lowering their hands into his lap. “I don’t think you know how. Not from mortal men like me.”

Ghirahim narrowed his lips into a thin line. If he could not appeal to him in this way, in the closest approximation of a grovel he could manage, he had nothing. He was at a loss for words.

Zant took advantage of his silence. “I’m sure you think I want an apology. I do not. Frankly, apologies often serve much more to ease the conscience of the guilty, than to soothe the one who’d been wronged. I’m led to believe that you are such a person too, Ghirahim.” He smiled at him, but not from kindness. It was a dreary smile much like the one Ganondorf had shown him, of fondness against one’s best judgment. “I will not give you that relief just yet. You have not earned it. What I want, is the truth.”

Again Zant dominated the clasping of their hands, cradling his fingers in his before raising them to his chest. Zant’s brows furrowed, his face leaned closer to his, and he felt compelled to follow. “Ghirahim, what are we?”

His question was almost timid, like he feared whatever the outcome might have been. Ghirahim found himself in the exact same spot. What were they? Was Zant not the one to have asked him for their first kiss? Was it not Zant who came knocking on his door to drag him off to whatever corner of Hyrule he desired to see? Did he not propose an ‘anniversary’, mark him with a gift, and attempt to court him mere days before?

Ghirahim had humoured him for all but one. He couldn’t fathom why he had to be the one to put words to them. “What do you think?”

Zant frowned, squeezing his hands insistently. “No. You will not appease me so easily. I ask you for your idea of this relationship. I want to know how you view us, without my words to shape your thoughts.”

Ghirahim blinked up at him. The thoughts Zant was asking for were hardly in a presentable state. Frankly, he hadn’t the faintest idea. It wasn’t that he was inexperienced; such a conclusion was silly. He’d known many flings and a handful of trusted companions, but neither bond approached what Zant had dragged him into. The bond most natural to him had been that of Master and Servant, and it was the only one near the intimacy they shared. At least, near the intimacy he yearned for in such a role. For this, there had been no equal, not once in his millennia of being. Few had dared to come close to him, and nothing had dared to do so unscathed. Zant, similarly, had not escaped unharmed, but he was the first to come crawling back. He wondered what word he could borrow. “… We are lovers, no?”

It was an innocent enough word, but Zant latched onto it like it’d been wreathed in gold. “Lovers?” He teased with it, but beyond that playful surprise, something of far greater gravity reared its head. “Do you love me, then?”

It was idiotic how the question almost startled him. Despite placing the bait himself, he was cornered by it nonetheless. The only love he knew now was the one for his Master, that lulled him into comforting subservience, yet drove him to strive for greatness. The love he knew could reduce the world to ashes. It was dedication, it was relinquishing his every will to the hands of the one who wielded him, even if he shattered in His palm.

Zant sought something else. Something without fear, without dominion. He had to, for he had rejected every attempt at such a dynamic. For mortals, love was an illogical force, at least in his eyes. It was a fragile, temporary thing, that made the flesh-born impulsive and complacent. A sensation so fickle, with no goal but to claim a person for one’s own in such a brief lifetime, seemed enough to risk one’s life for. As he sat there, his hands cradled to a beating heart, the thought of it felt oddly charming, as pathetic as it sounded. Perhaps the stupidity Zant forced him into, the desire for attention he’d awakened in him, came close. “I… I suppose I do.”

Big, amber eyes blinked at him. Zant swallowed, his voice low and hoarse as he pleaded. “Then say it.”

Ghirahim paused. “Zant, I…”

I don’t know if I can, said the voice in his mind, but his lips did not move to say the words. Instead, something else surged forward, bursting free from whatever fissure he’d locked it in after it’d gnawed itself free from its chains. So forcefully it had wedged loose from him, yet the words came out so quietly, so softly, like a peck on the cheek. “I love you.”

Zant reacted to the words as if he’d been branded by hot iron. He forced a shaky breath into his chest, one that stiffened his body and straightened his back. That once pallid face turned red. “Again,” he stammered. “Please.”

The piercing look in Zant’s eyes, how his pulse hammered in his chest and his ears twitched and fluttered, told Ghirahim he made a promise he didn’t know he could keep. But whatever his mind could not comprehend, a little dagger within him took to with joy. Zant loved him, it was a fact as true as the sky was blue, yet he understood nothing of how to reciprocate. It was an alien concept to him, the damning implications of it dangling above his head, but shrouded in the dark as he was, he could not see its shadow. He couldn’t put into words what he felt if he tried. He didn’t know, he didn’t know, but perhaps he could learn. He was struck by how he wanted to learn, how simply saying the words bloomed so warmly in his chest. “…I… I love you,” he obliged, spoken almost like a question.

His Twili loomed closer now, enough for the feverish heat from his cheeks to hover over his cool skin. Timid hands found his face, ghosting their fingertips over his jaw. Zant laughed shakily, blinking away the dampness of his eyes. Tears speckled with orange and blue as they ran down his face. Whatever composure the Twili had mustered was now shattering. Such vulnerability normally would make Ghirahim see red, but now, all he wanted was to cradle it in his hands. Zant’s voice escaped him, as if he’d trapped it but decided to let it slip through the bars.

“Again,” he whispered, quivering and squeezing his hands, eyes filled with hunger. “I beg of you,” cracked free under hushed breath.

Whoever steered his body now, Ghirahim did not know him. He was a stranger in his own skin. His hands sought out the other man, one laying on his shoulder and the other arriving to stroke his face. The pads of his gloves ran past the faded grooves of his scarring, testing the waters of the strange bits of tenderness Zant had shown him many times before.

“I lo-“

He was interrupted by the sudden presence of lips against his own. Though he could not finish uttering the words, their meaning still carried into the breath passing between them. Before he knew it, he’d thrown his arms around his neck and tumbled the pair backward into the flowing mass of robes and blankets. Pressed so firmly against him, he could feel every bone that jutted from his skin and taste the blood that dribbled from chapped lips. By Demise, he’d ruined him. The eager lust that had motivated him before faded in an instant, instead overtaken by the urge to apologetically kiss the tears off his cheek.

Grey, withered hands found their way around him, digging their digits into the fabric of his cloak. Zant took his distraction as an opportunity to speak, a bittersweet smile gracing his face. “My answer to you, Ghirahim? I return to you, time and time again because I adore you. To rip you from me now would be to tear out the blade wedged into me, and spill out everything that keeps me breathing.”

A whimper got stuck in his throat, but his hand found his face before it found his ear, stroking a finger past his earring. “You’ve hurt me, antagonized me… I wish to be close to you, and if doing so burns me, then I will wear those blisters with pride. By the Gods, Ghirahim — those words, I’ve wanted someone to say them to me in my entire life, more than anything. I could not be happier that it’s you.”

Ghirahim sought the words to respond, but he buckled before he could find them, instead falling back into their embrace. It was desperate. Pitiful, almost. And he was thankful for it, for falling back into their lip-lock conveyed his affection far better than any words could. Any more thinking, and he might have come to the conclusion that he’d been wrong, that entangling himself further with this man was a mistake. The second he left this room, there was a real possibility he could. But for now, he fluttered his eyes shut, and let the heat this lunatic sparked in him take over.

The rest of that day was spent in timid togetherness, in prodding at the edge of boundaries to see what stuck. Neither was certain now how to proceed, having said words they could not return but feeling mutually strange after the distance they’d been forced into. No measure of distance could prevent Ghirahim from preening his newly-found ‘lover’ to a more presentable state, though. Greasy hair, dirty nails, and an unwashed face were distasteful enough for a King, but completely unacceptable for anyone wishing to associate with the Demon Lord. Ghirahim had been no stranger to taking care of him the past months, but now, every little touch felt much more deliberate. Slowly, but surely, the pale creature perked up, even if short-lived. A lack of sleep pulled him away from the dining table before the fussiest of their co-lieutenants could even think to inquire about the events that’d taken place, and they were back in the hall to their chambers.

As they arrived at the doorway, Ghirahim froze. The second that door closed, the illusion could fade. So he grabbed his wrist and prevented him from entry.

“Zant,” he whispered, meeting the eyes that warmly looked down at him. “Won’t you let me stick around?”

——

Days, weeks passed, with the Demon King in hiding while he experimented with his new Power. The other King, in his own right, similarly had not sat still. With the improvement of his health came Zant’s return to the library, and Ghirahim had skillfully ignored whatever squeaky little voice in the back of his mind told him to mind his business. The first aftermath of such nosiness showed itself that very day when Zant came to him wearing far more layers than usual and coaxed him into yet another ‘expedition’.

Hands joined, shadows whispered, and Ghirahim quickly squinted from the blinding white that overtook his senses. The pair found themselves at the top of a hill in the Lanayru region, overlooking an expanse of ice and snow.

Ghirahim tucked his arms to his chest, hiding them from the cold under his cloak. “I must say, Zant. It did not take you very long to drag me into your nonsense again.”

Zant laughed, the sound muffled by his thick, woolen scarf. “I have a feeling you will have very few complaints about this particular outing.”

“Will I now?” He chuckled, looking down into the valley below. A vast, frozen lake lay at its very bottom, once fed by waterfalls from the cliffsides all around them. In the winter, it had to make do with the occasional icy trickle. They’d been here before, but Zant had been the last one to see it frozen. He’d taken them to Lake Hylia. “The choice of location already puzzles me. Sending us directly into enemy territory is a bold choice.”

“On the contrary,” Zant said, taking a crunchy step forward into the snow. “Most of the Zora migrate upstream to a seasonal town in Eldin this time of year, or so I’ve heard.”

“Right,” Ghirahim hummed, stepping after him. “Something tells me that whatever you’ve got planned, anyone that’s still lingering will want to give the place a wide berth either way.”

A mischievous little giggle escaped the Twili, then, and he turned to look at him. “So you’re going to humour me?”

“Have I any other choice?”

“There are always choices, Ghirahim-ili. I’m merely glad mine has landed in your favor today.”

Ghirahim shook his head in a fondly feigned annoyance, before joining by his side and patting his arm. “Go ahead and show me your devious little plans, then, Twilight King.”

“Very well,” Zant smiled, reaching into his sleeve to retrieve a grimoire… Or, well, a leather-bound mess of bookmarks and notes that served as one, at least. “I’ve narrowed down the summoning circle for a beast I expect to be quite useful in guarding the Desert Palace. I was hoping you could assist me in the ritual.”

Ghirahim hummed, eyes darting between the book and the valley. “I see. And we’re doing this at Lake Hylia… Why, exactly?”

“Well, the ice, I reckon, will make for a good canvas to scratch the sigils into. Furthermore, it is a sand-dwelling creature, so the cold will save us the trouble of pacifying it ourselves.”

Ghirahim pursed his lips in thought.“… Won’t the cold kill it, then?”

A little hoot escaped him. “Not if we transport it to the Desert post-haste, it won’t,” Zant turned to him, wearing a toothy smile.

Ghirahim blinked at him. Realization hit, and his face twisted into a grimacing grin. “So that’s why you brought me along, hmm,” he inquired, digging his nails into his arm in emphasis. “To be your packing mule?”

“Your words, not mine, Yima Dinifen. Let me show you the sigils. We ought to finish up before noon,” he chimed, hiding his smirk behind his scarf while his clammy fingers flipped through the pages. Ghirahim merely growled, begrudgingly looking past his shoulder to peer at the pages. Clearly, it took the mad scholar a few tries to get the sigil down perfectly, as the ink smudges and wobbly scratches from the previous pages bled into the one he showed him… But on a technical field, it was a flawless circle.

Ghirahim hummed, peering intently at the image to burn it into his mind. “Down to the coordinates, I take it?”

“Verily,” Zant nodded stately.

The sigil now memorized, Ghirahim withdrew from him, playfully patting his shoulder. “Then what’s keeping us?”

With a head start, Ghirahim took off from the top of the hill and leaped down. His heels dug into the snow, kicking up sprays of suddy snow behind him as he slid his way down the incline. His cape noisily whipped and billowed in the wind in his descent, soon joined by the fluttering sounds of Zant’s array of robes beside him. The Twili caught up to him quickly, soaring a ways above the ground but leaving a powdery trail below him nonetheless. It seemed the so-masterful mage did not feel confident enough in the physics of winter to dare to plant his feet in the snow just yet, Ghirahim noted to himself in amusement.

When the hill’s incline got less and less steep, so too did Ghirahim’s descent lose momentum, and he wasn’t fond of losing any ‘race’, even if in this case, he was the only participant aware of it. And so, with a bracing of his knees and flitting his eyes to his companion to gauge his distance, he jumped for him. Grasping his sleeve tightly and ignoring the cry of alarm, he snapped his fingers, and in a flurry of diamonds, sent the both of them to the center of the lake.

Ghirahim dug his heels firmly in the ice upon reappearing, sending both of them spinning in place with a cackle. Zant’s flying speed only then began to peter out. Now slowing steadily, Zant’s hand slipped out his sleeve to grasp onto his, joining him in mischievous laughter as his feet landed on the ice, and his wild spins slacked to an idle twirl around him.

“Very funny, Ghirahim,” Zant teased while he gained his footing. “I take it you will treat the rest of this duty with the same utmost gravity?”

Ghirahim clicked his tongue. “Oh, nonsense. Look,” he gestured to the ice, where the edges of Zant’s brass slippers scratched into the surface. “There’s your central circle. The first component is complete!”

Zant looked down, letting out an astonished huff as he saw what he’d done. “Why! Indeed, there’s the scope. I’d like it to be a little neater, but… I can give it a once-over.”

Another surprised hoot rang from the sorcerer as Ghirahim hopped up where he stood, only for black blades to manifest under his soles and land him in the trajectory of the circles. “What say you,” the sword spirit hummed as he traced over the ‘scope’, as Zant called it, and tightened its contour, “I take care of the broader lines, and you get to scratching the runes, hmm?”

Zant quickly stepped out of the way to let Ghirahim continue his round, looking down at the circles he traced in silent wonder. “… You truly are more magically inclined than you let show, aren’t you?”

Ghirahim simply hummed, shrugged, and blinked away from his finished circle, only to reappear a dozen yards over to trace in the next.

Metal and ice hissed and sang together under the force of his blades. Tight trails carved into the ice, circles, lines, ovals, and outlines, dusted with sparkling snow and freshly shaved bits of frost that scattered under his makeshift skates. The sigil was rather complex, not to mention having to scale it up quite a bit from the pocket-sized preview he was shown. He’d done the math — it was a beast of 65 meters long, and approximately fourteen meters in width, should Zant’s bestiary be believed — with some wiggle room, taking into account the mass of the creature — think, think, at that size… Yes, the outer circle would have to be 47.12 meters in circumference, at the very least. A grin stretched across his face. How long it’d been since he last indulged in such arcane puzzles! Wind soared past his false skin, tousling his hair and cracking the cosmetics on his lips with their frosty cold. He lowered himself, his fingers brushing past the ice as he took a harsh turn. The blades on his feet carved yet another circle for him, painting the frozen lake around it in freshly shaved frost. He slid to a halt, skates lodged in old tracks, and gauged his progress. Right there, another small circle was needed. He could jump there if he wanted to! If he tried!

He smiled enough to make his nose crinkle. Moving across the ice like a heron taking off in flight, he pushed himself forward, gliding past the grooves in the ice, and leaped —

Skates slammed back into the ice, carving harsh lines, but he stuck the landing. He would have retained his balance with perfect elegance, did not a harsh voice interrupt his whimsy.

“Quit showing off and focus,” Zant barked, pointedly focusing harder on his little grimoire as the tip of his sword scratched runes into his tracks. “I’m not even looking!”

“Oh, but you are looking, and you love it,” Ghirahim chimed in response, before with a jerk of his arms righting himself in his course again. Before he knew it, he’d rounded yet another circle and came back around to playfully poke Zant on the back. “You said it yourself, you grouch. You adore me. So humour my little tricks, lest I grow bored with you!”

“Fine! I need to see how the circle is coming along, either way,” Zant growled, carving the last strokes of his rune. Knees bent in his bracing and straightened back out to launch him into a jump. Several feet in the air, he came to a hovering halt, shivering momentarily in the cold of the open winter breeze. Certainly, the fool could pretend to be all business, but Ghirahim knew that the eyes behind that helmet trailed him before they watched his pattern. And so, he soared, he jumped, and he spun, laughing if only for the joy of moving his body with such grace. His hands trailed up his arms as he slid across the ice, dismissing his cape into a diamond trail after him. Now unimpeded, his harmonious movements seemed infectious. Wherever he’d finish his sketches, Zant would swoop down behind him, painting the finishing touches onto the ice. They worked in tandem, in secret joy. Glances were playfully stolen across the ice, quick but never fleeting. He’d thoroughly captured the Twili’s attention, forcing him into his company one way or the other. If it weren’t for the sight of his graceful form sliding past him, it would be his laugh or the sounds of his skates, or the occasional brush of his hand past his robes. And every time Zant’s front would break, splitting his stern, grey lips into a fond smile.

Taken to the skies again, an astonished grunt sounded from above. “Unbelievable,” Zant grumbled, purposely twice as loud as usual as to be heard complaining properly above the sounds of wind and ice. “Despite your tomfoolery, the Circle is as good as perfect, still!”

Ghirahim twirled one last time, lowered and his leg outstretched to make another small circle, his arms raised in counter-balance. Once he’d carved it out enough, he rose with a cheeky smile, turning in place to face him. “I never settle for anything less!”

“You make it look fun,” Zant teased, lowering himself on the ice to stand beside him. How the lanky thing hadn’t slipped yet was beyond him.

Ghirahim cocked an eyebrow at him, pursing his lips with a self-satisfied smile. “Is Magic not fun to you, then?”

“Of course it is,” he chuckled in response, dodging the puffs of frost Ghirahim dusted off his shoulder. “It’s simply… Well, it’s becoming on you, Ghirahim-ili. You truly take somatic conduction to a different level.”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes, coming to a halt beside him, finally. “Oh, just say you like my dancing, you dolt.”

A giggle erupted beside him. “There is very little I don’t like about you,” Zant cooed.

“That’s lip service and you know it,” Ghirahim groaned, sticking his hands in his sides as he dismissed the blades at his feet. “Well, that should be all of it. Go ahead and say your little magic words. I’m eager to get this over with and leave this cold behind us, already. You’re shivering.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Zant laughed, before once again paging through his grimoire. “Alright, then. We’ll have to take some distance from the Circle…”

Each took their own side of the circle, one making his way across the ice more smoothly than the other. Ghirahim wrapped himself in his cloak, arms folded while he watched Zant test the waters with this new magic. Just the sight of him flipping pages back and forth, muttering to himself in lack of certainty, made that comforting, familiar urge to bully him surface. He soon found himself grateful for having kept his mouth shut, because the sight of Zant seconds later would have fed whatever mockery he uttered directly back to him. Within the first two syllables, the markings on Zant’s forehead began glowing vibrantly. The same teal glow faintly, but surely, bled into the grooves of the sigil on the lake, slowly spreading over to Ghirahim’s side.

His voice was like the wind, icy and ubiquitous, a whisper that carried into every crack and groove in the valley and would haunt the deepest bottom of the lake. Ghirahim shuddered.

The final words were spoken, echoing through the valley until they last faded with the wind. For a little while, it was perfectly silent on the lake. Zant’s ominous presence lingered for a moment, causing even the lungless sword spirit to hold a breath. Their summoning circle glowed, albeit weakly. It took a minute, perhaps two, before the pair exchanged a frown from each side of the sigil, making the first timid steps forward to inspect their work for any mistakes.

A deep, resonant rumble stopped them both in their tracks. The inner lines of the sigil turned cyan blue, then a dull, sandy yellow, before blurring out altogether when the whole magic circle filled with a swirling light. Each man instinctively shielded his eyes but did not dare look away fully. Below the ice, a shadow slowly faded into view. It wobbled, it grew, it twisted, until Ghirahim realized it was a mere trick of the light. That shadow didn’t come from underwater but from the circle.

Light burst from the circle, followed by a sudden wave of sand. The summoned inhabitant was climbing into the skies. Tawny brown scales shone on a massive, fish-like head, trailed by the bristling black spikes down its serpentine body, Its maw split open into two floppy, pink, and bulbous halves, unleashing a bubbling roar from a toothless gullet. At its first few feet of surfacing, the beast sounded confused and enraged, yet as more and more of it twisted into the freezing air of the lake, it began to screech and contort with pain. As Ghirahim thought, the cold was growing fatal to the creature now blotting out the skies very quickly. More alarmingly, the frost clinging to its body seemed to be impeding its ability to fly. Slowly but surely, it writhed, it shuddered, and it sank in the air, right above the madly cackling Twilight King, whose hands were raised in triumph.

Before Ghirahim could utter even a single word of warning, the shadowy man disappeared, and mere seconds later, the beast crashed into the ice with a high-pitched screech, its whining echoing through the valley. The ice could hold the two men with no problem, but whatever this sandworm was, it weighed several tons. The lake broke apart. One second, the surface was cracking into a web, and the next, each little island jutted its edges upward around their new monster with a resounding shatter. Pillars of water shot into the sky, spewing out between the cracks in the ice. Their peaks whipped away into mist from the wind, though a non-zero, pesky amount found its way to Ghirahim’s feet. As did some of the cracks in the ice, he noted. The roaring deluge crashed back down onto the surface. Wind from the impact whipped through Ghirahim’s hair, while the waves coursed across the ice to lap at his ankles.

Right as he raised his hand to snap his fingers, a shadow loomed over him.

“Now would be a good time to retrieve our new asset, before either of you sinks to the bottom,” hummed a cold and deep voice beside him.

Oh, what impatience! Ghirahim had half a mind to let it sink, but it would be an awful waste of their combined efforts. Still, he winced at the thought of having to touch a cold, wet, sandy creature, who-knows-where the Twili ripped it from. Well, he’d put up with worse, certainly. The ice below him cracked alarmingly, shrieking from the weight of solid metal pushing down. He swiftly decided against a new gig as an anchor and snapped his fingers, yanking the madman hovering gleefully beside him into the aether with him.

Four hands planted themselves on a beast now too weakened to protest. Scales bristled, eyes rolled, and squeaks rang out, but the Molgera could struggle no longer. Perhaps if it’d known where it was headed, it would have struggled a little less.

With a single snap of the fingers, diamond magic and specks of twilight combined. Seconds later, Lake Hylia was silent, a yawning crater left in its ice.

#zant #ghirahim #ghirazant #hyrule warriors #tftk #beararts #bearwrites #yuga loz #yuga albw #ganondorf #tloz #the legend of zelda #ganghira #yuganon #<- real btw

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a-d-nox · 11 months

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web of wyrd: lesson from the fatherly energy in your life / what inspires your growth as a person

the number we are focusing on today is based on the SUM OF YOUR PUBLIC ENERGY NUMBER AND YOUR HIGHEST SELF NUMBER (ex: my public energy number is 9 and my highest self number is 10: 9 + 10 -> 19 (recall that numbers must be summed a second time if they total 23 (i.e. 2 + 3 -> 5) and above)).

but what does this number mean?

this number represents what inspires our character growth in this lifetime. this number can help us to balance our public energy and our highest self energy - it essentially helps to provide continuity between our character. as my alma mater says, "be who you are and be that well." and as i say, "say what you mean and mean what you say." that is to say this number can help us become more genuine in day to day life when practiced. it is also the first number in our "male generational line"; often it is symbolic of the first male energy we interact with in life which is typically our fathers - so this is the biggest lesson we learn from our father figures as well.

so let's talk about some examples:

3 - the empress

rider-waite smith's empress is a regal lady sits on red (passion) cushions in a fertile forest where strong trees and wheat crops flourish. she is at one with nature. a heart shaped stone with the glyph of venus (what she represents) is beneath her cushions - she appears at ease with the possibly uncomfortable seating conditions. she stares are the viewer (confrontational) of the card, dressed in a white (innocence) pomegranate-patterned (pomegranates -> passion, fertility, and cyclicality of life) dress. she is adorned with a crown (has 12 stars - alluding to the 12 zodiacs) and a scepter showing her strength as a matriarch.

3s are inspired to grow when they learn to be patient, sit back, and receive rather than chase after answers/objects. hobbies that inspire patiences are meditation, yoga, gardening, writing, cooking/baking, reading, learning new languages, fishing, quilting, crochet, knitting, adult coloring books, puzzles, etc. it is important that 3s stay relaxed and follow their passions (with the 12-starred crown these people tend to be passionate/inspired by astrology) while creating what they desire most (any medium of art is also good).

3s are likely to be closer with their father than to their mother. their father is likely to illustrate to them unconditional love either for them or model it around them in some other area. they also could be a creative that lets the 3 explore their passions. 3s could learn to see the world through rose-colored glasses from their fatherly figure. their father can also be very granola - they can encourage going outside to become one with nature or they may be naturalists/naturopaths.

10 - wheel of fortune

click here for the card description of the wheel of fortune found in my 2nd wyrd web post.

10s are inspired to grow when they learn to connect with spirituality (so many occult symbols are present in this card, don't be afraid to search beyond just one belief). these people need something to connect with when times are rough - they need something to believe in. belief is a powerful tool that often boosts morale in the best way possible. to better connections with spirituality try joining a bible study, following a daily devotional online, going on a nature walk, joining a yoga/meditation group, journaling, volunteering in the community, planting a tree, practicing tai chi, etc. they also need to be around constant change so that they do not feel stagnant - outdoor exercise (or in a gym facility) is probably the best hobby for these people so they can build physical strength and endurance as they do they same emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. they should also pick up a hobby that is unpredictable as they need to realize that not all things can be controlled: practice one random act of kindness a week, manage a bonsai tree, take a different route on the drive home, try any random/new hobby/activity/workshop, surprise someone with a gift, make conversation with a stranger, go to a psychic, etc.

10's fatherly figure tends to teach them that fate can lead them anywhere. their fatherly figure can teach them that if they understand something and believe, they can accomplish anything that they want to. they could also teach them that there are patterns in life - a cycle - so they should never fear what comes nexts. trust what the universe has in store for everyone.

19 - the sun

click here for the card description of the sun found in my 2nd wyrd web post.

19s are inspired to grow when they learn to embrace their inner child. inner child work is extremely important to becoming anyone's best self, but for this person it is extremely beneficial to be around children and to get to understand the people around them and their inner children as well. because the truth is we are all children in spirit. practice hobbies that allow reconnection with the inner child: shadow work, make a mess - bake / paint / play dress up and do make up, buy a cute stuffed animal, throw a themed daytime party - i.e. a fairy themed picnic, play outside - garden / forage, volunteer to read to children at your local library, have a sleepover with your friends, pick up something you used to do when you were little - hula hoop / hatch butterflies, make your favorite childhood meal, try mantras/manifestation, etc. by practicing any of these things it will help to bring in to focus what productivity means to them. it could renew clarity towards life (perhaps you have been taking life too seriously), and/or it could make them feel alive again.

19's father figures likely taught them what it means to be healthy inside and out. it might be that they are able to see that youth, sadness, health, and/or illness is all temporary. these people's father could be childish themselves (perhaps 19s grew up too fast to enjoy childhood the first time around as well) and modeled what it is to embrace the energy of the sun card. they could also model for 19s what passion is when it comes to hobbies.

that's all for today. the next number we will be looking at is the right-most number, who we are destined to be.

like what you read? leave a tip and state what post it is for! please use my "suggest a post topic." button if you want to see a specific pac/pile next! if you'd like my input on how i read a specific card or what i like to ask my deck, feel free to use the ask button for that as well.

click here for the masterlist

click here for more web of wyrd related posts

want a personal reading? click here to check out my reading options and prices!

#astrology #astro community #astro placements #tarot witch #tarot cards #tarot reading #tarotscope #tarotcommunity #tarot #tarotblr #tarot deck #wyrd web #web of wyrd #matrix of destiny #matrix of fate #intuition #intuitive

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quohotos · 2 months

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Unprompted ideas for Underland Chronicles video games

Well, if the god damn hunger games never got a video game adaptation then underland chronicles never will either, but I can daydream about this.

First: The ones that actually engage with the themes of the story, the faithful adaptations:

The Underland Chronciles: a Telltale series:

Like it says on the tin, a classic Telltale games style story driven narrative adventure game with light slight branching based around your choices. Play as Gregor in a retelling of the five books' events, but with some choices thrown in. In the jungle do you give the shrimp and creamsauce to the kids, or do you give it to Ripred? Ripred will remember that. "Why do you walk two blocks to the laundromat, it's the same price, I checked"

[|||||||||||||| ]

Y) ...

X) the washers are bigger there?

B) Mind your own business!

A) I dunno, it's just what mom says to do

And of course, the final decision:

[||||||||||||||||||||| ]

Y) ...

X) Side with Luxa

B) Side with Ripred

A) Refuse to chose, "kill" the warrior

Disco Underland:

Disco Elysium, but set in the underland instead. A narrative RPG where your skills are not combat, but rhetoric and empathy and intellect and stuff. Navigate the tense cyclical trauma of an underland in between wars. Someone in regalia died, and it's your job to figure out who was responsible. All evidence points to a ganwer doing it, and that's what everone wants to believe. Do you tell them the truth, or tell them what they want to hear. If you prove the gnawers innocence will it matter? Perhaps a gnawer did do it, and that's the truth, but telling the truth will lead to a war. Is it worth it to lie and deny justice and closure to the family if it averts something worse? idk, there's legs there

The Underland Trail:

You and your band of diverse underland inhabitants need to get from point a to point b. Encounter random events and manage dwindling resources in an endlessly replayable Oregon Trail style game. Half way to the deadlands and oh no, your only human falls and cuts himself badly. No one else in the group has opposable thumbs. Maybe the spinners can treat him but do you want to take that risk?

Next, we have the neutral adaptations, the ones that make good use of the source material but don't really do anything with the themes

Batball Online:

A sports game where you can play whatever game they were in the middle of before Gregor shows up. Play as either a human or flyer to play different roles, party up with your bond and work together to score goals and climb the ranks against other players in ranked online lobbies. Obviously it's gonna have a detailed character creator and battle pass so you can deck out your human and bat with all manner of (tasteful) cosmetics.

[This would also work as just a mini game side mode in a different game]

Uncharted (lands):

An uncharted style modern 3rd person action adventure game. You could go full playstation exclusive and make it a blue tinted third person action game with themes of fatherhood where you can contextually climb on things. You and your bond are lost in the uncharted land and need to work together to survive. Gameplay is split between on the ground traversal/ exploration, puzzle solving, and tense flying sections. It'd be really cool if you could even play co-op with one player being the human and one player being the bat

Okay, now we've got to the unfaithful adaptations. These ones sure are underland games, and I bet they'd be super fun as well, but they definitely would be in poor taste for what is an anti-violence anti-war story. Suzanne would probably not approve...

Uncharted (Lands)... But you kill people in it:

Basically the idea from above, but with fighting mechanics and lots of combat encounters. Lots of in depth mechanics that utilize both bond's unique abilities and fighting styles. Utilize cool named combo moves like "the coiler". Stealth is interesting too, flying is fast but climbing on walls is quieter. Echo location tells you about the environment but reveals your location.... there's cool game design options there

Underland: Total War:

A 4x-ish grand strategy game in the vein of the total war series. Multiple different factions all with their own play-style, macro objectives, and available units. Engage in diplomacy, try to get unaligned factions to join your cause, and when war breaks out zoom in to intense RTS battles with hundreds of units that you can micro manage in massive subterranean three dimensional environments. Humans are great damage dealers but need light, Gnawers are deadly and easy to micro but have little in the way of tech and specialization, Flyers are mobile and great scouts but are fragile in a fight, Crawlers don't deal great damage but can hold a choke point like no one else... you get the picture. Don't even get me started on Rager Hero Units and prophecies. Play as Solovet and unlock new technology like "Fire arrows" and "The curse of the warmbloods", play as Gorger be sure to keep your overland prisoners healthy while they work on inventing guns for you, or play as Ripred and play both sides until the time is right to betray them both!

Dynasty Ragers:

Ripred tends to crack at 400 to 1? Wanna put that to the test? Play as everyone's favorite war criminal hearthrob and/or father figure as you slaughter hoards uppon hoards of enemies with his trademark spin attack in mindless hack-and-slash dynasty warriors style gameplay. Oh and of course we have to give him a dedicated emote/quip wheel. Is this what the Underland chronicles is about? Not at all! Would it be awesome? I mean yeah probably, but I'd feel really guilty playing it.

Yeah those were my ideas, thought I'd write them down. Feel free to add your own in the reblogs and the comments.

#but please don't tell me to actually make any of them because I am very busy making other games at the moment and making games is very hard #the underland chronicles #tuc #gregor the overlander #video game ideas

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tomorrowxtogether · 1 year

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You Can Count on TOMORROW X TOGETHER’s Hueningkai

TXT's youngest opens up about relying on his bandmates, growing onstage, and more

Hueningkai’s advice to people looking to enjoy this time of year, when the world feels like it’s in full bloom, would be to stop and smell the roses — almost literally.

“You know, recently, the cherry blossoms started to fall as it’s gotten warmer,” Hueningkai tells Consequence, seated for a one-on-one interview in a hotel room in Osaka, Japan. “Walk along the street and watch the cherry blossoms flutter down and enjoy the view. It makes me feel sentimental and inspired.”

At 20 years old, Hueningkai is the youngest member of TOMORROW X TOGETHER — such tender thoughts about the beauty of nature aren’t always top of mind for people his age. Hueningkai, though, is not your average 20-year-old; he’s part of a group headlining Lollapalooza whose most recent project hit No. 1 on the Billboard 200 chart.

Speaking about achieving headliner status, he recalls being particularly excited to share the news with his immediate family, including his two sisters. “I’m so happy that I became a proud son for my family,” he says.

While he grew up a middle child, debuting in 2019 with TXT required a shift; suddenly, Hueningkai found himself the maknae, or the youngest in a group. “The other members are only children or the youngest in their family,” Hueningkai explains. “I couldn’t get used to it at first, but gradually it became more comfortable — and it was really nice that I could lean on and rely on the older members.”

Hueningkai spent almost three years as a trainee before the lineup for TXT was finalized. Being introduced to global audiences and setting off on a debut showcase at just 16 years old required the vocalist to mature faster than the average teenager. Present-day Hueningkai is thoughtful and professional, but also seems to have retained a youthful, curious approach to the world. Throughout our interview, he approaches each question intentionally and often replies with surprising levels of honesty.

Consider when he’s asked about the people outside the safety of the TXT membership with whom he feels most comfortable discussing struggles or more difficult periods of his life. “I barely have any,” he says simply. “If I talk to my family, I would only worry them; and if I talk to my friends, they wouldn’t relate to that stuff. So in the end, I only talk to the members.”

It’s true that Hueningkai’s profile has risen higher than many of his peers can relate to. Following 2022’s “ACT: LOVE SICK” tour, he’s noticed an uptick in the group’s public reception. “I don’t really go out much, but these days, when I do, I’ve been surprised that so many people have actually recognized me,” he explains. His eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under his hairline as he expresses his surprise. “Oh, we have gotten a little more famous!”

TXT are back on the road spending more in-person time with their fanbase, MOA, on their current “ACT: SWEET MIRAGE” trek (find tickets here). It’s an even grander adventure for the quintet, and Hueningkai feels he’s progressed a performer between the two tours. “I think I learned how to be more calm and move at a steady pace, and I think I gained more experience when it comes to being on stage,” he observes. “I think I know how to rise to the occasion a little more now.”

As someone who’s already experienced more at age 20 than many people will experience in a lifetime, Hueningkai has an impressive amount of clarity when it comes to his priorities. “I want to be a trustworthy person; someone that people can really rely on,” he says. “I want to be a person that people can feel comfortable being around.”

While it’s clear how dear his members are to him, the other piece of the TXT puzzle is undeniably MOA. Hueningkai describes the relationship between the group and their fans as almost cyclical: They energize and inspire each other. The fans provide the enthusiasm needed for the five young men to perform for nearly three hours, and, in return, TXT leave everything they have on the stage, for every audience on the tour.

And for Hueningkai, in the midst of a truly exciting life, it’s those moments that take on the most enchanted, almost supernatural, quality: “Magical things happen meeting MOA in person.”

#txt #tomorrow x together #230519 #consequence #article #hueningkai #huening kai

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dustedmagazine · 2 months

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Vague Plot — Crying in 9 (Island House)

Vague Plot’s jams shimmer like highways melting in the heat, running straight on through Kansas or Nebraska until they disappear in the undecipherable distance. Which is to say, they go on for while, repeating the same short grooves ad infinitum, with modest changes, until the measures blow by like mile markers and the journey transcends itself.

“Moto” which opens, metes out the time in sharp, strummed intervals, a little syncopation marking irregular edges in the tick-tocky flow. And within that context, a sax can wail, a guitar can howl, a lick can bloom and fade and collapse in distortion. There’s order so that disorder can grow, a white picket fence around wild tangles of vegetation.

Vague Plot is made up of New York City avant-indie regulars, veterans of other bands, who got together to make driving, moving, long-form instrumental music a la Can and Popul Vuh during the pandemic. The one you’d probably pick out of a line-up first is Zachary Cale, here one of two guitarists, alongside Uriah Theriaultof Woodsy Pride. Phil Jacob of Psychic Lines plays the sax sometimes and a keyboard otherwise, while Ben Copperhead plays bass and John Studer drums.

The music grows contemplative in blues-tinged “Haunted Head” before spinning off into psychotropic grooves, like some weird mesh of Loren Connors and Om. It attains purity in the slow-evolving tones of closer “Windswept” which has a bit of Kluster in its crystalline lucidity.

You might think, with Cale involved, that there’s be a rustic rocker thread in Vague Plot’s aesthetic, a little Neil Young crashing through the motorisms. There mostly isn’t, sorry to disappoint, except oddly enough, on the tape’s best cut, “Cyclic.” Here Jacob’s sax wanders in and around a heavy groove that’s ever so slightly shaded with country rock tones. It’s a puzzle palace, a metronomic experiment in extended pulse, but with a ragged heart, and it’s the wildest and most excellent part of an excellent little album. Fuck the cowbell. Let’s have more guitar.

Jennifer Kelly

#vague plot #crying in 9 #island house #jennifer kelly #albumreview #dusted magazine #krautrock #instrumental #zachary cale #phil jacob #Uriah Therialt #ben copperhead #john studer #new york city

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