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mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess · 5 months

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Nocturnal

The alcohol slid down Wei Wuxian’s throat, both hot and cold, a satisfying interplay of conflicting sensations. He swallowed a mouthful of it, breathless and greedy, and he put the jar down only when he couldn’t throw his head back further to drink more.

He had always loved this - the sharp taste of the drink, the warmth it made bloom under his skin and the way it relaxed his body like it was melting away all the stress, the tension, the ache. He heaved out a satisfied sigh, wiping his glistening lips with his sleeve as he leaned back onto his hands, staring out at the night sky.

There seemed to be more stars in Gusu than Wei Wuxian had ever seen in Yunmeng. Perhaps the air was clearer, or the heavens favored these restrained, monk-like people more.

Whatever it was, Wei Wuxian found himself being grateful for it - because although this was a place of meditation, studying and endless rules and regulations on how to live, it was somehow less stifling than the place he had grown to call home. Though he was grateful for everything he had ever been given, there was something that Lotus Pier could not allow him, the one thing he craved above all else.

Wei Wuxian took another long sip of alcohol before he stood up, a relaxed smile on his face as he looked up at the moon. The breeze combed through his hair with the gentleness of a loving mother, and the faint moonlight cast silver on his face like a halo.

He didn’t have to hide anymore, not here, not in this place that was far enough for nobody to see, or to care about who he was and what he was doing. The tall cliff overlooked a seemingly endless abyss filled with slow moving, dark clouds, so thick they appeared to be made of the finest woolen fabric, and it was nothing but the trees and the thicket that bore witness to what he was about to do.

A smile broke out on his features, and it bloomed into a grin as he took one step, two, three - towards the edge of the cliff, far enough for him to feel like he was going to fly.

Or to fall.

Below, only the thicket of clouds awaited.

Wei Wuxian took in a deep breath and closed his eyes, balancing on the tips of his toes, tempting fate. If he balanced far enough, if the rock gave out -

He turned around, as if he had changed his mind.

But the grin on his face grew wider, until it broke into a laugh, loud, unrestrained, hysterical - and he let go, falling into nothingness in a fit of excited, relieved laughter, breaking through the silence and the clouds.

–

Lan Wangji heard them before he saw them - they laughed like they had received a great gift or wonderful news, boisterous and exalted. It was past curfew, and such noise echoed easily through the Cloud Recesses, but before Lan Wangji could chastise its source, his eyes caught onto a falling figure right atop one of the sharp cliffs of the back mountains.

Had they accidentally lost balance? Had they dived on purpose? Lan Wangji did not know and he did not have time to ponder, readying himself to catch them flying on his sword. Life was, after all, a precious thing - and it was his duty to make sure those visiting his home would not break the most important rule of all.

But before Lan Wangji could even attempt it, something unbelievable had taken place right before his eyes - a pair of large, black wings unfurled from the figure’s back, batting powerfully against gravity and rescuing them from the imminent, fatal fall.

Then, the person shot up into the sky, wings folded near their body as they gained speed, soaring high enough for the span of their wings to look like it was swallowing the moon whole the moment they stopped in front of it.

They shot back down towards the ground, just as quickly, seconds later, carelessly breaking through the mist and the clouds, laughing with joy as both their wings and their hair batted into the night breeze.

Lan Wangji watched them for a while, mesmerized - the way they moved through the air, fast, precise but playful, flying in circles, diving towards the ground only to save themselves at the last moment, batting the clouds away with the force of their wings… they had never been in danger! In fact… they were having fun!

But what could they even be? Winged humans were a rarity to the point of being a myth.

However, there were no spirits haunting the Cloud Recesses, no deities having taken home there or any other such apparitions.

Could Lan Wangji be hallucinating then? He had been doing a rather deep meditation, perhaps his mind had not fully come out of it before night patrol - but that had never happened before either…

The winged figure seemed to be getting closer now, their aimless playing having calmed down into a slow, deliberate flight. Lan Wangji had just about drawn his sword when the figure got too close for his comfort - but they stopped just slightly a-ways, sighing contently as they ran a hand through their hair. “Can’t believe I lost my hair ribbon…It was my last one too…” they mumbled, looking around as if to search for it, their wings shaking off the dust they kicked up landing.

They didn’t seem to have noticed Lan Wangji, and he decided not to make himself known unless necessary. After all, he had no idea what this figure even was or what they wanted - it was more advisable not to take unnecessary risks. He would be telling uncle about what he had seen next morning, and they would set up a proper plan on how to deal with it.

Lan Wangji only got a glimpse of the figure’s face, pulled into a small frown as they searched for their lost item… and they were beautiful. He did not know whether it was appropriate of him to think of this… being in such a way, and his ears burned with shame at the thought. But it was undeniable that they were attractive, young, with glistening, stormy eyes and handsome, boyish features… Lan Wangji’s ears burned brighter, and he averted his eyes like the figure could hear his thoughts.

They didn’t seem to have noticed him, though, and sighed upon not finding their hair ribbon, shooting back into the sky seconds later.

Lan Wangji watched them disappear into the dark, almost disappointed, when his eyes caught onto a slash of red hanging onto a nearby tree branch, dancing into the breeze - a hair ribbon.

He picked it up without thinking about it.

–

Next morning, Lan Wangji walked into the first class of that year’s guest disciple lectures, not expecting much from the day ahead. He hadn’t had the chance to meet uncle in the morning, but they would be speaking after class for sure, and Lan Wangji would tell him what happened the past night.

But fate had decided not to be as predictable to the Second Jade of Lan as he had grown used to.

Because one of the disciples walked into class with their hair unbound, the look on their face all too familiar as they pouted about hair getting in their eyes.

Lan Wangji tucked the red ribbon further into his sleeve and pretended he did not notice. But when he met eyes with Weii Wuxian, accidental and brief, there was recognition in both of each other’s eyes.

The lecture proceeded. Neither paid attention.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #writing attempts

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overdevelopedglasses · 6 months

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Alright I'm trying to get over myself and actually start sharing my original stuff (le gasp!).

Welcome to Essence.

I'm writing it to be a video game series but it can easily be adapted into anything.

Essence is a world of energized spirits, fantastical powers, but with a story of found family and usurping destiny. The best way to describe it is: a mix of Xenoblade Chronicles and Yakuza/RGG.

Let's start at a good spot. The characters. I'll keep this post updated as they get updated

For today, let's introduce the main party of 6! Feel free to send asks about them, as this is the Very Bare Bones stuff.

Lily Tovio (she/her):

17-20 years old. Lily is the main protagonist of the series. She's a kind-hearted girl but also doesn't take shit from anyone. She is very clever, is a good leader, and adheres to her beliefs, but sometimes her emotions can get the better of her. She is really confident in herself, until things start becoming unclear, and then her doubts crawl in. She has a lot of self doubt in many aspects of herself, especially as she's assigned the role of the world's hero.

Background Inspirations: Shionne (tales of arise), Kazuma Kiryu (yakuza 5 specifically)

Personality Inspirations: Phoenix wright (aa3 specifically), Wonder-Red (The Wonderful 101), Noctis (post crystal dive, FFXV)

Character Songs: The Fighter, Superman, Stab Unjust

Battle Themes Inspo: My Own Style, Cornered, Hopes and Dreams

William Paladi (he/him):

19-22 years old. As Lily's older cousin, William is a stoic man, trying to play tough and emotionless. He wants to be a sturdy pillar for Lily to lean on. He shoulders a lot of burdens and emotions but bottles them up until they implode. Underneath it all, he cares for Lily and the rest of the team, but also yearns for his goals to be fulfilled.

Background Inspirations: Taiga Saejima, Dunban (Xenoblade)

Personality Inspirations: Dunban, Testu Tachibana, Gladious (FFXV), angy Roy Mustang

Character Songs: Shield of the King

Battle Theme Inspo: Unstoppable, The Blazing Tactician

Alex Russel (he/him):

17-19 years old. Alex is very smart, but also steadfast and honest. He's Lily's best friend, and is often her voice of reason. Despite his origins and newfound discoveries, he chooses to stand by the people he loves.

Background Inspirations: none as of yet....

Personality Inspirations: Prompto (FFXV), Reyn (Xenoblade), Apollo Justice (AA4 specific), Nanba (LaD)

Character Songs: Blood, Sound of My Heart

Battle Theme Inspo: In A Trance, Devil Trigger

Percival "Percy" Ignaza (he/him)

18-20 years old. Percival is a suave man, confident to a fault, almost. To those close to him, he's a big nerd and is very chaotic. His mysteries draw people in, and he quickly sees the world as a vain and hollow place. Selfish people is all he's known. That is, until he encounters Lily.

Background Inspirations: Percival De Rolo (CR), Miles Edgeworth

Personality Inspirations: Ignis (FFXV), Akiyama (Yakuza 4-6), Han Solo (OG Star Wars)

Character Songs: Bang!, Darkness before the Dawn, Traveler's Song

Battle Theme Inspo: I need to find one soon ack

Robin Vasili (she/her)

18-20 years old. Robin is the heir to the throne of a nation-state. She's well-respected, but doesn't fancy herself in the role of ruler. She considers herself too hot-headed and improper for that role. In fact, she's a bit confused that she's the chosen heir, when her older sibling is right there and is more than willing to lead. So she runs to get a taste of life away from her duties, and crosses paths with the team.

Background Inspirations: Melia (Xenoblade), Dohalim (Tales of Arise)

Personality Inspirations: Saeko (LaD), Katara (A:TLA)

Character Songs: none yet...

Battle Theme Inspo: The Flower of Chivalry, Fatal Blooms in the Moonlight

Enzo Wilson (they/them)

16-18 years old. Outwardly, Enzo is very quiet and their appearance is very intimidating. Spend some time with them however, and you'll find they're a huge softie. Taking after their older brother, they act like papa bear to the rest of the cast. But, they still have their grudges, and their issues...

Background Inspirations: Higashi (Judgment)

Personality Inspirations: Ichiban (LaD), Sig (Puyo Puyo), Caduceus Clay (CR)

Character Songs: Brokenbrow, A Reason to Fight

Battle Theme Inspo: also doesn't have any yet

#Odev's Essence #<- i guess i'll use that as a tag?#anyway these are my beans I hope you guys like them #the main party weeee #Essence Main Party #my writing

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stylographic-blue-rhapsody · 1 year

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did I write 3k words as an exercise in exploring my touchstarved mc’s voice and attitudes, even though it is not likely to be something polished or posted to ao3? perhaps me, white knuckling the bathroom sink and telling my reflection sternly that drafts and writing practice don’t need to be good or publishable

anyway, here’s a rework of the ending sequence of the prologue as lyre follows ais out of the wick. I don’t yet know who their ro will be, but after playing through the five options, ais makes the most sense for them to trail after (lyre introduction here if anyone is curious)

...

Lyre doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to follow Ais outside. Rather, they find themself out in the chill of Eridia’s night soft-shoeing down the alley behind the Wet Wick. The chatter of the crowds in the main thoroughfares is a distant hum. Lyre hears nothing beyond it until they reach the end of the building, at which point a heavy thud gives them pause: the sound of a body hitting the ground. Slowly, with care to stay silent and out of the moonlight, they peek into the adjacent back street.

Ais stands over the unmoving form of the roughneck he’d hauled out of the bar, his back to the alley where Lyre lurks. They watch the tension drain from his shoulders as he exhales and shakes out his right hand. The dark droplets flick from his knuckles to join the smear of blood around the body at his feet. Ais casually turns his head over his shoulder and meets Lyre’s gaze before they can duck away.

“Not running, sparrow?”

They eye Ais carefully as they step out from behind the building and fully into the light of the waxing moon. It’s unnerving to be caught—in all their years as a sneak thief, only rarely were they sloppy enough to be noticed. Now…

“I didn’t make any noise.” Of that, they’re certain. “How’d you know?”

Ais shrugs. “Got eyes in the back of my head.”

Lyre can’t tell if he’s joking. They take a few more steps into the open to look more closely at the body at Ais’s feet. The man is facedown and motionless, spattered with street muck. Dark wet patches bloom on his clothes where he lies in his own pooling blood. If he is breathing, it is too shallow to be perceptible.

“He’s alive.”

Lyre looks skeptically to the crumpled mass at his feet. They’ve seen fatal beatdowns before—a fellow cutpurse too clumsy to escape the city watch, a rival tough collared by one of their own guild’s enforcers, a nobleman enacting “justice” on a kid with sticky fingers—and this has all the markings of one. Brutal and final.

“If you say so.”

Ais looks at them with a cool, lidded gaze. “Calling me a killer? Or a liar?”

Lyre lifts one shoulder in a placating, noncommittal gesture at his challenge. There’s an undercurrent of fear buzzing in the back of their skull, the instinctual drive of a prey animal to flee at the signs of predatory savagery, but they can’t help but take another step towards Ais.

“I believe you’re honest, but also very dangerous. Killing seems like something you’d do well.”

The corner of his mouth curls. “I’m flattered.”

“I’ve known people like you.” They’ve never been a fighter, preferring to handle the trials of the underworld through stealth, wit, and, in desperate moments, being the fastest runner in the city, but there’s a familiarity in this sort of violence that is resonant of their old friends.

“You scared?”

“You could’ve hurt me before, when I came to your home uninvited. You didn’t.”

“And now?”

“You won’t.” It comes out tentatively. Lyre pauses, and then hedges a guess. “I’m no good in a fight. It’d be too boring to be worth your time.”

Ais’s eyes flick down Lyre’s body, taking in their rangy build. His gaze lingers on the scar that slices their upper lip, and for a moment they think he will comment on it. Instead, he rubs his bloodied knuckles on his pants and kneels down to begin frisking the roughneck’s clothes.

“I keep making bad impressions on you.”

“My opinions shouldn’t matter to you. We’re strangers, and I’m not exactly a threat.”

He glances up at them, and then back to his search. “Just prefer you didn’t piss yourself when we talk.”

Lyre rolls their eyes with a snort. “Yeah, because you’re definitely the first violent person I’ve come across.”

That earns them a crooked smile. “Should stop putting words in your mouth, huh?”

Ais stands, his looting fruitful: a cigarette and a matchbox. He places the cigarette between his lips, then strikes a match and cups his hand to shield it from the wind. In the brief flare as he lights the end, his angular features become even sharper. He flicks the match into a puddle and sits down on a crate, regarding Lyre with an inexplicable expression.

After a moment’s consideration, they skirt the possible corpse and gingerly take a seat beside him. Ais draws deeply from the cigarette, and Lyre relaxes a little at the scent of cloves.

“Did he only have one?” When Ais responds with a raised eyebrow, Lyre clarifies, “Cigarette, I mean. Leander beat you to the punch on the promised drink, but I’d take a smoke in its place.”

Ais laughs under his breath, smoke curling in short little bursts from between his lips. “Didn’t look for more than one.”

He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and offers it between two fingers to them. Lyre blinks in surprise, but takes it from him for a short pull before handing it back.

“Was Princess good company?”

Lyre holds the smoke in their lungs for a second longer before exhaling. “Sorry, who?”

His rings catch the burning red of the cigarette tip as he takes a drag. “The Soulless who escorted you back.”

“You named it Princess?” They stifle an incredulous laugh.

Ais grins. “Jealous?”

“Anyone would be.”

“Your nickname’s more fitting.”

As Ais proffers the cigarette a second time, Lyre wonders if he gives everyone nicknames, and where they come from. It’s not the worst thing someone’s called them, at least. It’s nice, even.

At his apparent willingness to share the cigarette fully, Lyre takes a longer drag. “She was cute. Weird, but cute. And the first one that I’ve encountered that didn’t chase me down for sport, so that’s a plus.”

“Her tail wouldn’t stop going when she got back. The group of them don’t get much attention.” Ais’s soft expression turns roguish. “Think she’s cute now, wait ‘til you see her tricks.”

Lyre passes him the cigarette. “They can learn tricks?”

“If you have the right rewards.”

Lyre hums thoughtfully. Ais leans back against the alley wall and closes his eyes, inadvertently allowing Lyre to look at him more closely. They take in his edges and his sharpness, the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones and nose. His rough, bloodied hands. His strong arms and shoulders. He’s not just a leader and a fighter, but a seasoned one, and it strikes Lyre as particularly odd that his only noticeable scar is the one through his brow. Even they, with their avoidance of brawls, have a body that is marked by past wounds of street life. They suppose that maybe Monsters don’t scar as easily as humans.

Their eyes are following the spiraling seaglass lines of his tattoo when he says, “What’s your verdict?”

Lyre glances up at his face. “Sorry?”

He slits one eye open to meet their gaze, mouth quirking. “Got a long, good look. Are you impressed, or do I need work?”

Lyre flushes and pulls the cloak tighter around their shoulders. They huff, “Digging for compliments? You’re annoying.”

His responding chuckle is low, sweet smoke clouding the air between them. “Didn’t stop you from staring.”

“I’ll keep my eyes to myself next time if you’re going to be like that,” Lyre snips, and reaches out to boldly pluck the cigarette from between his fingers without it being offered. Heat and good-humored irritation mix pleasantly in their gut. The easy confidence and self-satisfaction that Ais carries are achingly familiar; they want nothing more than to be close to it, sheltered by it.

The realization strikes them like an open palm to the face. The sting of abandonment by their own gang resurfaces, a tight knot in their chest. To fend off what would be the absolute most mortifying thing they could do—cry—they hurriedly pivot the conversation.

“I want to know more about the Seaspring.”

Ais’s smirk falls and a weary boredom cools his expression. His eyes fall closed. “Thought I made myself clear, what you’d be giving up.”

“With minimal details. Details are very important, in my experience,” Lyre says mildly, exhaling smoke.

His eyes open again, and he makes a “give it” gesture at the cigarette. Lyre passes it to him as he orders, “My turn for a question. Your curse.”

Habitual defensiveness raises their hackles. The questions are always painful, selfish. “My curse?”

His gaze is lidded, landing somewhere in the middle distance beyond. “Is the thought of living with it really so unbearable? You’ve survived this long. Unless you’re running out of time, I’d wonder if it’s really worth the sacrifice.”

He is speaking to an experience more intimate than sheer speculation, Lyre realizes. As their guard drops, a question jumps to the tip of their tongue: Was what you sacrificed worth it? But before they can voice it, he sighs, leaning forward to prop his chin on his knuckles, elbows to knees.

“But what do I know? I’m just an outsider.”

Lyre bites the inside of their cheek. They murmur, “I’m almost mad that you’ve made me think about this. I was ready to join your freaky little cult, you know.”

He rumbles a low laugh and brings the cigarette back to his mouth. “No, you weren’t. You had more asinine questions.”

“Probably.”

The following silence is comfortable, even if the night chill is beginning to creep into Lyre’s bones. They pull their feet up onto the crate and wrap their arms around their shins to keep a little warmer. They rest their cheek on their knees, face turned towards Ais to run their gaze over the lines of his profile again. Sharp and proud, but with a softness to his mouth that is almost incongruous.

“People like you, you know. Maybe you’re less of an outsider than you think.”

“And what insights do you have, sparrow?” Cool amusement tinges his words.

So Lyre tells him. They tell him about Vere’s clear affection, Kuras’s quiet respect, Leander’s bids for attention. Even Mhin, with all their animosity, couldn’t keep their eyes from lingering on him in the bar. Ais has a gravity that pulls at those around him, regardless of opinion.

Throughout the conversation, they gain a few more glimpses into the group’s dynamics, information that they file away for later. Most interesting to them is the implication that Ais’s earlier comment about Leander “trying to kill him” was a literal one. Lyre senses that the intricacies of shared histories will take time and delicate effort to ferret out, and so resigns themself to letting Ais share what he wants without pushing him further.

“You’ve helped prove my point,” Lyre says eventually. “People like you. They seek you out. They enjoy your company. That’s friendship. Or at the very least, camaraderie. You’re not as isolated as you seem to think.”

“I don’t have friends.”

Lyre sighs heavily, breath misting. “And I’m an upstanding citizen.”

“Fine, I’ll confess. I have one friend.” He flicks the butt of the cigarette into a puddle and says, “Ocudeus.”

The name is not familiar to Lyre, but something about the way he says it causes an unconscious instinct to cry out at them to run run run. Their heart rate spikes, their skin prickles, their stomach drops; they need to flee.

Instead, they will their fingers to relax where they’ve clenched down in the fabric of the cloak. “And who’s that?”

“A friend. It lives in my head.” At Lyre’s furrowed brow, Ais taps his temple with a finger. The moonlight glints off of the metal of his rings. “Right here. Scared you off, yet? That’d be the third bad impression I’ve made on you today.”

Lyre is quiet for a moment, searching his face. Finding no signs of teasing, they let out a long breath, laughing softly. “So let me get this straight.” They tick their fingers with each point. “Groupminds are real, and your Seaspring is the source of one. You’ve tamed some Soulless with that power, and they act like pet hounds. You may or may not have killed a man tonight who may or may not have deserved it. And you have someone living in your head. Do I have all of that right?”

“Sure do.” His answering rumble is low, amused.

“Well, then. Okay.”

“‘Okay’?”

Lyre shrugs. “I’ve seen some shit, and I don’t scare so easily, friend. You should try harder if you really want to run me off. Or just tell me to leave. I’d go if you asked.”

A sharp grin stretches across Ais’s face, wide enough to flash his fangs. “I’ll keep that in mind, sparrow.”

“Ducas! Where in the rat’s ass are you?!”

The clamor that had been growing in the main thoroughfare beyond crystalizes into intelligible shouts and fast, heavy boots. Lyre is on their feet and running before properly registering the context of the tumult—the dead or nearly-dead tough lying in the muck had the same accent as the nearing voices. His absence has been noticed.

As Lyre tries to dart out of the alley, Ais snatches their wrist and yanks them into an alcove between buildings. They startle when their back hits the brick: they hadn’t realized Ais moved to keep up with them, let alone quickly enough to redirect their momentum.

At their instinctual push back to the alley to continue their flight, Ais boxes Lyre in with an elbow to the wall beside their head. Lowly, he says, “They’re coming from both sides. Quiet.”

The alcove is shallow, not in the least sufficient for total concealment. Ais, apparently aware of the incompatibility of his bulk and the small space, presses himself more tightly to the shadows. Close enough that the buckles of his belts dig into Lyre’s stomach, the line of his body effectively pins Lyre to the brick. He is warm and solid and smells of cloves, tobacco, and blood.

Lyre thinks distantly that this, by most standards, might be considered a very sexy predicament. Instead, a snare of fear tightens in their chest. Their breath begins to come quick and shallow, sweat dampening their palms and armpits uncomfortably. They swallow down the rising dread of being penned as best they can and peer past Ais’s shoulder at the commotion beyond.

“Damn! He’s over here. Ducas, wake up, you bastard.”

As Ais indicated, thugs pour into the alley from both ends. The metal of spiked clubs and daggers and handaxes glints like cold stars in the sea of bodies. Their clothes are rough hewn, but their boots are sturdy and their weaponry is well cared for. Adorning each of their bodies is a sash of violet cotton; the roughneck in the bar was wearing one, too.

“Gang colors? In the open?” Lyre breathes.

They flinch as a hand over their mouth firmly silences their mutterings, and it’s enough to snap the fraying control they had over their panic. Unthinking, they bite down savagely.

A wince pulls the hand away from their mouth and Lyre sucks in a gasping breath that tastes of copper and salt.

Ais shifts against them—it must have been his hand, Lyre registers faintly. They bit him and made him bleed. Oh, fuck.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his head to bring his mouth near their ear, the soft curls of his hair brushing their cheek. “At least someone could draw blood today.”

The harsh discussion in the alley filters to Lyre’s ears as if through water. “Shit. He’s got more broken ribs than whole ones. What kinda freak did this? Fan out, find the cocksucker responsible. You three! Take Ducas back to base. Least he’s still breathing…”

A flurry of activity clears the gang and the unconscious body from the alley. Before the retreating footsteps have totally faded, Lyre shoves Ais off of them and stumbles out of the alcove. Shaking uncontrollably, they fold their arms tightly to their chest and focus on their breath: In, one, two. Hold. Out, one, two, three, four.

When they’ve regained a modicum of control and their ears no longer feel stuffed with cotton, Lyre demands hoarsely, “Was that really necessary?”

“Could ask you the same thing. Didn’t know sparrows could bite.”

“Clearly,” Lyre snaps. The vacuum left behind by the subsiding fear fills with hostility. “Just because I said I was no good in a fight doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“Wouldn’t say you’re no good.” Ais flashes his palm to reveal a ring of blunt teeth marks smeared with blood.

“I’ll do worse next time.”

“Is that a promise, sparrow?”

Ais’s unbridled, fanged grin has the odd effect of soothing Lyre’s pique. Suddenly the grimy cobblestones beneath their feet are very interesting.

Ais runs a hand through his hair, amusement fading. “Staying hidden was the best option. Would be a hassle to run into them with you there.”

“I could’ve hidden on my own if you were worried about deadweight.” There is no doubt in their mind that he could have handled himself, even with the gang’s numerical advantage.

“Three bad impressions are enough for one day.”

Irritation blooms; he is not very good at listening, apparently. “You only made one bad impression, and it was none of the things you think it is.”

Silence stretches as Ais regards them coolly. Then, he turns and strolls lazily towards the mouth of the alley, the metal of his boots clinking softly with each step. “Come on, sparrow. Let’s get you home before you’re framed for murder.”

Home. Lyre startles at the tears abruptly prickling their eyes. It has to be the exhaustion. Or the adrenaline crash. They pinch the soft flesh of their elbow crease harshly and follow.

“Very funny.”

The main thoroughfare in front of the Wet Wick is bustling, the bright lanterns and crowd of people almost overstimulating. Lyre hovers in Ais’s periphery, a half step from being too close. For all the stress the encounter in the alley caused, he is still the only thing that has any semblance to their old life; the familiarity feels like a safe harbor and they are reluctant to leave it for unknown waters.

He stops in front of the door to the bar and Lyre nearly runs into him in their absentmindedness. His eyelashes cast soft shadows down his cheeks in the warm yellow light from the threshold.

“You know where to find me.”

“Oh, yes. At the creepiest place in the world.” Lyre tugs their cloak a little tighter.

The corner of Ais’s mouth quirks. “Mm. Take your time before you decide to drink. I happen to like your shitty attitude.”

“Stones and glass houses,” Lyre mutters, gaze casting away from him.

They look back up, only to see Ais down the street, dipping through the crowd like a phantom through shadow. He disappears without any farewell or backwards glance.

“Well, bye, then,” Lyre says to empty air.

They look to the open door of the Wet Wick. The chatter of the crowd within leaves them feeling more isolated than before. Oh, well. At least they are sleeping inside and in a real bed tonight. Safe and warm and lonely is arguably better than vulnerable and cold and lonely, they suppose.

With a sigh, Lyre goes inside.

#touchstarved game #touchstarved mc #ais touchstarved #I feel absolutely feral I want to talk about lyre so Bad #Please Ask Me About My Blorbo #my ocs #lyre the hound

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oktaviaslabyrinth · 2 months

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me: I will always name the songs as they're named on the soundtrack they come from Nintendo: actually it's "Fatal Blooms in Moonlight", not "Moonstruck Blossom" me:

#txt #{that is NOT her name!!!!}

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subversiveasset · 3 months

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youtube

Remember when we were younger at the academy? How back then I still lacked any cares or responsibilities?

But you were different. I knew you were destined for great things. I would remain a mere pawn, but I could be valuable if I followed you, my Queen.

Check out this lyric story re-imagining of "Moonstruck Blossom"/"Fatal Blooms in Moonlight" from Taranza's perspective

#saxophone #video game music #video game cover #subversiveasset #youtube #vgm #vgmusic #kirby #kirby series #taranza #queen sectonia #kirby triple deluxe #jazz music #Youtube

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dbcoatl-art · 11 months

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Third attack, and it's another friendly fire for @elliikuma of her Kirlia character Evelyn. I drew this while listening to "Fatal Blooms in Moonlight" from Kirby: Triple Deluxe's OST on repeat at full blast.

Link to my Art Fight Profile: https://artfight.net/~Cyber-Wildcat

Please do NOT repost nor remove the caption! Do NOT use or redistribute anywhere without my written permission!

#cyber art #Evelyn the Kirlia #Kirlia #Pokemon #Art Fight #Art Fight 2023 #Team Vampires #artists on tumblr

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arcane-star · 11 months

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One reason I love listening to instrumental songs especially from things like video games and such is my autism brain can almost always recontextualise the songs since, y'know, no lyrics and I can just go off the 🌟✨vibes✨🌟

Because otherwise Fatal Blooms in Moonlight from Kirby Triple Deluxe should absolutely NOT remind me of Waka from Ōkami lmaooo

#Ōkami #okami waka #waka #kirby triple deluxe #autism

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psalm22-6 · 2 years

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In Which Victor Hugo's Salad is Tossed

or How The Devil Wrote Les Misérables

Please don't be put off by how long the text is, I promise it is worth reading. I seriously feel that I have found some forbidden knowledge which I must share.

A Salad in a Skull, from La semaine des famille, 29 November 1862

It was evening. The sky was gloomy, cloudy, and sad. Through breaks in the clouds, like wounds of a bruised sky, only a few pale rays of pallid, lugubrious moonlight were allowed to permeate. A storm raged over the ocean, twisting the masts of ships like wisps of straw; the waves roared, eager to seize their prey. One heard here and there strange clamors which broke the heart; it was like the supreme cry of a crew in distress. The rain was falling in torrents, and the raging winds carried violent pelting gusts of water. From time to time in the hollows of the rocks and at the tops of the old ruins of feudal towers, the mournful cry of ospreys — which the fury of the elements prevented from seeking their prey — resounded and in the distance the howls of wolves answered in sinister harmony. Common people said that the night was terrible; the poets will say it was a romantic night. In an elegant cottage on the isle of Jersey, Victor Hugo was awake. He was meditating on the outline of a new work which would seal his fame forever and which he would sign opus exegi, like Horace. It was a monumental epic about the miseries of the century. Already the characters who were to play a part in this epic crowded the threshold of his imagination and knocked on the door of his poem. They were tearful young girls — like the virgins of Verdun, like those the poet had already sung of — unhappy and plaintive children led by the child-king, Louis XVII in a moaning choir — Louis XVII, who died of old age brought on by grief before he was twelve years old; shattered destinies, the faded bloom of youth, misunderstood genius, misinterpreted and slandered virtues. In a word, the grande armée of the afflicted, crossing the valley of tears, throwing a cry of suffering towards the earth, a cry of hope towards God. Christianity, that old friend from the poet’s childhood and adolescence, appeared to him as a consolation for all afflictions, a support for all trials, the last hope of the hopeless, the father of orphans, the companion of the abandoned, and the immortal medicine for all illnesses of the soul and the body. The beliefs he received from his Christian mother warmed his heart; he would perhaps write a sublime book and his guardian angel, only waiting for a prayer, was ready to issue forth from his lips to carry the words to the foot of the throne of God, He who gives sun and dew to the earth and inspiration to the poet. The angle was waiting in vain. The poet did not pray. Pride, love of public approval, the presumptuous confidence of a genius in his own strength, and the spirit of revolt and hatred: these stopped his parted lips from issuing the prayer he was ready to begin. Bit by bit, Victor Hugo’s daydream became a dream. He fell into a sort of magnetic slumber, with his eyes open although he was asleep. He continued his somnambulistic meditation on the subject and plot of his poem, with his head held in his hand.

Now you must know that, on this fatal night, Mephistopheles traveled in the air, carried by his bat wings in the company of Astaroth, his comrade from the fall. The two pernicious spirits were chasing after souls and the hoped to bring back rich spoils from their journey. Passing before the isle of Jersey, Astaroth, who while hovering over the waves where several fishermen had been swallowed up, had swept up all the souls whose last words had been curses and blasphemes. He said to Mephistopheles: “Master, you who sees everything, do you see that light which shines over there in the middle of this terrible night?” “I see it.” “Master, you who knows everything, do you know what is happening in that solitary chalet?” “I know it. A man is sitting there. He is a victim of a restless sleep that resembles meditation and dream.” “What man is that?” “A poet. Once our enemy, now faithful to me and to whom I owe numerous recruits. It was him who, in his second to last poem, made Belial and Jesus-Christ embrace, and who, in his most recent, was not afraid to put a pig ahead of God himself when he wrote ‘the miserable pig and God looked at one another.’” “Victor Hugo!” “It was you, imp, who said the name.” “Master, an idea.” “What is it?” “We are working like fools. We've been here gleaning souls since the beginning of the night, when in that chalet we can perhaps make an audacious move. You know that it is always through writers that we have succeeded in winning our most fruitful battles. The best of our auxiliaries is a bad book." “Let us enter,” responded Mephistopheles, who was beginning to understand. They flew toward the chalet, and as they passed, the croaking of the night birds became more mournful, and the clouds, as black as inkblots, put the sky in mourning. The moon, like a solitary eye open in the middle of the sky, sadly watched them pass. Doors and windows, all were locked hermetically. However the two pernicious spirits entered as easily as if the doors and windows had been open wide. “Ah! Ah!” exclaimed Mephistopheles with a sneer after having cast a quick glance at the sleeping poet. “I see we are at home here. Here is a mind which has not armed itself by the sign of the cross against our nocturnal undertakings. Come, Astaroth, get to work quickly! Open up this skull and quickly lift the lid for me, so that I can better see what is going on.” At these words, Astaroth traced with his finger a line of fire around the forehead of the poet, who dreamed at that moment that M. Viennet had descended on the banks of the Styx to seek a strong hand, that he had brought back M. de Jouy, and that the two classical poets tried to scalp him. It was an atrocious, unheard-of, unbearable torture. However the operation had been as quick as a thought. Dupuytren himself, whose hand trepanned with a dexterity that surgeons called grace, could have learned something from Astaroth’s performance. [Dupuytren is actually mentioned in LM] “Good! Good!” murmured Mephistopheles, “We arrived at the right moment. The brain is working, the autoclave pot is boiling, and our visit will not have been useless. Astaroth, pass me your pitchfork.” There is never a travelling devil who does not have a pitchfork on him. It is the tool of the trade. Astaroth therefore passed his pitchfork to Mephistopheles, who gravely began sharpening it, as well as his own. “And what are you going to do with those two pitchforks?” asked Astaroth. “Haven’t you guessed?” “No master.” “Well, I want to make a fork and a spoon out of them.” “And what will you serve with them?” “I will make a salad in a skull!” cried out Mephistopheles with a horrible burst of laughter. At that exact instant Mephistopheles began to make his diabolical salad. Armed with his two pitchforks which he used as cutlery, he turned and turned, with an untiring hand, in the skull of the poet the ideas, feelings, images, metaphors, and characters into a molten fusion, so as to produce in his brain the most strange mixture, the most terrible mess.

[Everything described in this part can be found in the above illustration] A convict capped with a prison bonnet and pulling along his ball and chain found himself face to face with the bishop capped in a skullcap and holding in his hands silver candlesticks which he offered up; a four pound loaf of bread floated through the air and put itself beneath a tooth…a tooth freshly torn from a mouth! A classic cupid fluttered above a heart pierced by a mythological arrow and he crowned the convict, whose comical glorification the cupid celebrated. Meanwhile, a city constable with a haughty air and threatening tricorn, some Javert or something, sought to grab the convict by the collar. A bug crawled out of M. Sue’s Mysteries of Paris knocked incessantly against the aching insides of the poet's skull, while Fontaine's fly took flight beside a bottle of champagne, the cork of which was popping, symbol of a joyous orgy. “What if we added the swan from the Luxembourg gardens also?” Astaroth was saying. “We’ll add the swan from the Luxembourg. And the battle of Waterloo, and how could we forget Cambronne’s curse word?” “Go for it. Waterloo and the curse word.” “And an anthem against covenants?” “Go for the anthem.” “And a dissertation on the sewers of Paris?” “Put in the sewers. And a Parisian gamin for a little spice?” “Go for the gamin.” Mephistopheles did not stop tossing and retossing his salad. His formidable spoon scrapped up on one side a tearful grisette with her hands held together — presumably the unfortunate Fantine — while his fork scrapped up on the other side a newborn child — very probably the innocent Cosette — holding onto Cambronne in his braided hat, and a Parisian gamin, stepping over the skull of Victor Hugo as if it were the balustrade of the Porte-Saint-Martin, took from Cambronne’s lips (did I say lips?) his famous word which the child seemed to throw at the public while thumping his nose. What bothered the poet the most in this coming and going was, of all things, a student who leaned on his frontal orbital cortex — who knows if it was Enjolras or Lesgle de Meux (called Bossuet) — and who smoked a pipe philosophically, his back to a barricade. Meanwhile a jumper, perhaps Javert, determined to kill himself, plunged his head into the interior of the poet’s mind and on the other extreme, a swan seemed to speak into the ear of a judge, who was himself speaking into the ear of the poet on which Mephistopheles stood in order to follow the progress of his salad dressing. Beneath this intellectual mayonnaise, “slang” and “style”, representing vinegar and oil, gave each other Lamourette’s kiss and fraternized. It was indeed the most appalling rigmarole that, in living memory, has ever had a human skull for a salad bowl. Next to this, the witches' cauldron from Macbeth was like Saint John’s. Chaos could pass for distinct, clear, full of coherence and regularity by comparison. The harlequins of the Place Maubert, where, according to M. Sue's Mysteries of Paris, one could find everything from scraps of truffles and lobsters to old shoes, was by comparison an almost classic dish.

Madame Gibou's tea with sugar, oil, pepper, cream, salt, wine, honey, broth, and brown sugar, seemed like a simple and elementary drink by comparison. With a mocking eye and a mouth folded into a cruel smile, Mephistopheles was following, with the self love of an author which he did not bother to hide, the progress of his work. As for Astaroth, he was trying to see from the side what was happening inside the poet’s head and if his two hands hadn’t been occupied by holding the salad bowl’s lid — excuse me, I meant to say the skull cap — he would have been holding his sides for he was laughing so much over the good trick he was playing on Victor Hugo and his readers. The night passed in this infernal labor. At the first light of day, Mephistopheles and his companion disappeared. The poet, who had spent the night with his head held in his hand, half woke up. “That’s strange,” he said. “It seems to be that during my sleep my ideas arranged themselves in my head of their own accord. That’s it! A convict, a bishop, a ball and chain, a mitre, Cambronne, a Parisian gamin, a swan from the Luxembroug, the June barricades, cupid, an idyll, melodrama, Jean Valjean’s bread, Fantine’s teeth, champagne, style, slang, Waterloo, an inn’s sign, the policeman Javert. Let us write the title: Les Misérables!” Two strident bursts of laughter resounded in one and the other of the poet’s ears, and it seemed to him that he heard this word resound in the distance, perhaps like the judgment of posterity: “Tohu-bohu” P.S. This legend was told to my pen by the ingenious and witty pencil of Bertall. More skillful than my pen, he summarized for the readers of la Semaine des Familles, the book Les Misérables, which my pen would not have dared to do. This is why I am only countersigning, ne varietur, his poem translated into vile prose by his devoted collaborator, Felix-Henri.

#les miserables #victor hugo #contemporary reaction #my translation

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stararise · 1 year

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dawn imagery gets me every single time i will never be over it!!! kirby triple deluxe my beloved that starts in the morning and progresses through the day as you ascend the dreamstalk and whose main villain is associated with the moon!! the final area being the moonlight capital and the final boss's theme being fatal blooms in moonlight and the final level (for real this time) being eternal dreamland! and the final battle set in front of a massive moon where as kirby absorbs the miracle fruit the camera swings around to the other side of sectonia to show the rising sun and oooogh i am kissing the developers i am kissing everyone who made the gorgeous backgrounds and the camera angles and the story

#star says #kirby #i will literally never be over this #kirby bringer of dawn symbol of hope who ends the eternal dream floralia has fallen into

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benjaminalphabet · 6 days

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i wonder who i am to you

because i don’t think you’re what i thought you were.

i am the succubus apologist.

i love the most fatal things.

i realize i love your things more than i love you.

your old bedroom with the big window and the books in the corner,

the silk bedsheets,

the sweet, long drive to your house;

dance in room song, your wooden incense holder.

i love the taste of sugar on my tongue.

i love your cold moonlight,

your bleached hair; you grew it out,

your tattoos,

who you used to be;

i don’t love you. trust me, i wanted to.

it was late at night watching you breathe,

thinking would this be the last time?

it seems like every time is.

but i want you less and less

the more i actually have you.

the sun feels a little dimmer every morning i wake up in your bedroom.

i don’t think this tastes the way it should

you’re not as sweet as you used to be.

i’m never satisfied, never full.

cherry stem garnish tied with your tongue,

our vinyl booth liquor store love story ended with a spilled tall can,

a game of pool you sorely didn’t win;

and something we used to be, or could’ve been, or never were was left at the bar with a cash tip.

i think i have you all figured out,

all those things i just couldn’t get right last summer, those pieces that wouldn’t fit,

they all make sense now.

i know who you are,

all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men,

i see right through the you i used to think you were.

that balcony fantasy, cigarette melancholy,

i think someone else did it first,

Lennon or Warhol or Cobain;

you’re an exhibit, you’re made out of wax.

fluorescent lighting doesn’t look as good on you as the neon once did.

enchantment is such a price to pay.

i think this is wisdom, and it is hard earned.

you, little fox, are not smart enough to fool me.

even though i say it is,

it isn’t all about power for me.

it’s a lot simpler than that.

the power is only a side effect.

love that isn’t there.

the upper hand i used to never be able to hold.

it’s about the way it felt to hold you while i wanted to hold you,

to wake up first and sneak out before you,

the race to midnight, the clockwork.

it’s about the way it felt to scream at you while i wanted to scream at you.

that feeling is gone now,

and all that’s left is the power.

power bought for pennies,

thrift store once-loved items - you’ve never lived up to the catalog fantasy.

power without reason is just responsibility

and you weigh too heavy on my shoulders.

i used to think i would never conquer you.

do i lose the game if i stop playing?

let’s play one last round, this time winner keeps all.

i know you’re a cheat, i’m not sure i want any prize that comes from something like this.

those nights haunt me in unexpected, medicine cabinet ways.

this is that, like, saturday night kind of pain.

that knife in the back, wilting rose, blood pumping feeling.

i gave you the gate code, i locked the bathroom door behind us, you knocked my pictures off the wall.

at what point are you not worth the trouble anymore?

are you worth the silence,

the staring at the ceiling,

the bedroom bender, cleaning up bottles and plastic cups,

the ache in my gut,

the guilt that sits on my lungs?

i know what you did on those nights i wasn’t around.

i hope that framed picture of her falls off the wall,

i hope the bed frame i built falls apart while you’re sleeping on it,

i hope the letters i wrote you look pretty when they burn.

you used to be solid gold.

an idol to me, golden calf.

god, how hard the mighty fall.

i used to be a cannibal, insatiable, i used to beg to be eaten alive by you.

i used to dream of you melting like ice cream, sticky between my fingers.

i remember the days when nothing was enough until i had all of you,

and now i’ve had all of you and none of it has been enough.

even that fatal, iridescent monster that lives inside me

doesn’t want you anymore.

silently compare me to all those pretty, velveteen princesses you’ve loved before me

compare me to the flowers that used to bloom in your hands,

but don’t cry

when you only have the deadroses left behind, succubus apologies and an empty stomach,

and i am completely gone.

12:12 || last summer is over and gone

#my writing #we can’t go back #the fantasy is dead #god i really just don’t like you anymore #i keep thinking about how bad i used to want this and now i just keep hoping i never hear from you again #dh #i muted you everywhere #you gave me the ick #personal growth in a way #moving on

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