#natural field stone wall and floor

[environmentalpavilion]

New York Compact Wine Cellar Ideas for a small, rustic wine cellar renovation with racks for storage

#natural field stone wall and floor #cedar wine components #wine racks #antique wood carved ceiling canopy #custom wooden wine rack #stone accent wall

[mythicamagic]

Two Black Sheep: Scar x Female Rover oneshot

Summary: Rover crossed her arms over her chest, avoiding his probing gaze. “We likely don’t have much time so I’ll get straight to the point: how are they treating you here?”

Scar’s mirth died down, smile turning patronizing. “Much like our little game in the village, I’ll let you work out the truth for yourself. Truth is always better as a wonderful discovery, rather than fodder fed to you by someone else.”

Female Rover x Scar.

-----

AN: This game isn’t even out yet what am I doing?

This takes place a little later on in the story, so mild spoilers (though I don’t know if they’ll still include this story beat into the released game after seeing it in the most recent Beta test). I fell in love with Scar as an antagonist while watching content creators stream this game so here we are. 

Rated T, 2500 words. You can find this on Ao3 too.

------------

Jinzhou city lay quiet and peaceful at night, a shining, glittering jewel of captive lights in the dark. Despite traversing through much of Huanglong, the sight of the pale fortress remained a stunning one to Rover. It stood tall and protective of its people, but she’d always gotten the sense there was more to it. A strength built into the stone; or a set of metal teeth lying in wait beneath its demure exterior. 

This suspicion was confirmed upon stepping into Jinzhou’s underground prison. The first few floors were pleasant and bright, only a few guards posted at the doors. As Rover was led deeper however, taking a lift down, down, down into the dark depths of Jinzhou’s fortress, the atmosphere palpably changed.

It reminded her of entering a Tacet Field, feeling subtle vibrations hum in the air. Strong energies called out in the dark; prisoners waiting in their cells. Not all of them were Resonators, but she felt them nonetheless. They were agitated and restless, some pacing in front of the doors to their cells as she stepped off the elevator and passed by. A few were tied up even when secured behind metal bars, their arms strapped to their torsos.

It was a different side of Jinzhou that Rover had been unfamiliar with until now; a grimy and cruel underbelly. She faced forward when some prisoners began shouting, cat-calling her and rousing the attention of the hallway in a domino effect as she passed by. The guards eventually stopped at the very last door of the hall- this one without the luxury of a window to peer inside the cell. The great iron door hissed and groaned on its hinges as the locks slid open. 

Rover caught the moment the lights switched on before she was ushered in. 

He’s been in total darkness all this time?

She outwardly gave little reaction at the sight that greeted her. Naturally stone-faced, Rover relied on her blank mask like a crutch in that moment. A wide metal collar sat around the prisoner’s neck-  steel spikes lining the inside pointing inward toward his jugular like a circle of teeth. Poles connected the collar to the cell walls, forcing him to stay on his feet in the center of the room. She noted his arms were bound behind his back, no signs of wounds on his body.

Blearily eyes blinked at her, adjusting to the light. 

Scar lifted his head slowly. Interest livened his features the second it seemed to click who he was staring at. He jolted, rattling the poles and sucking in a sharp breath, as though imbued with life.

“Well, well...this is a pleasant surprise, dear Rover,” he rasped. Mismatched eyes smiled with laser focused intensity. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Rover ignored him and forced a smile at the guards flanking her sides. “You can leave me alone with him. I’ll be alright.”

The men exchanged worried looks. “It is not that we do not trust you, illustrious guest. It is that the Magistrate gave clear orders that we protect you at all times during your visit. Leaving you alone seems unwise, given the level of notoriety this criminal has earned.”

Jinhsi. She was probably right to be concerned. Scar hadn’t been easy to capture and the level of security surrounding his cell was testament to his abilities. One slip up meant escape. On the other hand, Rover couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something uneasy in her gut.

“I’ll be vigilant. Your priority should be to keep him detained, not my safety,” she turned and laid a hand on the older guard’s arm, looking up at him through her lashes. “If anything happens I’ll call for you, I promise." She squeezed his bicep for good measure.

The guard shifted, clearing his throat. He gave a nod and gestured for his companion to leave, giving her a tight squeeze on the shoulder in parting, finally leaving the room. The metal door slid shut behind them with a hiss.

Left alone in the quiet room together, Scar was quick to quirk a brow. “I didn’t know you were capable of using your appeal like that. The poor man will be thinking about your pretty face for days. Be careful such tactics don’t land you in hot water.”

Rover crossed her arms over her chest, avoiding his probing gaze. “We likely don’t have much time so I’ll get straight to the point: how are they treating you in here?”

More open surprise flitted across his face. It was such a sharp contrast to his usually unflappable, grinning persona. Scar tilted his head and gave an impish grin. “How interesting! You surely didn’t come all the way here just to inquire after my wellbeing. Did Madame Magistrate put you up to this? A new tactic to get me to talk?” He chuckled, rattling the poles with the force of his stifled laughter. “It’s impressive, I’ll give her that.  Very compelling. I’d much rather talk to you than anyone else in this forsaken place, even if it becomes an interrogation.”

Solitary confinement certainly hasn’t impacted his ability to talk, Rover noted dryly. His voice sounded slightly hoarse to her ears though. “Just answer the question.”

Scar’s mirth died down, smile turning patronizing. “Much like our little game in the village, I’ll let you work out the truth for yourself. Truth is always better as a wonderful discovery, rather than fodder fed to you by someone else.”

Shifting her weight, Rover took one step closer, then another. His predatory smile widened at her proximity, flashing teeth at her steady approach.

Thinking things over, Rover glanced at his torso. His tight red and gray bodysuit revealed his proportions a bit too well at times, but it hid everything of his skin.  

Well if she wanted answers she could just ask his body directly. 

Rover reached out and poked beneath his ribs.

“Gn!” a harsh breath hissed out through clenched teeth, his whole frame shuddering. Scar grinned soon after, shooting her a wary look. 

“Wasn’t much of a wonderful discovery, was it?” Rover drawled, reaching behind her hip and taking out a container. She shook it, depositing food rations out onto her open palm. Maintaining eye-contact, she bit into the dried meat, chewing and watching how his attention dropped to her lips. His mouth thinned into a hard, grim line. 

The sound of a stomach rumbling filled the room. 

“We’re two for two,” she noted, securing the container again and taking out her water bottle. His gaze was immediately wide and imploring, gazing at it longingly. 

Rover sighed, offering the rim of the bottle out to him. “I don’t think I need any more evidence. Just drink already.” 

Scar lifted his head, that unusual pale white hair of his sliding into mismatched eyes. She’d been able to look into them once before, when he’d initially been apprehended. One flinty gray, the other a dull red. She’d been distracted back then, but without so much as a window inside the room to draw her attention away, Rover could admit there was something beckoning about his appearance. He wasn’t unattractive by any means- though she quickly shook that thought away.

At his uncharacteristic silence, Rover frowned. Putting the pieces together, she lowered the bottle. “It’s not poisoned if that’s what worries you.”

He laughed. “Oh dear sweet Rover. I don’t think you're capable of poisoning anyone. Far too earnest for such underhanded methods,” he shook his head. “No, no. It’s not you I doubt. Madame Magistrate though- and those guards? They’d jump at the chance to slip a member of the Fractsidus a little something. What’s more, they have the perfect little scapegoat right here.”

Inferring his meaning, Rover’s blood ran cold, becoming uncomfortably aware of her position. “...They wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t they?” he purred, leaning as close as he dared, heedless of the spikes threatening to puncture his skin. “I’ve told you so many times now not to misplace your trust. Especially not in those you barely know: and with amnesia making you so ripe for manipulation its a recipe for hurt,” he practically sighed the words. His tone was casual, but he was smiling, very, very widely. “If you really did come here of your own accord, they’ll mark this day on your record. A smear. They’ll have eyes on you, watching your every move- anticipating the day you turn traito-!”

Rover shoved the water bottle against his lips. She tilted it up, pushing her fingers into the gaps between the collar spikes to try to alleviate their pressure against his neck. “Just drink. You talk too much.”

Scar made a noise, spilling some liquid- water running down his chin, before he gave in and ultimately drank. He gasped as soon as it seemed to register how thirsty he really was, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed with heightening desperation. 

Once finished, Rover lifted the bottle away, noting the faint sneer of his mouth. 

Cutting her gaze to the ceiling, she lifted the bottle to her lips and titled it back, catching the rest of the remaining water on her tongue. “There. If they want to poison you, they’ll take me out too in the process.”

He blinked rapidly, the derision quickly falling from his expression. He glanced at her hand still woven between the spikes and collar, registering her touch for the first time. 

“You’re such a strange existence,” he murmured softly, turning the full force of his attention onto her. Rover felt her gut lurch the second heat touched his cheeks, reddening them. “If you’re not careful, you’ll win more than just my attention. I’m already serious about obtaining you for the group. If I started to want you for myself…hmn…” a rumbling noise of contentment escaped the depths of his chest. “Just picture it; two black sheep. Ostracized from their herds for different reasons, but finding solace in each other’s jaws. A beautiful picture.”

Rover took out her food ration, bumping it against his mouth to try to prompt him to eat again and hopefully stop talking. “I do one nice thing and you’re talking as though we’re meant for each other,” she sighed, glancing at the door. “I don’t know how long we have left. Eat.”

Opening his mouth, Scar accepted her offering, chewing while staring at her with that keen light in his eyes. 

Seeking to snuff it out, Rover straightened, bearing down upon him with what she hoped was an intimidating glare. “Let’s not get carried away here, Scar. You’ve murdered people in cold blood. You’re still planning on hurting my friends if you ever get out of here. Nothing’s changed between us, are we clear?” she said firmly.

“Crystal,” he swallowed, bypassing her glare to look up at the ceiling with a dreamy gaze he sometimes gained, voice becoming light hearted. “I’ve no plans to hurt your friends specifically though. All that matters is you and me in the grand scheme of things. I really couldn’t care less about those outside of our circle enough to actively target them. It all just sort of…happens in the moment when they come between our little talks.”

Releasing his steel collar now that he’d eaten, Rover made to back away- only for him to lunge- the poles shrieking, collar straining against his neck.

Their noses brushed, breath intermingling. Rover froze up, all her instincts she’d naturally fallen into when fighting Tacet Discords blurred away into nothingness. Her heartbeat slammed into her ribcage. She couldn’t move suddenly. 

The instability she’d glimpsed so many times in his gaze was back with full force. A kind of euphoric high brightened his irises. “You haven’t asked me anything about Fractsidus! I find that so strange and fun. If you were here on Madame Magistrates orders, you’d be going back empty handed. So…” Scar’s lips ghosted her cheek without pressing down, resting snugly against the shell of her ear. “Why did you really come here?”

Goosebumps raised on her skin. Rover yanked her head back, summoning her best poker face to look at him dispassionately. “I’ll let you work out the truth for yourself,” she said. “Truth is always better as a wonderful discovery, rather than fodder fed to you by someone else.”

She then grasped him under the ribs, threatening to squeeze whatever injuries lay hidden beneath his clothes. Scar inhaled sharply against her cheek- before falling into a sinfully low groan. 

His exhale was shaky, relishing the pain. “You truly are magnificent at whetting my appetite, Rover. A sublime prey.” 

When their pupils next met, Rover’s widened, finding those gray and red eyes equal parts deranged and manic.

Scar laughed when she broke away, his shoulders shaking with mirth. She stiffly moved back toward the safety of the door, banging on it twice with her fist.

His uproarious laughter followed her all the way out, ringing in her ears long after the steel door had shut behind her. She stood amongst the concerned guards, shying away from their casual touches. 

“Are you alright, miss?”

“Did the interrogation go well?”

Rover looked at the younger guard sharply. “I didn’t go in there to interrogate him,” she gritted out, curling her gloved hands into fists. She stepped closer. “There’s no light switched on in there when he's alone. He’s malnourished and dehydrated. What’s more, the guards are delivering corporal punishment behind closed doors. This was an informal inspection, sir. One which you failed.”

His face turned red comically fast. “M-my lady! What would you have us do?! He’s an S rank criminal! We’re too concerned he may escape if we ease up his living conditions.”

“Besides that, he’s a murderer-” the older guard cut in. His eyes narrowed, roving around her face critically. “If you have any sympathy for that man, save it for his innocent victims.”

She rounded on him with a hard sneer. “I don’t condone his actions. However, there’s too much we don’t know- and letting him die means allowing his knowledge and information to die with him. I won’t let that happen if I can help it,” she muttered, turning on her heel and storming down the hallway the way she’d come. Changes would be coming swiftly to Scar’s living situation if she had anything to say about it. Without her memories, information was more important to Rover than anything, and perhaps losing Scar didn't matter to the Jinzhou officials- but it mattered to her.

She could feel their judgemental gazes boring into her back. Maybe it had already started. No, it had started the second she’d requested a visitation without being ordered to see him. Rover half expected Scar’s warning to come true- for the various Jinzhou officials and citizens to start suspecting her of fraternizing with the Fractsidus.

That was fine with her. Though he unnerved her, something about Scar kept forcing Rover to pay attention to him. That no matter how strange and misleading his words were- there was a grain of truth to them somewhere. 

Or, perhaps, he’d been a complete and utter liar from the very start, designed to make her doubt herself and everyone around her.

Either way, Rover saw the value in finding out the truth for herself. 

#Scar Wuthering Waves #wuthering waves #Scar x Rover

[eluvisen]

The Bear and the Barbarian

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3

Characters: Karlach/f!Tav

Rating: M

After unleashing nature’s wrath on the goblin camp, Rhodeia struggles to return from the violence she inflicted. Karlach helps.

Notes: Written for Femslash February 2024. Prompt: chose violence.

—

Lost in her wildshape, the killing is easy. Easier than it’s ever been as Rhodeia rides the rush of battle-tides, losing herself in the current. Fire and blood spill across defiled stone until there’s no roar left but echoes off the crumbling walls and she doubles over, panting. A red string of saliva drips from her mouth to the floor.

With every breath, she becomes aware of the flagstones under her paws. The wet stickiness coating her claws. But the shape of them feels wrong, too short and too blunt, and it takes several tortured seconds to realise her paws are no longer paws at all.

“Soldier.”

A creak of leather, and a pair of knees sink into her field of vision, accompanied by a wave of heat. The infernal reek beats against her, crisping the air with an unnatural acrid tang. Some animal instinct as deep as the earth beneath the temple floor needs to attack, but her claws are bloodied nails once more, and she can only gasp as black spots roll across her eyes. 

“Come on. Focus on me. That’s it. Battle’s over, in case you couldn’t tell. But you probably can, since you changed back.”

Her vision is dim, greyed at the edges. Distant noises roll in like a tide, and she twitches at a nearby laugh. Voices. The crackle of flames, and a closer heat against her face. She heaves in breath after breath, the air clawing the back of her throat. The pain brings her back, just a little.

Rhodeia manages, “Karlach?”

“Ey! She speaks! Good news, soldier: we won, and now there are hot baths in our imminent futures. Or a dip in a cold stream, rather, which is almost as good.” Karlach’s voice lowers. “Come on, now. On your feet, soldier. No baths for you if you don’t.”

With one hand planted on her knee, Rhodeia pushes herself upright. The dimensions of her body feel wrong—too narrow, too contained. Cold air on furless skin.

“That’s it, soldier. You can do it.”

A final push, and Rhodeia makes it to her feet. Just. Beside her, Karlach rises to her full height with far less wobbling despite the bruises and streaks of blood marring her skin. Rhodeia scans the temple courtyard, but the bear hasn’t quite left her yet; her gaze snaps towards every nearby sound, searching for threats. Lae’zel brings her blade down on a not-quite-dead goblin while Shadowheart cleans her mace with a sneer at a defiled statue of Selûne. The others similarly move through the tides of the dead, pilfering trinkets and slitting throats. Halsin stands gore-streaked in the moonlight, his hands and chin gloved in red. Rhodeia supposes she looks much the same.

She blinks, and they’re a safe distance from the temple ruins. At some point they must have stopped to make camp, and she watches from somewhere beyond her body as they wash away the blood and seal their wounds. Something squeaks nearby, and she realises her eyes have focused on a bat hovering above Halsin’s hands. With a final murmur from him, the bat takes flight, speeding in the direction of the Emerald Grove. Firelight glimmers off its wings, and then it disappears into the gloom.

Rhodeia is vaguely aware of a chunk of flatbread being shoved into her hand. Maybe she eats it. Maybe she doesn’t. When she rises to her feet, the bread is gone and the warm crackle of the fire has faded behind her. Overhead, the forest canopy shivers and peels apart like unwinding fingers, offering precious silver glimpses of the distant sky where all of Selûne’s grace shines down from her pale, full cheek. Perhaps she’s pleased by the slaughter.

Rhodeia passes through the trees until the foliage drops away, revealing a small creek that winds through the night-silvered forest, gurgling in its gravel bed. The sound makes her teeth itch. 

She finds a place to sit. The trees aren’t particularly tall—certainly nothing like the old growth of the deep forest she calls home—but here they loom like living shadows. They stand over her in a silent guard, shivering above while she shivers below. The unfamiliar shape of them leaves her feeling small. Isolated.

Something moves in the underbrush, and she tenses until she sees dim orange light reflecting off leaves and tree trunks in a phantom blaze. A phantom blaze that’s at real risk of becoming a real blaze, but Karlach navigates towards the creekbed with all the care she can muster, and the forest remains blessedly unburnt. She halts a little ways away, and Rhodeia recognises Karlach’s wolf-wariness, head half-cocked and feet light. The yellow glow of her eyes fix on Rhodeia. 

“Hey, soldier.” She scuffs one boot in the gravel as the rocks heat and sizzle “Thought you might want some company.”

[Read on AO3]

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #karlach #karlach cliffgate #bg3 karlach #karlach x tav #druid tav #rhodeia whitebloom #femslash february #femslashfeb2024 #writing #blood cw #violence cw

[blueiskewl]

2,000-Year-Old Roman Villa Discovered in Naples

A three-year project to build a children’s playground and recreation area south of the Italian city of Naples has unearthed the ruins of a 2,000-year-old clifftop beach house.

Built in the first century, the panoramic mansion — which overlooks the islands of Ischia and Procida — is now partly flooded by the sea. Experts believe it could have once been the opulent residence of Pliny the Elder, the legendary author, naturalist, and commander of the Roman navy fleet stationed there.

The discovery, made last week in the coastal town of Bacoli, unearthed the thick perimeter stone walls of 10 large rooms with floors, tiled walls and a maze of intact panoramic outdoor terraces.

Back in the first century, the mansion would have been located within the Roman port at Misenum, where for four centuries a fleet of 70 ships controlled the Tyrrhenian Sea, the security of which was key to holding the western flank of the Roman empire.

“It is likely that the majestic villa had a 360-degree view of the gulf of Naples for strategic military purposes,” Simona Formola, lead archaeologist at Naples’ art heritage, said in an interview. “We think (the excavation of) deeper layers could reveal more rooms and even frescoes — potentially also precious findings.”

Authorities were surprised by the elaborate style of the walls, which were constructed with diamond-shaped tufa (limestone) blocks placed in a net-like ornamental pattern about 70 centimeters (27.5 inches) below ground.

The villa runs down to a little crumbling stone dock now located about four meters below sea level. That this — and other parts of the unearthed villa — are now underwater is due to the phenomenon of “negative bradyseism,” a term used to describe the gradual descent of the earth’s surface into the sea in areas exposed to frequent volcanic activity. (The area borders a moon-shaped “caldera” or extinct volcanic crater).

Digs will continue in coming months, with authorities hoping to shed further light on not only the form of the beach villa itself, but the broader life and structure of Misenum, one of the most important colonies in the Roman Empire.

“The discovery is even more exceptional given that we know very little (about) the port of Misenum,” said Formola.

As well as acting as a lookout point, Pliny’s beach villa would have also likely been used for leisure. The private dock was where he would greet high-ranking guests arriving by sea for lavish parties. Many Ancient Romans used to flock to Bacoli and the surrounding area, to enjoy their vacation homes and the region’s thermal baths and spa retreats.

Bacoli is located within the so-called “Phlegraean Fields” (or “Fire Plains”), which are dotted with natural geysers and tiny active craters where there are still frequent earthquakes. Due to its blazes and sulphureous vapors, the ancients believed it to be the entrance to the underworld and had dubbed it “the Mouth of Hell.” Indeed it’s possible that Pliny the Elder would have witnessed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79 from the villa. It is known he died trying to rescue those fleeing the calamity.

While archaeologists were reportedly surprised by the finding, local lore had long speculated on the existence of an underground treasure in this location. On the beach neighboring the newly-discovered villa walls, a large brick ruin had been dubbed the “talking wall” by local residents as, in their view, it proved the one-time existence of a large residence.

The site will now become an open-air museum, set to open in the coming weeks. “The ruins of the Roman villa will be cleaned and cordoned-off with wooden fences,” said Bacoli’s mayor Josi Gerardo Della Ragione. “They will be the core of this beautiful space which… our citizens and visitors will get to admire.”

By Silvia Marchetti.

#2000-Year-Old Roman Villa Discovered in Naples #Roman port at Misenum #Pliny the Elder #Emperor Vespasian #Mount Vesuvius #ancient ruins #ancient city #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #roman history #roman empire

[4ce-of-2pades]

I see you're into PJO. If you had to assign yourself and your mutuals a Greek/Roman God/Goddess, who would it be and why?

(Mutuals, don’t feel left out if I… leave you out. This is just who I happened to get ideas for.)

Myself: My instinct is to answer Hephaestus, because he’s really cool and I love steampunk, or Hecate, because magic is awesome, or even Apollo, because I’m both an artist and a singer. But I think I’d be a/be a demigod of a wind god. For starters, my moods often shift quickly and dramatically enough, but I love the wind itself, and will always say so aloud whenever it’s windy. Wind fills me with life, the way touching water energizes Percy. Plus, I really really want to be able to fly, Jason-style. (I had a very vivid dream as a kid that I did fly once, and I believed it for years. Perfect backstory.)

@lexiconic-light: I associate you with Hestia, ‘cause you’ve got that same kind, welcoming personality. If we’re talking demigods though, Hestia doesn’t have kids, so maybe you’d be a plant nymph or a child of Demeter, because you have a lot of plants and take care of them very well. Or maybe a child of Calliope, because of your writing and love of stories.

@many-gay-magpies: Either somebody artsy, or somebody nature-ey. One of the Muses, Demeter, a nymph, a satyr, etc. Though I also get Hecate vibes from you, so maybe her. You’re mysterious and magic-y. And you like birds. And draw/paint really freaking well. Something along those lines. I feel like I’m missing some obvious connection.

@disneyautistic: Maybe it’s just because you were really into Pirates of the Caribbean the last time we saw each other, but I diagnose you with Posideon. You’d decorate everything with shells and bits of sea glass, and paint ocean creatures on your walls, and wear a sea captain’s coat everywhere. Plus, I think you’d enjoy shapeshifting powers, if you could have them (I know it’s rare for Poseidon demigods, but you never know).

@linklog: Based purely on vibes, I assign you Hermes. No solid evidence for that, I just think you have a good personality for a trickster. Or maybe you’d embody the theatrical side of Apollo or Dionysus. Is there a Greek god of fashion and cosplay? Because I’ve always admired the creativity of your outfits.

@whosectype: Both Hecate and something nature-ey, no question. Maybe a satyr that is also a student of Hecate, learning magic like Hazel was? You’d cast dark spells involving bird bones and fungi and lots and lots of teeth, to increase the growth of moss or make something rot faster. You’d draw your spell-circles-on-the-floor™ in fresh mud. You’d enjoy being a little unnerving to the other satyrs, who prefer frolicking in sunlit fields to lurking in the shadowed areas of the forest and watching trees get overtaken by parasitic bugs.

@cupid-shortcake: Between your username and your pastel pink aesthetic, assigning you Cupid or Aphrodite seems like such an easy answer that it can’t possibly be right. I think it actually works though. On one hand, you show a lot of love and kindness to your friends, lifting them up and making them feel supported and appreciated. But you’ve also got that evil streak where you’ll make an endless series of terrible things happen to your characters because it makes a better story (as most writers do). If you applied that evil streak to real people’s lives and relationships, then you’d make an excellent Greek goddess of love.

(Actually, I think assigning the whole @cupheadocscasino crew gods from the Greek pantheon would make a REALLY COOL AU. I just don’t have ideas for all fifteen, and the characters themselves would probably be different gods than their creators would, so even the three here aren’t set in stone.)

#percy jackson #greek mythology #riordanverse

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello, hello, I am back! This time with an au inspired by @bionicle-ramblings post here, specifically about what might have happened had Matau not been able to talk Vakama down from his Hordika side. This turned into 3K words, so heads up for that. (Apologies in advance for the angst!)

x

Too far above the ground, Matau waits for the killing blow that never comes.

His claws are weak-numb, dug into the ledge of the coliseum balcony, and in the bowels of the area below the battle still rages. From all the way up here, it's almost muted, like the backfiring of a hundred small exhaust pipes.

If he falls, he won't have to worry about the battle. Or anything else. Not for long enough to matter, anyway.

And still, Vakama doesn't come to finish him off.

Matau's grip slips further towards the edge, the ground beckons him a little bolder, and he doesn't have time to play it safe. He swings his fang blade up, and his claws lose their hold but the blade hits true. It slices into the stone, snagging him in place. He slams into the coliseum wall – but it's better than the ground. Still, he mutters a few ungainly curses and doesn't move immediately. He tries not to think about the long fall below. Tries not to think about the crazed brother above. Fails on both counts.

Only one is going to definitely kill him though.

The other... well. He's still working on that.

He hauls himself up the rest of the way. It's an ungainly process, his fang blade is attached to the stone – and he's attached to his fang blade, so...

It's also a quiet affair. There comes no bloodthirsty snarl, no flare of blazer claws going for his face. Nothing – save for his near fall and the scorch marks in the floor – to indicate Matau had been fighting for his life only seconds before.

It's nice, not dying. Matau's not going to deny that.

Odd, though.

The Vakama he had known would never have walked away before he was sure the job (the job being murdering a brother, but Matau tries not to dwell on that) was done. It's something to do with the mask-maker's perfectionism. You can't make mistakes with a mask; even a single crack will render it unusable. (Not like test-driving. If a lone dent could put a vehicle out of commission, none of the drives Matau had taken would have passed.)

He had at least expected some gloat-threat. Some rubbing it in Matau's face that he had lost and Vakama had won. Is that in Vakama's nature? Gloating?

One thing is for sure: taking it as read that a job is done without checking? That certainly isn't in Vakama's nature.

Which leaves Matau wondering...

What has been left in its stead?

x

Missing maniacal brother or not, Matau has his other brothers and sister to also worry about. And they are not winning this battle.

As he descends – no sign of Vakama – he sees the remains of Keetongu. Alive, but in no state to fight. Beside it is the ittier-bittier remains of who Matau can only assume is (or was, he supposes) Sidorak. Fragments of cracked red armour are scattered across the battle field. An arm – still with the blade attached – lies clear of the damage, whole but unmoving.

Matau skirts round that particular scene. Even the Visorak give the shattered ground a wide berth, steering clear of the corpse of their king and his killer.

The cacophony of spinners and blasts settles. There comes a ringing in Matau's ears, like the auditory equivalent of looking from from a bright light and blinking away the negative image. There's still the gnash and skitter of the Visorak, but it is nothing compared to the chaos of before.

And then he sees the cause of the quietening.

In the centre of the arena, the other Toa and Rahaga are surrounded. Their weapons are lowered, their spinners still, and the battle is over. It had been a reckless last-charge anyway. Maybe if they had been Toa, not Hordika... Maybe if they had had more time to plan... Maybe if Vakama had been with them–

Something – no, someone slams into Matau. He hadn't even realise he'd frozen until suddenly he isn't anymore. He slams into the ground, mask-first. There are claws digging into his left shoulder. An unlit blazer claw into his right.

His rhotuka spinner flares into life instinctively. It rises to attack and smacks into his attacker's face. The claws – both kinds – loosen enough for Matau to shake free and spin to face the culprit.

Vakama snarls at him.

There's something different about the once-Toa – he's hunched further, weight distributed evenly between all four limbs, the eyes dulled – but then the blazer claw is coming for Matau again and he has other things to think about. Namely, not getting barbecued. Matau skips back. The attack was clumsy. Unplanned.

"Come on, firespitter, you can do better than that," Matau goads before common sense can intervene. "You really think a swipe like that's gonna get me?"

Vakama growls and leaps at Matau – further than Matau thinks possible, like a muaka – and Matau drops down, kicking with his feet to deflect the blazer claw. Heat skims the side of his mask.

Too close.

He catches sight of his friends, still surrounded, still surrendered, and now with a newcomer – a tall (ridiculously tall, really; who needed that much height?) grey figure parading before them. A leader? Important, surely.

Dangerous, certainly.

He sees Vakama's rhotuka spinner light up, and stumbles back before the blast can hit its mark.

"We don't have time for this, Vakama," Matau stresses, and desperation edges his voice with a growl. "If we don't do something soon – if you don't snap out of this – the other Toa are gonna be history!"

Another spinner flies past. This one close enough to sear the corner of his shoulder. And still that tall figure looms before his friends, paying little heed to the fight ongoing at the far side of the arena.

Vakama takes advantage of Matau's distraction and closes the gap between them. The blazer claw swipes down. Matau only just grabs Vakama's arm in time, and the fused weapon flares, the flames close enough for Matau to feel the heat.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, "for doubting you! We all make mistakes, Vakama; that's what happens when you're brave enough to make decisions! I understand that now."

The only reply Matau receives is the fire inching steadily closer and another wordless growl. His feet scuff in the dust, and he feels himself slide back.

"You're our leader, Vakama! You're my leader! The others are depending on you – dammit, Vakama, say something!"

Vakama roars, and Matau's grip finally gives. He tries to duck out of the way as the flame bears down on him – but is too slow. The blaze brushes past his cheek and red-hot pain blossoms in its wake.

Matau staggers back and presses his hand against the burn. It's not gone deep enough to crack the mask, but he can feel the protodermis is rough, a thin melted mark across his cheek. Nausea rises through him. He blinks, and looks back to Vakama – expecting, hoping to see his horror mirrored back at him – after all, he was a mask-maker, surely he realises, surely he knows what he could have done – and the blazer claw is coming for him again.

A small, pathetic sound struggles in the back of Matau's throat, but he reels back just in time. His hand is still against his mask, while his eyes...

His eyes are trained on Vakama's.

There is something wrong with Vakama's eyes. Something more than just the rage or the adrenaline. Something, even, more than the venom-green colour. The irises are too full, too wide; they eclipse the eye entirely.

Like an ash bear's.

He realises it's been an awfully long time since he heard his brother speak.

Another blow comes slamming towards him, and Matau responds on instinct, releasing an air spinner that strikes into Vakama. The Toa Hordika is torn off his feet and smacks into the wall of the arena. He collapses to the ground. Still conscious but slow to regain his footing.

"Say something, Vakama," Matau says, softer than before. Toa don't beg, but maybe... maybe Hordika do. "Please."

A venom-green eye glares at Matau. There is blind rage and wordless aggression in those depths. But no intelligence. Matau's seen those eyes before, on rahi, on monsters.

They don't belong on a Toa.

Vakama pushes himself back to his feet – all four of them – and Matau braces himself for the fresh slew of attacks. Is this their destiny? To war like this until one brother destroys the other? Can Matau even bring himself to fight – to not only defend, but fight with the aim to win?

He flinches at the sound of a spinner firing, but Vakama's rhotuka spinner is still idle. There comes another whirr, and Matau glances back to the source.

The other Toa have fired on the tall figure. A last-ditch attempt? He hears the stranger's cackle, their form crackling with energy. Four elemental attacks, and they shrug it off with a laugh? The Toa's combined powers had taken down the Makuta; was this being really as powerful as him?

A spinner fires up, closer to home, and he ducks as the blast goes wide over his head. A reckless, probably getting-self-killed plan fits into place – but it's not as if he's swimming in options.

He starts a sprint towards his friends. Vakama is hot on his tail – too hot – and Matau drops onto all four limbs in an attempt to keep ahead. He zig-zags, hoping that's enough to keep him from being fried-burnt.

Le-Matoran are quick thinkers. They aren't necessarily forward-thinkers, but in the spur of the moment they can react in a flash. That's fine. Matau doesn't need to think that far ahead; his lifespan is probably a matter of minutes anyway. He just needs to survive at least those few minutes.

A blast flies a hand's breadth from his head.

Okay, seconds. He just needs to survive the next few seconds. Realistic goals.

He's close enough to hear the stranger's gloating now – Roodaka, that's her name – her voice crackling in a manner that might be her natural voice or the elemental energy racing across her armour. He hears Vakama's spinner powering up again, and he straightens his course.

All the better to aim at.

Le-Matoran are quick-thinkers. That's why they so often take the role of test-drivers. And Matau was one of their best.

He hears the shift in the rhotuka as it releases the spinner – and swerves at the last second. The heat burnishes his arm, but the full force slams into Roodaka. She staggers back. The crackling energy takes on a frantic pace, flooding her eyes and her heartlight, and still she does not fall.

Well, Matau's going to see if he can change that.

Distantly, he hears a shout – one of the Rahaga? – but he's already releasing an air spinner that buckles Roodaka. The light fades from her, and when she hits the ground – already lifeless – that energy bursts free from her like an earthquake. It rises up and forms a hand Matau only remembers in brief flashes of horror, a hand of darkness and shadow that engulfs Roodaka's body and leaves only a hollow heartstone in its place.

Belatedly, Matau recalls his pursuer, but he needn't have worried. Vakama has frozen, his rhotuka spinner still whirring but not firing up. He stands apart from the other Toa, and at this proximity the changes are undeniable. His eyes are lost, confused; how much of what he's just seen even makes sense to him anymore?

Nokama is the first to step forward. Her hands are raised as if trying to calm a wild rahi. Does she even realise she's doing it, Matau wonders. "Vakama," she says, and there's a shake in her voice that betrays maybe she does know. "It's alright, it's over–"

Vakama's gaze snaps to Nokama and she freezes. She sees it now too: the lack of recognition. The senselessness. A sound catches at the back of her throat. It sounds like heartbreak. It's that heartbreak that leaves her too slow to register Vakama's spinner starting up, that leaves her not wanting to comprehend what her own brother means to do, until a black blast slams into Vakama. Its energy crackles over him, paralysing him and the light dulls from those altered, rahi eyes.

"It's only temporary," Bomonga says, when eyes turn to him and his powering-down rhotuka. "Not a long-term solution. But it'll keep him from hurting anyone. For now."

The Visorak around them rumble. And then, with both king and viceroy dead, and their commander nothing more than a beast, they abandon what is left of their crumbling hierarchy.

Norik's saying something, something about the Makuta and released and danger, but Matau can only stare at the paralysed, inanimate form of Vakama. "We defeated the hordes, right?" he says suddenly, cutting off Norik. "We did what Keetongu said we needed our Hordika sides to do, so now it's time to return us to our old selves, isn't it?"

Norik falters. He looks to where Keetongu lies. Onewa and Whenua are already helping the rahi to its feet, and it emits that strange, multi-toned speech in reply.

"Keetongu says that he can turn you back, if you so wish," Norik translates.

"And... Vakama?" Nokama asks.

Even to Matau, Keetongu's reply sounds... stinted.

"Keetongu says," and Norik hesitates. The Rahaga suddenly looks tired. Spent. "He says the Hordika venom runs too deep in Vakama. There is nothing Keetongu can do for him now."

"There must be something!" Matau demands. "He wouldn't give up on us – not if he was still himself – so we can't give up on him!" The other Toa are staring at him – no, not just at him, he realises, at his mask. He claps one hand defensively to the burn streak. "I'm okay!" he snaps. "It's Vakama we should be worried about!"

Nokama reaches out. Her fingers falter, as if afraid of what she might find. "Did... Did Vakama do that to you?" she asks.

Matau recoils back. "It's nothing. I told you, I'm okay. I'm fine. What are we going to do about Vakama?"

The other Toa exchange glances.

"Anyone?" Matau asks.

Onewa and Whenua look away.

"Nokama?" Matau appeals to the Toa who's always preached the virtue of unity, who had been the only one to refuse to believe Vakama could have kidnapped the other Rahaga, even when all the evidence said otherwise.

She doesn't meet his gaze.

If they had seen what Matau had seen, how the conflict had raged in Vakama... but maybe that's the problem. Nokama had seen the shift in Vakama's eyes, the rahi look...

"We can't leave him to run wild," Nuju says, eventually. "Who knows the damage he'll do in this state."

"Maybe one day..." Nokama begins. "Maybe we'll find a way to reverse this."

"And until then?" Nuju asks. "You know things cannot stay as they are."

"Maybe they don't have to," Whenua says. The others look to him, and his face is wretched. "In the Archives, we have a... a way of dealing with rahi without killing them."

Nuju is the first to realise Whenua's meaning. He doesn't flinch, but – if it's somehow possible for the usually immovable Toa – he freezes. "The stasis tubes."

Whenua nods.

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on," Matau says. "Are you suggest-saying we should put him into one of your display cases?"

"It only sends them to sleep," Onewa says. "Right?"

Whenua's mouth thins, like there is a world of distinction between what the stasis tubes do and sleep. "Close enough," he concedes. "His life functions will be slowed down to the point that he won't need either food or air. He won't be conscious enough to know what's happening."

Nokama places a hand on Matau's shoulder. "This will give us time to find a solution," she says softly. Reasonably, as if trapping a fellow Toa – a brother – like a museum exhibit is a natural thing to suggest. Yet, beneath the grip, Matau can feel a tremor in Nokama's fingers.

"Fine," he spits.

No one moves. No one wants to be the one to place Vakama into a stasis chamber.

Then Onewa steps hesitantly forward and slings an arm beneath Vakama's shoulders and hoists him up. Matau knows he should help, but by the time he has found the courage to move, Nokama is already supporting Vakama's other side.

x

Stasis tubes really doesn't do the devices justice. Tubes sounds like something small, compact. Round, now Matau thinks about it. But the machines that Whenua leads them to are more like glass cages. There aren't many intact ones left, not after the cataclysm, but he finds a few unused ones in storage and connects it up to a canister of diluted stun gas. Nokama and Onewa gently deposit Vakama's unconscious form onto the tube's base.

No one says anything.

The double-shell rises up and about its captive specimen resident and there comes the hiss of the stun gas filling the tube.

And Vakama's eyes begin to flicker back to life.

"Can't you speed the process up?" Onewa asks.

"It's gas," Whenua shoots back. "I can't pour it out any quicker. What do you want me to do, change the law of physics?"

Vakama reels. He lurches to his feet, but enough of the stun gas has already entered his system to send him off-kilter. He slams into the inner shell, a growl tearing from his throat, and miniscule hairline fractures scatter across the shell. He raises his right arm, blazer claw flaring into flames, and the Toa wait for the freeing blow that never comes.

Instead, Vakama sways.

The blazer claw dips against the inner shell of the tube, extinguished, and his hand – clawed, jointed in the wrong places – rests beside it. His shoulders hunch, but in the way of one overcome with exhaustion, and his breathing slows. His hand uncurls and, if only in passing, nearly looks like it once had.

And he looks to the Toa.

Really looks.

Before the light fades from his eyes, Matau almost thinks he sees the ghost of a smile, small and sad, flicker across Vakama's face. Almost enough to make Matau believe his brother falls into oblivion with relief.

And then the light – and everything that was once Vakama – vanishes.

"Do rahi in stasis chambers..." Matau falters. He stares at the motionless form of their leader, their brother. Vakama is not like Matau; he wasn't always in motion – not physically, anyway. But his mind had always been racing. Too much, sometimes. Thoughts and visions and fears crowding round in a single head, and now...

It feels almost unnatural that he should be so still.

Matau tries again.

"Are they aware?"

"I think they sometimes dream," Whenua replies.

#bionicle #cat writes #lego bionicle #bionicle fanfic #hordika #idk if i'll ever write a happy ending for this #but this felt like the natural ending for this narrative #the last and first lines were the very first things i penned for this piece

[d00mbunnie]

“I’ll go with Dimitri.” You respond.

              Dimitri gets up and wipes his mouth and hands with a wet wipe that was sitting next to his plate. He straightens his jacket and comes over to you with his hand out stretched for a hand shake.

              “I will be very happy to show you around.”

              You take his hand and shake it. He has an incredibly strong hand shake. His hands are calloused, probably from living outside for years, having to do hard labor. He walks toward the exit. You follow him out. He walks fast for someone old you think. You do your best to keep up.

              “So, I think we will start at the library.” Dimitri tells you, “it is my favorite place in the whole of Save Haven 13. Very beautiful building. Good lighting. And they have a map, so I think it’s the best place to start.  Plus, if you have questions I can’t answer, they will be somewhere in the library.” Dimitri explains as he guides you to a four-story building build of grey stone and large glass windows.

              You gaze up at the building. It’s the tallest one in town, most of the other buildings are one or two stories high. There are a few 3 story buildings, but most are shorter than that. The library stands across from a red brick building marked meeting hall. When you look at the Top of the library you can see a glass dome on top and the top of a tree which is inside. Dimitri ushers you in excitedly. You can tell he’s really pleased to show you around. You dash up the Stone stairs and walk inside.

              The interior is amazing spacious. The tree you saw the top of is at the center of the building. It has a red sash tied around it’s trunk with various trinkets attached to it. In front of the tree many little offerings people have left. The walls of the library are white with dark wood trimmings. The railings on the many stairways are tarnished copper. At the desk in front of the tree is a pig with blonde hair. You’re not sure if the hair is a really convincing wig or her natural hair, she had cat eye glasses and a air about her that tolerates no bad behavior. The two of your approach her desk.

              “I am here today with my new friend.” Dimitri explains in hushed tones, “I would like borrow a map of the save haven to show them for a bit.”

              The pig nods curtly then disappears under the desk and reappears with a large map that she hands to Dimitri.

              “Thank you.” He says.

              You walk over to the left side of the first floor. There are many long, dark wooden tables. Dimitri unscrolls the map over a table close to the window. The map takes up half the table. You look over the map, you see that the library along with the town is at the very  center of safe haven. You can tell you’ve barely seen most of it.

              “Now, we are here in town, obviously.” Dimitri explains pointing to the town, “most classes and activities take place here, but sometimes things happen other places.”

              You nod in response. You notice the part marked entry fields. There are many little doors drawn on the middle of the field but the fields are even bigger than what you saw they stretch to a place marked misty shore.

              “that’s where I came in.” You point to one of the doors.

              “Ah, yes. Most people do come in from there but there are other ones all around the island. Like at the far end over here were the woods and the beach are also there are a few in the faerie forest but those are just for the faeries.”

              You see that the dark forest is market faerie woods.

              “You don’t go in the faerie woods with out permission. It’s not that the faeries don’t like you, but they’re busy with the up keep of the island and that’s their home so we give them space to relax with out having to deal with us. You wouldn’t want customers randomly showing up to your house, no?”

              “Oh yeah. I could see how that would annoy them.” You nod.

              “May I ask why you have come to save haven? Was there something you wanted help with? Like do you want to go back to school like me or maybe you have money problems? Or life is just too hard right now?

my crappy drawing of the map.

#CYOA #cyoa part 4 #choose your own adventure

[tev-the-random]

Deteriorated

Sausage stared at the statue in awe.

It always amazed him, the goddess that guarded these catacombs. Not in a artistic way, though her opulence by itself impressed the builder side of him. Instead, he looked at her with warmth.

Don't get him wrong, Sausage firmly believed that this "Angel of Death", as Pix called her, could slay dragons if she wasn't literally set in stone. But instead of fear or reverence, he felt a strange sense of comfort whenever he looked at her.

And a pinch of sorrow.

Trying to remind himself that he didn't come here for sightseeing, Sausage managed to tear his eyes away from the ancient sculpture to look for Pix. More often than not the archaeologist would be in his campsite doing research, analysing crumbling books, unreadable documents and rocks that honestly all looked the same. But he did have a tendency to wander about the ruins, always looking for something new - or rather, something old.

Not feeling like getting lost in the underground labyrinth that were the catacombs, Sausage opted for searching the nearby structures. He called for Pixl, looked inside the occasional hole and overall had this eerie feeling in his gut that made him look over his shoulder a few times.

Nature mourned here. This abandoned land once housed the several people that now rested underneath that statue. And although time had clearly left its scars, it almost felt like those souls should still be wandering here, longing to not be forgotten. They could jump at him any moment.

He should really stop taking Hermes' requests to read him ghost stories.

Sausage had the growing urge to leave and come back some other time, but despite the creepiness that covered the ruins around him, he was drawn to an old castle - or maybe it was a big church? - on the far end of the savanna. Pixl had marked its perimeter, which lead Sausage to believe he had already started studying it.

Though he could very easily go around the collapsed walls, he chose to open the door. It creaked, dry and loud and heavy, then fell to the ground with a dusty thud once the hinges gave up on it.

'Oh god- no one saw that, right?' He looked over his shoulders once more. 'If no one saw it then it wasn't my fault.'

Sausage regretted opening the door in the first place. But now that it's down, he might as well enter.

Sunbeams bathed the spacious room through the open ceiling. Greenery grew in the walls and the stone floors were covered in moss. Sausage could hear a series of chirps as birds made their nests in the peaceful ruins.

He thought about asking them if they had seen Pixl around, but no sooner he found himself hypnotised by something else.

On the far back wall, there was a mural. Sausage approached it, scrutinizing the small faded details like they held some secret. At first, it felt out of place ‐ like the pillars on the floor had been knocked down just to make it more visible, and the sun changed its position to emphasise its presence. But this odd feeling didn't come from any of that.

The mural pictured a woman standing solemnly in a sunflower field. Her brown hair sprinkled with blond streaks cascaded over her bare shoulders, pristine and braided with flowers. Her flowing green dress and cape were stitched with gold, and golden were her shoes and the jewellery she wore. A crown of gilded leaves sat atop her head, adorned by a large emerald front and centre.

On one hand, the woman cradled a sheaf of wheat. On the other, she held a delicately ornamented sword pointed at the sky.

Time had destroyed her features too much for anyone to tell what her expression said, though Sausage could definitely see a glint of blue eyes staring ahead.

Her wings framed her much too perfectly, and there was still enough of the chipped golden paint on the feathers for them to glitter in the sun.

It was quite the piece of art, he had to admit. And yet, Sausage couldn't help but feel that it looked... wrong.

The woman resembled, in a way, the statue of the goddess that so often caught his attention when he visited. Maybe it was the whiplash between sculpture and painting that had him weirded out.

But the more he stared at it, the more Sausage thought there was too much gold. Even though the paint hardly had any of its original shine anymore, it just felt like too much. How could one fight with such a crown? How could one feel the earth with such shoes? How could jewellery replace the armour that belonged to her?

Though Sausage wasn't one to disrespect past civilisations, it was almost laughable. He could imagine a voice commenting on how poorly held the sword was and how the thin cape would only get in the way and be torn to shreds in the end. He knew the delicate braids would come undone during the course of a sparring session, and that she that would never stand so straight and poised for so long.

He imagined a fierce warrior in need of adventure. A young soul who would sail viking territory by his side, defeat entire raids and challenge the most supernatural forces without a hint of fear. Someone who could throw a good punch and draw a good blade in the same breath.

He thought of a humble farmer in need of peace. A girl who would walk barefoot on her wheat fields and take in the warm sun like she was one of the sunflowers that crowned her. He had good memories of sunflowers. And so did she.

He saw a queen who didn't act like one in front of him. Who would behave like a deranged, chaotic creature when she lacked sleep. Who, when faced with a challenge, would become possessed by a determination that would inspire the mightiest Monster Slayers. Who wouldn't care about titles, who never thought of legacy and whose castle wasn't composed of tall towers and flying flags. Someone who was much more laidback than elegant, yet held more honour than most people.

He knew a Pearl who could grow a home in corrupted soil and connect to her land as easily as she breathed. Pearl, who never let go of his hand when he lost sight of himself. She would rather follow Sausage into the abyss than give up on him. And when nobody else looked him in the eyes, she smiled at him, concerned and kind and persistent.

Pearl didn't need all of this. She was never a Goddess or a Saint. Her land was simply golden because she cared for it. If there was something truly gilded about the Farmer Queen, it was her heart.

And he watched it all wither away with her.

'Hey hey hey, don't touch that!'

As if hooking him with a fishing rod, Pixlriffs pulled Sausage from his own thoughts and back into the ruins.

Sausage reached for the mural in what could be described as longing. He couldn't recall what exactly he was thinking about, and it rubbed him in all sorts of wrong ways. Pulling his hand back and to his chest, he took another look at the work of art.

It was just an old painting on a wall. Stationary. Symbolic. An imitation of a time long gone that didn't pertain to him at all.

So why was he holding back tears?

'Sorry, Sausage.' Pix walked over the collapsed walls and approached him. 'This is a very old piece and quite deteriorated as is. I'd like to avoid any further damage.'

The archaeologist joined his friend in staring at the wall.

'She seems to be depicted a lot around here. I'm still not sure if she was a religious figure or a ruler, or both.' He crossed his arms in contemplation. 'But whoever she was, she was very loved.'

There was no response.

'Anyway, I wasn't really expecting you today. Did you need anything?'

Sausage couldn't come up with an answer. If because he forgot what he came here for in the first place or because his voice failed him, it didn't matter. He clung to his chest, and it hurt. Like grief, like guilt, like longing. And then fear.

There was someone missing in his life. Someone important. He had no idea who or why, and it terrified him.

'Are you alright, Sausage?' Pix finally asked. The guardian of Sanctuary had paled considerably. He cleared his throat, however, finally looking away from the wall.

'Ah. Yeah, haha! I just... I just have a little bit of a headache right now.' Sausage took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. 'Just a little, tiny headache...'

The way he murmured his answer didn't give Pix any reassurance. He wasn't one to murmur. But before the archaeologist could voice his concern, Sausage was already turning around to leave.

'Sorry to disturb you, Pix! Imma come back when uh... when my headache's gone. Have fun with your history stuff, bye!'

And with that, Sausage was gone. Pixlriffs watched him fly away until he was just a dot in the distance, and only then did he sigh.

He would have to do some more research on the mysterious figure with golden wings. There seemed to be very little left about her, and he was almost certain she was only a myth.

But the look in Sausage's eyes was one he knew quite well. It was that of someone had just seen a ghost.

#Get it? It's- it's deteriorated because it's old ruins and stuff #But also because Sausage's memories are quite fragmented at the moment- #I saw Pixlriff's statue and immediately went 'Is that Pearl???' #I suppose her current state and general role in the lore is kind of nebulous at the moment #Which means I get to write a tiny little angst about it- #Have fun Empiresblr #Empires SMP #Empires II #Empires season 2 #esmp #Writing #fanfiction #I honestly have no idea how to tag fanfics anymore #Mythical Sausage #Pixlriffs #Pearlescent Moon

[blockgamepirate]

Hypixel Technoblade memorial in spring (or early summer I guess)

Image description: (under cut because it’s very very long)

A series of screenshots of the Technoblade memorial and its surroundings. It’s hidden in a remote corner of the farming area behind the white cliffs of a mountain with diorite slopes. There is a melon-headed scarecrow in the potato field on the way there. Flowering cherry and apple trees, blooming in pink and white, frame a sandstone-walled canal that leads to the sea on the right, from which a boat with cyan sails is approaching. A simple dirt path leads you to the memorial, sheltered by the trees.

The memorial itself is a small, roofless, temple-like structure made out of stone bricks and polished andesite. The front is a little bit overgrown with roses and poppies. Big iron braziers made of anvils and hoppers decorate the gate and provide light with their fires. The floating text over the entrance says [PIG+++] Technoblade Memorial, with his name and rank in pink while the rest of it is light blue.

As you step inside, it’s a mix of the natural white diorite rocks of the mountain and the man-made grey structures flowing together organically. The floor is cobblestone and andesite but on each side and on top of the elevated ground there are patches of potato plants and rose bushes. Behind the white rocks there are more flowering trees. A big pink cherry tree partially covers the area with its canopy, like a natural roof.

On your left, slightly elevated, there’s a carving in the stone that forms the shape of a ribbon, with purple wool behind it, to represent the lavender ribbon of cancer awareness. it’s framed by torches placed in front of it.

Directly in front of you, at the back of the small temple, is a sort of altar shaped like a giant throne. Its back is red, decorated with an elaborate stone frame. On either side of the “backrest” there are hopper braziers blazing with fire. There are also sorts of shelves on the frame that are decorated with grey stone pig heads that face slightly inwards towards the Technoblade statue which of course stands in the middle of the altar or throne on a pedestal. The pedestal is stone and decorated with another lavender ribbon. The statue itself is also grey stone, but the crown is golden and gem-encrusted and the sword he holds up is diamond. His cloak has been depicted flowing in the wind.

(I’m also in one of the pictures, standing in front of the throne in reverse F5. I’m just a bespectacled skeleton in a teal 19th century suit and violet bowtie.)

#technoblade #hypixel

[oxygenbefore1775]

Peal of Thunder

for day 1 of jeankasaweek "rainy day"

pairing: jean x mikasa

wc: 2.2k

summary: seeking warmth after being caught in the downpour

a/n: more like "stormy day" or "rain not being central to the story at all" or "watch me pathetically try to play it down to the given prompt in the end" but i digress; also idky but i made mikasa a bit uneasy with thunder, guess it's from the memory of the day her parents were taken away from her

The rain caught them in the lushness of an open field — cold heavy droplets on their skin, bringing them out of the pools of each other's eyes. Not long after, the downpour grew heavier, with walls of water landing on their bodies. The sounds of thunder rolled off in the distance, sealing the end of their short-lived respite in nature.

The deceiving morning heat left them with nothing but lightweight summer clothes on, now transformed into translucent films clinging to their skin. Another minute in this violent rainstorm would surely soak them and leave them shivering to their bones. Although a single coat that one of them had thought of taking would hardly provide sufficient shelter, let alone for both of them, there was determination in Jean's motions as he draped it over their shoulders. His voice faded into the cascades of the downpour — she could only surmise that he was urging their swift departure, and soon enough, they headed towards home.

A shadow of a smile played on Mikasa's lips as she watched Jean squint his eyes and furrow his eyebrows, struggling to see even a stone's throw ahead of him. The felt of his fedora grew sodden, heavy with water, rendering it useless. The evidence of this was clear, with streams running down his face. Yet, the sight lulled within her a weird sense of security. Surrounded by the cool wet fabric all around, except for the side where his body pressed against hers, it brought her comfort amid the hostile rage of the elements.

Mikasa intercepted his movements, gently taking the lead, "Surely, not this way." Despite the comforting presence of Jean by her side, she yearned to escape the tumultuous symphony of roaring thunder and the blinding flashes of lightning that tore the sky apart. She wanted to get away.

Guided by her, they swiftly reached their cabin, but the speed bore little significance as every inch of their bodies was drenched long before catching a glimpse of shelter from afar. Droplets of water trailed after them to the couch, leaving wet spots on the upholstery that grew as they collapsed onto the couch. With cold stiff fingers Mikasa reached for the buttons on her dress while Jean crouched in front of the fireplace.

The crackling of burning wood drowned the sounds of the rain against the window glass yet the thunder could still reach her acute hearing, although it was significantly lower in its roars. Her mind wandering, Mikasa carded her fingers through the wet tussles of her hair, feeling the dampness cling to her fingertips, while her gaze fixated on the shadow that Jean's broad frame cast on the floor.

"It will take some time for the room to heat up," he muttered, rolling the sopping cloth of his shirt off his shoulders. "I'll go put the kettle on. Maybe some tea will get us warm quicker."

She smiled shyly at the proposition but couldn't resist catching his hand as Jean was about to leave. "My mother used to draw me a bath whenever I was cold, so I'll do just that." Giving his palm a gentle squeeze, her gaze locked with his.

Jean's eyes softened as he met her glance, "Alright, you go first then." With that, he brought her palm close to his lips, leaving a kiss on her knuckles and ready to go to the kitchen again. Yet, she didn't let go of him.

Her other arm slid down his shoulder, still damp and covered in goose bumps. "You're freezing too," she insisted. The glint in her eyes took an alluring spark. "And the tub's big enough for the two of us."

The obvious request froze on her tongue and never fell past her lips. As she was looking down, she didn't notice how he reached for her face, pulling a strand away from her face. "If that's what you want, then with pleasure. Besides, we're already soaked from head to toe." An endearing smile found its way onto Jean's lips.

As the rain clattered against the windows in the distance and the inviting heat of the bathtub enveloped her cool skin, Mikasa reveled in the touch of his embrace. By lifting her arm under the surface and submerging it again into the soapy water, she let droplets fall from her palm, echoing the rain outside. She welcomed the warmth that bloomed in her chest and grew with each second she felt her back against his chest and his hot breath searing the shell of her ear. All that lulled her into sleep yet she forced her eyes to stay open for she wanted to be awake through each moment of it.

"My mother also drew me baths," Jean mused in a hushed tone, as if his voice threatened to shatter the tender silence in the bathroom, "though mine often had bubbles added to it."

The rumble of thunder echoed through the air, swallowing his last words in its mighty roar, sending a shiver down Mikasa's spine. She shook off the trepidation, determined to find solace in their conversation and a refuge from the foreboding storm. "Do you wish that our bath had bubbles right now?"

There was no pause following her words and he picked up with a resolute tone. "No." Without hesitation, Jean's arm reached forward, his fingers intertwining with hers. "Otherwise I won't see all of you just as I am seeing you right in this moment. Every part of you."

"Jean." The flush burned at the tips of her ears as she remained motionless. The mix of emotions washed over her, the flattery tinged with uneasiness. It was what she had come to expect from her husband, yet it still caught her off guard every time. Each unwarranted praise and compliment stirred a struggle deep within her, as if she should respond in kind, showering him with the same vocal affection he bestowed upon her. But the words eluded her, slipping through her fingers like streams of water. Her chest burned yet the cause for it remained unknown to her, be it the heat rising from the tub or Jean's words.

At a loss of meaningful phrases, Mikasa gingerly lifted his palm towards her face. She pressed her lips against his blushed knuckles, leaving a soft cascade of kisses on his damp skin. In that moment a subtle thought crossed her mind — perhaps she should feel greedy, almost demanding. To want more of his lavish affection and the cherished moments of intimacy that Jean would bestow upon her, no doubt about that.

Gentle patter of rain served as a soothing background, uniting in its repetitivness with her shallow breaths and the rhythmic thuds of his heart. "I saw your eyes lit up each time the lightning struck," Jean spoke again, seemingly out of breath. Was she leaning against him with such a force that robbed him of air? "Does the thunder remind you of something?"

The question left Mikasa perplexed, her lips parting as she delved deep in her thoughts, searching for an answer. Her restlessness during these violent outbursts of the nature persisted throughout the years yet she never pondered the cause of it. After all, the thundersorms were a rare occurence on Paradis so she wouldn't be haunted by their fearsome roars to a significant extent. A fleeting memory of stormy days from her early childhood appeared in her mind and she allowed it to play further. Try as she might, she couldn't recall the feeling of fear from that recollection. When she was still living in the forest on the outskirts of Shiganshina there was no fear. It was only after she moved in with the Yeagers that the fear began spring up — that much she knew.

Mikasa lightly shook her head in response, the tightening sensation at her temples threatening to break out into a migraine should another thought of those days visit her. "I..." she murmured, trying to find purchase for her wandering mind.

"For me, it's the memory of thunder spears," Jean interjected, gently prying her mind away from the painful reminiscense, "of the time when we still got to use them. When we had to fight."

Mikasa coudn't see his face yet her imagination painted a vivid image of the shadows weighing down his features, the crease between his eybrows growing deeper with the weight of the memories. "At each peal of the real thunder I can't help but to recall their heaviness in my arms and on my back. How they tremble in my grip right as I'm about to launch them." A sigh, barely noticable by her acute hearing, rolled past his lips and brushed against her nape. "The adrenaline rush after each time I got the target right."

Tone of sour nostalgia crawled into his voice, but Mikasa would lie if she denied the same hold that the memory of the thunder spears had over her. As if caught up on their reminiscing, a peal of thunder rolled off in the distance. This time, it indeed sounded like the release of explosives in the missile.

"I am still not sure if this is a pleasant connection in my mind. Those were good times yet we were always living on the edge of life and death back then."

The silence filled the room again as Mikasa was pondering his words. There was some undeniable allure in the memory of the days long gone — before the war, before the fall of the walls. She herself quite often sought refuge in the past, the sweetness of those recollections too blissfull to return from all that easily. Nonetheless, the joy was tainted by the pain that followed suit like a clockwork. As invitingly pleasant as the nostalgia was, it inevitably closed off with the sorrowful memories, remainder of the price that they all had to pay for the chance for this world to draw another breath.

Her mind robbed of its capacity to think such dreadful thoughts no longer, her body instead became acutely aware of each and every sensation she was reveling in. The billowy steam enveloping her face, its gentle touch leaving tiny water droplets glistening on her skin, indistinguishable from the beads of sweat forming on her forehead. The tight hold Jean's hands had on hers, his fingers intertwining with hers. The smell of soap and earthy fragrance of rain still clinging to the tussels of her hair filling the room and fogging up her mind in the most delectable way. The mix of those made her thoughts adrift, lost in bliss her current position bestowed upon her. And it was a welcome one, the one Mikasa was openly relishing and ready to express with zeal.

As her resolve grew, her voice echoed through the air, thick with steam and fragrance. "I suppose it's alright, the way you feel," she concluded, "past can hurt just as much as it can uplift but—"

With that, she positioned her arms at the either side of the bathtub for the purchase lifting herself out of the soapy water. Droplets cascading down the glistening skin of her toned body, she turned around so that she was facing Jean. Her palms quickly found their place at his shoulders as she settled herself back into his embrace.

Despite the heat of the room, somehow even more flush managed to dust across Jean's face, beading with sweat, "Mikasa." Yet with no hesitation to his movements, he snaked his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He tilted his head back to meet her gaze seeing as now she was towering over him.

The pitter-patter of rain echoed off in the distance.

"But as this day would end," Mikasa whispered, her warm breath brushing against Jean's features, "It'd be the only thing I'd like to associate the sounds of thunder with." A spark ignited in her eyes as she found herself being pulled deeper into the pools of his gaze.

You she silently mouthed to Jean.

As the downpour washed the outside world, the air in the bathroom came to a halt, rendering their bodies motionless as well. The distance between their mouths almost non-existent, hitched breaths fanning against each other's lips and lingering gazes full of soft silent promise. With a surge of insolence, Jean closed off the miniscule gap between their lips, sealing off the confession in a tender kiss.

The sensation of their entwined bodies, the softness to their breaths and the intoxicating warmth of their embrace — they hoped that all of it etched in their memory. Moments later, they found themselves laying together in the living room, fully dry and enveloped in the comforting warmth of the space. Mikasa's head rested on Jean's chest, her ear attuned to the soothing sounds of the ongoing rain outside. In the tranquility of the moment, they allowed themselves to melt into the atmosphere of the evening, finding solace and peace in each other's presence.

#jeankasaweek2023 #jean x mikasa #jeankasa

[brineffxiv]

This was a surprisingly pretty dungeon. Those golden fields you fly over astride a dragon to get to the final third especially.

We defeat Lunar Bahamut, and Tiamat and her children are free, finally.

The leader of the Amalj'aa comes to greet us and thank us for our assistance, and vows to make the proposed alliance work. Good. That's progress. His might only be one band of Amalj'aa, but they represent the first step.

But the tower still looms forebodingly, and inside it...

...Are imprisoned dozens of Amalj'aa, their bodies embedded in the walls. Which seem to be made of flesh. The floors also, are disturbingly meat-like. This reminds me both of the Mhachi Void Ark, and the Allagan Aetherochemical Research Facility.

Excuse me, are those teeth in that wall?!

Hey, uh... If the towers are made of flesh... are the towers themselves parts of a primal?? Like, a really huge primal? That spans the world... sort of like the Empire itself?

...Did.

Did Fandaniel make the Empire itself into a primal? Somehow?

Arenvald makes the mistake of trying to free one of the Amalj'aa, and sets off an alarm in the process. Which activates something that makes the Amalj'aa in the walls cry out and writhe in their prisons.

And then all the nerves (?) in the floor light up and...

...Summon Ifrit?? An Ifrit? Lunar Ifrit?

...

Ohhhh... Oh I just now got what was happening. The tower activated, and forced the Amalj'aa to summon their god. And, as we learn a few scenes later, since the Amalj'aa are tempered to Garlemald, so too is the primal they produce.

Arenvald jumps in front of Fordola, trying to protect her, and we cut to black.

Returning to Ul'dah we are met with news that Fordola saved Arenvald from the tower, but he is gravely injured. Alphinaud runs off to try and see him.

Arenvald is in a bad way, and Fordola has had quite enough of Alphinaud's idealism. There is nothing we can do to assist here, and must trust in the chirurgeons.

We meet with the Sultana and are filled in on the intelligence contained in Fordola's report. The towers are being filled with peoples of the beast tribes who, in their tempered state, are being utilized to summon forth primals in service to Garlemald. These primals are strange in that they don't seem to be able to temper people themselves?

Thancred is speaking of a "main" tower of sorts that they observed in Garlemald, and I am thinking of my earlier idea that the towers themselves are extensions of a very large primal. If the towers are like the limbs of a being, the main body of which is in Garlemald: the Empire itself is the primal. This implies that all the people in the Garlemald itself are now enslaved to its will. A will which is likely commanded by Zenos and Fandaniel.

Somehow.

I don't know how that would be done, but I cannot see either of them simply allowing a primal like that to act independently. Perhaps Zenos, as the acting head of Garlemald, is himself the focus of the devotion?

Or perhaps I am completely off base.

Multiple primals like Ifirit have been sighted, but, as they cannot temper, Nanamo wishes us to leave the Grand Companies to deal with them. She hopes, for the moment, to keep us in reserve.

For a scant bit of good news, the Amalj'aa have reached an agreement with Ul'dah.

Left to our own devices we resolve to return to the Rising Stones. With Estinien begrudgingly in tow. (Wow, look how many of us have white hair. What's up with that??)

Krile has decided we should petition the aid of the infamously reclusive nation of Sharlayan, and has already asked for and received permission from the Alliance to act as their Eorzean emissary.

This is not the only thing she shall be doing. While in Sharlayan, she will be looking into the exact nature of Hydaelyn's "blessing". And wants to know when the last time she spoke to me was.

The text prompts inform me that I heard from Hydaelyn at the end of the Dragonsong war, which I'll be honest, I don't remember. I'd have said during the fight with the Ultima Weapon.

Yes, and her failure to even speak to the Minfilias and Ryne is one of several bones I have to pick with our Crystal Mother.

She knows I sympathize with the Ascians and is punishing me for it.

Seriously though, if there is something preventing Her from speaking with us, I wonder what it could be that changed since when I last heard from Her?

Krile is, however, reluctant to leave the Scions less a member at such a critical time, and this is why she requested Estinien accompany us. She asks him, for apparently not the first time, to join the Scions.

And, after a truly touching speech about how inspiring we've been and the change we've effected, Estinien agrees. Wow, Estinien, you've come a long way from a minor antagonist/mentor in the Dragoon class quests.

Meanwhile, in the imperial palace in Garlemald, Zenos has been taking out his boredom on the floor. That is not a good place to store your blades Zenos, you're going to blunt all the edges that way.

He MAD.

Or. Can you even feel anger? Or is it just positive emotions you have trouble with?

That was a failure? I cannot fathom what it is you hoped to achieve... terrorizing some random Amalj'aa? Or were you hoping to capture more fodder for your primal-generating towers?

Oh yeah, there's definitely a scary-big primal in your basement or something.

Apparently, Zenos' new sword is a seeeecret as well. All the secrets.

#ffxiv liveblog #rhesh'a tag #alphinaud leveilleur #arenvald lentinus #fordola rem lupis #nanamo ul namo #thancred waters #krile baldesion #estinien varlineau #zenos yae galvus #zenos my friend my enemy #fandaniel #tiamat #baseless speculation #thoughts on lore

[monsterfloofs]

Could you please write something with a cute, charming researcher or museum curator cervitaur guy? Thank you for reading!

Cervitaur (Curio) x Reader

(Hullo! Long time no see, it's been a while! Hope all of you are doing alright, and have a lovely weekend to look forward to! Hope you enjoy the short, it was nice to sit down and write again, I hope you enjoy the jovial Curio Flemming and the library of curiousities. ^-^ )

Opening the great oaken doors, you get a glimpse of a landing that looks out into a vast sea of books. Tall shelves that seem to reach up into the very hemisphere of the large domed library. The bright glass that formed the translucent bauble was made out of dazzling oranges and yellows, which cast golden shimmering panels of light across the library. Making the whole entryway seem to cheerfully and resolutely celebrate golden hour from dawn to dusk.

But you weren't here to peruse the books and while away the hours cozied into a corner. No, for today, you had a problem, and you hoped you could find someone to help you. You took the little business card out of your pocket. It was a plain card with simple gold lettering that shimmered in a warm manner when you turned it in your hand.

Curio S. Flemming

Scholar of Magical Quirks and Eccentricites

Housed in the Left Library Wing

Room B-28

Please watch your step!

"Please watch your step," you repeated aloud as you turned the card over to look at the back. Besides that little warning on the card. It did not further explain what to watch out for or why. Ah well, suppose you shall find that out when the time comes.

The library stood as a place where scholars in magic came to study and hobknob with one another. It was the biggest meeting place for the most intruiging magical minds by the far side of the moon.

So naturally, they all tended to conglomerate in the place with the most books and the most space to spread out in to study their unquie fields. So the library kept growing until, well, it had become as large as it was now.

As you move deeper into the library, your gaze turns upwards, watching the strange little small magical durigables carry letters to and fro the maze of hallways. Though some of the scholars prefered the quainter miniature hot air balloons, those also plodded along at a much slower pace. The mail would still get there on time, if not a day or so later than everyone else's.

The further you walked, the less library and more fantastical it became. There still were books, because of course there were always books in a library. Though, the floor turned to cobblestone for a short jaunt, then there was potions pluming multicolored smoke out of every crevice in doors. The mineral hall, which as the name suggests, everything was carved out of precious stone. Except the books of course, because they would be (sadly) just too heavy to read. You even passed a worrisome looking botanical area that seemed to be overrun with vines. Plants creeped out of the various botany doors and slowly curled their way up the walls to gather books from high shelves.

One friendly vine even held open a door for you. And you thanked it politely as you hurry past.

You check your card several times, before opening a small but cozy looking door. Looking up to watch a little diridgable marked with B-28 on it's underside, putter inside in the little opening above the door.

"Watch your step!"

Called a voice, just as your foot fell down, down, down. You stumbled forward into a field of clouds? Dream clouds, the kind made of cotton fluff and marshmallow. And they softly changed hue from pink to purple to orange and back again.

"The room heard you were coming! Though I feel like this might be just a bit over the top--"

The voice called to you before pausing and repeating a little louder and enunciating a few specific words. "It MIGHT be just a BIT OVER THE TOP?"

You feel your hands tighten nervously as the clouds slowly but surely disapate out of the room.

"There!" A pair of hands dust themselves together as one Curio Flemming trots out of the dispersing cotton candy clouds. Four legs of a graceful deer with a neat shawl drapped over his back. With a smart button up shirt and his curly hair a soft cloud of sable coils that frame a friendly smiling face.

"Sorry again about that!" Their dark eyes crinkling with a laugh just below the surface. "I have one of the more active rooms in this department, and it had wanted to make sure you were comfortable." Their fingers grasping yours to briefly shake your hand. faun ears tilting upwards before they trot back to their desk sitting down to gather up a pencil and paper.

"So," They look at their notes as they address your name, "Telll me a little about this anxious magic? How long has this been going on?"

You take a deep breathe, with the clouds gone you now find yourself standing in a cozy room with a desk that housed many arranged papers and files. A squat comfortable looking arm chair facing Curio's desk. You settle into the chair across the desk, though your eyes adverting downwards as you fidgit with your hands.

"As long as I can remember,"

There is a brief pause in the air before you start again.

"It's. . . usually just silly things that happen when I am in a crowd or when I get too nervous. My magic will teleport me home, or turn me invisible, create sudden gusts of winds, or even freeze time for a short period. Things like that. . ."

You can hear writing from the other side of the desk and you shuffle in your chair.

"I think the worst thing I think it's e-ever done really, was the one time it made a sound void around m-me-- in the middle of a busy coffee shop. P-people started panicking be-because they thought they went deaf or lost their voice--" You look up with round eyes as Curio laughs.

"I-it was aweful!" You stammer, feeling a familiar prickle on the back of your neck, "I h-hate having a-anxious magic, the teleportation, the w-wind vortexes-"

"Calm-- calm down, I wasn't laughing at you, honest!" They smile softly, "Trust me, I understand what it's like living with anxiety," he gestures to himself. "I am after all, half deer, and they are always on high alert, quick to run on a moment's notice. I don't think you should hate this magical quirk of yours. It's not trying to hurt you or upset you, far from it, essentially, I think all it's doing is trying to protect you."

You stop and stare at him blankly, trying to process the words. "It's. . . what?"

Curio smiles sadly and nods, "That's what it's doing. When you have that anxiety, that fear, in this case, all those people and the noise in the coffee shop for example. Your magic is quick to react and try to stop the root of what is making you uncomfortable. It's not a bad thing, is it frusterating? Of course! But it's trying to protect you from feeling too overloaded."

You stare at Curio, warmth rising to your cheeks as you bob your head. "I see. . . do you. . . think that's why it summoned a demon?"

The pencil in Curio's hand stops moving and he looks up at you. "A. . . demon?"

You chew your lip and stare at his paper, nodding your head. "Th-that's why I wanted to ask for your help. I. . . I don't know how I did it, and I ah. . . d-don't know how to send them back."

"And where. . . is this demon?"

"A-at my house. It won't leave."

"Oh. . ."

Your arms shrug up feeling guilty,

"That's absolutely fascinating!" Curio enthused, "I have never heard of anxious magic doing that! I'll go grab my coat!"

You stand in shock as you watch an excited cervitaur rustle into a light jacket.

"And no summoning circle? No runes?"

"N-not that I? Know. . . of?" You shake your head in bewilderment before you catch a glimpse of hind legs bouncing out the door.

"H-Hey w-wait for me?? Y-you don't know where I live!!" And with that, you hurry after.

#monster x reader #monster x human #exophilia #sfw #cervitaur x reader #cervitaur x human

[brooklynislandgirl]

@ensnchekov

She stands on the back lawn, just behind Andy. The garden is in the last bloom of summer and fills the air with local and exotic flowers from other places her mother has worked, including some of the more distant planets with Minshara class designations with similar conditions as Earth. But for as beautifully scented and coloured it is, no single aspect is left to its wild nature. Down to the smallest leaf it has been carefully manicured to within a centimetre of its life. Every blade of grass carefully measured by an army of gardeners. It contrasts the flag stone courtyard with its fountain, the white outer walls of the sprawling single floor manor that over looks the bay. The land has been in the Admiral's family for generations. So have most of the things on it. Everything is pristine and perfect, right down to the three people waiting for their new guest. There's no fence or force-field around the cliff's perimeter, he'll need to be warned about that. It wouldn't do at all if he were to fall or be swept out to sea. Her mother and the Admiral have been talking quietly about it for months, and only seemingly consulted her brother and her when they'd already made their decision. From that quiet moment at the dinner table to her mother's overseeing of setting up the guest room, to the few hours before now, Andy's practically floated on an cloud of enthusiasm. A young boy about Beth's age give or take. A new sibling to shelter under wing, one he doesn't feel he needs to be over protective one. Does he like sports? Does he read graphic novels and old stories? Does he like to tinker with ancient technologies? An army of questions and possibilities have filled Andy's thoughts. Her mother of course reminds her children to be sensitive. The boy lost his parents, she tells them, and might not wish to speak of that, nor of the years he has spent more or less on his own. Be sensitive to the fact that his culture and life are vastly different than their own, and do try to make him feel welcome. The Admiral himself says very little, except to point out gruffly, and perhaps intentionally pointedly, that the boy has test scores like none he's seen before. That his intellect is a rare treasure and they could all surely appreciate how special he is because of. That in some ways he reminds your old man of myself, and of course, you Andrew. She says nothing, everyone knows she's smarter than her sibling, more artistic, and in some ways, more cultured. The boy is still better. She wonders if he hates it. She wonders if he takes pride in being a golden child. She wonders, too, if he knows how to swim. "Heads up, make yourselves presentable, there is the shuttle." Her mother's voice breaks into her thoughts and Beth finds herself standing at her full if unimpressive height. Hands smooth down her skirt, tucks dark hair back into the braids it had been wrestled into. Andy stands at parade rest, hands tucked behind his back, and her mother is a vision in black and gold, slender as a reed and a little taller than her only daughter though her heels make up a few extra inches. Even into her fifties, her mother is one of the most beautiful women in the world, regal and maternal at once. Beth might have felt better if she'd been permitted to merely watch this all from the window of her room. The shuttle lands on the pad as smooth as glass. As soon as the hatch opens and the boy comes into view, her mother steps forward with a radiant smile parting her lips. "Welcome, Mr Chekov. Chuvstvuyte sebya kak doma."

#ensnchekov #tbd|Pavel Chekov #tbd|Pavel and Beth #tbd|Pavel and Andy #Boldly Going Forward|Star Trek AOS au #Mission in the Rain|San Francisco

[defiedlife]

@haereses

Diluc stared at the glove covering his left hand, eyes focused on the crimson orb attached to it. It glistened even in the dim light of a cell somewhere within Haeresys, and yet its shine mocked him. It was the delusion he'd come to rely on for the past three years, not to mention something his father had meant to give him as a gift...and it was also the cause of his father's demise. It was time to move on. Three years was already tempting fate too much, he told himself.

No matter the allure of its power, no matter its sentimental value, the risk was too great. He would discard it, and in the process, use it to send a message. He slid the glove off his hand and curled his fingers over the delusion, channeling some of his natural pyro energy into it and forcing its temperature to rise as high as his bare fingers could tolerate. Swiftly, before it could cool, he shifted his grip to clutch the fabric of the glove instead and slammed the face of the gem into the stone wall beside him.

A sharp crack sounded, and with it, Diluc felt a part of his heart crack as well. His body lurched, instinctively holding back a dry sob that tried to claw its way up his throat. But it was done.

His mask followed suit, though it was simply broken under his heel instead. He would need neither after a successful escape.

Working quickly, he gathered up both items, tucking them away into a package for the guards to find. The next step was to actually escape—which seemed to go well at first. The lock pick previously hidden away in his boot served its purpose, freeing him from both his shackles and his cell. He slipped out undetected, swiftly dealing with the first few guards as necessary. Even without the aid of a vision or delusion, he was still more than capable of holding his own in regular close combat. Left and right, the guards that rushed to stop him were rendered unconscious and cast aside.

...Until he made a mistake.

He'd forgotten the possibility that he might go up against someone more powerful than the average guard. A pesky little electro cicin buzzed right into his field of vision, and just as he went to swat it away, a powerful current of electro energy mercilessly surged through him, stunning him and causing him to stumble mid-step. He tumbled to the floor, a heeled boot bearing down into his back to pin him in place. A second shock followed, just as debilitating as the first, and darkness claimed him.

"Tell the Lord Harbinger that his newest prisoner will be moved to a more secure cell in short order. Shame on all of you, almost letting this one get away. He seems fun."

#haereses #* || ic #* || diluc #hhh LET'S GO

[scorching-passion]

Starter for @ghostofnibelheim​

The rough terrain of Wutai; hard and unforgiving. A craggy mountainous region of Gaia, relentless and unkind --- many had died here already since the beginning of the war, and many more would become memories upon the hillsides with little to show for their bravery other than a name on a plaque… if they were lucky, an unmarked grave if they were not. This was not what Roche had expected when flying over the scenic geography of this exotic place. 

This was not the life he would have chosen for himself. 

The sound of the chopper coupled with the vast greenery down below, a finery of nature if he’d ever seen it first hand, exhilarating to say the very least. Compared to the squalor of the slums verses the industrial edge of Midgar heights this was certainly a paradise in of itself, the need to see it all was strong  – the story of war had been so heavily romanticised in the fifteen year old infantryman’s head; the opportunity to visit far out lands, to be the hero in his own story, and he was eager to get to the front lines and fight alongside his fellow man, alongside the hero’s the SOLDIER’s sent here to quell an Intolerable evil. 

But upon the ground, he was loaded up, pack after pack, after pack of supplies for a nearby trench on the western coast of the archipelago’s mainland. And flanked by four others, heavily armed to protect this precious cargo at the very centre, the group would make their way through the steep valleys carved through the mountains rising like titans of aged lore, reaching so far as to black out the sun. There was nothing but darkness down here, damp, muddy floors causing one to slip and slide underfoot and a miserable sense of impending dread. 

The enemy was all around them, so they had been told, and this route - too narrow, too uneven for a vehicle, it had to be done on foot - would lead them right through the very centre of the main battle field - a no man’s land unclaimed by either side - the echo of gunfire, the screams of the injured and dying bounced in overhead from the vast stony walls. But they trudged onward, each step becoming more arduous, the straps of Roche’s load weighing heavy on armoured shoulders, an armour which was beginning to dig into his flesh, rubbing it inexplicably raw. 

The heat trapped there with them in that space, insufferable, difficult to breathe. Roche would think he would surely develop gills for how thick and wet it was down here. There was no release from this level of hell, no light at the end of this tunnel for as far as his own eyes could see. And the journey was slow, the greenish experiences of new recruits here in the far western continent hindering any definitive progress. All were fearful, all were struggling to come to terms with the fact that they may never step foot on home turf again. 

That they would possibly die here.  This was not the life he would have chosen. This was not what war had been painted to be. A momentous pedestal for the strong and mighty, a prideful trial in the life of any man. Thus far Roche was yet to experience any of that. He came here to fight the good fight, not carry things over the country like some pack donkey. 

This wasn’t the picture of war painted for these men, and with every eruption of artillery beyond the cusp of the valley, they would flinch and cower, half expecting the battle waging there to crash through these very walls, but still they would press on. 

Because what else was there? Fight or die.      Fight or die.           Fight or die. 

Forever and a day did it feel like they had been travelling, whatever light could break through the opening of the valley beginning to dwindle, as the weight of the load upon the young infantryman's back would become almost unbearable, but they were closer than they were before, at least. That was until disaster struck. 

A gunshot, too close to be a mere echo, ricocheted across the valley floor, the infantryman to Roche’s left lurched forward, falling to the hard stone floor with a sickening thump eliciting only gasps of shock and horror from the others. And as the men stood around that body - a bullet wound to the throat as the man began to die, choking on his own blood and they too blindsided to even contemplate any basic first aid in the moment - desperately attempting to absorb what had just transpired… the time to truly react to enemy fire was long lost. 

The valley exploded around them, fissures cracking through the rock like bolts of lightning shooting skyward as the sheer force of the detonation sent Roche and his caretakers deeper into the trench. He lands, cargo and all, on his side, a sharp, piercing agony through the knee wrenching a cry from his throat. He cannot hear his own screams as instinct overrides all other senses and the basic training for this excursion finally begins to kick in while he starts to drag his heavy body forwards; reaching for the firearm he can barely see before him then. He hasn’t the time to consider his injury, not with men to protect, not with the cargo on his back, not with his eyes filled and stinging with dust, an insufferable ringing in his ears. 

The only sounds available to him right in that moment being the desperate drag of air into his own lungs and the thundering pulse throbbing in his head. 

Fight or die. 

                     ‘I can’t… I can’t die here… not here. Shiva I beg you, please no. NO!’ 

Fight or DIE.

Finally reaching the gun, still strapped to the body of one of his comrades laying dormant - dead or dying - in the debris, Roche, with whatever strength he had left, and sensing the rapid approach of Wutai soldiers to his rear, tore the rifle free, screaming his throat raw with this smallest of victories. 

Rolling onto his back, he would aim blindly into the fog, cocking the rifle and preparing to fire at anything which came too close; if this was how he would perish, barely fifteen years old and fresh out of basic training, hardly a life lived at all, then he would take at least one of the bastards down into the depths of hell with him!

But as he spied the shadows drawing near, the unmistakable whoosh of a blade could be heard, a new sound to accompany the remnants of the blast still assaulting his eardrums. 

Hands a quiver around the trigger of that gun, another strike in the settling dust, the distinctive sound of crunching bones and tearing flesh. Only the splatter of hot fresh blood on his face forced Roche to realise his helmet was missing, and instinctively he touches his cheek gingerly to spy the red fluid sticking to the leather of his gloves. Eyes wide, horrified until that shadow looms closer and the young blond’s focus returns to aiming his firearm at this newest threat. 

But he doesn’t offer a warning, only waiting for this thing to reveal itself from the dust. But with his hands shaking so terribly as they were right then… he would no doubt miss anyway.

#ghostofnibelheim #Thread: Relentless (MAIN) #kicking the hornets nest - THREADS #TW: Blood #TW: war mention #TW: death

[eldridgecandell]

😈 Summon a demon

Stone should never reflect light, but in the dank basement of Juniper Brant the candles did just trick in the damp room. The dirt floor mixed with the odd mildew scent from the walls to give an earthy aroma which could be enough unpleasant to cause one to know there was a leak somewhere. Of course the burning incense and myrrh splattered about did everything it could to aid in the smell.

The wax trickled slow and low among their wicks as the yellow flames danced only from the breath of the occupants within the cellar. A circle of chalk and animal fat had been draw in the center of the room, the occupants resting calmly within it as they did their best to hold still in the dark. Two figures sat naked and shivering in the homemade circle, bodies painted with lines to match the circle they had created earlier. The white lines of thick chalk paint traced shapes over their skin in odd patterns of proud, if not crude, symmetry. Each set of hands resting gently upon the other's knees as with heads bowed to sit in awkward silence with the odd box between them.

It didn't bear the same patterns as the drawings of their flesh or carry the glint of gold. It was just a small wooden box, perfectly square and made of the deepest red wood.

The box sat still.

"Tides this stuff stinks," Juniper muttered softly, her body shaking slightly from the cold.

"Shh," Robert, her companion, whispered back harshly though his eyes never left the box.

The woman wanted to apologize, but she bit her lip instead in fear of upsetting their fifth attempt any more. For the three months, Juniper Brant and her childhood beau Robert Salmin had been gathering in the basement of her family home in hopes of fixing the foul luck that had befallen their former fertile farmland. The summer's drought had come swift and terrible upon the weary pilgrims after a summer of unending sun with little to no rain to help what should be a thriving crop. Curses were not uncommon in this part of the world, but this was nothing of any witch's touch or warlock scorned. This was just simply nature punishing them.

And that had to change.

Robert had been the one to find the old book in the peddler's cart, a normal tome of sorts had only cost the young farmer a few silver pieces. The peddler none the wiser or caring for what was within it's pages. Salvation is what Robert called it upon combing through it's yellowed pages with hope and hunger in his heart as he read of the powers within. This could save them. Save the farms. Their families. Make him a hero. He just needed a partner.

Nostalgia is a hell of a drug and the old flames we hold in our hearts for first loves may dim but never fade. So when Juniper buried her husband among those dry fields, Robert had been at her side immediately. What likely should have been a coy and long courtship ended up with the pair finding sync in the dark not hours after the passing of the man Juniper thought would be her only one. She found herself to be quite lucky Robert felt the same.

A few weeks later and the book was revealed to Juniper who though skeptical felt entitled to help her new lover in his quest to save the farm. She listened to his teachings, read what passages he offered, and praised his process. He in turn gave her what her former husband could hardly ever give her when he was alive. It was a mutual and vibrant partnership.

But now was the time to act.

The first attempt had been a mess all around. The wrong chalk, too much blood, and far to much talking.

The second attempt had been nearly the same amount of mess, but they figured blood wasn't needed anymore after the last calf had stunk so bad.

The third attempt was half heart-ed for success and more about getting at each other, the book having been right about warning of 'carnal overload'.

Time had been the only thing that mixed up the fourth time as the window had closed with the dawning of the accursed sun.

Here was now the fifth. They had followed it to the letter. Beginning in earnest, keeping in rhythm, and reaching the point of no return as they sat among themselves painted the most base of mortal needs.

Now the box needed to merely open.

A soft sigh broke the silence.

"Robert?" Juni asked quietly as she brought her fingers to gently scratch at the skin upon his knees.

The man shook his head softly. "This isn't going to work."

"But we did everything right."

"I know, but I," Robert sighed again feeling the weight of his attempts drag down at his shoulders. "I don't think I'm strong enough to do this."

Juni's hand would lift gently from his knee now to touch his face, her touch warm to his cold skin as the cheek was stroked.

"You are so strong, my love," she spoke soothingly to him as she felt his skin beneath hers still as she smiled. "And brave. You have done so much for me and this community, no one can fault you."

"Or know to be honest," Juniper laughed as she continued to stroke his face, but he would not raise his eyes to hers. The laugh died as quickly as it came before she leaned forward from her spot, her face coming to nestle among his dark sweat damp hair. She breathed him and sighed, drought be damned she was in love with him. It was all she really needed.

He was all she wanted.

"Come on, Rob," Juni pressed her lips to his head again as she began to rise, her heart fluttering a bit as she did her best to coax him to his feet with the contours of her body. "We'll wash up and have a bit of fun before tomorrow. You'll feel better."

Rob's hand gently came to grab her hand, squeezing gently as he kept his face hidden.

Juni tilted her head softly as he grabbed her, his grip tight though not unnerving as she spoke again. "Rob?"

The grip grew tighter, as it moved up from her hand to her wrist. His thumb coming to press at the soft center space.

"Rob," Juni asked again, worry now growing her voice as she spoke quickly. "Rob you're hurting me."

The thumb pressed harder, his nail sharp and poking into the skin as he pressed harder. "Robert stop. Robert!"

Pain flashed through Juniper's arm as she reeled back from him, soft flecks of crimson floating through the air as she backed away from him. Her other hand flying to her wrist as she felt the warmth of her own blood coat the palm of her hand. "What the hell, Robert?!"

Robert's hand sat shaking in the air between them, his thumb dripping with the few droplets of Juni's blood as he slowly brought it down to the box.

The wooden box drank greedily.

"Robert?"

"I'm sorry," Robert whispered. "I love thee."

"Thee?" Juni asked softly as she held her wrist tight still. "What do you mean?"

It was then she found her feet past the circle and alone beyond him. Her skin growing colder. Her heart beating faster. "Robert?"

"I love thee," Robert repeated again. There was sorrow in the three words, but the power of them wasn't meant for her. His eyes were only for the box.

Again he said the three magic words. "I love thee."

The box began to twist, it's red wood glistening and writhing as it's shape expanded and stretched.

"I love thee," the words still filled with sorrow but triumph and pride hidden in plain sight. The crimson wood stretching more as protruding digits beckoned from the quickly thinning panels of the box, coaxing to him. Begging to him. Taunting to him. Applauding him.

Where once fingers had been now with the growing box, a jaw pushed forward among the creaking red. There was no sound yet, but the lips of stretched lumber could clearly be read.

Feed me.

Juniper never got to see what horrors her lover had planned, her body having already since slumped in the cold dark of her cellar. Mouth agape and drawn to match the empty sockets of her once soft brown eyes in frozen terror. The last words of Robert though would haunt the corpse of Juniper Brant for all eternity.

I love thee.

@nixalegos

#ask answered #summon a demon #beware the black rainbow #the box #order of embers #world of warcraft #wyrmrest accord #moon guard #roleplay