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nameless-shrimp · 3 years

Text

SILENCE || CHAPTER THREE

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x F!Deaf!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sexual content.

Notes: okay, finally. chapter three. sorry for the wait. i love gojo satoru. really much. okay, enjoy.

previous chapter.

He ran into you again.

Satoru was patiently waiting outside the gates of the school, wondering where Geto was so that they could both make their way to meet Yaga for whatever mission that they would be assigned to for the day. He sighed, kicking his feet against small pebbles on the sidewalk. He knew that he couldn’t be late for another meeting with Yaga, though he was very moody for some type of pastry.

Then again, knowing who he was, he wasn’t surprised at his sudden cravings. Not bothering to wait for Geto, he decided to make his way to the bakery that was a few blocks away from the school.

As he walked down the sidewalk, he glanced around his school. It really did look like a religious school, though the average human would think that, and then Satoru continued to whistle his thoughts away (ranging from wondering where Geto could be to figuring out the kind of pastry he was craving—so was it chocolate croissants or maybe, a pecan pie today?) despite the stares he’d get from people that would walk past him.

It didn’t take him long to reach the bakery, where Satoru opened the door to find that the bakery wasn’t as busy, most likely because it wasn’t a rush hour kind-of-time.

Not that he was complaining, though.

Satoru took out his phone, deciding to scroll through his past images of him and Geto grabbing dinner the other night. (Half of them were blurry, most likely because Geto was trying to take his phone away before the brisket was gonna burn on the grill).

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t have anyone that knows sign language.”

The voice was audible, and it was the usual old lady that ran the bakery that caught his attention. However, he trailed his eyes up, gazing his attention to the lady he recognized before he minded his own business and he opened up some messages from Yaga-sensei, and as per usual, it had to deal with exorcising grade two curses.

Christ, a lot of this was starting to become tiring; at least, it seemed like a lot of people knew that Satoru was the strongest since everyone began to rely on him.

Someone in front of him left their position in line, so Satoru moved up a bit, scrolling through his phone as usual. He bit his bottom lip, wondering if he should’ve brought some lollipops with him so that he could’ve kept his cravings at bay.

“I appreciate you typing out what your order is on the phone.”

He looked up once again after taking a few steps forward, not minding the person in front of him as he was browsing the pastries. It seemed like the croissants were freshly baked a while ago, as expected from this place—it was the best; donuts sounded like a good option as well too. Sprinkles, icing, or maybe some sort of jelly filled treat. It really made him itch for a sweet, and he felt himself wrinkling his nose at the tasty thought.

“Gojo Satoru!” The old lady perked her voice out loud and Satoru shot a grin, waving at the lady who had her usual pink glasses and a bright smile on her face. It seemed like the person next to Satoru shifted a bit as they were fiddling with their wallet, though it wasn’t Satoru’s business.

“Hey Yuki,” Satoru greeted. “I’m not sure what I’m craving for today.”

“Would you like to try a red bean donut?”

“I’d like something sweeter,” he grinned.

The old woman chuckled, her laugh vibrating a large aura of positive energy—something that Satoru had always admired. “It’s no surprise coming from you. I can even make you a crepe if you want, you know? Chocolate and bananas?”

“Ah,” Satoru held up his phone, checking if Geto had texted him of his whereabouts, but it seemed as if Satoru had no update. He tapped his foot, debating if he should stay for some time to eat.

The person next to Satoru had dropped a couple of dollar bills in the tip jar, earning a welcoming source of gratitude from the lady. However, Satoru’s thoughts were interrupted once the sound of plastic bags had fallen to the floor.

Satoru looked down to see the customer that was next to him bend down to pick up the bags of bagels. He bent down to pick up two bags—it seemed like this person liked cinnamon raisin and plain bagels—and handed them off to them. “Here you go,” he sent off a generous smile.

The person in front of him tensed up and looked up at him, their hood had fallen down to their shoulders.

And—his breath hitched.

He didn’t know why, but it did. He wasn’t expecting to see you here out of all places, and it seemed a bit far out from the neighborhood you saw him at. Though, Satoru shouldn’t question it, because he did run into you at the nearby convenience store.

“Oh, hey,” Satoru knocked some of the confidence back in himself.

You glanced up at him and though you couldn’t see the color that was hidden beneath the black shades that were nearly at the tip of his nose, you could tell that he looked a bit surprised as well too. And Satoru knew that he was. Perhaps that he didn’t expect to come in contact with you but it shouldn’t have mattered anyway, you were nothing but a stranger to him that bumped into him late at night or that you were kind enough to offer him chocolate once before. It wasn’t that big of a deal and Satoru knew better than that, or at least, he thought he did.

He cleared his throat, smirk growing as if confidence had punched his gut and he straightened up his posture. “Nice seeing you here,” and his smirk grew into a cheeky grin.

Satoru’s flirty side was already making its way out and you couldn’t help but feel warm to your cheeks. And there it was; the sight that Satoru admired because it always fed deep into his ego enough to make him have that boisterous and barbaric personality, only because he knew that he was gorgeous and beautiful and handsome and outstanding in his own way. Getting these kinds of reactions were lighting the fire to burn inside him more; that arrogance that everyone was annoyed by yet for some reason, it was a part of Gojo Satoru.

“Yuki,” Satoru called out to the baker behind the counter as he watched you place your bought items in the plastic bag quickly—almost like you were nervous. “I will pay for this one’s orders.”

“How kind of you, sweetheart,” the old lady perked up a genuine smile and Satoru winked at you, where you gazed up at him and came to the realization that he was way too damn tall.

After Satoru had ordered some donuts to eat, he decided to ask you to sit next to him near the large window that had a perfect view of the street on the outside. He rested his chin on the palm of his hand, gazing at the owners walking their dogs and the small Beetle vehicle that was parked outside of the bakery.

Every once in a while, Satoru gazed at you, and you’d be lost in your own head as well, staring out at the world that was outside of the window. He wasn’t sure if you were too nervous to speak to him—and he wasn’t sure where this nervousness came from, but he really wasn’t complaining; after all, he had this kind of effect on women, anyway—due to the fiddling of your fingers on your cup of coffee or the times that you bit your bottom lip, looking hesitant to even face him.

But Satoru couldn’t lie to himself. For some reason, he found himself a bit tense.

And it had to be because you never spoke a word to him after your previous encounters together. That had to be it.

Seriously.

“So,” Satoru broke the silence, tilting his head as he bit into the chocolate glazed donut. This caught your attention as you finally forced yourself to make eye contact with him—or really, you were just staring at black sunglasses, but close enough—and he pursed his lips. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You shook your head.

“I won’t annoy you with questions about it,” Satoru smiled politely at you before chewing the bite from the donut he took. “So,” he spoke with his mouth full for a moment before swallowing and continuing, “is there any way I can get to know you?”

You bit your bottom lip again and then reached for the phone that you had in your hoodie pocket. You began typing on the phone and then held it up for Satoru to see. His eyes adjusted to the bright screen as he read the text.

'My name is L/N Y/N. It’s nice to meet you. :)'

“Likewise,” Satoru responded, placing his donut down on the plate. “Gojo Satoru. We’ve ran into each other a few times before.”

You nodded.

“So you remember?”

You nodded again.

“At least I don’t look crazy, heh,” he chuckled awkwardly, unsure of how to properly have a conversation with someone that was not open to conversation. Satoru wanted to ask because he was used to having women touch his neck and beg for his attention all over, regardless of who it was—and there would be easy-going conversations here and there to break the ice, somehow.

But with you—clearly, you were different. And Satoru didn’t want to sound basic with that thought in his head. But you were—because you weren’t fucking speaking a word to him.

“Do you mind if I refer to your first name?” Satoru questioned, raising his brows. “You’re welcome to do the same to me—if you ever speak a word to me.”

You nodded, smiling a little bit.

Some progress was being made, at least.

“Y/N, I’m sorry if this offends you but—”

Before he could finish his question, you chuckled out loud, nearly spilling your hot coffee on the table and you waved your hand in front of him, trying to signal him to stop. You held up your pointer finger, informing him to hold it for a minute as you typed on your phone with your free hand quickly. Satoru raised a brow at this, but he knew that you were probably already answering his question—and really, he should’ve known you’d get asked this a lot.

You held your phone up to him.

'It doesn’t. Don’t worry. But I am deaf. I can’t hear.'

“Eh?!” Satoru fell back, completely confused by the text. He pointed at you while throwing his free hand in his tousled white hair. “H-Hold on, so how are you able to hear me?”

You fought back another chuckle before you turned to the side, parting your hair behind your ear where the visible sight of the implants in your ear were noticeable.

Satoru felt dumb. Because—duh, no fucking shit. Of course, hearing aids and cochlear implants existed.

“Oh, right,” Satoru pouted, pursing his lips playfully as he eyed the bakery in front of him. Suddenly, the green couches and the faint string lights were more of an interesting sight to admire—when really, he just felt pretty embarrassed. “My bad.”

You simply kept your smile and waved your hand around.

“So, do you not speak then?”

'I do. I just… don’t like the sound of my voice. I was born deaf.'

“I’m sure you sound cute,” Satoru grinned, completely satisfied with his compliment. And of course, you pushed your lips in a thin line and turned away, trying to hide the faint blush that was growing from your neck to your cheeks. The obvious light pink was a delightful sight for him to see; you didn’t realize it but you were definitely feeding his ego up, and Satoru liked it—a lot. “C’mon. You can talk to me, right?”

You bit your lip again and shook your head shyly.

He squinted his eyes a bit as he took note of your behavior. It seemed like you bit your lip a lot whenever you were in situations that made you timid. Satoru found this cute—or really, he wasn’t going to lie to himself, it was kind of hot. But he couldn’t say that kind of stuff to you, especially with how fragile you looked in front of him.

Satoru felt his phone vibrate and he realized that he received a message from Geto. With one glance, he realized that Geto had finally made it to the outside gates of the school.

He pouted. He wasn’t ready to leave you yet, but for some reason, he was interested in you. Satoru thought that you were someone he could play around with for some time—and yeah, maybe that was the move that he would be going for.

“Hey,” Satoru sighed deeply, pretending to act a bit disappointed—or well, he kind of was in reality, but he made it more dramatic than he really needed to. “Sorry Y/N. My best friend’s waiting for me somewhere. Do you think we can talk again?”

You nodded, smiling at him.

That bright smile of yours was contagious because he found himself smiling as well. It felt genuine, right, and he felt comfortable. Though no words ever came out of your mouth, he felt steady—which was good. It was a great start, actually.

“What’s your phone number? We should meet up more often,” Satoru suggested, a cheeky grin stretched out on his lips.

You exchanged numbers with him and he couldn’t lie to himself. He was thrilled—excited almost, and he wasn’t really sure why. Maybe it was because he scored himself another girl that he could possibly fool around with, but this wasn’t a surprise to Gojo Satoru. With that arrogant personality and beaming azure eyes that captivated the soul of others, he knew that he had it in him to get what he wanted.

Needless to say, the scent of freshly baked croissants never left his nose and for some odd reason, the picture of your smile couldn’t escape his head.

Once Satoru left the bakery, he was met with Geto, who was resting his back against the wall and he eyed his friend cautiously before he huffed a breath with a small smile on his lips. Clearly, he knew. “You got another girl’s number, did you?” Geto questioned.

“You got it.” Satoru snapped his fingers as he put his hands in his uniform pockets. “C’mon. You can’t act surprised.”

“Oh,” his closest friend rolled his eyes, dark hair swaying with the wind. “I’m not.”

“Really now?”

“Really.”

The mission was supposed to be quick and easy, at least that’s what Geto was informed about—and Satoru was informed as well. (But it wasn’t like the white-haired flirt even paid any attention to the messages or lectures that Yaga gives, anyway).

Staring up at the tall building in front of him, Satoru took one glance at his phone and scoffed at the messages from the previous girl he slept with, who was consistently texting him to come back to her place. He wasn’t interested anymore, clearly, and he had stated that numerous times.

Times like these were exhausting for him, but it made Satoru feel uneasy with himself, though he refused to admit it to himself no matter how many times he eyed himself at the mirror, admiring his own reflection but hidden beneath was someone that was afraid to open up about how he felt. And he always cared; it wasn’t like he didn’t—because he always did. It showed from his affectionate gestures with the women he slept with and how he’d always listened to them whenever they vented about their bad days before officially getting the chance to sleep with them.

Maybe he really was an asshole, toying around with their feelings. Yet, was he really? Satoru was lost in his thoughts—once again. The damn whirlwind of thoughts that seeped its way into moments when he needed to pay attention to the present the most, like the murmuring inaudible voice of Geto to his ears or feeling the presence of intense cursed energy coming from the building in front of him.

Geto turned to face his closest friend who was tucking his phone deep in his uniform pockets. “Another girl trying to hit you up again?” Geto asked, raising his brows.

Smirking to himself, almost as if he was the most charming prince, Satoru nodded and stretched out his arms. “Yeah, the last girl I fooled around with,” he explained before staring back at the building with the immense cursed energy that was radiating a few feet from the roof. “But it’s fine. I found someone else I can mess around with for the time being.”

Geto decided to take the first few steps to the building as Satoru followed behind. Geto shook his head and smiled to himself, allowing Satoru to furrow his eyebrows. “Can’t help but break more hearts, huh?”

“It's not my fault they fall for me. You know I always tell them I’m not someone that’s the commitment type,” Satoru scoffed. And Geto knew he was telling the truth too. “Hell, even you know that.”

“I know,” Geto responded. “You’re just something else.”

“What do you mean?” Satoru questioned, suddenly feeling a bit defensive.

“You’re a jujutsu sorcerer,” Geto stopped on his trail and then made a swift turn to face his friend with a serious look glued on his face. “You keep messing around with all these women. I know you don’t want a relationship, and you’re just being you but don’t play with me. Do these women even know that you’re a jujutsu sorcerer? Or, at least, you’re capable of the abilities that you have?”

Satoru didn’t say a word and he only looked away. Of course, Geto would question him, but now was not the time for a lecture. He shook his head and refrained from answering his questions, “we need to exorcise this little shit already,” Satoru groaned, walking forward.

“I’m talking to you,” Geto raised his voice.

“You’re not my parent,” Satoru huffed. “No, they don’t know. None of the girls I’ve been with knew about what I had or what I do or anything about me. I was just there to fuck and leave. I don’t even cuddle them or anything; I tell them these things. I always do.”

“It’s not about you telling them what you are and who you are and what you do,” Geto explained, crossing his arms. Seriously, Satoru couldn’t believe that this discussion was going on. He wanted this to wait for another time, but it seemed as if Geto didn’t have the patience—or rather, his mind was eager to know some things right here and there. “I’m curious. What if there is a time that you fall in love?”

Satoru held back a snort. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“It won’t. I can’t be in a relationship.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Satoru groaned loudly, where the noise was audible enough to echo in the abandoned hall of the building that they had walked their way into. “Who would want to date a jujutsu sorcerer?”

“Ouch,” Geto chuckled lightly, placing a palm on his heart. “Are you telling me that I can’t get any action then?”

“You know what I mean,” Satoru shook his head before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Unless the girl is a jujutsu sorcerer or can handle her own, then I can’t be in a relationship. Even if she was a sorcerer though, if she can’t be strong, then I don’t want her.”

“There you go, again.”

“What now?”

“Bashing on the weak,” Geto sighed, closing his eyes. “You understand that jujutsu sorcerers are here to help protect those that can’t see the curses or are too weak to exorcise them. But it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with it, man.”

“Look,” Satoru snapped, letting his frustration show in the tone of his attitude. “I don’t have time to protect and babysit my girlfriend—if I ever have one, okay? I’m sorry. I just—fuck, can we talk later?”

Geto had a smug look on his lips. “Nah, let’s talk about this now.”

“We need to exorcise this little shit or else we won’t hear it from Yaga-sensei.”

“I know, but I find this more interesting.”

“Why you—” Satoru shook his head and then placed both of his palms on his cheeks. He felt his face fall into a flushed state; he knew exactly why he wouldn’t be able to be committed, and part of the reason would be that he was someone that really couldn’t protect the weak forever, let alone the person that he may end up with long enough to call his soulmate.

If that ever happened.

Satoru knew who he was as a person; he wasn’t going to let anyone get in the way of who he was, mostly because he believed he wasn’t capable of being in a relationship. The strongest and the idea of continuously protecting someone who was weaker than him seemed exhausting. It was a selfish thought, though he couldn’t blame himself; he mostly worried about himself rather than worrying and caring for another that wasn’t him.

Despite the obvious selfish thought, Satoru couldn’t find himself to let anyone close to him get in any dangerous situations. Even though he knew that—hypothetically if he did love someone—he wouldn’t let that happen, but he didn’t believe anyone should grave themselves in any bit of danger that the jujutsu sorcery life held, let alone an innocent person.

“Fine,” Geto placed his hands on his shoulders and stretched out his back. He let out a tired yawn before he glanced up at the stairs ahead, where the walls were cracked and the paint was chipped. Clearly, the building had been abandoned for quite some time, and Geto looked at Satoru with a pleasing smile. “But tell me about this new girl you’re trying to mess with.”

“Can it wait?” Satoru whined, portraying a playful pout as he bit his bottom lip that quivered.

“I don’t think so.”

“Man, alright,” Satoru sighed, placing one of his palms on the back of his head. “She’s really cute. She doesn’t talk at all, really—actually, she’s deaf.”

“What now?”

“She can’t hear,” Satoru explained, pointing at his ears and mouthing out words.

Geto looked at him with an irritated stare, clearly, a vein was popping out from his forehead and he huffed, “I know what being deaf means. But how are you even talking to her?”

“She talks on her phone and types out the words,” Satoru explained, scratching his head. “She has these implants or something that she wears and she talked to me about it today.”

“I take it that she doesn’t have many friends?”

“Man, I really don’t know.”

“And you’re gonna fool around with her feelings like that?”

Satoru whined, placing his palms on his flushed forehead. “Can we please talk about this later or something? I don’t wanna hold back on this mission.”

Geto had a smirk grow on his lips. “You actually want to get some business done, hmm?”

“Shut it,” Satoru said as he gritted his teeth.

“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over.”

“Fine.”

At least for now the conversation was over.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru imagines #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen imagines #shrimp: fics #shrimp: silence.fic

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charlotte-balfours-garden · 3 years

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a memory

cw: graphic description of a dead body, death in general

[everything's on ao3 too]

-1880-

It was when his mother called him back to the house with an unfamiliar urgency in her voice that Eli knew he was now without a father.

He’d been playing out in the meadows with his dog for most of the day and was now resting in the shadow of the great oak tree, plucking daisies apart and tossing pebbles over the neighbor’s fence as far as he could.

He knew he should have been there by his side, but it was so, so hard.

Dad had already looked horrible when they had washed him and changed the sheets that morning, pale and drained, and he’d been too weak to even groan when they had rolled him onto his side.

After breakfast, Eli’s mother had gathered his sisters and him in the kitchen and carefully explained that daddy would likely be gone by nightfall, maybe sooner, and that they should try and make his last hours as pleasant as possible.

She had then sat down by his bedside and held her husband’s hand while Millie and Ada settled on the other side of the mattress and took turns telling him about their adventures down by the creek or in the neighbor’s garden. Eli had dropped in every now and then, but truth be told he found it unbearable to see his father like this, the man who had always been full of energy and kindness reduced to a sickly, sweating, empty shell, neither fully conscious nor fully unconscious.

So when he heard his mother’s call now, this was all the confirmation he needed. She wouldn’t have left his side if he was still alive. Eli told Sammy to stay put and hesitantly made his way over to the house, kicking off his too-big shoes by the door.

The bedroom door was open, the stink of sickness still heavy in the air.

It was too loud in the room. Ada sat weeping in a corner, his mother was sniffing into her handkerchief, bombarded with questions by Millie, who was far too young to fully grasp what was going on.

They shouldn’t be this loud. Barefoot, Eli walked up to the bed. Despite being a coffinmaker’s son, he hadn’t seen a great deal of dead bodies before, and especially not those of people he held dear. First thing he saw was a strangely shriveled hand resting on the white sheets. Eli could still make out some wood dust under the fingernails from when his dad had labored in his workshop a mere week ago, and in that moment he knew that this image would follow him for the rest of his life.

Eli thought that he looked very lonely in the big bed.

And why was his hand so wrinkly? He was barely 30. Granted, the rest of his father looked older too, the greyish skin pulled tightly over his skull, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes half open still, a flash of blue in the light of the afternoon sun seeping through the window.

Eli slowly reached out and followed the outline of his dad’s index finger with his own. A few days ago he would have sworn that he knew this hand by touch alone, anywhere, anytime, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“And now?” he asked into the room, too loud, every sound was too loud.

His mother went and opened the window (“For his soul to go on.”), then took Eli’s right hand and Millie his left, and like this they quietly stood in front of the bed for a while, until Millie grew bored and joined her sister in the corner, attempting to make her laugh through the tears, to little avail. Eli looked up to his mother. She held her head low, eyes closed, black braid falling over her shoulder. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t make out what she said, and he didn’t want to. Maybe she was praying, though he had never known his parents to be particularly religious. Maybe she was just saying her farewells. She squeezed his hand a few times as if to make sure he was still there, and Eli didn’t know what to do. What to say to his mother, to his father, the soul was surely gone by now anyway? How long could it take one to float the short distance from the bed over to the window?

He watched some dust specks dance in the sun, watched his sisters, anything to not look at the gaunt figure on the bed again, until the feeling of nausea he had successfully suppressed until now threatened to overcome him. Gasping, he broke free from his mother’s grip and made for the door, ran barefoot out into the fields, ran, ran, ran until his sides ached and his lungs felt like they might burst any moment.

Then he bent over and threw up his breakfast and the weight of a hundred stones in his stomach was finally gone.

He wiped his mouth and called for Sammy and together they made their way back to the old oak. In the distance he could see the neighbors working away in their vegetable garden and for a moment he wondered if he should tell them, but why would they care, and what could he say to make them understand?

He sat down on one of the tree’s knobby roots and began picking at his nail beds until they bled. He had heard from some classmates the final words of advice their dying fathers had given them: You’re the man of the house now, and take care of your mother, or alternatively the baby, or the business.

His father had said no such things.

He hadn’t said anything at all.

Within a week he had wasted away, and here Eli sat and would give anything for a handful of words from him, hoarsely uttered into his ear, preferably I’ve some gold buried up in the hills, or I never told you about your millionaire auntie in Saint Denis, or I’m proud of you, son.

It didn’t even matter, he just wanted to hear his voice one more time.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to focus on the tickling of grass between his toes, or the birdsong, or the flock of ravens over by the scarecrow, and eventually he resorted to scratching Sammy’s ears, made the soft fur his anchor.

What was a town without its coffinmaker?

Soon someone else would come and step in, a total stranger, and Eli wondered if his family would be allowed to stay in the little house that was connected to the workshop, but he knew it was unlikely.

Just last night he had dreamt that his father had bought him his first pocket watch at the general store, a beautiful silver thing, engraved with all kinds of flowers and vines. That would never happen now, but it reminded him of something.

“Come on,” he said more to himself than to Sammy, and in the warm light of the setting sun boy and dog ran down to the creek.

***

When Eli returned to the house, it was already dark.

He found the bedroom empty except for Millie, who sat on the floor and played with a wooden horse figurine.

“Where’s dad?” he asked.

“Mom and the doctor brought him to the workshop.”

Of course they did. They had no immediate family nearby that would want to come and see him, so why keep him in the bedroom any longer than necessary. He could see the reasoning behind that, he really could, but the fact that he was just gone so quickly and now laying in the cool, dark workshop all alone still felt like a slap in the face.

Eli looked down at the bluebells he had picked by the stream and laid them out on the nightstand when a strange thought struck him.

He will be buried in one of his own coffins.

Nausea clumped his intestines again. What if it would be one of the coffins he, Eli, had so eagerly helped to build? Had he polished a coffin lid, unsuspecting that it would later rot together with the ruins of his father, the ruins of his childhood?

Business had been going well lately, not good enough to put a significant amount of money aside, but good enough to feed a family of five, a dog and a mule, and Eli had often skipped school to help out in the workshop. A few weeks back, his father had even started to make allusions to Eli continuing the business one day, making him beam with pride.

But not so soon!

He was ten years old (though eleven next month) and could barely count to 100, let alone spell out more than his and his sisters’ names. He couldn’t build a coffin, he couldn’t even lift a plank of wood on his own. He was scared of the saws and the hammers and the nails, because he had seen what had happened to his dad’s left hand.

On the nightstand next to the flowers he saw his father’s old pocket watch, ticking on despite all. The chain was twisted, but the case was as polished as ever. He reached out to it but pulled back before the cool metal could touch his fingertips. He should wash his hands first.

“Where’s mom?” he asked, but Millie was lost in a world of her own.

He found his mother by the kitchen fire, cradling Ada in her lap and swinging gently back and forth in the rocking chair dad had built for her as a wedding gift. Ada was half asleep, exhausted from crying, and his mother had buried her face in her daughter’s curly hair, eyes closed, soft.

“Mom?” Eli stopped in the doorway, not wanting to disrupt.

She looked up, her eyes puffy and red, her braid mostly undone.

“Oh Elijah. I’m so sorry. Where have you been?” Her voice was too much.

“I--” he shrugged.

“Come here,” she said, and he did, slowly, the floor was like sand, like it wanted to swallow him whole.

And when he finally made it, when he fell into his mother’s warm arms, huddling against his little sister, something deep inside of him came loose, and he began to sob and shake and couldn’t make it stop.

And his mother stroked his narrow back and kissed the crown of his head and said It’s gonna be all right, we’ll be fine again and again and again, and as much as he wanted to, Eli didn’t believe a single word.

#there's probably a bunch of typos in this i'm very tired and still hungover from esc #but i have a long weekend and wanted to get something done #even if it's just 1700 words #rdo #rdo oc #red dead online #eli flanagan #my writing

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taesramenhair · 3 years

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Set Me Free [MYG]

The abbey has been a constant in Yoongi’s life: his home, his school, his workplace. Now it’s burning, pillaged by invaders - and it’s up to him to keep their relic safe. The strange man he meets at the high altar doesn’t seem to understand that, but he does understand staying out of harm's way.

word count: 5.7k // genre + rating: SFW (12)

warnings/tags etc: violence, injury, minor character death (unnamed characters), mention of corporal punishment, some Not Nice People, as you might have guessed - angst with a happy ending, monk!Yoongi (sort of), vague middle ages AU, religious imagery, religious references, mainly ft. Jimin but the others have a cameo at the end too. [This is my first fic so I'm not used to tagging - please, please tell me if I've missed something important!]

Masterlist

Yoongi never thought he’d be grateful for a childhood spent chasing chickens, but here he was. With the wind snarling around his reddened ears and loose pebbles rolling under his feet, he was immensely thankful that he’d always been given the outdoor duties. At the time, he’d hated it, of course, but it had built his stamina - and if there’s one thing you need when fleeing up a mountain, chased by murderous bandits, it’s the ability to run.

Not that he was going that fast anymore. The terrain was difficult, path narrow and winding, and the cut on his arm was distractingly painful. It wasn’t bleeding so much now, thankfully, but it throbbed with every beat of his worn-down sandals against the dusty rock. His one advantage over his pursuers was that he knew this path well and they didn’t. He had gained a lead on them in the twisting corridors of the abbey – his abbey, now nothing more than hollowed, blackened stone burning violently in the valley below – and left them scrabbling foolishly in the dense foliage at the base of the mountain. It wouldn’t be long before they made their way through, though, and he had to reach the top first. He had to make it to the altar.

A misjudged footfall coming around the last corner slid Yoongi into the floor, landing heavily on his left shoulder as the strap of his sandal broke apart. Every ache in his body rose now that he wasn’t moving, screaming up towards the bright midday sky even as he forced himself to let out nothing louder than a pained groan. He couldn’t let them know anything was wrong. Let them think he was safe. Let them think he was long gone.

Testing his shoulder with a gentle roll – ah, painful – the young acolyte turned onto his knees and rose shakily. The broken sandal was all but useless, barely staying on his foot as he stepped forward. This high on the mountain, though, the ground was harsh and stony, the only foliage being the flowering apple tree next to the altar Yoongi couldn’t yet see but knew was just over the next rise. He’d have to hobble to keep the shoe on but it was preferable to tearing the sole of his foot on jagged stones. If only he hadn’t given his best shoes as an offering, he thought bitterly – and then instantly chastised himself. The gods had ben pleased with that offering, had taken it quickly and sent plentiful rains in response. It had been a worthwhile sacrifice, even if he was now struggling to reach sanctuary.

A noise below told him the bandits had broken through the tree cover already. They were gaining on him. He hobbled faster.

No one had expected an attack that day. Yoongi had been by the stream when it started, bathing his battered hands in the cool waters, breathing in the dews of the spring day and hoping they would sweeten his tears.

(It had been his turn to watch the blessed fire, but he had been sick all week and the abbot had caught him sleeping at his post. The welts of his punishment would linger for a few days: they always did.)

Hearing the tower bells had pulled Yoongi from his mournful reverie – it was not yet dawn, and those bells should not have been ringing. Something was terribly wrong.

Cold grey stone was already dripping red warmth by the time Yoongi reached the doors to the place he had called home since his seventh winter. Prayerful silence had given way to terrible screams, like the great oaken entrance had buckled beneath the force of the invaders’ battering. Centuries of monastic tradition was no match for the terror of a freshly forged blade baptising itself in the blood of the aged brothers, it would seem.

He could have run there and then, abandoned it all to its inevitable oblivion and fled towards the slowly rising sun. There were things he had grown to value there, though, lessons that had been drummed into him by chant and fast and blood. To run with no attempt at saving the abbey’s great treasure would be an insult to the gods too grave to contemplate. Sure, he would survive – but it would not be a life worth having, cursed to his final breath.

So he had waded through the wails of his brothers, the dying agony of those who had raised and formed him, taking the hidden passages to reach the inner sanctum before the newcomers did. They seemed to plunder aimlessly, unaware that there was only one prize worth having within the abbey walls, more valuable than the golden triptychs or the silver-wrought chalices. For the blessed fire – the one Yoongi had been punished so harshly for failing to attend – burned to light the presence of a great relic: a priceless stone that betokened the favour of the gods. That favour had passed now from the vaulted corridors of the abbey it had settled on for centuries, that much was clear. Even so, as Yoongi crawled past the death-closed eyes of the kind, wizened man he had once playfully addressed as halabeoji, he knew the stone must be preserved and taken to the high altar until the gods chose to bestow it anew. If he could just get it there, he could beg their protection in return – he could beg preservation from the terrible fate that had fallen out around him.

Now, finally dragging his trembling limbs over the last mound, Yoongi saw the goal he had been fighting towards since daybreak. Half-shrouded in bruised blossoms from the apple tree stretching lazily by its side, the high altar basked in afternoon sunshine, dark stone glistening where droplets from the nearby waterfall had lost their way. He had seen it many times, in all weathers – sent far up the mountain in deepest winter to offer penance for a drifting mind; honoured to represent the community in late summer and give thanks for a bountiful harvest. Always the end of his journey and always a place of refuge. Looking at it, he could almost forget about the horrors he had seen. It was almost relaxing.

Only almost, though. Not only was he aware of the toll his journey had taken – not to mention the danger still snapping at his blistered heels – but when Yoongi looked at the altar today, he saw something he had never seen there before.

A young man – small, lithe, delicate – was sitting on the altar, back against the sacred tree. He was a vision in the dappled light, so beautiful next to Yoongi’s swollen eyes, bloodied robes and dusty feet. Looks were deceiving, though, and apparently Yoongi was to add another sacrilege to the list of crimes committed against everything he held dear. The man, damn him, was eating the offerings left upon the altar for the gods. Had he had more energy, Yoongi could have burst into tears at the sight.

“What are you doing?” he cried, voice cracking and distraught. “Get off! Go away! Those are offerings, we need them! I – please. I need the gods’ favour. Go away!” The boy did little more than blink at Yoongi and tilt his head slowly to the left. A child-like hand raised a flask of blessed water – blessed water – to full, pink lips and Yoongi choked on air, disbelieving.

“There are no gods here, silly.” A soft, high voice came from the young man, sure and unconcerned. “Only me.”

Angry tears did slip from Yoongi’s eyes then. How dare this – this boy say such things? Yoongi had not endured the destruction of his home for some spoiled brat to anger the gods and leave him defenceless and a failure. Marching towards the altar, he bowed quickly and muttered an apology to the tree before taking a firm grasp of the boy’s black hair and yanking him down unceremoniously, heedless of the responding cry.

“I am the last acolyte of the abbey and I will not have you defile this altar and the offerings left to our gods.” His speech would have more impact if he weren’t gasping through tears and physically shaking, but Yoongi was doing his best. “We have been beaten and burned and murdered today and I am here to return the stone of favour to the gods for safekeeping and beg their protection from the evil that has pursued me all day and you – how dare you treat this place with so little respect?” Wide eyes and a soft pout looked up at him from the ground, the boy not having moved from where Yoongi had thrown him. He realised that the ground was still harsh here and felt a little bad – even if he was a sacrilegious blasphemer, this boy seemed a couple of years younger than Yoongi and the fall must have hurt him. Still, there were more pressing matters at hand. Yoongi did his best to rearrange the remaining gifts on the altar (so few, the boy must taken so much of it, the gods would be displeased) and placed the stone carefully in the centre before dropping stiffly to his knees. Wiping his tears and bowing his head to the ground, he muttered out a series of chants and then sat back on his heels, chin lifted to the skies and streaming eyes closed against the light.

“Great gods above, hear my call,” he declared, loudly as his ragged throat allowed him. “We know not why you have withdrawn your blessing from us. We thank you for having granted it at all, for letting us live such charmed lives for you for many years. We return now your stone. Please retain your grace in it and bestow it anew upon others. Do not abandon us all, oh great ones. Hear me when I call to you, worthless as I am. Do not forget us all.” His voice faltered and Yoongi tipped his head forward again, barely managing a whisper. “I ask your protection. Please. I know I have not served you perfectly, but I have tried so hard. I wanted to please you. I want to deserve your favour. You’ve always answered me so graciously – and I know better servants have died horribly today, but please. I don’t want to die. Protect me.” The thunderous footsteps of the bandits started to reach his ears and Yoongi gasped, pressing his face desperately to the ground once more. A soft noise behind him reminded him he was not alone and he spoke again. “Protect us both.”

For a few moments there was silence, and then Yoongi heard the stones to his left shifting quickly, as though someone were running towards him. He tensed, still bowing before the altar and praying that somehow the gods would protect him. A pair of hands grabbed his upper arms and pulled, and he couldn’t help but let out a sob. He knew he had never deserved anything from the gods, but he had hoped so dearly that they would spare him.

“It’s just me, acolyte, get up.” The words filtered through his distress like thick cream through muslin, slow and awkward. He couldn’t quite grasp them. “We have to go, now.”

“Can’t,” he stuttered out, managing to open his eyes and twist away from the young man’s grip, crawling back towards the altar. “I have to be here. The gods –“

“The gods won’t help you.” Though his words were harsh, the man looked concerned, reaching a hand out towards Yoongi again imploringly. “Let me help you, please. Come with me. They’re close now: we have to go.” Yoongi knew he was telling the truth – he could hear voices as well as footsteps now, could almost hear the singing of the blades he knew the bandits were carrying. But he couldn’t leave the altar – could he? It had always been his safety and it was the last remains of his abbey – his faith. He had run this far for the gods. If he ran further, for himself, did that make him a coward? Would he have betrayed them all? Would he prove himself as unworthy as the abbot had always told him he was? Teary-eyed and shaking, he set his mouth and looked the young man right in the eye.

“Save yourself if you can. I cannot leave.” It had the desired effect. The man nodded curtly, stood and began to leave, pausing by the altar as he did so.

“Fine,” he called back. “But I’m taking the rest of this food with me. No point letting it go to waste. This stone is pretty, too. I don’t know about it being blessed or anything, but I think I’ll take it.” Sure enough, he picked it up, tossed it in the air and pocketed it with a stunning smile that all but closed his eyes. Then, he started simply sauntering away, all sense of urgency gone.

He’s baiting me, Yoongi thought. He hadn’t managed to convince him to leave on his own, so he was taking the stone like some sort of carrot, hoping Yoongi, like a donkey, would follow. Yoongi half wanted to be stubborn, to sit there and die like a fool just to prove that he had a stronger will than this brattish stranger presumed. The louder part of him, however, was relieved at having been given permission to abandon the altar, a reason beyond self-preservation to stand up and follow him to safety. He couldn’t leave the stone of favour in the hands of someone with so little respect that he would lean against a sacred tree and eat the gods’ offerings with his feet on their altar. Impossible. It was his sacred duty to stagger up and stumble after him, calling chastisements as loudly as he dared and trying to match pace when the stranger sped up, leading him around the corner from the altar to a hidden path he had never thought to look for.

The altar was at the top of the mountain path – Yoongi had never considered that there might be other paths down beyond it. It was the destination, the end of the line. Going further just wasn’t something he’d ever considered, and that this man was leading him like it was second nature was the last straw for him. Lost in a haze, he followed wordlessly, almost blindly, the ache of his arms and his legs and his feet whispering somewhere but barely decipherable through the thick fog of his mind. At some point they entered a dark tunnel and the young man took his hand gently, perhaps aware of how feeble Yoongi’s grip on awareness was. Between the soft touch and the pressing darkness around him, Yoongi let himself go.

Waking up again was a far less pleasant experience than drifting off had been. It wasn’t a slow rise to the surface, lazy and comfortable like waking to a summer dawn – it was a sudden dive from absolute nothingness into decided somethingness. All at once Yoongi was aware again of the stiffness in his calves and the ache of his arm; the throb of his head from a week of sickness, a lack of sleep and the dehydration of having cried his frustrations out on the mountaintop. The fog lifted and he sat up quickly, huffing softly through his nose as the movement made his stomach lurch and his vision swim. He could remember being annoyed at a bright smile, and fluffy, black hair disappearing into a tunnel – and the stone! Right, yes. Dangerous bandits, bratty stranger, following the stone. That’s what had happened.

“There’s some water next to you – you should drink it,” he heard the stranger say from somewhere off to his right. Yoongi glanced around him, twisting on the bed roll laid out in his corner of what seemed to be a small, wooden room. Sure enough, there was a whole pitcher of water beside him. After a few seconds of blinking at the floor failed to magic a cup into existence, Yoongi picked it up and hesitantly tilted it against his lips. The water was lukewarm and hardly counted as refreshing, but he hadn’t had anything to drink since the abbot had woken him before, well, everything and his throat was grateful to be soothed.

“What did you do with the stone?” Even after a few mouthfuls of water, his voice was deep and gruffer than he had meant it to be. The stranger just giggled and Yoongi managed to make out his shape in the low light, sitting against the opposite wall.

“Don’t worry, acolyte. It’s safe here. I’ll give it to you in the morning, if you like.” Yoongi grumbled and the stranger laughed again. “You know, you were cute when you were half asleep. All whiny, like a kitten.”

“I’m not a kitten.” (He had a vague notion that his mother used to call him that. He hadn’t seen her for years, not since she had given him away in the hope of pleasing the gods and bringing a good harvest. Maybe he had dreamed it up. He certainly hadn't had a nickname since joining the abbey.)

“Who are you, then?” The question took Yoongi by surprise and he cleared his throat as he shifted back a little, resting against the wall behind him and drawing his knees painfully up. From the feel of the fabric under his fingertips, he was still in his robes from earlier and whilst he was relieved that the stranger had not undressed him, he desperately wanted to be clean. He wondered whether there was any chance of getting a bath, just soaking in hot water and letting it steam away everything that had happened. Probably not.

“Yoongi,” he said shortly. “Who’re you?”

“My name’s Jimin. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” Yoongi didn’t like where this was going.

“Hyung!”

“No.” He thought he could see a flicker of a pout and was glad of the cover of darkness. Living around older monks meant he hadn’t really been exposed to much cuteness – he hadn’t been anyone’s hyung ever– so he didn’t think he’d be able to hold out against it. At least if he couldn’t see this Jimin’s face, the only thing he had to resist was the whining that started up immediately.

“I saved your life, let me call you hyung!”

“You desecrated my altar!”

“I told you, Yoongi-hyung, there are no gods here! If the altar’s not really sacred, how can I have desecrated it?” That stung worse than the other injuries vying for Yoongi’s attention. He had devoted his life to serving the gods. It was all he had known. He had put up with long nights and early mornings for years, allowed the other monks to literally beat him into shape, all in the hope that it would appease some deity with the power to improve people’s lives - and now this clueless boy wanted to tear it all into pieces.

“There are gods, Jimin-ssi. We have left them offerings for centuries, and they have always taken them and given what we asked for in return.” He thought he heard a snort, and it was his turn to pout.

“Like what, hyung? When have the gods taken something and given something in return? How would that even work?” Yoongi didn’t have to think.

“Last autumn. The rains were late so the farmers were worried the fruits wouldn’t ripen properly and they would have to feed their livestock from reserves, which might mean they would run out before the frosts ended. I’d been working on a new pair of sturdy boots all year because mine had fallen to pieces, but we needed an offering, so I brought them up to the altar and left them there. Two days later, the rains started, and the boots were gone. We gave the boots; they gave the rains.” He sounded smug. He knew he sounded smug, but he also knew he was right. Traditions existed for a reason, and the abbey existed because it worked. It helped. The monks prayed and trekked up the mountain to offer sacrifices because the gods listened to them and protected their people. Or at least, they used to.

“Oh.” There was the sound of shuffling across the room, and then a hiss as a flame was struck. Yoongi blinked blearily as Jimin lit a candle, picked something up from the floor and shuffled over, nearly tripping on the long, woven blanket he had wrapped around his narrow shoulders. “Um, Yoongi-ssi – those boots, they, um. Well. They didn’t look like this, did they?” Kneeling next to Yoongi’s bed roll, Jimin lifted the candle and proffered a muddy pair of boots with his other hand. Slightly crooked teeth worried his lip as he waited for the acolyte to respond. Yoongi took the boots reluctantly, fingering over the caked mud and peering closely. He couldn’t see much, in truth – and he had only ever felt his boots when they were brand new, unworn. His fingertips didn’t recognise these ones, leather both soft with wear and rugged from the elements. Guiding Jimin’s hand closer to gain more light, he turned them over and picked at the dirt dried into the arch.

“You’re terrible at looking after boots,” he muttered as a large clump came away in his hand, revealing the sole. Jimin didn’t respond. The last bit of mud fell to the floor and Yoongi coughed on a harsh sob. There, tucked next to the heel, was the mark Yoongi put on all his things.

“I’m so sorry,” Jimin whispered as Yoongi’s eyes drifted blankly to the wall beside him. “I didn’t realise you had offered them up. I always – ever since I was tiny, there have always been things there and we always took them, so I thought they were meant for us. I thought you all knew we were taking them. I thought you were looking after us.”

“You’ve been taking the offerings for years?” Maybe if he asked the question quietly enough, the answer would be different. It wasn’t.

“All my life. Yoongi-ssi, I’m so sorry. My parents showed me and when they were gone - I guess I didn't think about it. I didn’t know it meant anything until you shouted at me earlier, and then I thought you were just being… I don’t know. Sanctimonious?” Yoongi huffed, still not looking at the younger man.

“Big word.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry it wasn’t what you thought – but those offerings didn’t go to waste. We’d have died here without them.” A silence stretched tensely between them, Jimin left without words to explain himself and Yoongi winded by how abruptly his world was turning itself inside out. Apparently, it wasn’t enough that he had lost everything that had ever been familiar to him. He also had to have his faith shaken and his understanding of how the world worked ripped out from under him. There was only really one thing to do.

“I’m going to sleep,” he mumbled, curling up to face the wall even though it meant lying on his wrenched shoulder. Behind him, he heard Jimin place the candle on the ground and move the boots – his boots? Yoongi’s boots? it didn’t matter anymore – away.

“Hyung,” came the soft voice again as a small hand reached over his hunched shoulder, “here. I think you should keep this. We can talk again in the morning.” Firm fingers prised Yoongi’s hand away from his side and pressed something cool and round into his palm. The stone, he thought. There is still the stone. He fell asleep with it pressed against his chest, safe.

They didn’t speak the next day. In fact, Yoongi gave Jimin the silent treatment for three weeks, only staying with him because the heavens opened during the night and refused to close again for long enough to allow Yoongi to even hope to venture off the mountainside. He didn’t have anywhere to go in any case – and whilst he was furious with Jimin and completely lost without his routine and the guidance of the other monks, he knew being somewhere warm and dry, with a reliable source of food and someone to offer to massage his aching shoulder was better than dying in a ditch somewhere from stubbornness.

(He never accepted the massage offers, of course, but it felt nice to know that someone cared enough to ask.)

When the rains finally cleared, Yoongi had Jimin show him the way back up to the altar. The blossom was all gone now, flushed away by the rain, but the leaves were strong and the waterfall babbled happily. Yoongi didn’t think the tree would fruit this year, since the flowers hadn’t had time to set before the storms, but it still stood. The altar still stood. That was something.

Sitting on the edge of the mountain, he could see the charred ruins of his home below – joined now by more ruins to the west. Though they hadn’t found him, the group who had attacked the abbey had travelled back down the mountain and continued their rampage, working through the nearby villages and taking what they could. Bright sunshine was no remedy for such heaviness, and Yoongi felt his face crumple watching the birds fly down towards the blackened remains of thriving communities. Maybe Jimin was right and there never were gods – maybe it was better that way. To think that they had been abandoned to such death and ruin hurt more than believing they had never been blessed by anything more than good chance in the first place.

“Hey, hyung – look!” Jimin called excitedly from the waterfall, oblivious to the destruction right below him. Jimin, it turned out, had never really come down off the mountain. His parents had retreated to a small cabin in a hidden glade after a particularly nasty feud with a distant cousin, and he had been raised in near solitude. He knew about the villages, of course, but he had never been to one. Their loss was a sad idea to him, but no more than that. Flowering daisies were all it took to distract him, and he sought to do the same for Yoongi, even if he was ignored.

“Hey, Grumpy-hyung! I saved your life, you know, you can at least pretend to be interested when I try to show you the finer beauties of this world!” A thought struck Yoongi, finally back in the place where he had thought for certain his life would end. It hit him hard enough to make him gasp, head tilting up to the sky so quickly that Jimin forgot his flowers and came rushing to see what the matter was.

“You’re wrong!” he declared as soon as Jimin settled beside him, before the younger boy had even spoken. “You’re wrong.”

“Something tells me you’re not talking about daisies.”

“There are gods.” Yoongi brought his chin down again and looked at Jimin straight, eyes still red from his tears but perfectly sure. “You said there weren’t gods. There are.”

“Um. Ok.”

“There are. I asked them for their protection and they protected me.” Jimin’s brow crinkled a little and his eyes followed Yoongi’s movement as he stood and paced to the altar, one hand reaching out gently to touch the bark of the apple tree.

“I mean, not to be pedantic, but I protected you, hyung.”

“Sure.” Yoongi had never admitted that before, no matter how much Jimin wheedled for acknowledgment. He figured either this was a minor miracle or the pressure had finally cracked him. “I’ve been coming up here for fifteen years, Jimin-ah. All times of day, all seasons, all weathers. I’ve never seen you. None of us have. And then the one day I need someone to be here, when I’m being chased and I’m completely alone for the first time in my life - you’re just sitting on the altar." For the first time, Jimin saw Yoongi smile – a bright, full-toothed, gummy thing that lit up his eyes and transformed his face. “Like an offering. We gave them offerings, they gave them to you – and then they gave you back to me.” When Yoongi chuckled and leant against the tree, Jimin couldn’t help but giggle as well.

“I don’t think that’s compelling theology, hyung, but if it makes you happy, you go ahead and think that.”

“Just admit it, Jimin-ah. You’re wrong. The gods exist and they’re here and they care and we’re going to be alright. Just you wait.”

It had taken two years for the invaders to take everything they could from the land, and three more for life to start again once they abandoned it to decay. Now, though, from his rock on top of the mountain Yoongi could see white smoke rising from chimneys once more, could follow the path of trundling carts along the roads between each growing settlement. He had taken Jimin down there a few times, to see how the people lived and to do what he could to help them. Although the abbey and the men who had raised him were gone, the skills he had learned remained and he had a lot to offer. If in time it meant he could earn a little money and make life a bit easier, that was a blessing too.

Life with Jimin had taken some time to adjust to. He had considered leaving after his revelation, heading north in the hopes of finding a new monastery and enfolding himself once more in the familiarity of an ordered life. He'd got as far as packing a small bag of food and reclaiming his boots from Jimin. When he had put them on to leave, though, it had all felt wrong. Officially, the boots had worn to Jimin's feet already and Yoongi refused to make a long journey in uncomfortable shoes. Jimin had accepted that excuse without fuss, thrilled to keep his companion, but they both knew that wasn't the real reason. After all, Jimin had watched Yoongi stumble into a mountain clearing with a sword wound on his arm, a dislocated shoulder and a broken sandal all for the sake of a small stone. Uncomfortable boots were hardly going to stop him leaving if he really wanted to.

For whatever reason, he had elected to stay, to learn how to live with just one person for company and without orders and punishments and bells to mark his day. Chasing chickens was also useful for catching rabbits, it turned out, and he taught Jimin the skills he needed to find food now that there weren't regular offerings to pilfer. Jimin taught him to dance, and sang real songs to him. He taught him to laugh again, and if anyone were to suggest they be parted now, he would probably growl at them and pull his dongsaeng behind him for protection.

The altar would always be special to him. When the weather was good, Jimin would often find him up there long past dark, listening to the waterfall or leaning against the tree. One autumn, he even convinced him to sit up on the altar itself.

("Hyung," he had whined, "don't leave me up here alone. If the gods didn't like it, they would have struck me down years ago. Live a little."

"Brat," Yoongi had muttered in reply, hiding his smile even as he climbed up onto the stone. Since he was yet to be blasted to smithereens, he figured he was alright to keep doing it.)

It was there that he was sat the day the monks returned to the mountain. The afternoon sunshine was lazy, winding its way through the apple tree's branches and kissing its growing fruit softly. Yoongi had brought a cushion and was leaned back against the tree trunk, legs stretched out across the altar and mind drifting when an outraged shout made him open one eye and smirk.

"Yah!" a tall stranger exclaimed, pulling his robes up with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other as he strode purposefully towards Yoongi. "Get off of there! Get down! That's a sacred altar!" Behind him was a group of four men, two looking nervous and carrying large baskets of food and one cradling a ceramic pot like it was glass while the last glared at him. Yoongi thought the glare might have something to do with the fact that the pot was missing one handle - which he located in the glarer's hand. Good to know every monastery had its own god of destruction.

"I take it you are the monks in charge of rebuilding the abbey?" Yoongi drawled, crossing his feet, completely unbothered by the new arrivals. Their leader halted in his striding, pulling his head back slightly in confusion.

"Uh - yes. That's us." One of the food bearers turned to the other with wide eyes, but received no more than a shrug in response. They looked very young - Yoongi hoped they were close. He thought he saw the one holding a pot begin to say 'hyung' and stop sheepishly when his hyung's heart-shaped mouth frowned even harder. Cute.

"Excellent." Hopping off the altar, Yoongi pulled a string from around his neck and took the stranger's hand. Unfurling crooked fingers, he placed the object in his palm and patted his shoulder familiarly, smiling at the gawk he got in return. "You'll need this, then. I've had it these past five years and I've been more blessed than I ever thought I would be. Guard it well, brother." He turned to walk away as the leader looked behind him, proffering the stone to one of his followers and saying, "Namjoon-ah, is this -" The answering gasp suggested they knew exactly what the stone meant.

"Oh, by the way," he called back at the corner where the path down to his and Jimin's cottage started. "If you ever need anything, just come here and leave a note. My friend and I will be happy to help. You never walk alone." With a soft smile, he disappeared around down the mountain and left them to their offerings.

(And if Jimin bounced home that evening with fine wine in a pot with a broken handle - well, Yoongi wouldn't be surprised.)

#fic #my work #is it obvious i know nothing about graphic design teehee #yoongle boongle #ft. maknae hyung #ok serious tags now #angst #fluff #min yoongi #park jimin #min yoongi fic #bangtan fanfic #bts #bts suga #bts jimin

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

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CYOA: Gotcha

“I was invited directly. If you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”

You deliver this line with utmost confidence. This man was a waiter, someone who would be beneath a rich, young aristocrat like you were pretending you were. You were also a hybrid and was only briefly surprised that the waiter was one as well.

You could thank Chu Zihang later for exposure to what a truely frightening bloodline purity was like. This guy, while a hybrid, didn’t give off nearly the same shockingly inhuman aura as him.

The waiter let out a quiet hmph at your poise, but he still hesitated briefly, putting the business card down on the booth and walking away. “Please wait here.”

You see him disappear further into the restaurant, behind the dark wood counter of a bar. He picked up a phone and dialed the number. As a hybrid you had a much higher auditory sense than a normal human and could hear the conversation.

“Stravinsky brought a guest. This is a sensitive meeting. Did he say anything about it?” A pause. “Not sure. This person not one of us.”

The waiter nodded once and hung up the phone. He picked up a menu and wordlessly beckoned you inside. You can finally see the spacious interior. A live jazz band was playing, a svelte women in a skimpy gown crooned into microphone on a small stage. The tables were shrouded in darkness and cigarette smoke.

You’re led to a large round table and you and Stravinsky recognize each other right away.

With him other men in business attire were seated. You assume that they’re hybrids as well. They eye you with moderate annoyance. One that looked Asian ignored you completely. Another a women with mahogany colored skin, gave you the flash of the whites of her eyes, stood up and left the table.

You get the distinct feeling that you’re not welcome here but you have no choice but to wade into this river full of crocodiles.

“I guess it’s a little late for introductions.” You hand Stravinsky your business card with your fake ID on it. Your name, a made up entity called Alpha Corp. Supposedly, you’re a successful software engineer.

Stravinsky pockets it without looking at it. “Gentlemen, where are your manners? Don’t tell me that we’re closing recruitment now that we’re so close to our goal.”

Your ears perk up and you look around, more intently now.

The Asian man finally gives you a bit of attention. “I kind of feel sorry for you. You were probably expecting a business opportunity. But this is a religious meeting.”

You look him straight in the eye and reply quickly. “What’s the difference?”

Stravinsky snorted with laughter, ducking his head. “Do I know how to pick them or what? I caught this young blood bidding 50 million on the Eye of Horus. Don’t be so close minded. We are all clearly a believers in the power of the gods.”

He leaned forward. “Besides, I’m in need of a play-tester for a very important game.”

His eyes sparkled in the dark as he gazed at you, not as an equal but like a predator, eying prey through the bars of a cage, imagining all the things he would do to you once he got his claws into you. You’d have to be careful.

“Tell me the details you want, but shouldn’t we introduce ourselves first?” Names, contact information... these were what Chu Zihang told you to acquire.

“We don’t use our real names here.”

The smartly dressed black woman returned to her seat and you nod to her. She flicks her eyes at you and says nothing.

“This is Amber Isle.” He says nodding to the woman. “This is Agate Image.” he says of the Asian man.

As he introduces the people in turn, you immediately notice a pattern. The inclusion of a precious stone and the letters A.I. You file that away for later.

“And what’s your religion?”

“You should know the answer to that, if you’re in here.” Stravinsky lifted a bottle of wine and poured it into a glass to offer it to you. “Hybrids... they have a certain smell. Yours is faint... but it’s definitely there.”

“You’re going on like that? It’s a little embarrassing.” You take the wine.

Agate snorts. “If its embarrassing for you, imagine how it is for us. We’ve told him again and again, stop bringing his new hires to high level meetings.”

“I want to let them know what working with us has to offer.” Stranvinsky took on a wounded tone. “You don’t think its effective? It’s far more effective than your habit of picking them up off the street.”

He sounded pretty proud of himself. “And if I agreed to your game, what would you do?”

You obliquely reminded him that you haven’t agreed to anything yet. You need more information.

The woman next to him was strangely silent but she wasn’t ignoring you any longer, but watching you like a hawk. Her eyes were sharp. She didn’t trust you and that much was obvious.

You take a sip of the wine, meeting her eyes.

“Ah. Remember what I said about defeated death at the end of the game? What if it wasn’t a game? What if it could actually be done?”

“Immortality is a fairy tale...”

“And yet every major religion preaches about it doesn’t it?” Stravinsky says slyly. “And we know what group who has perfected the art.”

“You’ve figured out dragon egg-making?”

You squint your eyes in shock. After the 4 kings were created, they were split into pairs. Both twins were born from special eggs. This combination of Alchemy and Technology was a mystery to even the oldest of Hybrids. So long as the dragon could make an egg after birth, once it died it could be reborn into the world. The only way to kill a dragon king was after birth, preventing it from creating its egg.

“You’d still have to be a dragon to do it. And you’re just a hybrid. No offense.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to believe it just by my say so.” He slid his cellphone forward and you hone in on it. There’s a video playing. A bright complicated alchemical circle, runes and what looks like an urn. “Is that an authentic dragon egg?” You ask, but you’re really focused on a certain icon. A text message has been received.

You reach for the phone as though to hit pause and accidently swipe down. A text message and a phone number catch your eye. But you pretend its a mistake and pause the video to examine it.

Stravinsky takes the phone back however. “Do you believe me now?”

“I do...” You say cautiously, while you mentally record the phone number you just saw in your memory. “How many others are involved in this?”

“Many? To know more, we’ll need you to agree to be one of us.”

You look at the other members of the table all of them scowling at you.

“Is this solely your decision?” You ask.

“You��ve already seen too much. I’m afraid we can’t let you leave.” Agate moves his jacket slightly to the left to reveal the gun hidden at his chest. “Sorry. It’s not much of a choice.”

Stravinsky scoffed. “For the rich and the strong, there is always a choice. I swear, you think you’re still part of the Yakuza.”

Agate’s eyes narrow to slits. “You just showed a highly classified document like it was an introduction pamphlet!”

You glance at Stravinsky who seemed to be enjoying his colleagues ire. But the man did have a point. He invited you to this restaurant, he knew you were a hybrid... what else was he assuming about you?

Fear starts to creep in. Was he behind the missing agent? Was he looking for his next victim? Laying obvious bait to trap the new target from Cassell?

“The truth is, I’m a software engineer. I work at the pleasure of my clients.” You say, setting the wine glass back on the table. “I can consult on any matter they like. At its heart, my job is to find solutions to client problems.”

“I don’t know about this egg business... but if you hire me as a consultant, you can both be rid of me and insure confidentiality as business partners.”

Glances were exchanged around the table and you secretly hope that they agree to this and not drag you down some dungeon and sacrifice a goat or something.

“I think this is acceptable.” The black woman, Amber, sighs and nods once.

Agate’s eyes go round. “I don’t agree with this but I suppose I have no choice now.”

“I guess that means you’re hired...” Stravinky also seems disappointed. Maybe he liked goat rituals.

Deep relief overwhelms you to your core. “Now, I take it you have a secure way to contact me? One we can freely use?”

It was Amber who pushed forward a different card. This one only had a QR code on it. “You’ll be able to obtain that information here. Any software needs we have, we’ll be in touch.”

Much to your surprise she offers her hand to you. When you shake it, it feels strangely pebbly. Your eyes go wide. This woman... she had scales!

Her hand squeezes around yours. “Soft... just like an IT professional.” She purrs. “Failure won’t be tolerated. Neither will betrayal.”

She lets you go and you try to slow your pulse.

Stravinsky elbows you sharply. “She’s quite something isn’t she?”

You manage to hold your cool facade when you get out of the restaurant. You weren’t a smoker or a drinker, but right now, you really wished...

Your hands are in your pockets to hide how much they were shaking. You could still feel the scales on the back of her hand, the sight of the dragon king egg case. The gun. How close were you to dying in the restaurant?

After you walked around the block you flag down a cab to take you back to your hotel.

You take off your dress clothes and look at the clock. 3 am.

The phone buzzes. You put it on speaker phone. “Report.”

But you’ve barely had time to collect your thoughts!

You make the best report you can. “Okay, so that’s what I’ve got.” Putting the QR card on the table, you massage your shoulders. You’re tempted to ask if you can go home now.

All of a sudden you’re interrupted by a critical voice. “You agreed to be hired by them?”

“I...” You weren’t sure what to say to this. “I had to find a middle way.”

“No... this is good. Because you’ll be in contact and you’ll be paid. That gives us two contacts. However, EVA will be monitoring both. I recommend you work remotely. These people are too dangerous for your level.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“Take a break and rest up. We’re going to have to get you out of Munich. Were you followed?”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“I’ll put out some security guards for you.”

Was Chu Zihang that concerned for your safety? He hung up abruptly.

You can’t think to do much more. You were too tired to even put on your PJs. You just lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

You don’t remember your eyes closing, but you’re awakened by a sound.

Your cellphone is buzzing and vibrating erratically. Lines of green text descend in a cascade across the screen and then it goes black with only two words. “Gotcha.”

What do you do???

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

A. Jump behind the bed.

B. Call for help.

C. Throw the phone from the window.

#Dragon Raja #Text Based Game

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

Not Killing Him

Orion Crown sat in his big, mean-looking SUV in the old parking lot. The dry heat of Vegas had ripped up the asphalt here over the past years, leaving it pockmarked and littered with potholes. His own car and one other vehicle in the lot were the only ones parked there, immobile, like silent steel corpses, cooling in the shadow of some abandoned warehouse.

The thick windows shielded him from the noise of traffic in the distance, so Orion sat in a weirdly muffled silence. Staring at the entrance of the derelict warehouse with its crooked, ajar doors. He felt sick to his stomach because he had slept little more than a few hours per night and his forehead was burning up.

He picked up his phone from the passenger seat, snatching it from where it was resting next to a loaded semi-automatic pistol. He thumbed through the display, checking his recent direct messages on your social media platform of choice.

Orion Crown, social media darling and super-giant of the statusphere. He flipped through business proposal messages from other influencers, something marginally important from his YouTube video editor, and an array of annoyed passive-aggressive texts from his producer-slash-partner. He let the list slide to a stop, with this finger hovering over the display. Hovering just over the message from “The Glass King” with the preview field only saying that it contained a GIF.

The internet star dithered. He could refuse to walk into that warehouse and refuse to use that gun. His career and life would be over, though.

The alternative was sucking it up, gripping the cold metal of the pistol in his palm, walking in there, and blasting away. Didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t know, didn’t care.

Even though seeing the message’s contents disturbed him every time he reviewed it, his thumb descended in slow motion. Like time almost ground to a halt, like the universe was trying to stop him from watching it again.

He tapped the message and it flicked onto full display on his screen.

The animated GIF flashed with disturbing imagery, all of it cut so quickly and abruptly that it became impossible to take it all in. Words and symbols displayed for fractions of seconds so that the mind could not really grasp what it read, and video footage that may or may not contain clipped recordings of overt violence. Violence he, himself, had authored.

The glare of his phone reflected in Orion’s glassy eyes, pupils dilating with dread and disassociation. Knowing that he recognized some of the things presented here so subliminally and viscerally, feeling guilt even though he had always rationalized the terrible things he had done in the past.

How was anybody better? How could anybody be better?

I am not a bad person, Orion thought. Nobody is.

After watching the animated GIF loop countless times, glued to the phone’s display as if bound in a trance, he put the phone back down onto the passenger seat, a hand’s breadth away from the gun. He barely registered the words that followed far down below the window of animation.

The threats. The instructions.

The sentences that had brought him to the locker where he obtained the gun. The address of this warehouse. And his mission, to kill anybody he saw inside this place.

Why didn’t this “Glass King” person just ask for money? Why this? How did the Glass King even get that footage? It had been destroyed long ago.

None of it made any sense.

No matter how many times he mulled it over, Orion Crown—born with the more unglamorous name of Kyle Howard—his sense of self-preservation, greed, and existential dread always won out. Always looped him back to doing as he was told as long as it served his own purposes. To get this over with, and walk away, and never let anybody know of his dirty secrets.

If the Glass King put any of that out—if they aired out any of Orion Crown’s dirty laundry—then he would be out of the game. Done. Probably also in prison.

Orion looked over to the gun. Stared at it, taking in every hard and unforgiving edge and angle of its sleek industrial design.

He had before, and he pondered it again, now: to just pick it up and stick the nuzzle right into his own mouth. Pull the trigger and end it right now.

But his vanity and pride, masked with religious guilt and eclipsed by copious amounts of doublethink, led him to believe that this was the only way.

He grabbed the gun and weighed it in his hand. Orion licked his lips and they felt funny. Not chapped, but uneven. Slimy. He bit his lip and chewed without realizing it, while his gaze swept up and down the crumbling building of this damned warehouse.

In one fluid motion, he got out of his car, slammed the door shut, and walked towards the entrance of the warehouse. The heat outside his car, even here in the shade—combined with the inexplicable fever he was running—made his head swim as if he had been drinking nonstop for the past day and night.

He gripped that pistol in his fist like his life depended on it. And as far as Orion was concerned, it did.

The rusted hinges on the big metal double doors squealed and he cringed at the sound of it, freezing in place. His heart raced, his pulse thundering in his ears. Eyes darted back and forth, looking for a sign of anybody in there. Whoever had parked the other car had to be in here, and Orion’s job was to gun them down.

Something heavy, like a brick hitting a pile of rubble, echoed through the decrepit and dingy halls.

Orion’s hand jerked and he pointed the gun out in front of himself, aiming at every dark corner and little thing he could perceive. With nobody in sight, the adrenaline pumped through his body, suffusing him with a quiet rage and driving the sweat to erupt from his pores, clouding his senses and sapping his reason.

He sidled through the entrance and crept through the abandoned place, twitching at any possible sound he thought he heard and any shadow he saw in the corner of his eyes, expecting someone, anybody, to jump out at him.

Something chugged and sputtered, causing him to freeze once more. He continued sneaking on when he recognized those sounds to be coming from a gas-powered generator, hidden somewhere deeper within the warehouse’s bowels.

He kind of hoped that someone would jump out at him from a blind spot. Thinking it would be much easier to pull the trigger if it felt like self defense.

Instead, he found a large, wide, pillared hall, awaiting him at the end of a long twisting and turning through claustrophobia-inducing corridors.

Someone had arranged seven door frames in a perfect circle, bolted down with plywood feet to support their weight, sawdust and power tools littering the dirty floors, and that distinct smell of freshly cut wood hanging in the air.

Each door frame held a door, closed and looking far too new to fit into this warehouse. An array of four construction site spotlights illuminated the doors from their center, connected to a tangle of bright orange power cord extensions, leading his sweeping gaze to the generator he had been hearing chug away all this time.

The doors were just standing there, out in the open, connected to no walls. Leading nowhere.

Orion gripped the pistol in both hands, holding it outstretched far in front of himself. He had never fired a gun before in his life. Without realizing it, he both wanted the thing to be as far away as possible from himself, but also wanted to use it and for things to be over fast.

But nobody was here. Right?

Wrong.

Arriving in the center of the seven doors, he blinked and inspected a small pile of objects heaped up in between the four spotlights.

A bunch of broken smartphones, a black wig, a small cracked hand mirror, a pile of about twenty credit cards that had been sloppily cut in half, a bunch of different keys that looked far too old to fit the locks on the doors here, and all of the objects rested on top of a local city map that someone had drawn all over with a black magic marker.

A pebble crunched underneath a boot. But not Orion’s shoe. He swiveled, almost getting dizzy at his own speed as he pointed the gun at the source of the noise.

Standing only steps away from the other person, he held the pistol out and swallowed. No matter how many times he had tried to mentally prepare for this moment, he hesitated and his index finger trembled instead of squeezing around the trigger.

Nobody jumping out at him. Just standing there.

She stared into the barrel of his gun for a split second and then met his gaze. A woman in her twenties, dressed like a man. Or—at second glance—androgynous, like she was in some sort of getup for a rock or punk band from the 1990s. Clad in a ratty leather jacket and dark jeans; covered in studs on her clothing, a chain hanging from her belt, and spikes protruding from a choker around her neck; way too much makeup on her face; and a poorly-cut hair-do of shaved sides and long top that could constitute as a fashion crime.

More distracting, however, was the hand she held in her hand. Orion did a double take on that before he fully absorbed what he saw there. A waxen hand with candlewicks sticking out from the fingertips, gripped firmly in her slender hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked Orion. She squinted at him.

He squeezed the trigger. It didn’t work. The fucking gun refused to work.

Orion turned it over and looked at it and realized that it had a safety setting which he had forgotten to take care of before walking into the building.

Clink. Snap.

The woman flicked a lighter on and guided it to the waxen hand in her hand and he had flicked the safety and pointed the gun at her and the next thing Orion knew, his wrists hurt. And so did his neck. And his lower back.

Chafing against exposed skin, coarse rope and the smell of burnt candles still filled his nostrils. He began thrashing but found that his limbs did not obey his instinct to struggle against his bonds because of how tightly he was tied down. He scraped his skin against something like rough rock or rusty metal behind him.

Blinking and fighting the fever back down, the taste of iron clung to his tongue. His vision blurred here and there and reality caught back up to him with disjointed delay. She had tied him to something in sight of the circle of seven doors.

The woman crouched in front of one of the doors, her back turned to him.

With a loud PLOP, she opened something in her hands and whatever she was doing, it resulted in the door being splattered with something dark and red.

Hoarse, the words croaked out of his throat and left him sounding more like a toad. “Hey,” Orion emitted. “Let me go!”

The woman whispered something and it dawned on him that it was no response to him.

“What the fuck are you doing? You’re gonna get into so much trouble if you don’t let me go,” he said. But it really was just pathetic pleading, masquerading as feeble threats. “Police’ll be all over your ass, lady.”

She continued whispering and splashed more of the dark crimson liquid over the next door, to its left.

Something crunched. It drew both Orion’s attention, and that of the woman. They both stared at the thing crawling into the large hall, emerging from the corridors he had entered from. The way they paused, paralyzed with disbelief—and the failure of the human mind’s capability to process what they were looking at—took in the thing moving along the floor.

It looked like a pile of trash, like someone had kicked over a garbage can and the contents of four weeks of refuse had spilled out over the ground. With a stench to match. But parts of it looked fleshy, or sponge-like. Wobbling but staying whole, like a block of jello. Other bits, like stalks, or tentacles, tiny and too many to count, coiling and recoiling and almost like they were looking in every direction, but seeing without any discernible eyes.

Death and evil incarnate, crawling over the filthy floors. Hungry, but slow. Creeping. Part of the world’s abandoned things, coalesced and fused into something awful, something trapped in between the realm of the living and the realm of non-existence; a vessel to something worse, something spawned in the darkest recesses and the deepest abyss of human sin. Crawling, and more than one. Another pile of living muck and vomit-inducing presence followed. And another. And another.

Rejects.

They headed towards the seven doors with painful slowness. But one of them began veering away from the rest, inching closer towards Orion.

Thwuck. Shlack. Scrape.

Orion wanted to throw up. He started wriggling, thrashing, fighting against his bonds, but none of it helped. He looked back at the woman in desperation.

She breathed through her teeth, “Shit.”

Haste colored her every movement now and she haphazardly sprayed more liquid onto the doors. One by one. She whispered all the while, though the whispers had made way to hectic chanting. Orion had no chance in understanding it, for the words sounded nothing like any language he had ever heard before.

Almost matching the sounds made by the Rejects, creeping forth.

Scrape. Flesh. Shlef. Thwuck.

The Reject crawled closer. Ever closer to him.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, first blurring his sight a little, and then a lot. Orion had no time or space to realize how that might have been better, he only felt the deep-rooted dread in his stomach. The certainty of death by this abomination, crawling up to him. Only an arm’s length away from his kicking feet.

The stench intensified as the thing got closer, robbing him of any speech, making him wretch.

Images of the GIF on his phone flashed in his mind. The violence he had inflicted, captured on camera—his own recordings, not meant for public consumption—sent to him by the Glass King.

Just like these monsters had been sent by the Glass King.

Orion screamed for help.

A figure in a long black duster emerged from the corridors, standing still at the edge of the large hall, staring at the seven doors. Orion screamed for help from him, now. But within just a few beats of his heart, pounding so hard that it wanted to burst from his chest, he knew deep down that this man was the master of the Rejects.

No—this man was the Glass King, and he cared nothing for Orion’s plight. Hell, he probably enjoyed it. Orion sensed that just much malice from the presence of his man, and his imagination ran wild in response to the evil emanating from his body, hitting his entire being like a truck.

“Will you even be you when you return from that place? If you return from the house?” asked the man, directing his words at the woman by the doors.

Cold and uncaring about Orion, who was now screaming at the top of his lungs. Because something cold and wet and slimy slapped against the bottom of his shoe. And slithered up it, tugging at shoe laces, wrapping around the leg of his pants by his ankle, and applying pressure. Pulling itself upwards.

Onto him.

The woman never stopped chanting, flinging blood at those doors and then sticking something white and misshapen into the keyhole of one of the brass knobs, exposed by the glaring cone of light from one of the spots. She stopped chanting.

“You can’t stop change. Everything changes. That’s all you’re really afraid of, isn’t it?” she shouted. Anger making her voice tremble. Also something insecure. Or fear.

She ripped the door open and ran through it and slammed it shut behind her, but she didn’t emerge from the other side.

Just gone. Vanished into thin air.

Orion had neither eyes nor mind for this phenomenon, however. He only felt the many tiny tendrils of trash touching, feeling, finding their way up his limbs. A path of disgusting discovery, exploring his body like an alien creature trying to figure out human anatomy, but in reality just so depraved and sinister that it pretended to be doing so when it fed on his festering dread and despair.

Was this what it was like to be helpless? To be used, and chewed out?

To cry for help, but be ignored?

He had no capacity left for clean, deep thoughts. Only terror filled his being. The Reject crawled up over him, exerting the weight of a full-grown person, pinning him down and amplifying his sense of helplessness.

Some part of him expected to feel tiny teeth from tiny mouths chewing away at him, but the slithering and worming motions only reflected the darkness in his own heart, mirroring the corruption that had always haunted him. His screaming died down, petering out into a hoarse unintelligible something that transformed into whimpering.

The man in the duster—the Glass King—clicked his tongue but ignored Orion, approaching the seven doors.

“You didn’t answer my question, Kimmy. You fear the answer, or you’d say it out loud,” muttered the Glass King.

Orion expected the sensation of cold metal to be cutting his flesh, but the wet something was more like saliva dispersed from tongues, oozing across his skin. He expected for those rubber bands and spongy stalks to wrap around his neck and choke the life out of him, but they only squeezed a little bit. Just enough to be uncomfortable, and just enough for the Reject to enjoy it.

It breathed on him. The Reject engulfed him, not killing him.

The man in the duster turned on his heels.

Eyes wide open, stricken with unnatural knowing accumulated from a thousand lives and a deep-seated and all-devouring madness—staring into Orion’s eyes. The Glass King’s stare reached deep inside, prying away at his secrets like a lunatic ripping away at the fabric padding lining the walls of a forgotten cell, for those crazy eyes had seen the same GIF as he had. Knew what he knew. Knew his every dirty secret.

Much worse was the grin plastered across his face. Toothy, sadistic, and stretched far too wide to look fun or what was natural for that human face.

“Oh, Kyle, my boy,” said the Glass King, with the grin never wiping itself off his face. “You had one job and you bungled it. But no worries, I still have use for you. Your name, your reputation—your face. Enough mojo there for me to milk for a far greater purpose. Good on you for at least coming here, huh?”

The Glass King took a few steps closer towards Orion. Neared. Menace echoing with each step of his boots thumping against the dirty floor.

Orion wasn’t even whimpering anymore. Before a sheet of paper with something cold and wet and fleshy clinging to its underside had fully crept up the side of his face and covered it—before he closed his eyes and lost sight—he wanted to protest.

But he had no words.

Some part of him, matched only by his urge to vomit, knew he deserved this. Every second of it.

The Reject breathed on him, hot and damp and unpleasant. It almost entirely engulfed him, satisfied with the almost.

Not killing him.

—Submitted by Wratts

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dweemeister · 4 years

Photo

Pinky (1949)

Hollywood’s plodding shift to featuring films starring and/or made by non-white people has produced stories and perspectives that have never graced cinemas before. Some of the American films that have stirred me are rooted in racial identity. The 1934 and 1959 adaptations of Imitation of Life are two such examples, and both tackle a subject that has not been addressed in Hollywood for decades – a black person passing as white and the conflicts of identity that inspires. Both versions of Imitation of Life are blessed with heartbreaking acting and ideas rarely uttered or depicted in film history. But I can imagine some viewers dismissing both films without attempting to engage them – the two adaptations have a black female lead that assumes certain “mammy” stereotypes and the 1959 version’s passing daughter character is mixed-race but is not black.

Released by 20th Century Fox, Elia Kazan’s Pinky (based on the novel Quality by Cid Ricketts Sumner) casts Jeanne Crain, a white actress, as the titular character: a fair-skinned black granddaughter who passes as white. It is without question that Crain’s casting undermines Pinky’s wonderful and nuanced message. Fox’s chief executive, Darryl F. Zanuck, and the Breen Office (which enforced the Hays Code) noted that because the title character loves a white man, the film – if it chose a black actress to play Pinky – could face an intense public backlash from "a number of sections of [the United States].” All but twelve states had anti-miscegenation laws in their books in 1949. Compromises were struck between Zanuck and the Production Office. Fox could make the film and keep the interracial romance (the screenplay was written in consultation with NAACP Executive Secretary Walter White) only if a white actress played Pinky. With Crain’s casting, the production moved forward, despite director Elia Kazan’s opposition to Crain’s selection.

On a sweltering day in the Deep South, Pinky Johnson (Crain) has returned to her impoverished rural hometown, hoping to see her grandmother Dicey (Ethel Waters) one final time before returning to the North. Dicey raised Pinky through her childhood and teenage years, with no mentions of allusions to biological or foster parents. Dicey is heartbroken to hear her granddaughter has downplayed her blackness during her time at nursing school, but is happy to learn that Pinky has graduated. To complicate matters, Pinky also tells of her love of a white doctor, Thomas Adams (William Lundigan), to whom she has revealed nothing of her black ancestry to. In addition, while attempting to collect her grandmother’s debts while in town, Pinky is involved in an incident with a Dr. Canady (Kenny Washington) and his significant other, Roselia (Nina Mae McKinney). The police arrive at the scene and apprehend all three. After being fortunately released from custody with just a warning – black people have been killed for far less by American police – Dicey learns that her elderly white neighbor, Miss Em (Ethel Barrymore), is dying and needs a nurse. Pinky, remembering how Miss Em was cruel and disparaging to her during her childhood, decides to extend her stay.

Also appearing in this film are the town’s doctor Joe McGill (Griff Barnett) and the gossiping Melba Wooley (Evelyn Varden, whose character is lacking a moral compass). Juanita Moore has a cameo as a nurse.

From the opening shots of Pinky, it almost feels as if it was shot on location somewhere in the Southern United States. Early in the film, there is an uncut tracking shot clocking in at almost ninety seconds as Pinky walks from the front of Dicey’s shack to the low cast iron gates of Miss Em’s slave-built estate. The sets, almost entirely constructed on a soundstage, are deep enough so that the audience cannot pinpoint the soundstage’s back wall. The foliage looms over dirt roads and buildings – the canopies, blowing in the wind, are never seen. Kazan, in retrospect, criticized his own film for not including the dirt and grime that need not be manufactured with location shooting. But these fabrications – thanks to cinematographer Joseph MacDonald (1958’s The Young Lions, 1966’s The Sand Pebbles) and art directors J. Russell Spencer (1936’s Modern Times, 1946’s Dragonwyck) and Lyle R. Wheeler (1939’s Gone with the Wind, 1956’s The King and I) – still evoke the small-town South. One can feel the humid heat permeating through the night, amid Spanish moss and the racial inequality built into public spaces and homes*. For those who do not live in such places, small dots on a regional map, the scenery envelops the viewer, allowing them to further understand the cultural disorientation of any visitor to Pinky’s hometown.

Though the film is a drama, Kazan borrows horror elements to frame the setting and highlight the racial tension that pervades this Southern town. Expressionist lighting overhangs shots of foggy forests, a graveyard, tight roads, and derelict/near-derelict buildings. During the night, these surrounding appear as if taken from a disturbing lucid dream. The lurking dangers are embodied through the racist and sexist characters that Pinky encounters. With this marriage of setting and supporting cast of flawed characters, Pinky could be classified as a Southern Gothic tale – a subgenre that uses the grotesque to comment on the American South’s culture. Kazan’s filmmaking here awakens the audience to Pinky’s inner turmoil over her racial identity and belonging. Freed from worrying about racial prejudice in the North due to her passing, she is terrified about what it means to be a black woman in the place of her childhood. Miss Em’s cousin, Melba, perhaps exemplifies the white residents’ racial animosity when she meets Pinky for the first time. What she says is a statement of curiosity, an expression of Southern gentility, and a veiled threat all at once: “I heard you were light, but I had no idea. Why, you’re practically white.”

Does Pinky still feel like she belongs to this poor village? That question, among others, has an answer. She must first navigate this racism, for the first time, as an adult. By film’s end and despite all outward appearances of success, it is unclear if Pinky is satisfied with the answer she has uncovered.

The interrogation of Pinky’s blackness truly begins when Miss Em quickly realizes the identity of the young woman tending to her bedside as a hospice nurse. Miss Em, though bedridden, attempts to reinforce her authority over Pinky – a relationship assuming Pinky’s immaturity and based on tacit racial subservience (for the latter, refer to both Imitation of Life films even as the white mother characters fully realize Louise Beavers/Juanita Moore’s humanity). No longer a child, Pinky will not tolerate Miss Em’s racial condescension. It matters not that the patient is drifting in and out of consciousness during her final hours. Miss Em will be more respectful towards Pinky in the face of this bedside manner. Perhaps she is chastened by Dicey’s friendship and the favor that Pinky need not return; perhaps she is admiring of the newfound strength in the young girl she used to berate; perhaps it is due to the drugs coursing through her body. That all or some of these factors can be interpreted as true empowers the film’s final act, as screenwriters Philip Dunne (1941’s How Green Was My Valley), Dudley Nichols (1938’s Bringing Up Baby), Jane White (no other film credits), and Kazan obfuscate any simple resolutions to the film’s sense of racial justice. Pinky validates anyone who might see the film as confirming that the harshest of souls can cool their racist predispositions, or that it is impossible to reform such persons.

Though Jeanne Crain’s casting captured the headlines, the best performances in the film are from the two Ethels. As Miss Em, Ethel Barrymore has little physical acting, so she must rely almost entirely in her verbal deliveries. Alternating between exhausted observation, acidic riposte, and resignation, Barrymore navigates these final hours of her character’s life with the requisite modulations in tone. Despite being on screen for less time than Crain and Waters, Barrymore – as Miss Em – inhabits a character with the most dynamic development, routinely stealing scenes even while confined to bed. Six years after starring and “taking a chance on love” in Cabin in the Sky (1943), the deeply religious Ethel Waters commands yet another accomplished performance in Pinky. As Dicey, she plays probably the least dynamic of the three principal characters, but Waters’ anguish and understated sense of egalitarianism is a fascinating contrast to Pinky’s drifting stoicism upon her arrival at Dicey’s shack. For the Ethels, they are playing roles analogous to those they had previously assumed. But Barrymore’s elderly curmudgeons rarely commented so directly on race; Waters’ hardened maternal figures seldom interacted with white people. Together, they form an imperfect, uneasy coexistence – a postbellum relationship grounded in necessity and deferred acceptance of the other.

Prior to Kazan’s arrival on set, John Ford (1939’s Stagecoach, 1946’s My Darling Clementine) had already directed a significant bulk of Pinky. Viewing the rushes, Darryl F. Zanuck was embarrassed by the footage Ford had shot, stating that, “Ford’s Negroes were like Aunt Jemima caricatures. I thought we [were] going to get into trouble.” Indeed, Ford was a dreadful fit, given the source material and the director’s reputation (Ford’s reputation on making introspective films about racial relations was dire, and he would not possess the basic skillset to make such a film until 1960’s Sergeant Rutledge). The cast, upon learning they were going to work with the best director in Hollywood at the time, were ecstatic the decision until it became clear his abrasive demeanor intimidated Crain and especially Waters. Zanuck quietly dismissed Ford in favor of Kazan (coming off 1947’s Gentlemen’s Agreement, which decried anti-Semitism), stating in public that Ford came down with a case of the shingles. Ford, as you have correctly guessed, never had the shingles. None of Ford’s work survives in the final print of Pinky.

Pinky was justifiably attacked by black critics for Crain’s casting over Lena Horne (who had lobbied for the role). The film, a compromise between 20th Century Fox and the Breen Office, contains mixed messages about racial integration and the nature of interracial friendship and love. The thematic confusion interferes with the film’s obvious, well-meaning intentions and the stellar performances from Ethel Barrymore and Ethel Waters. In its final form, one can only imagine how damaging Pinky may have been if John Ford remained with the production rather than Kazan. Within the artistic constraints of Hollywood studio filmmaking and the regressive perspectives of too many Americans, Pinky inspires a torrent of conflicting emotions as it struggles to form a coherent thesis. In a peculiar way, the muddled messaging is also a reflection of Pinky and mixed-race persons themselves, as they strive to understand what to make of themselves.

My rating: 6.5/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

* In the scene where Pinky goes to a general store late in the film, notice the racial composition of the customers and how they react to Pinky. Also, Dicey’s shack is aesthetically reminiscent to sharecropper hovels or slave living quarters.

#Pinky #Elia Kazan #Jeanne Crain #Ethel Waters #Ethel Barrymore #William Lundigan #Basil Ruysdael #Kenny Washington #Nina Mae McKinney #Evelyn Varden #Darryl F. Zanuck #Philip Dunne #Dudley Nichols #Jane White #Joseph MacDonald #TCM #My Movie Odyssey

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aclassiguy · 4 years

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nobody’s gonna read this but i’m gonna rant a little as an ex-fundie kid with a perspective on unconscious bias re: thedas’ religions. (i’ll grant you i do not have encyclopedic knowledge of dragon age, so i’m commenting based off what 90% of people know - the games)

If we’re assuming that every interaction concerning the religions in Thedas is intentional, it’s genius. It represents real world religious dynamics so well. But that’s also assuming we’re going to be allowed to confront those religions; otherwise, it’s just a carbon copy with no purpose but to reflect reality. You’re duplicating problems, without offering avenues for solutions or even criticism.

I want to leave this uncut in case a piece of it actually caught someone’s eye for some reason, but I’d feel bad if I did that.

I’m actively agnostic. I have no problem with other people being religious. I react quite negatively to both active and passive attempts at conversion. I know a LOT about Christianity. I know some, though not as much, about other world religions.

We can pretend all we like that Thedas is a world completely separated from reality. “Lighten up, it’s just a game.” I can, however, point to direct parallels between game concepts and real world concepts that I find quite troubling (Blackwall’s plot, certain wartable missions, Descent DLC), I can expound on those at length as well. And of course it’s just a game, and you can stab people with no consequences and all that - that’s fine. Stabbing people in a game isn’t likely to make you think it’s OK to stab people IRL. But a game has the power to subtly reinforce existing biases which can cause real harm.

Christianity is a dominant world religion. In fundamentalist circles, one of the tenets is to spread it to as many people as possible, to save them from themselves. Even casual Christians adopt this attitude when they tell you how sad they are that you’re not Christian, because they think you’ll be happier as one and can’t fathom how you’d be happy without god. I can get REAL deep into Christian psychology, but I’ll spare you. The thing is, this is an insidious train of thought that has been beaten into the world by its victors. Monotheistic religions are treated more seriously than pantheons. The Bible is held as separate and more holy than “myths,” which are treated as little better than Harry Potter novels. Religions that encourage non-Western behaviors are treated as scary, deviant, and oppressive - to be obliterated before they dare to try converting precious Christians - DESPITE Christians actively trying to lure those believers away from their “scary” faith and into Christianity. They think their own religion is more normal, or their own culture is more normal. All of this leads to many, many Christians (as well as your average Westerner) holding really racist, xenophobic views they don’t perceive as racist or xenophobic.

SO LIKE - I’ll just make a bulletpoint list:

Andrastianism = Christianity (esp. Western brand)

Evanuris = Pantheistic religions

Qun = Eastern philosophies

The familiarity and diversity is fine. There’s pros and cons to each religion, just like real life. Thedas is fun because it takes aspects of discrimination like racism and sexuality and pretzels it to be same-but-different. No matter your background, you have the chance to get really involved in the ethical dilemmas provided, the visceral experience of being insulted and responding to insults with pride, and it’s fun to read something new and feel some kind of vindication if you had a suspicion before.

What irritates me currently about the religions is that every time I get a little taste of “Okay, finally, we’re acknowledging the damage a religion like this can do,” I get kicked right the fuck back. I spent so long hating the Chantry more and more because it started to become clear to me the intentional abuse being directed at literally anyone who wasn’t a non-mage human, and even then they abused their own followers to exert further control over mages for personal gain. (Seriously, FUCK the Chantry.) FINALLY, Exalted Plains acknowledged that the Chantry steamrolled over the elves in a brutal slaughter, where Sister Whatserface tried to blame the elves for being “too far from the Maker” but she was a good person for “showing them more mercy than they deserved.” Clear signals that Bioware intended it to be taken as it was - an unjust crusade. Then what do they throw in my face? Some documents intending to show that the elves were “also at fault.” Excuse me? I’m sorry, excuse me?!

Elves had already been the subject of extensive oppression at that point, and given the racist goddamn teachings of Sister Whatserface and ALL THE DIVINES, I can hardly blame the elves for being just a little testy with the humans sticking their noses into their lands trying to force them to convert to Andrastianism. “Equally to blame” my ass. This is a pebble against a boulder. And yet I’m supposed to treat it like some kind of shocking revelation. Ooo - should I turn these documents in to the Chantry to exploit the elves some more, or should I give them to the Dalish, who then react with shame? There’s no just option: have the Dalish explain why maybe elves would be just a little angry, and have my Inquisitor go “oh yeah, that makes sense. kbye”

Finishing up with the Dalish, we get told by some pride demon ass lying fucker that all the Dalish gods that these poor widdle uneducated primitive elves worship were essentially slavers. Hahah. WHAT. Sorry. WHAT. You’re going to make me play through a game with my character’s religion shat on or flat out ignored at literally every turn, and my vindication is to be told it’s all fake and my ancestors were idiots for ever believing? Canonically? Really? When do we get told that we checked the Fade and the Maker wasn’t there and don’t these humans look pretty dumb now?! Or is that too risque because Andrastianism is a little too close to Christianity?

Then there’s the reaction to the Qun. I have loved Qunari since Sten. I honestly think it’s a really cool concept and I would love to explore it more deeply. I also LOVE Sten. Sten seemed so calm and generally fairly accepting, although he had his own flaws. He also had hidden depths - push aside the fronting and you get his cookies and chocolate loving sweetness. (If people hate him, again, come see me after class so we can have a chat on why you stan Blackwall but not Sten?)

But it seems like the Qun is falling victim to the world needing a reliable villain. What was once a mysterious system of beliefs existing outside the concept of the Maker or Dalish gods is increasingly this Scary religion that oppresses women and mages in barbaric ways, and is treated as horrible for trying to spread their religion to other lands (allow me to remind you of Exalted Plains and why every person in the game seems to be Andrastian by default, or at least Andrastian-sympathetic). It’s essentially playing up the fears that makes people uncomfortable with Eastern religions, relying on xenophobia to make them hateable enough that you don’t accidentally end up with too many Qun sympathizers in the playerbase. Even though you can play as a Qunari in Inquisition (hell yeah), you aren’t allowed any kind of Qun background. It’s understandable in some ways, plot-wise, but baffling in others. How much cooler would it be to have access to Qun beliefs like the Dalish has access to the Evanuris?

And now they have the Qunari poised to be the result of doing horrible dragon-blood experiments on elves by MORE slavers, and their religion’s entire purpose is to limit their horrible dragony desires to murder people, but now they want to subjugate others to live under their rule of law to make a horrifying monotone culture. Aren’t these scary-looking Qunari even more scary? There’s a reason to hate them now, they’re canonically more violent, just like the dragons! (Do not get me started on how dragons are treated. Actually, do, I have a lot of thoughts on that too. lmao) REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Then you have the Tal-Vashoth, not only defectors who found fault with the philosophy who are then hunted relentlessly by the believers, but also twisting back on themselves to be crazy violent, therefore simultaneously a condemnation of the Qun and an affirmation of its necessity to keep Qunari from being violent. Where are the defectors from Andrastianism? Literally every ex-fundie Christian kid I know has had a sex and/or drug-fueled meltdown period after having their core beliefs and foundation obliterated. Why do we have all these pure innocent Chantry Virgins, but no defectors? The only atheist you get to meet is your own Inquisitor, and you have a HELL of a time through the whole game as a result of it. (Though I will say the payoff at the very end of the game is so very worth it.) Almost ALL of your companions nag you about why you don’t believe you’re Chosen. I have yet to play as a believer, but I haven’t seen any indications I would be criticized for it.

And so what of Andrastianism? Is it fakery? Lies? Canonically brought into existence to oppress people? The product of slavers?

NOT YET.

Any criticism brought against Andrastianism is neatly and shortly thereafter countered, not by an untrustworthy member of the Chantry but by some word-of-god canon itself. The Maker stands, silent, valid, unchallenged.

There’s nothing wrong with presenting these complex scenarios, but if you don’t have the time, resources, or courage to REALLY plumb these depths, give everyone fair criticism (and it is not fair to ding the predominant world religion with the same criticisms as you level against a dying minority religion), don’t bother. You make the real world problems worse.

#dragon age #am i irritated oh you bet #you think solas can talk you havent met me #the hilarious thing to me abt these games is the levels of which people would be able to relate to this rant #there might be one whole person who can snap to this #the majority of players esp ambivalent humans probably don't have a clue why i'm this passionate over the dumb chantry

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jesuschristlivedinamotelroom · 5 years

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angel; do you have a nickname? yea

awe; how old are you? 20

baby; favorite color? blue

bloop; spirit animal? cat

blossom; favorite book/movie/song?

blush; what was your stuffed animal as a child?

breeze; most precious childhood memory? i think my parents teaching me how to ride a bike.

bright; mermaids or fairies? fairies

bubbles; do you have a best friend? no

buttercup; showers or baths? baths!

butterfly; dream destination? idk what that means

buttons; are you religious or spiritual? no

calm; favorite scent? laundry and also honeysuckle

candlelight; what did you dream about last night? i was in charge of some event and i kept stressing over it? also my roommate kept coming into my room and i kept getting mad kxkddkkd

charming; have you ever been in love? no

cozy; eye/hair color? black black

cuddly; what’s your favorite time period? like. ever? honestly now is fine. although if i lived in like the 1800s would my brain be this smart if i felt less fear ghen like that era

cupcake; favorite flower/plant? jasmine is nice too

cute; what did you get on your last birthday? i bought myself perfume

cutie pie; most precious item you own? my guitar&desk&bed

cutsie; what makes you happy? sleep.

daisies; describe a moment when you felt free. every time i go to a concert? although when they shove cameras in my face i still have to perform.

daydream; how do you want to be remembered? bubbly, funny, but also wise? not vapid.

daylight; favorite album of all time? no idea

dear; zodiac sign? virgo

delightful; concerts or museums? concerts

dimples; have you ever written a letter? yes

dobby; dream job? i don’t know any more

doll; how do you like to dress? i kind of wear whatever i want. lately i have been dressing to match weather and to not have my nips out. although i shouldn’t care i do. also one of my group mates seems to be looking at my chest a lot when we speak so i can’t tell if it’s like That bad or if he is just weird.

dovey; any paranormal/magical experiences? no i mean. psychotic maybe

dreams; do you want or have any tattoos? yes

drizzle; do you believe in aliens? yes

euphoric; talk about someone you love. im sure i love my siblings. i want to provide for them both financially and emotionally but i can only stay detatched. they are the only people who have dealt with all of my years until now and one has told me she didn’t really know who i was when i was in middle school, which is kind of an interesting point of view. i am usually a bit more open to my siblings than i am my parents even though they were usually who just got the butt of my anger and angst lol. huh. interesting. basically i want to die quietly but it is impossible with family and i don’t want them to be affected as heavily as it would but honestly it’s just inevitable

fairy; do you have a pet? no

fluffy; ocean or mountain? mountain

forever; where do you feel time stop? my room

froglet; are you a good plant owner? no...

garden; how many languages do you know? 4?

gem; who are your favorite tumblrs?

giggles; what is your aesthetic of choice? ?

glittery; do you like anons? why/why not? sure

glow; list the top 5 things you like about yourself. i think a lot. i am considerate. i am able to be alone. i am funny. i am amiable.

heart; silk or lace? lace

honey; coffee or tea? how do you take it? both and it depends

hugsy; do you enjoy people watching or bird watching more? why? bird watching. people watching makes me uncomfortable

hunnybunch; what sounds help you sleep? anything really, mostly people speaking in a low voice

jewel; what’s your favorite kind of weather? sunny breezy

jiggly; what do you usually like to do on weekends? sleep and drink

joy; do you laugh loudly or giggle more? i cackle

kinky; do you blush easily? i think so

kisses; what romantic cliché do you wish for most? fwb to lovers

kitty; what’s your favorite time of the day? morning

ladybug; what’s your favorite artist to listen to when you’re sad? the 1975 yeah i know

love; what is your favorite season and why? summer bc its not real

lovey; what is your favorite flavor of macaron and ice cream? ummmm idk

magic; what are five flaws you have? i let my flaws affect my relationships. i let my flaws affect my work .. everything. i think too much. i give up too easily. i don’t know how to express myself.

moonlight; do you prefer soft pastels, warm neutrals, or cool darks? cool dark

munchkin; what do you look for in your significant other? funny and cute

paddywack; how would you describe a perfect date? idk

pebbles; how do you spend free time by yourself? lay around.

precious; what is something valuable that you learned in your life? your appearance, being beautiful, being skinny does not matter. it is impossible to achieve that arbitrary standard and it does not matter.

pretty; do you like to cook or bake more? bake

prince; how would you describe your handwriting? a mix of print and cursive

princess; do you play any instruments? if not, are there any you wish you could play? guitar

prinky; how do you relieve stress? jack off. drink.. sleep

pumpkin; what is your favourite kind of fruit/vegetable? ones that smell nice

rainbow; what was the last line of the last book you read?

roses; what is the most significant event in your life so far? probably entering college or my summers spent abroad

smile; what is one thing that has greatly affected you? rape, feminism, nihilism

shine; art or music? music

shimmer; do animals tend to like you? i think so?

smitten; do you collect anything? bracelets and socks

smoochies; how many pillows do you sleep with? right now 2

snuggle; what is your favourite candy? i don’t like candy

snuggly; do you have a camera? if so, what kind? no

sparkle; do you wear jewelry? no

spooky; sunrise or sunset? sunset

sprinkles; do you like to listen to music with headphones or no headphones? both

starlight; what was your favourite show as a child? idk

soft; describe your favourite spot in your house. my bed

soothe; digital or vinyl? digital

squeezed; who do you miss right now? my friends from last semester

sugary; what traits do you value most in friends? if i am only looking for people to hang out with and i do not care about them much as people, then they need to be able to have a (fun) conversation with me and want to hang out and do whatever i/we want. if it is a real friend then similar political alignment is sadly pretty important to me. we need to be similar in general probably, you need to understand my background.

sunshine; do you prefer for things to be practical or aesthetically pleasing? practical

sweet; do you find it easy to open up? no

sweetie; do you like kids? if so, do you ever want to have any? sure but no

thimble; is there somebody you look up to? who are they? no

toot; what is something you find unique about yourself? my chart . just kidding i think i have a philosophy that will cause a... bad revolution but i am also probably a narcissist

tootsie; what kind of friend are you? go with the flow kinda person, if you want to talk about something serious i can try. i usually match the vibe of the other person

treasure; what was something that made you smile today? videos

velvet; are you an early bird or a night owl? night owl

whiffle; if you could have a magical power, what would it be? i would be able to get any resource necessary Or i would be able to slow down time

whimsical; do you prefer doing stuff at home or going out? both

whiskers; do you usually wear makeup? halfhalf

wiggly; are you a messy or tidy person? mssy

wispy; do you like the place where you grew up? do you think you will live there when you get older?no

wobbly; have you ever wished upon a star? probably

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belphegor1982 · 6 years

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New story! A little Don Camillo one-shot, set (roughly) between 1951 and 1957, my first foray into canon time for these guys. Hope you like!

Summary: Both Don Camillo and Peppone have a bone to pick with a trumpet player. Music has charms to soothe the savage beast, but what about the priest and the mayor? (on FFnet/on AO3)

THE TRUMPET OF CONTENTION

In the Lowlands, music, like a few other subjects, is something to be treated seriously.

Giuseppe Verdi is, of course, rightfully revered, and his name and works are one of the very few things that can make everyone – be they Red, Green, White, or Black – reach an agreement. It’s not even a matter of having culture or education: people pulled out of school as kids still know their Nabucco from their Trovatore. Folks will come by the music gene through blood, and you’ll find entire families passing down names like Radamès, Ofelia, Ernani, or Desdemona.

The Pedrettis were such a family. Iago Pedretti had a good voice for bel canto, his son Corrado played the bass drum, and when his daughter Leonora started to show interest for the trumpet, the little girl quite naturally found a place in the town band. She was singularly gifted, and before she was twelve years old, she could be found playing among the more experienced musicians on days of important events, wearing proudly her own bright white shirt and a cap that looked a little too big for her head.

The Pedrettis were so proud that, every time the band played, the whole family – grandfathers and grandmothers, aunts, uncles and cousins – went out en masse, all wearing their Sunday best, to see Leonora and her trumpet. They turned up for everything: town festivals, religious processions, political events, and so on and so forth. When Peppone was first re-elected as mayor, the band followed him and his staff on foot from the Communist headquarters to the town hall; as they crossed the main square, only a dozen metres from the church doors, the Pedrettis were first in line to applaud, even though every single one of them was a staunch anti-Communist and the band played Bandiera Rossa and L’internationale.

Don Camillo had watched the proceedings from the rectory door with his arms crossed, jaws clamped on his half-cigar, glowering at the blatant provocation. Afterwards, he went to the Pedrettis and protested to the paterfamilias.

“How can you let that little girl play for the Communists? Festivals and processions are fine, but not this Bolshevik propaganda!”

Pedretti was unperturbed.

“Reverend, musical talent is apolitical. As long as my little girl plays well, she can play whatever she likes within the limits of the law.”

Don Camillo bit his lip and left it at that. The day after he went to see Peppone in his workshop.

“Listen,” he said with a stormy glare, “the band aren’t half bad even though half of them are lunatics who still think Stalin is a decent person for some reason; they can parade in front of the church playing their nonsense as much as they like if they don’t mind having their bottoms kicked from here to Moscow if I catch them. But that little Leonora Pedretti is an innocent and I won’t let you recruit children for your Party.”

Peppone looked up from the motor he was working on and met Don Camillo’s eyes with a scowl of his own.

“I’m not recruiting anyone from the band. That kid is good with a trumpet, that’s it. Nobody’s making her wave a red flag around.”

“You’re right. She just plays the red flag song. Next time I’ll need music I’ll just hire the band from Molinetto. I hear they only play for funerals and processions.”

Peppone exploded. “Even you wouldn’t dare to do something so vile as that!” he shouted. “Just because you’re miffed I got re-elected –”

“Why on Earth this town picked you again knowing what you’re capable of is beyond me,” said Don Camillo huffily – especially as himself had, in what he considered a moment of weakness, voted for Peppone. “But no, your election in itself has nothing to do with it. The problem is that you and your henchmen are making a thirteen year old lass play music that could get her excommunicated, with her none the wiser!”

“If the Pope wants to set the Spanish Inquisition on people for playing music, that’s your problem, not mine! And I’m not the conductor, that’s old Gianelli’s job!”

“It’s the official town band! As the mayor and the boss of the region’s Communists, I’d say it’s your problem!”

They were nose to nose, sleeves rolled up, glaring daggers, and God only knows what would have happened if the sound of a lone trumpet, soon followed by a few other instruments, hadn’t reached them at that very moment.

It was rehearsal time for the town band and all windows were wide open to the cool evening air. Both men recognised the solemn tones of “Un dì, felice, eterea” from Il Trovatore. It worked surprisingly well, even without voices.

“Verdi will always be Verdi,” remarked Peppone quietly after a while.

“Yes he will,” said Don Camillo who had a lump in his throat.

They exchanged sheepish glances, feeling rather ridiculous now that the heat had died down. Then Don Camillo remembered exactly what had got him so worked up; but he shook his head.

“Look,” he said, “hear me out. We both know that the child has talent and Gianelli will soon be out of his depth because he only knows the basics of trumpet playing. She’ll need to study music seriously, in the city.”

Peppone nodded gravely. “I agree. Problem is, I know the Pedrettis. They’re poor as church mice. They couldn’t pay for music school even if they worked every second of every day for a hundred years.”

They stared at each other while the music drifted in on the breeze. Peppone put down the wrench he had been clutching and scratched the back of his head.

“I can have a whip-round around town,” he said eventually. “The Pedrettis aren’t very popular with my lads, but this is about making sure that a child of the people gets a decent education and a future. And we’ve all heard her play Verdi. Imagine what she’ll be capable of with a proper teacher!”

“I’ll convince the landowners to chip in,” said Don Camillo. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll wager they’ll listen to their parish priest. Besides, I can just point out the fact that she’d no longer have to play that garbage of yours.”

Peppone clenched his fists. But he breathed deeply and held out his hand.

“All right. Let’s see if the two highest authorities in the village can’t make this work,” he grumbled.

In the distance, the band struck up another song, faster and more spirited. Don Camillo shook Peppone’s hand heartily and walked away with a beaming smile while Peppone went back to his motor, humming along absently as he worked.

So it was that the town band lost a trumpet player, and little Leonora Pedretti went to the city to study music. An older cousin put her up; she paid for room and board by doing small odd jobs and delivering packages, and worked hard on both music theory and practice.

Leonora was not the first local child the village had helped on the way to higher spheres; it was rare, but not unheard of. The entire town contributed to the school fees: tenant farmers who barely had ten lire to rub together, die-hard Communist workers who called the Pedrettis ‘reactionaries’ and all kinds of unpleasant things, and even the rich farmers who found it easier to part with one of their limbs rather than money.

Such is the power of music. Politics often work their way through people’s heads; music always works through their hearts.

Years passed, bringing hot summers, hard winters, and one disastrous flood when heavy rains made the great river break its banks; people mostly waited till their houses were clean and dry before tearing each other apart over politics again. Elections came and went along with the years, and Peppone was re-elected mayor once more.

Through all that, the town folk cherished one of the real apolitical constants: the knowledge that their little trumpet player in training was doing a good job. The cousin she lived with wrote regular letters to her parents with news and the progress she made, until one day Leonora sent her own letters, because she had found a place she could live in by herself.

The few people who had the occasion to go to the city and hear her play all came back with reassuring words: the girl was good. Seeing her in the brass section in such deep concentration that she sometimes went cross-eyed justified all expenses and sacrifices. Her trumpet blended in perfectly with the rest of the orchestra, not a single note out of tune, which is the thankless fate of musicians without solos: to be essential, but easily overlooked threads in the big tapestry of orchestral music.

And then one day, as they combed through Leonora’s newest letter, Pedretti and his wife found a word that made them peer at the paper as though with a microscope. A word that was incongruous, fantastic, and truly and utterly foreign.

Jazz.

Their little girl wrote about learning to play jazz music.

The word was far from unfamiliar, of course. People listened to the radio, which often enough did feature music not composed by the classical masters. But in these parts, where land had history written in the blood of generations of farmers who lived and died on it not so differently than their parents had, and where the great river stretched out in the sun and in the mists, carrying hundreds of years of dreams, tears, and laughter with its mud and its pebbles, novelty and any of its potential contribution had to be weighed and studied before being allowed to become familiar.

Jazz was considered music, of course, but not ‘serious’ music. It was good enough for city people or foreigners – in other words, people who lived further along the country road – but not hard-working people who rose with the sun to feed the pigs, tilled the earth, or worked dairies, and then went to bed with their bones aching more every night.

The Pedrettis kept the letter and didn’t breathe a word to anyone, but soon enough, the word got out and ran throughout the village and its seven frazioni like an overexcited puppy. Unfortunately for the Pedrettis, it turned out that a lot of people had a lot to say on the subject, and much of what they had to say concerned young Leonora and the supposed lack of moral fibre in her upbringing. Nobody could agree on which would have been worse: the fact that a good, decent country girl, whom they’d known since she was little and who had received a proper Christian education had abandoned Verdi for the sirens of foreign music – or if that same girl had dyed her hair and gone around wearing make-up and short skirts.

Those whose opinion on the matter ranged from asking how bad it all could be anyway and not caring one bit what a person did as long as they were happy were sadly few and quickly drowned in the mass of gossip.

Chatter grew and grew until Leonora came back to her parents’ for a few days of holiday.

She had grown from a skinny child into a long, sprightly girl who walked with calm certainty and didn’t talk much. Her hair was intact, a little longer than it had been, and she wore no make-up at all. The folks who were still unsure about which of jazz or make-up was worse quickly made up their minds and decided on the former.

Leonora mostly stayed at the family farm for the first couple of days and to all intents and purposes remained blessedly unaware that she and her trumpet were all the village could talk about these days.

Since it was one of the few subjects which transcended politics, the more vehement critics soon referred to their own moral authority: the reactionaries and the little old ladies complained to Don Camillo, the Communists to Peppone in his capacity as the section’s secretary, and the others to Giuseppe Bottazzi in his capacity as mayor – which meant Peppone pulled a double shift. He was mightily annoyed about it all.

On one hand, it irritated him to no end that imperialist America had ruined yet another honest Italian girl, luring her with its newfangled ways and flashy… what exactly he hadn’t figured out yet, but knew he would have to if asked. And he couldn’t swallow the fact that a musician, after studying and playing masters like Verdi or Puccini – but mostly Verdi – could just move on to something so different as simply as that. It felt like a betrayal.

On the other, he had always had an argumentative streak, and seeing all those people finding fault in one girl bothered him a little. Leonora Pedretti wasn’t a political adversary and she hadn’t chosen to shoulder any kind of authority at all: she was only a trumpet player. And not even the kind to want to play Giovinezza or La Marcia Reale, either.

It was all very complicated, and Peppone didn’t like complicated.

In the end, he shoved his hat on his head one morning and went out to town.

It was market day on a fair, bright morning, and people flooded the main square. Peppone pushed through the crowd and the stands to get to the church parvis, where Don Camillo was sitting on his usual bench near the rectory door, reading a newspaper and smoking a half-cigar.

“Listen here,” he said, planting his fists on his hips, “what have you been telling your church biddies about that Pedretti girl?”

Don Camillo raised his head, looking curious.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been no end of whiners and complainers knocking on the People’s House and the town hall lately telling me I should do something about that blasted affair. The Communists I can handle, but some of the others were your crowd and I’ve had it up to here.”

“Comrade, you’ve chosen to run for mayor and somehow you got elected,” said Don Camillo, going back to his newspaper. “It’s only natural that people will look to you to sort things out, God help them.”

Peppone was beginning to see red.

“When the girl was in the town band, she played the people’s music and you couldn’t stomach it. Now she’s not in the town band anymore and she’s playing American propaganda garbage! How do you like that?”

Don Camillo folded up his newspaper and rose to his feet.

“And what’s it got to do with me?” he asked in a dangerous voice.

“You’re the one always defending ruddy America like it’s a bastion of decency against the big scary Reds,” shouted Peppone, “and meanwhile the same America turns our girls’ heads and corrupts them until they forsake Verdi for some so-called music nobody can understand unless they speak English!”

“Reds never scare me, big or little!” bellowed Don Camillo, and he gripped Peppone by the lapels of his jacket.

Peppone grabbed him by the front of his cassock and roared, “I’ll see about that!”

Blood boiled, the pressure was off the charts, and blows would probably have started raining any second from two pairs of hands as big as shovels, when a loud, discordant noise sounded all around the square.

It was a noise like a duck getting stomped on, and it was just absurd enough to make both men freeze.

The market stand owners and the people around them had left their shopping to watch something potentially more interesting, namely a brawl between the mayor and the priest; but they all froze, too, and turned to the point of origin of that awful sound.

Young Leonora Pedretti was standing in the middle of the square wearing her Sunday dress and a defiant scowl on her face. In her right hand was her trumpet.

She breathed deeply, raised the mouthpiece to her lips, and began to play.

Later on, when people could reflect on it calmly, they realised things were missing, like a clarinet, a piano, some percussions, and maybe a double bass. But it was of little importance.

Music rose out of that little trumpet, a melancholic melody, like someone determined to keep hope alive through tears. The music – thin, bordering on reedy – trembled and tensed but always landed on its feet. It was a sound that tore a piece of your heart while telling you you were allowed to cry over it. Then Leonora segued into another song, more cheerful, cheeky even, with little high notes that sounded like winks, if winks could be turned into sound. It wasn’t mocking, however, but rather invited you to share a joke. The number was short, and soon gave way to a third song.

This time the trumpet was gentle and warm, the notes ample and clear, and the melody flew into the blue sky to the great river shining under the sun. And the people on the square heard, in the silence between breaths and in the quiver that punctuated the notes, the voices of men, women and children not so different than they were, who played and sang about hope, freedom, loss, joy, grief, their faith in God and their own great river that flowed majestically to the sea, carrying hundreds of years of blood, tears, and dreams not so different than their own.

Leonora held the last note and slowly lowered the trumpet, her face crimson from neck to hairline. She cast a last long look at the square full of people and walked away without a word. Everything she meant to say had been said.

Peppone and Don Camillo had loosened their grip on each other during the impromptu concert without quite knowing when or how. They both kept staring at the spot Leonora had been half a minute after she left.

“…Well,” said Don Camillo eventually in a voice that shook ever so slightly, “that wasn’t Verdi.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Peppone ran a hand across his eyes and fumbled for his handkerchief.

They looked at each other, opened their mouths to add something, but both realised at the same time that they, too, had said everything they meant to say.

They both took off their hats to each other. Don Camillo returned to his bench, still looking dazed, while Peppone went back home the long way, along the road on the main dyke, where he could see his great river and watch the sun wink on the muddy waters.

After that memorable market day, when Don Camillo received a complaint about girls who were no better than they should be and played music they should not, he threw out his arms and said, “I don’t know if it’s the Devil’s music. All I know is what I heard, and what I heard was so beautiful that I don’t believe God would leave it to the Devil.” And the crucified Christ on the main altar smiled, because he was right.

When the same people went to Peppone, he crashed his enormous fist on his desk and shouted, “The next wretch who says anything against that bloody trumpet goes through the window and learns to fly. Do I make myself clear?”

“Daddy,” his youngest boy asked him that very evening as his father went to give him his good night kiss, “what did that lady play the other day, exactly?”

Peppone vaguely sensed that the question had some importance; he thought long and hard before answering in a tone of finality, “She played the trumpet, and she played it well.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

And, as it turned out, he was quite right.

THE END

Thank goodness for music. The world would be so much darker, colder, and poorer without it!

Translations/Notes:

Red, Green, White, and Black: respectively Communists, Republicans (anti-monarchist, anti-clerical, and anti-fascist party, which was still left of the political centre at the time), Christian Democrats, and Fascists.

Radamès is from Aida; Ernani is from the eponymous opera; Desdemona and Iago are from Otello; Corrado is from Il Corsaro; Leonora is from Il Trovatore and La forza del destino; Ofelia stands out, being from a lesser-known opera (based on Hamlet) and not from Verdi.

Don Camillo voting for Peppone in his first re-run as mayor is a reference to one of the short stories, "Ancora il fantasma del cappello verde" (the ghost with the green hat again). The "ghost" is Peppone, who sneaked into the church in the middle of the night to pray for re-election and inadvertently left his hat behind. At the very end of the campaign, when it looks like he's going to lose, he makes an honest speech, straight from the heart, in which he asks his citizens to treat the election as a verdict on how good a job he did… and wins by a landslide. Don Camillo later admits to the crucified Christ on the main altar that seeing Peppone like this, sad and lonely, moved him so much he voted for him – and he's confused and furious about it.

I must admit fumbled with the chronology a little bit. Peppone's first re-election was in summer 1951, and the terrible flood from the Po river (some of it depicted in the second Don Camillo film with actual news footage) happened in both the real world and the "Little World" a few months later, in November.

Giovinezza (Youth) was the official hymn of the Italian Fascist Party, regime, and army up until 1943; the Marcia Reale (Royal March) was the official hymn of the Kingdom of Italy from 1861 to 1946. Both were usually played with the other, and both were forbidden after World War 2.

(If you liked, please consider leaving a comment so I know I’m not just shouting in the desert - not that I mind, but it gets lonely without someone to share it with!)

#Don Camillo #fanfiction #my stuff

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happypastelponies · 6 years

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Analyzing Earth Ponies

Earth ponies are mud horses. They’re uninteresting. They have the weakest abilities out of the 3 races and tribes. For a long time through the history of Friendship is Magic, Earth ponies have had a sort of negative stigma placed upon them by the fanbase, who see this race as being the lowest class. On the other hand, the fans tend to lean to the perception that Pegasi rank in the middle of the class system, with unicorns being the superior of the three.

I’m here to say BUCK THAT!!! And turn everything you guys knew about Earth ponies upside down and inside out.

So what do we know about Earth ponies? While many people in the MLP:FiM fandom have looked at this race from a mere surface level, they can probably tell you that they’re the hardiest of the three races; strong and study like the earth that they’re connected to, and...good farmers? And that’s about it.

But what if it’s not? What if being strong enough to smash boulders into pebbles with their hooves and durable isn’t all there is to the good ol’ Earth pony? We’ve seen in numerous episodes, such as “Cutie Mark Chronicles” and “The Maud Couple” both literal and figurative analogies to Geodes- a plain and unordinary-looking rock on the surface, yet having abundant crystals and gems within their core once they were broken apart. I think that Earth ponies are like these geodes and just not enough people are willing to to truly crack them open and see them for what really lies within.

1: Alchemy

I believe that Earth ponies may, in fact, be the original founders of magic. Now, you may be thinking I’m crazy, but just hear me out. Take a look at creation- the common theory that whether by a Big Bang or divine creation, the earth- our earth- came about through through means of massive, unfathomable forces. Millions of years of microscopic space rock and dust colliding together at full force, and pulling in on each other, fusing, and becoming one giant rock floating through space to become our planet. Where am I going with this? It all most likely started with something small; one microscopic piece of space dust or rock, and elements within that binding throughout millions of years with other debris, and changing into something large over time. A sort of transmutation, if you will.

And what is known to be the art of transmutation itself? Alchemy. This is a practice that aimed to purify, mature, and perfect certain objects into chrysopoeia. For example, the transmutation of base metals into ‘noble’ metals, such as lead into gold. Earth ponies by nature are the one race most connected to the earth- it’s in their name, and doubtless, in their D.N.A. This is seen in their ability to tend the land so easily, to determine whether soil is fertile enough to grow crops, to tell if a geode is a geode by its exterior alone, to punch through rocks and turn them to dust…..

But let’s look a little deeper. Alchemy is all about transmutation, right? Well, in what do we find the microscopic materials that are needed for elemental transmutation in real life? Earth! It offers the building blocks of transmutation that are most likely needed for earth ponies as well. The planet Earth itself has been transmuting itself- base minerals into ‘noble’ gems, like diamonds, golds, geodes and more, under extreme pressure, intense heat, and a careful selection process of the building blocks of matter long before humans walked its face, and also, as it the case for Earth ponies.

What do we find regarding Earth ponies and the art of transmutation/ alchemy in “Hearth’s Warming Eve” episode? Applejack being shown holding a clump of soil in her hoof and being able to progress the development of a seed into a sprout within mere seconds. The earth, in and of itself, is the ‘great, natural alchemist’, with plants naturally transmuting sunlight and nutrients from the soil into a valuable energy source for themselves; and- as said before, the earth taking rocks and minerals in its layers and transforming them into sought after precious metals and gems. The talents of most other Earth ponies, from what we’ve seen, lies in the field of farming and also manipulating the aging process of the organic lifeforms of their fields. Much like how Avatar’s Earth benders learned the talent from nature itself, such as the mole badgers, this could prove to be the case for Equestria’s Earth ponies being the first to pick up on transmutation from the earth.

2: The father founders of magic?

Since I already brought up the art of transmutation through alchemy through the earth, and by extension- Earth ponies, we know that alchemy, at its core….is nothing more than chemistry. Chemistry, at its core, is nothing more than science. This is extremely telling, because ironically, while pretty much every fan theorist and analysis found in the FiM throws Earth ponies into the mud (pun intended), they continually hold unicorns at a much higher regard. But let’s look at unicorns for a second. What connection do they have with alchemy, i.e, science? Everything!

In Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, the very earliest that we see of Twilight’s teachings in the studies of magic is “Amending Fences”, where she’s in a classroom with Moondancer, showcasing just how much she knows of the building blocks of the Periodic Table of Elements. From her dialogue, we learn than substances such as sodium chloride exist in Equestria, as they do here on earth. It’s of no mere coincidence that Unicorns study chemistry in Canterlot, where they also study magic. A Youtuber by the name of Cavatina theorized that younger unicorns are taught to study science (basic alchemy transmutation) before they learn magic. This is most likely due to safety reasons, if magic in itself is nothing more than combining elements and compounds that exist in the ponies themselves or in their enviorns, and being able to channel them properly through a conductor- such as a horn.

If magic is nothing more than the combination of elements within the self and the world around them, that the very youngest unicorns learn and advance from there, then perhaps….just maybe…..Earth ponies could, in act, be called the originators of magic. Perhaps not in the more advanced form that higher leveled unicorns have polished and practiced the craft, though. But if Earth ponies have been transmuting the elements of earth and their environs, before any unicorn ever had abilities of any sort, then it wouldn’t be too farfetched to assume that the base level of what Earth ponies could do by way of elemental reconfiguration and chemical bonding is being picked up and taught to unicorns. Being a race who hold themselves ‘holier than thou’ for millennia, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that they would’ve taken the base magic acquired and learned from Earth ponies, and just pushed it to its limit, which led to the crafting of “spells”.

3: Spiritual

Alchemy- the art of transmutation from an esoteric and Hermetic standpoint, is fundamentally spiritual. Zosimos of Panopolis was one of the first alchemists to highlight the spiritual nature of the alchemical quest, symbolic of a religious regeneration of the human soul. How does the spiritual connect to Earth ponies?

From a religious, Christian viewpoint, one would draw the conclusion to make the case that it was divine will for the sentient creatures born of the earth- that being humans to have been made a little lower than the angels; crowned with God’s glory and honor (Psalms 8:5), have in subjection the lesser creatures of the land, and that their (human’s) purpose, after being created and put in a garden of God’s own creation (Genesis 2:8), was to tend/cultivate the land and extend its borders (Genesis 2:15). I think this is significant as to why most Earth ponies have a job that makes use of their talents in performing that task in Equestria, and also showing that from as far back as “Hearth’s Warming Eve”, this one race was responsible for growing and distributing all of the food to the other races order to keep them from going extinct.

In addition, in Genesis 3:8 shows that humans once had a close fellowship with the spiritually divine (God) while in the Edenic garden that was His, and direct access to His presence, as spoken of when He would ‘walk’ about in during the breezy part of the day.

Could this not be the case with Earth ponies? It seems all too coincidental for this race to be traditionally farmers and caretakers of the land, and basically have in subjection the races of unicorns and pegasi who depend on them for food lest they go extinct; much like how humans, by divine order, were tasked with the job of tending God’s gardens, maintaining the earth, and having the lesser ranked creatures to them in subjection and taken care of.

Furthermore, in delving deeper on the topic of the spiritual aspects and connection of and to Earth ponies, one need only look at the finest example, which is Tree Hugger. While this pony is looked at as a parody of Hippies by the FiM fans, and just as overlooked and disregarded as the earth pony race as a whole, I have no doubt that this one pony is the open book that we need to truly understand what Earth ponies are capable of.

I bring it up in greater detail here: https://happypastelponies.tumblr.com/post/172160703223/past-lives-and-present-possibilities, but in short, TH’s frequent mention of chakras and energy leads me to believe that, in spite of her appearance, mannerisms, and speech, she has been able to tap into the greatest ability that can be found within Equestria, which is the link to the spiritual, the azoth as it is known in alchemy. I believe that this is something that only Earth ponies would be able to obtain and have access to; though with great difficulty.

It could be that perhaps Pinkie Pie, Maud (and Cheese Sandwich) have a limited access to the azoth, given what we��ve seen of her abilities in her inherent ‘Pinkie/ Cheese/ Maud sense’ and awareness of other dimensions that she can gain access to, through, but it comes and goes, as it was said in “Feeling Pinkie Keen”.

In conclusion, though this is all pretty much speculative, I believe that Earth ponies are not to be looked down upon, and possess more abilities than we are made aware of. Perhaps they may be the highest race of the three tribes; perhaps higher than the Alicorns, even! We may not know everything that they’re truly capable of, nor do we have to, but the show has dropped breadcrumbs for us to take and interpret however we choose. Don’t give up on the earth ponies and take them at mere surface value. After all, at the very least, they were able to keep two entire races from vanishing off the face of the earth during turbulent times and threat of an eternal ice age!

See Also: Ascending to Earth pony would be the Avatar State? https://happypastelponies.tumblr.com/post/172772457998/mlp-g5-alicorn-ascending-to-earth-pony-would-be

Past Lives and Present Possibilities https://happypastelponies.tumblr.com/post/172160703223/past-lives-and-present-possibilities

#mlp #mylittlepony #pony #little #theory #pastel #horse #earth #scien #alchemy #spiritual #science #transmutation

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deathbyseventeen · 6 years

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Guardian Angel || Joshua AU

Title: Guardian Angel || Holiday Collection: Christmas || Part of my 13 days of Seventeenmas || Request (from that* list: Angel Joshua AU)

Member: Joshua x Reader

Genre: Fantasy, Fluff, a bit of angst

Words: 2480

Warning: A slight death scene w/blood BUT nothing major (at least to me).

A/N This feels not as well written as it could be :/ Let me know what you think!

The faded blue lines seemed to grow before blurring together. Your pen seemed to get heavier as it hovered above the page.

Your head buzzed.

You had taken some notes on the page, not many— the professor’s lecture had been brief and had ended with a “simple” question. One single question that for some unexplainable reason — except that the topic had always existed in the depths of your brain — seemed to rattle you.

You blinked, the words came into focus: Renaissance Art 14th to 17th Century: Religious Depictions: Angles.

“I head that the sound of chiming bells means an angel has just been born.” The girl in front of you stated matter-of-fact.

You looked up, wordlessly and dazed.

“That,” The girl on your left dragged out with an uncertainty laced with her voice, “doesn’t sound right.”

“You’re thinking of a child’s first laugh,” another on your right chimed in, “and of the of the beginning monologue of the Tinkerbell movie.”

The first sighed and twisted around to look at you. “What do you think?”

You blinked.

What did you think? You looked down at your notes, staring unblinkingly at the questions you had scribbled down from the lecture.

What’s the relationship between human and angel in Renaissance art? Where do angels come from and why?

Without lifting your gaze from the page, you responded, “I was told that whenever a child dies, someone under seventeen and for the majority, innocent - they become angels.”

Dead silence

“This is stupid.” The one on the left snapped, “why are we even answering this? This is a Literature class, not an art class.”

You nodded, retreating back into your thoughts until the professor would let you go, “Right.”

Joshua coughed into his arm, eyes red, and wings flapping quickly to blow away the smoke that had been formed from another failed attempt to search the globe.

“This has to stop. We both know that the guardian globe is not meant to be used this way.”

“I don’t care, Jeonghan. I can feel them. They’re upset. They need me. It’s my fault I’m not on earth, alive and with them.” Joshua said offhandedly.

“There was no guarantee you’d be with them even if you still were alive.” Jeonghan insisted, pulling back Joshua’s arm as he attempted to reach for the globe again.

Joshua turned his head to look at Jeonghan. Jeonghan sighed and loosened his grip on his elbow. He could see it in his eyes, that longing that even he pushed back, only Joshua also had a desperation. A guilt to appease.

Even more, Joshua would have been a hopeless romantic.

Amidst the images that flashed through their brains while they were dying, were images of their future, the soulmate they were unable to meet, the future that would no longer come.

That was Joshua Hong’s, a Guardian Angel, unfinished business, finding his soulmate even if he was dead.

“Please,” Jeonghan said softly, “let’s just go back to assigning scout angles a person to protect.”

Jeonghan didn’t need any words, the single shake of the head from Joshua and he had his answer. He nodded wordlessly and let go of Joshua’s arm.

Joshua turned back to the lifeless globe, sensing one random person was hard enough, using a great deal of energy from him. He hoped finding you would be easier, but he knew it’d be harder.

He closed his eyes, extended his wings and made them flutter rapidly before stopping and giving one hard flap.

Jeonghan, on the other side of Joshua’s globe, bit the bottom of his lips and watched as the other opened his eyes. Gone were his brown irises and white edges, replacing the whole of his eyes was a golden glow.

Joshua suppressed a whimper, his hands hovering above the globe were starting to burn.

“Joshua...”Jeonghan began, “Joshua let it go! Let the pull go!” Smoke was starting to seethe out of the top of the globe.

“I c-can’t.” Joshua forced out.

Jeonghan grabbed Joshua’s arm and pushed, trying to get them away from the smoking mess. But, the ground beneath their feet gave way and they felt a crushing pressure throw them down.

Instantly, they felt themselves crash against the hard ground.

They both opened their eyes, blue skies, and green grass. In the distance, far below them, they could see the outlines of houses.

“Oh, no. No no no no no.” Jeonghan groaned. “We’ve been demoted to scout angels.” He cried.

Joshua shook his head, stopping at the edge of the cliff, before extending his wings and flapping them in the soft wind. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll find them.”

You tapped your fingers impatiently against the desk of your desktop. The webpage that you need for virtual Christmas shopping was taking its sweet time to load.

You stared at the round loading icon, following a single bubble until you couldn’t distinguish it from the rest. A rasp against your bedroom window made you jump.

You turned to it. Your eyes widened. The pane was frosting over quickly, only a small section remaining clear, in the shape of a snowflake.

‘What the hell?’ You thought to yourself. It didn’t snow in your town, let alone drop to freezing temperatures.

You leaned over the desk to place a hand against the frozen pane and winced when it stung.

“Y/N!” You shook your head and lifted the latch on your window before leaning out. A small pebble bounced off your forehead.

“What the hell Seungcheol?! There’s only one floor to my house, you could have just waited.”

“Sorry.” He laughed.

“What do you want anyway?”

“There’s a party by the old abandoned lot. It’s Christmas themed. Only us returned from college kids.” He sang, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You made a sound of agreement and closed the window. The frost art was gone.

The old abandoned forest lot was of a modest size, big enough to hold all of the town’s undergrad kids who were home for winter break; but it was also small enough that it didn’t feel like the town population was sparse in your age range.

Fairy lights are were strung across trees, a keg off to the side toward the middle with bottles of vodka and tequila on a table next to it. At the front was a DJ and in front of him were some old high school classmates already drunk as hell.

“I didn’t actually think you’d agree to this.” Seungcheol laughed, though he was drowned out by the music.

“I needed a night off of hell.” You yelled, handing him a red cup you filled with beer.

“Uni’s been hell?” He asked, reaching over you for a slice of lime and salt that he poured hazardously into the palm of his hand before licking it, sucking on the lemon, and finally taking a drink.

You stifled a laugh by taking a sip of your drink.

Seungcheol cocked an eyebrow, “You do this too.”

“Not on the first drink.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes, “Then I guess I’ll leave you alone for a while, while I go find Ren.” He raised his cup at you as he was walking away.

You nodded, turning back to add vodka to your drink.

In a matter of seconds, you felt the temperature drop and snow began to fall. Confused, you stuck a hand out to catch one.

“I didn’t know it snowed all the way out here.”

A soft voice startled you; and to calm yourself, you took a big gulp from your cup before turning to face the voice.

“It doesn’t.” You began, trying to catch the man’s eye but failing. He wore a burgundy blazer and a hoodie underneath. That same hoodie was pulled over his head, hiding of half his face.

“Ren probably bought some snow machine to show off. You’re not from here are you?” You finished by taking another drink.

“No,” he smiled. That’s as much as he let you see, his smile, curling upwards. “I moved here a few months ago.”

You nodded and stood up straighter to shake his hand, “Well it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He shook your hand, “I know this may be crossing the line, but maybe you should stop drinking and have some water instead.”

His voice was caring, though you could hear some urgency in his voice.

“Here.” He said and produced a bottle from his other hand.

“Um, thanks.” You replied.

You twisted the cap off and as you drank, closed your eyes momentarily. Then when you opened them again, he was gone.

You swiveled around, trying to find him with your eyes, but there was no trace of him. No footprints on the ground either.

“Y/N!” Seungcheol yelled as he came to a stop in front of you, Ren, his friend in tow.

“Has anyone new moved into town?” You asked straight away.

“Um no.” Seungcheol gave you a weird look.

Silently, you looked down at your hands where you gripped the bottle.

“Oh hey, nice snow effect.” Seungcheol complimented Ren.

“Thanks, but it wasn’t me. Must have been Aron.”

“So this is them?” Jeonghan asked, leaning against the table of alcohol and eyeing you up and down.

“This is them,” Joshua said, using the backside of his hand to caress your cheek. He smiled softly when your eyes fluttered shut and your head dropped like you were fighting back sleep.

The water bottle he had produced still in your hand, he touched and influenced you to take another drink.

“How you holding up?” Jeonghan asked, wrapping an arm around him to keep him from collapsing.

“Okay.” He laughed, “I didn’t think ten minutes would take so much energy. I couldn’t even tell them…” He trailed off, focusing on the way you slapped your cheek to wake up.

“So what now?”

“I recuperate and try again.” He whispered, nudging Jeonghan to follow you as you started walking home.

You had to be hallucinating, that just had to be it. There was no way, what was happening was actually happening. But how exactly were you hallucinating? You had only had two shots last night on Christmas Eve and had fallen asleep right after.

You weren’t even a light drinker, so two shots should have been nothing.

But if you weren’t hallucinating….

How the hell did that present end up on your nightstand? The door is LOCKED. The windows: LOCKED.

Gulping, you reached for the present and undid its bow and wrapping. Slowly you lifted the lid and peered inside.

A single piece of paper.

Meet me at the old abandoned lot.

You gulped. You shouldn’t. But….’I mean….it’s probably just Seungcheol. Who knows how he got in here.’ You thought to yourself.

White. Everything was white. The snow had to be fake. But, then, why did it feel so cold under the touch of your fingers.

You shook it off, if hallucinated once, there was a chance for it to happen again. But on the same day? Dang.

“Hello?!” You screamed in the empty expanse. “Seungcheol?! Why’d you ask me to meet you here?!”

Silence.

You let out a deep breath and pivoted on your heel, ready to turn around and walk back.

Instantly, the wind picked up and snow began to violently thrash around.

You stumbled, hiding your eyes behind the palm of your hands.

Then it stopped and a warmth flooded your body. Arms wrapped around you, and even though you could hear the violent winds, you couldn’t feel them.

“You can open your eyes.”

That soft voice. Your eyes flew open and instantly meet a pair of gold-filled ones, making yours widen.

“I’m sorry about my eyes. It happens when I materialize. But I promise you, you’re not hallucinating.”

“Ma-Materialized?” You whispered. He nodded.

You twisted in his arms to see around you; and, even though everything was still white, it was different. It was soft. They were wings.

“What are you?” You whispered.

“A guardian angel.” He began. “I need to tell you something, but it’s a bit unorthodox. But, please don’t be afraid.”

You nodded and waited for him to speak. But, he didn’t, instead, he slowly bent down to capture his lips with yours.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you responded to his kiss. Like magic, a movie began to play in your head.

“You look a bit drunk, don’t you think?” It was him, at that party you were at a week ago. But, he wasn’t hiding his face anymore. He was dressed virtually the same, only now he wore a black turtleneck under his blazer. His hair was a beautiful golden brown, and his eyes, oh his eyes, they were brown.

“And so what if I am?” You laughed at him.

He smiled and pulled a water bottle from under the table, “Take a drink of this instead. Wouldn’t want something to happen to you.”

“True.” You smiled grabbing the bottle. Then like something had pressed the skip button, you were older and about to be married.

“And do you take this man, to be your lawfully wedded husband?” You grinned at him. He who was wearing a black tux and had his hair slicked back.

“I do.”

“Then I pronounce you—“ You couldn’t wait, you pulled him forward and smashed your lips onto his.

Then again.

“Joshua?!” You screamed, holding a crying baby to your chest. So his name was Joshua. You could feel yourself crying and smiling all at the same as you kissed him.

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughed, “I was tucking—“

“It’s fine, just please.” You whined motioning to the baby.

He laughed and grabbed your son, rocking him in his arms and instantly stopping the crying. The baby was asleep and he went to tuck him in.

A moment later he came back empty handed and pulled you onto the couch. You cuddled into his arms and he nudged your hair with his nose.

Then it stopped and you were in a dark alley. It was you, but it didn’t feel like the future. You stepped out and looked around.

A little boy was walking up the street, playing with a rubber ball.

Joshua.

A man with white wings, another guardian angel, was walking beside him, unbeknownst to him.

Then like a flash of lighting, a man with dark wings flew to a stop in front of him and caused the ball to roll into the street.

Joshua stared at it but made no motion to move. Both angels whispered into his ear, Joshua hesitated.

The dark angel growled and threw itself at the other angel. They struggled but ultimately, the dark one got a second ahead to whisper in Joshua’s ear.

“Joshua, no!” You screamed running to catch up to him. But it was too late, not you nor was the guardian angel able to reach him in time.

A car came ‘round the corner and into a screeching halt. But it was too late, it had hit Joshua.

You cried out in shock, watching as a trail of blood formed around him.

Then it all came crashing down, you were back in Joshua’s arms, crying.

“I’m your soulmate. My future was taken from me, this wasn’t supposed to be my fate.” He cried. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I can’t stay much longer in this form. It takes too much of my energy.”

“Joshua.” You cried.

“You’re not hallucinating, I promise. Please believe me.”

“I believe you.” You whispered, placing your nose against his.

“I love you.” He whispered. “I’ll always be around you, as a guardian angel, I promise.”

You nodded.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.” He said, already fading from your vision.

“Merry Christmas, Joshua.”

#Seventeen #Seventeen AU #Seventeen Imagines #Seventeen Imagine #Seventeen Christmas #Seventeen Joshua AU #Seventeen Joshua Hong #Seventeen Joshua #Seventeen Jisoo #Hong Jisoo Imagines #Joshua Imagines #Seventeen Joshua Imagine #Joshua Hong Imagines #Joshua Hong #Joshua Hong AU #requested #My Writing #Holiday Collection: Christmas #DeathBySeventeen

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

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⚜️ Change the Face of History (Skyrim); #3 Saved?

📑 Table of Contents & Information ⤝ Backward

The Captain turned toward another woman who was dressed in a brown robe with a yellow hood pulled over her head. “Give them their last rites,”

Cool, because the last thing I want to hear before I die is the ramblings of some religious nut. Not to mention the fact that Ulfric is still staring me down, the fuck. Seriously, did his mom not teach him that staring is rude?

The priestess held out her arms and began to speak to the sky. “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn -“

“For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with.” One of the prisoners interrupted, stepping up toward the block of wood on the ground.

“I don’t know who this Talos guy is,” I interjected. “But I second that motion… the shutting up part, not the getting this over with part.”

The priestess looked super offended as her gaze switched between him and I. “As your wish,” she huffed before turning and walking away.

“Come on,” the prisoner antagonized. “I haven’t got all morning.”

The Captain came up behind him, her palm against his shoulder blades. With one rough shove, the man fell to his knees. Then she did the man dirty by replacing her hand with her dirty ass boot, shoving him hard against the block of wood.

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?” He questioned. Even in the face of death, he showed no signs of fear or regret. Damn.

A man in black lifted a giant axe above his head, not hesitating to swing it downward across the prisoner’s neck, severing the head clean from the body. I flinched, turning my gaze away from the scene as blood spurted from the wound into the air. And then it clicked in my head, like a lightbulb switching on above me.

“The headsman,” I snapped my fingers. “Now I get it!”

The prisoner standing beside me, a man with dirty blonde hair and a bitchy looking expression, turned to stare at me like I was the bane of his very existence. I merely shrugged, turning to look to my right instead, where Ralof stood.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” he commented fondly.

“Next, the renegade from Cyrodiil!” The Captain called out.

That same unearthly wail from a few minutes before filled the sky once more, causing a pause to arise within the crowd. To me, it seemed like a warning sound or an alarm blaring, but the others didn’t seem to see it that way.

“There it is again,” said the brunette as he turned his gaze skyward. “Did you hear that?”

“I said, next prisoner!” She called again with an annoyed tone. Whoever is next in line, I feel sorry for them. Something tells me this chick is a bitch both on and off the job. You know, one of those stuck up types with a stick constantly up their ass.

The brunette stepped up beside me, giving me a light shove on my shoulder. “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.”

My blood ran cold. Wait, I’m the next prisoner?! “N-Now wait just a minute here! Surely someone else is meant to go before me. Chivalry is dead these days, you know? There’s no need for -“

The Captain shoved me hard with her foot and I tripped over the corpse of the man that had gone before me. My cheek smashed against the wood, blood smearing across my skin. Little pebbles on the ground dug into the thin cloth pants I wore. Oh Deadpool, it’s still warm, too… Fuck, this can’t be sanitary. No no no, now’s not the time for your stupid commentary, Rae. Don’t people say if you die in your dreams, you also die in real life? Wait a damn minute. They also say you can’t feel pain in your dreams, but… my eyes widened in fear and realization as I looked upon the headsman.

“It’s not a dream,” I croaked weakly. The sun glinted off the black metal of his axe in the most menacing way I’ve ever seen. I know I always say life sucks balls and, let’s be honest here, it does but that don’t mean I wanna die! How the hell do I get out of this? Is this punishment for that one time I stole gel pens from Wal-Mart as a kid? If so, what kind of fool waits ten years to enact punishment? Ain’t there some kind of divine statute of limitations?!

Another wail, much louder this time. It’s getting closer.

I noticed something large and black dart from behind the mountains in the distance, hidden by the stone tower standing behind the headsman.

“What in Oblivion is that?” Tullius called out in alarm. I couldn’t see it, but it sounded like a sword being unsheathed.

The headsman brought his axe up, preparing to swing just as something large came flying toward us. It landed on the top of the tower, causing the man to stagger, the axe blade lodging into the ground beside me. The earth shook around us and my chest started to burn painfully, but I was far too distracted and full of adrenaline to pay it much mind. Is that a –

“Dragon!” cried a female prisoner.

The black dragon observed the grouping of people for only a few seconds before opening his gaping maw. A roar shook the earth again as the sky suddenly filled with dark clouds, thunder clapping loudly above us. Did he just change the fucking weather by roaring at it? The sims has been doing it all wrong this whole damn time! That explains why my sim always fails using the weather machine and, most times, ends up dead for her troubles. All she had to do was yell at the damn thing.

“Don’t just stand there! Kill that thing!” Tullius ordered, snapping me from my thoughts. Fuck, is this what it’s like to have ADHD? Without the dragon and the beheadings, of course. “Guards, get the townspeople to safety!”

In the matter of a few moments, all hell broke loose. My vision blurred from all the shaking as I pushed myself back from the block, falling onto my behind. A rather sharp rock dug into my ass and I winced. My ears were starting to ring from sensory overload – yelling, crying, roaring, explosions. It was all too much.

“Rain, get up!” Ralof stopped in front of me, leaning down and offering his hand. His voice was urgent. “Come on, the gods have given us another chance! This way!”

With his help, I managed to get to my feet and we ran toward the closest building that was still intact – a tower made of stone. Inside, by the door, was Ulfric, along with a couple other prisoners, one of which was lying on the floor bleeding.

“Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof breathed out a sigh of relief as he slammed the door shut behind him. “What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

Ulfric, no longer gagged or bound, spoke for the first time and when he did, my body stopped mid-step. He may be a creep with a staring problem, but hot damn is that deep voice of his sexy. “Legends don’t burn down villages.”

The dragon roared outside and the brief moment of calm was broken as everyone returned to fight-or-flight mode – and none of us were dumb enough to fight a feckin’ dragon. So naturally, we all decided to flight. Which makes no grammatical sense, but I said what I said and I regret nothing.

That’s a lie, I regret a lot of things. But not that sentence.

“We need to move,” Ulfric ordered. “Now!”

“Up through the tower, let’s go!” Ralof added.

I didn’t have to be told twice, turning around and darting up the steps, trying to avoid any sharp looking portions of the stone. My feet are gonna be feckin’ dead after this – if I make it out alive at all. I know it’s a long shot, but part of me is really hoping that, when I reach the top of the tower, I’ll burst through the door into a white light and I’ll wake up in my bed, pillow covered in drool and the comforter thrown halfway across the friggin’ apartment. As if to spite me and reinforce the idea that this is, in fact, not a dream, a bolt of pain shot through my foot as I stepped on a piece of chipped stone.

With a curse, I hopped on one foot near the break in the stairs where a flat stretch of stone sat before the stairs started up again. Damn it, universe, let me cling to my false hope, you fuck!

A prisoner wearing the same uniform as Ralof was there, attempting to lift a large chunk of stone that was blocking the way to the rest of the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder at me as he stood with a grunt. “We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way!”

I held up my hands to show that they are still bound and, therefore, I can’t help with the rock removal process. Before I could speak this aloud, though, the wall beside me exploded inward, sending the man flying forward, his body crushed by several pounds of stone.

The dragon landed on the side of the tower, his mouth near the hole he had created. A deep, male voice spoke the words, “Toor… Shul!” before a spout of flames filled the tower.

I squeaked in surprise when Ralof grabbed the back of my shirt, yanking me backward. If he had acted a second later, I would have been charred Rae! The flames slowly died and the dragon took flight again. “Thank you,”

Ralof nodded, cautiously approaching the hole. “Don’t mention it. I hope you will do the same for me if the situation calls for it.”

The upper part of the stairs had been destroyed, leaving us with no way to continue up through the tower. Now that I think about it, who the feck thought it would be a good idea to escape a giant ass flying lizard by climbing to the top of a tower where we would then be out in the open with nowhere to hide or go?

“See the inn on the other side?” Ralof questioned, pointing at the burning building down below.

Oh, right. Well, in his defense, he is a blonde plus he saved my ass so he’s excused from his stupid idea. I nodded my head, not really paying attention to his words.

“Jump through the roof and keep going!”

“…bitch, you want me to what?”

“Go!” he ordered, giving me a gentle but urgent push toward the hole. “We’ll follow when we can!”

He’s not excused for his stupid ideas! I swallowed hard as I teetered on the edge, looking down at the building. The roof was practically gone, fire quickly eating away at the wooden structure. Oh, this is not going to end well for me. He pushed me again.

I think I can, I think I can.

I jumped before I could talk myself out of it, a cry escaping my cracked lips as gravity took control of me.

I think I can!!

My legs buckled on impact as I landed on the second story, sending me to my knees. Cool, now my feckin’ ankles hurt. Maybe these empire guys can start a list on my feckin’ injuries, checking off each one until there’s no body parts left to injure!

With a huff, I pulled myself to my feet and headed to the other end of the room, where a giant hole sat in the floor. I’m pretty sure the stairs should be here, but they’re long gone. I peered down the hole. The drop isn’t too far – certainly less so than the jump from the tower. Still, I cautiously sat on the floor, my legs dangling over the edge as I shimmied down to the first floor, landing with a soft thud.

Directly in front of me, the wall had been destroyed, leaving behind only a thick wooden support beam. I peered around it into the outside, surveying the situation. The brunette stood in the middle of the road, his sword drawn.

“Haming, you need to get over here.” He called out to a young boy a few feet away. When he didn’t move, transfixed on the dragon soaring across the sky, he added, “Now!”

The child snapped to, doing as he was told. He rushed toward the brunette as fast as his legs could carry him, stopping beside an older man that stood off to the side behind him.

“That a boy. You’re doing great.” The brunette breathed before suddenly crying, “Gods… everyone get back!”

The dragon swooped down and the spot they had just been standing was engulfed in flame. They missed the reaper by mere inches. In his retreat behind the remains of the next building over, the brunette spotted me peeking around the wood. See, this is why I never use stealth skills in video games. Even with a feckin’ dragon attacking, he still noticed my ass.

“Still alive, prisoner?” He questioned, his eyes scanning me. “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

“I have a name, you fuck.” I muttered under my breath before cautiously leaving the cover of the inn, sprinting across the way to where the three were crouching for cover. As bad of an idea as it seemed to stick close to the man that was all but happy to execute me for no damn reason, I didn’t exactly have any options here. I don’t know where Ralof is, there’s a giant fire-breathing weather-changing dragon throwing a tantrum, and the other soldiers would probably cut me down on sight. There’s no way I can survive on my own, especially with no knowledge of this world or how it works. “Can you at least cut me free?”

“No,” he didn’t even look at me before addressing the older man. “Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense.”

“Gods guide you, Hadvar.” The man responded before putting his arm around the boy, who was shaking in fear.

“Let’s go,” Hadvar nodded to me before running off. I groaned, taking off after him. We followed the cobblestone road around a bend, where it went between a burning building and a stone wall. “Stay close to the wall!”

My body reacted before my brain even registered the words and I flattened my body against the wall just as the dragon landed above us, his clawed hand slamming down a mere five inches from my face. Why do I have such a strong urge to reach out and touch it? Would it feel like leather? Soft like fur? Cold because of the scales or warm because of the fire?

“Yol… Toor Shul!” It shouted before breathing fire down on the scattering soldiers.

For science, I convinced myself before slowly reaching my hands up. My fingers were just shy of touching the wing when it took flight again, kicking up a gust of wind and a cloud of dirt. I coughed, waving my hands to try and dispel the cloud.

“Quickly, follow me!” Hadvar ordered.

“Oh, right!” I pushed away from the wall and hurried after him, dodging other people and patches of flaming earth. We headed up a small set of stairs before darting across to a destroyed house. As we ran, I could hear the distressed cries of those around us.

“Tell my family… I fought bravely.”

“What does it take to kill this monster?!”

“Lead with those arrows, dammit!”

“Come on. Give me your hand, I’m getting you out of here.”

“It won’t die, it just keeps coming!”

In the distance, I noticed Tullius surrounded by three soldiers, their bows pointed toward the sky. He noticed Hadvar and called out, motioning toward a stone building up ahead. “Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier, we’re leaving!”

Hadvar glanced over his shoulder, probably to make sure I was still alive. “It’s you and me, prisoner. Stay close!”

Why is he so damned concerned when I was going to be executed, anyway? Wouldn’t it make their life easier if the dragon just… ate me? No, I frowned, shaking my head, because then they wouldn’t have the pleasure of doing it themself.

⤞ Forward

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ladydracarysao3 · 7 years

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Nemesis of Neglect: A Dragon Age & Jack the Ripper Tale

Chapter Two

Disclaimer This is a canon divergent Dragon Age and True Crime mash-up of Kirkwall, and London’s notorious Jack the Ripper. It is a tale not for the faint of heart, but rather for the reader who wishes to ride a thrilling mystery of sex, deception, and murder.

[Read Chapter Two on AO3] or [Start with the Prologue]

Chapter Two

Hours filled with the sounds of Leandra and Carver mourning turn slowly throughout the day. Silently, Ian sits in her home and listens to her mother berate her and blame her for Bethany’s demise. Ian hasn’t the strength to object, in fact, she agrees. So, she listens and takes every hurtful word her mother cries, absorbing each one into her burden. Building blocks to strengthen her revenge. Steam to power her hate, both at herself and at Kirkwall.

Eventually, late in the evening, her mother loses the energy to continue and retires to her bedroom. All who reside in the house follow suit, and Ian lies awake in her bed, listening to the soft sobs coming from her mother’s room.

She stares at the top of her bed’s crimson canopy. She watches lights and shadows move along her stone walls, ghostly shapes haunting her from large bedroom windows. She listens to the low cracks of the wood in her small hearth after the sounds of her mother give way to exhaustion and sleep.

Death to conjurers.

The evil words repeat in her mind.

There are those who exhibit a talent in the conjuring of magic. The practice, whether natural to the person or not, is strictly forbidden by both governmental law and the law of the Maker. Those who are devout are especially zealous against anyone who may attempt at using their conjuring abilities, and the common people as a whole tend to view it as an evil and vile practice.

The self-righteous men Carver has involved himself with are some of those who think they fight against wickedness by hunting and imprisoning conjurers. Victims are rarely heard from or seen again, and those who do come back from the Templar’s hold are never the same people they once were.

The order is an unofficial, though widely accepted, special branch of the Chantry. The Chantry does not formally lay claim to the Templars, however it is one of those unspoken truths that everyone knows and most accept, even support.

Ian is not one of those supporters. She views them as a group of thugs acting as illegal enforcement for a religion. A view that was instilled in her since childhood by her father. For the reason her mother and father fled Kirkwall to begin with - where the gang of Templars is most cherished and rampant - was due to the fact that Malcolm Hawke was one of those souls who naturally took to magic. His resistance to religious persecution caused him to flee, his loving young bride in tow.

It made sense that Bethany would have inherited their father’s abilities, but she never spoke of it. Ian knew that she, too, held some talent for conjuring. However, while her father fled in order to practice his beliefs, he discouraged it from his children. To amplify or use one’s abilities was to risk one’s life. Dangerous, addictive, and highly guarded substances were sometimes involved, and Malcolm did his best to shield his children from the knowledge.

Malcolm used his own abilities far from home, often leaving to perform feats for both shady and legitimate organizations alike. He wanted a different life for his children, and he explained early on to Ian that while he saw potential within her, he wished for her to pursue a more normal way of life.

Funny how the wishes of parents work out for their offspring.

Ian followed her father’s wishes for the most part, in that course anyway. She never cared much to dabble in magic and worked on her other skills instead. She never assumed her siblings conjured, either. They never spoke of it. It was never a topic the family discussed at the dinner table. Instead, Ian held fast to ideals that opposed the Chantry and left it at that.

To think that Bethany could have been involved in magic, conjuring, bending the laws of physics with others like her… in the shadows of Lowtown…

Ian is aware of pockets, or perhaps covens, of people who practice in secret.

But Bethany?

If true, Ian knows less of her sister than she had ever imagined.

As dawn crests the smoky horizon over Hightown’s billowing black chimneys, Ian feels her mind returning. She has questions, and she’s found her voice to demand them answered.

It does not take her long to dress and storm to the city center. The Viscount’s Keep had barely unlocked its doors by the time Ian slams them open. A smattering of guardsmen and townspeople stand in the grand hall, most of whom stare wide-eyed at Ian as she marches past, startled by her loud and commanding entrance. Albeit, she has bloodlust in her eyes, there are still those in the city who find it hard not to stare when they see a woman in trousers walk by.

Quickly scaling the red carpeted marble steps at the end of the opulent hall, Ian veers toward Aveline’s office. Upon arrival, she does not knock, she does not announce herself, she whips the door open with such force that it slams into the wall making the office windows rattle.

“Why is my sister dead?” Ian demands, fists slamming onto Aveline’s large oak desk. “I want answers, Aveline.”

“Hawke,” Aveline says, slowly raising her eyes from the papers in front of her. Unlike the windowpanes, Aveline is not at all startled by the way Ian entered. It was not the first time Ian’s paraded through the keep in such a manner, in fact, it is her tendency.

The Guard Captain sighs and rubs her forehead with tense fingers. “I’m trying to figure that out.”

“Death to conjurers? What is that about, Bethany never mentioned--”

“I’m sorry to say, your sister was part of a group, a cult maybe. It seems she had magical talent that she kept secret.”

Ian slumps into a chair opposite Aveline’s desk. “Do you have any leads?”

“Unfortunately, hers was not the first murder of this nature,” Aveline admits with a drop to her shoulders.

“What are you saying, there have been others?”

“One. A man. Cut in a similar fashion with the same writing over his body.”

“Why hadn’t I heard of this, Aveline?” Ian shouts.

“Hawke, you of all people know that murder is no strange fate for those who haunt Lowtown. I had hoped it was an isolated incident. I kept the details hush in an attempt to not start a stir, or inspire others to be as gruesome.”

“And this man, he was also a conjurer? Are there other similarities?”

“Both had the message, both had their throats cut, and…” Aveline pauses and avoids eye contact.

“Tell me.”

“You no doubt noticed Bethany’s stomach. I received word from the medical examiner that… Oh, Hawke, I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, fingers once again finding purchase on the forehead that clearly plagues her with pain. “They took her womb.”

“Her womb? They took…” Ian’s voice trails off. That familiar sick feeling possesses her stomach. She feels the color leave her face, but she presses on with her questions, though her voice asks them in a weakened state. “What does that have to do with the man, or magic?”

“He had been castrated. I think it is another message of the killer’s. Even more gruesome than the writing.”

Ian ponders for a moment before her realization softly leaves her lips. “Reproduction. Eliminate conjurers entirely...”

“I’m afraid there will be more. So far, what we know is that he must be intelligent. Well-educated or with access, for him to have an understanding of anatomy, and also I think he works alone. He is either strong enough to quickly overtake his victims, or perhaps he lures them willingly. I cannot be sure which.” She pauses and watches Ian for a moment. “I want to keep this hush, Hawke. I do not want copycats or hysteria to strike our streets. I need to work this right. I have my best men going through the evidence, and I’ve been reviewing it constantly, trying to connect the dots. This all needs to be done above board, Ian. I can’t have chaos take over the investigation.”

“Aveline, people need to know. These groups of conjurers need to know they are in even more danger than normal. They have families. If I had known this, maybe I could have kept Bethany safe.”

“You didn’t even know she had magic.”

Like the pebble needed to tip the scales from sickness over to the favor of rage, Ian’s fury takes hold. In one swift movement, she slams her feet to the ground and launches her body so that her palms land on Aveline’s desk. She leans across it and sneers down at the Captain. “Well I do now, don’t I? Or at least whoever this monster is thought she was. Silence is a grave mistake. Who did she know, Aveline? Tell me.”

“I would kindly remind you that you are in the office of the Guard Captain, Hawke. You do not get to question me in such a manner, no matter our personal history, or your personal tragedy,” Aveline says. An underlying river of anger, a tremor of a warning lies within her tone.

Ian’s eyes scan the woman across her, curling her lip in a snarl. “Useless. The city guard have always been and always will be useless.” From her fists, she pushes herself upright and points to Aveline’s office window. “The little people of this city get no justice. And it’s due to the lack of care from this house that people like me even earn a living. Your men do nothing for them.” She shakes her head and turns to stalk out the door.

Aveline yells after her. “Do not take law into your own hands on this, Hawke! I’m warning you! I will not turn a blind eye to you this time! It is my duty!” The words fall on deaf ears. Ian has no trust in the government. If there was any control on this city, this wouldn’t have happened.

Her feet carry her through Kirkwall to the slums. The stark contrast between the care of the streets in Hightown, especially the Viscount district, and the laxity in Lowtown is even more apparent when traveled at once. No longer are trees and bushes decorating the clean cobblestone. No longer are there guardsmen patrolling in almost laughable numbers - whose main purpose seems to be helping the elderly society folk from their stately carriages, and knocking their billy clubs on rot iron fencing when rascal children get too loud.

None of that is present.

No, instead of wide avenues lined with beautiful estates, the streets turn smaller and smaller until bystanders and carriages alike have difficulty moving. Instead of greenery and fencing, there is filth and crates - poor folk standing with stolen baubles hollering at passersby to purchase their treasures for the lovely ladies at home. Instead of cobblestone that is swept by silent, invisible men, the streets begin to resemble more of rivers of mud, shit, and piss than anything else. And instead of kind guardsmen keeping order and helping the weak, one more likely will find them heckling or beating the numerous starving unfortunates in rags.

Ian follows the ruin to The Hanged Man. The inn happens to be the epicenter from dealings with those who do not wish to strictly follow the law. Law that has many times failed them all. If Ian wants to learn more about the underground groups of conjurers, and whom may wish them murdered, The Hanged Man is the best place to start.

It is also a place where she can have a drink to cut her nerves, and a meal that is more palatable. She’s never had much taste for higher cooking, peasant food is perfectly fine to her.

She orders the day’s mash with a stiff drink to accompany it, and she sits down at the end of a long wooden bench and a long wooden table.

She does not have to wait before her first visitor strides by.

“Ian,” a thick Rivaini accent purrs as slender tan fingers grip at Ian’s shoulders from behind. Lips trail so close to the shell of her ear that Ian feels them tickle her tiny hairs. “I am so sorry to hear about Bethany.”

“You know? Aveline said she was keeping it hush.”

“Oh please, you know that nothing stays hush in Lowtown, and certainly not from me,” Isabela says as she produces herself from behind, strutting slowly around the table to other side.

“How much do you know?” Ian asks as the woman sits.

Isabela smirks, her amber eyes peering coyly through fallen strands of thick, wavy black hair. “As much as there is to know, I suppose.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Sweet Bethany walked with the a new crowd. No matter how hard you worked to keep her from here, she was determined, apparently.”

“Why didn’t I know about this? Why didn’t you tell me?” Ian feels her anger rise in her chest. The city knew her, especially the folk of Lowtown knew that everything she did was to protect her family. People knew, yet didn’t bother to warn her of her sister’s secret, and it is becoming infuriating.

Isabela crosses her arms and tilts her head. “Listen, you spend so much time in that mansion of yours now, honestly, how am I supposed to have any idea what you know and don’t know anymore?”

Ian growls and glares across the table. “I am here at least two nights a week, Isabela.”

“Yeah, sure. Getting pissed and knocking out benders. But you’re not truly here. Not like you used to be.”

Ian speaks low, enunciating each syllable as if it is dripped in blood. “You should have told me.”

“And risk your fist coming at my head next? No, thank you.” Isabela scoffs. They sit silently for a moment, a war of the wills, but Ian’s glare bores a hole into Isabela’s sarcastic armor. Finally, the woman sighs in capitulation. “I’m sorry, Ian. If I had known this would happen to her, I wouldn’t have listened to her. I would have told you.”

That is a shock to Ian, and she feels a cold rush across her skin. “She talked to you about this?”

“Not in so many words, no. I found out a little of what she was up to and confronted her. She begged me not to tell you. She assured me that she had everything under control.”

“What do you know?”

“Not as much as it sounds, I’m sure, but I saw her talking to Merrill here a lot. That seemed a bit odd to me, especially since if she spotted you walk in, she vanished.”

Merrill is a known conjurer in Lowtown, and a unique one at that as she moved from a small clan of elves outside the city. It is fabled that her people have long mastered the art of exotic magics that Ian never cared to investigate.

Ian’s food and drink arrive. Everything feeling a little too much, and she grabs the mug of amber liquid and gulps it down so quickly that small rivers of whiskey stream down from the corners of her mouth.

“What did Bethany say to you?” Ian asks, wiping the corners of her mouth on her coat’s sleeve.

“Nothing much except to not tell you.”

Their conversation is interrupted by a drunk fool who strides up to their table. “Well aren’t you as pretty as pie... Except you,” the man says with a burp to punctuate it, pointing at Ian with a lazy finger. “What is it with you dressin’ like a man. One’d assume you like to fuck ladies like a man, too? Are you going to fuck--”

Ian chucks her empty mug at the drunk’s face, and before he can react, she is out of her seat and slamming his body to the ground. He lands with a loud thud, and she is on top of him in an instant. Her left fist gathers the garb at his neck, and her face hovers maliciously over his. The smell of his breath disgusts her, only intensifying her snarl.

“Assumptions are the lies of wicked demons in your ear,” Ian says in a low growl. “Now unless you want me to remove both of yours,” Ian’s right hand grabs hold of his ear and pulls until the man whines and writhes beneath her, “then I suggest you leave. My business is none of your own.”

“Hey, hey, Hawke. This is a little early for bar fights, even for you, don’t you think?” a raspy voice says beside them. Boots walk tentatively beside her head. Ian looks up to find the short-statured Varric Tethras standing over them. “Why don’t you let the man go and come sit with me in a my office, huh? Sound good? A little less violent, perhaps?”

Ian grunts and pushes herself off the drunk. She spits at the feet of the man before following Varric to his office in the rear of the tavern. She glances back, and with satisfaction, watches Isabela toss the sod out the tavern door and into the street.

Varric gestures for Ian to sit at his table in his personal room in the inn, and then shuts his door behind them. “How are you holding up, kid? To anyone else I’d say not very well, but that behavior isn’t exactly uncommon.”

Ian grunts again and slumps into one of his dwarven inspired chairs, geometric and sturdy by design with furs draped over the seat and arms. Varric sits at the head of the table and patiently waits while Ian stares into a roaring fire across from her.

“You loved her, how the fuck are you handling it?” Ian eventually grumbles.

Varric sighs. “I want to filet the bastard that did it.”

“Only if I gut him first.” There is a silence again until Ian adds, “Aveline thinks there will be more. We have to stop him.”

“Anything I can do to help, you just let me know,” Varric says, and he means it. The dwarf is probably the one man in this city with the most connections. He runs a rag called Bianca Knows that is tossed around the city. Legends swarm the streets about the dwarf, though Ian knows better. The most comical of the rumors being that he has actual ears on the walls of alleyways.

“You need to get the word out to anyone who may need it,” Ian says. “Aveline doesn’t want it in the papers, but you follow Lowtown’s rules.”

Varric nods. “Consider it done. I already drafted the story and sent it to my printer this morning.”

“Good. Let’s hope we get this guy before there is another Bethany.” Ian glances at Varric, noticing the way his gaze hangs in the air. The far-off stare of a man who is nowhere nearby. Instead, his mind drowns in a dimension of sadness and regret. It is well known how deeply he admired Bethany, though he never once acted on his feelings.

A soft knock at the door calls their attention, and Varric summons the person to enter. A young boy walks in, shaken, dirty, and obviously malnourished. He speaks with a tremor and his tattered gloved hand holds out an envelope like it could be his unfortunate ticket to the Maker. “I have a letter for M-M-Miss Hawke. A man gave me six coppers to deliver it right away.”

“What man, boy? Speak up,” Ian says as she takes the envelope from his hand.

“Don’t know, Miss. He was in the shadows. Face covered up with a scarf.”

“Where was this man now?” Varric asks.

The boy shrugs his shoulders and points to the far wall. “Called me from the alley by the inn, he did.” The boy looks between them both a few times and before turning and bolting from the room.

“Hey! Get back here!” Ian yells, but he’s gone. She hesitates and stares at the letter in her hand. Her curiosity for its contents ultimately outweighs her will to chase the child, and she opens the envelope to find red writing.

I know your Captain pet thinks she’ll have me. It gives me quite a thrill.

I am down on witches. Will rip them up till their foul wickedness reeks these streets no longer. Your sister was grand work, but I gave the lady no time to squeal. Saved a bit of her tainted blood to write this letter, though the stuff went thick. Red ink will have to do.

I’ve found I enjoy this venture more than I’d thought. First out of passion, second of lust, the next will follow and follow until the job is done. It is my calling.

Death to conjurers.

Ripper

Ian places the paper on Varric’s table. Whomever this Ripper is, he seems to know Ian, and knew he was killing her sister. If Ian had conviction before, it has now been increased ten-fold. She eyes Varric, his nervous wait apparent in the chewing of his lower lip and the wringing of his hands. Glancing back at the letter she says, “I need to speak to Merrill.”

#nemesis of neglect #Jack the Ripper AU #dragon age au #my fic #marian hawke

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alexllove-blog · 5 years

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Iraklia island in Greece just may be the untouched Greek island destination you're looking for. Boasting charm, beauty, and peace and quiet, here's everything you need to know.

Looking for a quiet destination in Greece?

For many people, Greece brings up images of the Santorini volcano and blue-domed churches, the Acropolis in Athens, the stunning landscapes in Meteora, and the archaeological site of Delphi.

This is understandable, as these are some of the most visited locations in Greece.

Greece, however, is much more than its popular destinations. The Cyclades group of islands, where Santorini and Mykonos belong, includes many more islands, some of which haven’t been spoilt by mass tourism.

Iraklia Island

One of those islands is Iraklia Island, which belongs to the “Small Cyclades” or “Lesser Cyclades” group of islands, along with Ano Koufonissi, Kato Koufonissi, Schinoussa, Donoussa and the uninhabited Keros.

Those small islands are located between Naxos, Ios and Amorgos, and they are a great choice if you want a relaxing holiday in Greece.

A little information about Iraklia Greece

Iraklia is a small island with fewer than 100 permanent residents. Most of them live either in the Agios Georgios village right on the port, or in the Chora settlement, also known as Panagia, 4 kms away.

Iraklia doesn’t have much to do apart from relaxing and being close to nature. It feels like time has stopped on this tiny island.

Even though it’s so close to well-known Greek islands such as Naxos, Paros and Ios, Iraklia is very different. It offers a sense of freedom, as you don’t need to plan anything at all.

A perfect island getaway

Approaching the island from the sea, you will see the small village of Agios Georgios with its small lovely beach. Here you will find a few tavernas, a couple of mini markets, some scattered rooms to let, white-washed houses, churches, and curious, hospitable locals.

If you can read Greek, you will soon discover a large sign with the words “Welcome to Iraklia Greece – here, no one can find you”.

Where to stay in Iraklia

Agios Georgios is the best place to stay in Iraklia. Villa Meltemi and Sunset are among the best places to stay, but the village is so small that the exact location hardly matters. Booking.com (function(d, sc, u) { var s = d.createElement(sc), p = d.getElementsByTagName(sc)[0]; s.type = 'text/javascript'; s.async = true; s.src = u + '?v=' + (+new Date()); p.parentNode.insertBefore(s,p); })(document, 'script', '//aff.bstatic.com/static/affiliate_base/js/flexiproduct.js');

Services on Iraklia

There is now an ATM on Iraklia, but no bank, and no car rental services or gas station – though it’s possible to rent a motorcycle.

A small bus takes visitors from Agios Georgios to Panagia, though you will need to ask around for more information. There is no proper pharmacy, so if you need to get any medication you will have to go to Naxos.

Hiking around Iraklia Greece

Iraklia has eight distinct hiking trails that are popular with nature lovers. Like in most of the other Cyclades, the landscape in Iraklia is wild and dry.

The island has cliffs all around and there are several viewing points from where you can see 19 of the nearby islands. The highest point of the island is called Papas, and it’s a whopping 420 metres.

Even if you have been to Santorini, the view from Papas is likely to stay in your mind forever.

Some of the best hikes in Iraklia are the trails leading to Profitis Ilias and to Merichas, where you can reach one of the most picturesque points of the island.

If you look up, you will definitely see some prey birds, as the island is home to 26 distinct types of hawks, eagles and the like. Sit at the edge of the cliff and look down to the sea, and you will feel like you are at the world’s end.

Beaches in Iraklia Island

Iraklia has ten beaches, of which only three are accessible by car. Some of the others are easily reached by hiking, while a couple of them are only accessible by boat.

The biggest and best beach in Iraklia Greece is Livadi, one of the prettiest beaches all around the Cyclades, a short walk from Agios Georgios village.

It is popular with freecampers from about mid-July to end of August, but outside that time of year it is fairly quiet. As it faces north, it can often be affected by the strong Meltemia winds that are quite common in summer.

Naturism is common on the far right side of the beach, while families prefer the left side, which is closer to the main road. Until last summer there was no infrastructure and very little shade, so you have to bring everything you need.

One of the most popular beaches in Iraklia is the beach by Agios Georgios port, which is very easily accessible and more protected from the winds than Livadi. As a result, it can get crowded, by Iraklia standards, on windy days.

More beaches in Iraklia

Another sandy beach on the north of the island, Vorini Spilia, is also worth exploring, as it’s quiet and relaxed. Again, it’s best to visit on a non-windy day, as it will be very difficult to swim otherwise. You can hike there through the path passing by Agios Athanasios.

If you are happy to go for a short hike from the village of Panagia, you can easily reach pebbly Tourkopigado beach, to the east of the island. As it is right inside a small bay, it is protected from the winds.

Warning – you are very likely to come across some friendly goats!

Two of the nicest beaches in Iraklia are Karvounolakkos and Alimia, only accessible through a short boat trip on the “Anemos” boat.

Both of these beaches are stunning, with crystal clear water. Alimia, on the west side of the island, hides a secret – a German airplane from World War II lies under the surface of the sea, and the water is so clear that you can actually see it from the boat.

Snorkels and fins are provided, but be prepared for a very refreshing swim in the deep blue sea.

The Cave of Agios Ioannis in Iraklia Greece

Iraklia has another secret, the Cave of Agios Ioannis (Saint John). This massive cave is the seventh largest cave in Greece, and can be reached after a hike of about an hour and a half from the village of Panagia.

It is actually open for people to visit, but there is no infrastructure for visitors, and even getting there might not be entirely straightforward. It might be best to visit with a local guide, who can show you the hidden cave.

As the entrance to the cave is quite small, you will have to go in on your hands and knees – but it’s absolutely worth it and once you are inside the cave you won’t believe its size.

Bring a spare torch and extra batteries – you definitely don’t want to run out of light inside the cave!

Agios Ioannis cave was discovered accidentally at the end of the 19th century by a shepherd. According to tradition, Saint John’s icon was found in the cave, and this is how it got its name.

Every year, on the 28th August, the eve of the Saint’s nameday, a major religious ceremony happens in the cave, and hundreds of people arrive to celebrate the Saint with chants and candles. This is followed by songs and dances until late at night. If you happen to be visiting Iraklia around that time, don’t miss it.

Iraklia and Greek Mythology

If you have ever read Homer’s Odyssey, you will remember the story of Polifimos, the Cyclops who captured Odysseus and his colleagues on their way back to Ithaca and kept them in his cave, which was likely the smaller cave opposite St John’s cave.

Odysseus managed to cheat the Cyclops by blinding his only eye, and free his colleagues. As they were sailing away from Iraklia, Polifimos started throwing big boulders towards them.

These can still be seen today – they are the small islets called Avelonisia, to the west of Iraklia.

Where to eat in Iraklia Island

As the island is so small, if you stay for a few days you will have enough time to try all the tavernas in Iraklia.

Our favourite a couple of years ago was Akathi. They not only had a large selection of traditional Greek dishes, but also made some lovely waffles.

Make sure you also try Maistrali, Eolos and all the other tavernas, as all our meals were way above average. Definitely check out Surfin Bird, with some of the best views of the Aegean.

If you like meat, you should taste some sheep and goat dishes. Otherwise, try the local cheeses, the fava split peas and the delicious honey.

How to get to Iraklia Greece

You can only get to Iraklia by boat from Piraeus, Naxos, Amorgos and the other Small Cyclades islands.

For summer 2019, there is a direct boat, the Blue Star Naxos, running from Piraeus to Iraklia three times a week (Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays). It departs at 6.45 am and arrives at Iraklia at 13.10, stopping at Paros and Naxos on the way.

If you are not flexible with your dates, your only other option to get from Athens to Iraklia is to first get any ferry to Naxos, and then get the Skopelitis Express boat to Iraklia.

This small ferry leaves Naxos at 14.00 and arrives at Iraklia at 15.30 daily, apart from Sundays. Unlike its name suggests, it’s not a highspeed ferry – it’s a small, conventional ferry that has been serving this route for over six decades.

You can read more about the Skopelitis Express here.

If you are already on Naxos, you can take either the Blue Star Naxos or the Skopelitis Express. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, both boats run from Naxos to Iraklia, while on other days it’s one or the other.

If you are in Amorgos, Koufonissi or Schinoussa, you can either take the Skopelitis Express any day apart from Sunday, or the Blue Star Naxos on Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays.

There is also another ferry, Aqua Jewel, but it only runs to Iraklia every second Monday. Most routes depart from Katapola port in Amorgos, though on some days you can also leave from Egiali.

Finally, the Express Skopelitis runs from Donoussa to Iraklia three times a week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

Confused? Don’t worry – you can check out information for your specific dates and book your tickets to Iraklia at Ferryhopper.

Is Iraklia suitable for a day trip?

It is possible to go to Iraklia Greece on a day trip from Naxos, Schinoussa or Koufonissi, but due to the ferry schedules you will only have a few hours there. If you want to get a better idea of the island, it’s best to allow for at least one night there.

There is also the option of taking a day trip from Naxos to the Small Cyclades. Keep in mind that those trips can largely be determined by weather, so if you are specific about spending some time in Iraklia, it’s best to go on the larger ferries.

How long should I stay in Iraklia Greece?

There is no right or wrong answer to this question. If you like nature and want to get away from it all, any amount of time will be fine. Iraklia is charming and grows on you, and you will probably miss it when you’re back home.

The post Iraklia Island in Greece – The Perfect Small Cyclades Getaway appeared first on Dave& Travel Pages.

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foxcroft-rpg-blog · 7 years

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Congratulations, Ro! You had me sold when I saw you understood just why I made Wells a wyrth. Not only that, but you have his personality down too. I’m really excited to see what you do with him.

Thanks again for applying! Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the masterlist as soon as you can. Welcome to Foxcroft!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name: Ro

Age: (16 and over) 26

Preferred pronouns: (if you’re comfortable sharing) He/Him

Time zone: PST

Activity: (include a brief explanation) I’m a pretty dedicated RPer and though my life has gotten crazy busy as I now work in the film industry and am just finishing up my 3rd year University, I still make time for it reliably. During the summer, I will mostly be on on weekends and probably 1 or 2 days a week, depending on if I’m working on set during the week. During the school year my availability is less predictable, so it just depends what we’re doing at the time, but I’ll always find time to be on weekly.

Anything else?: (questions, concerns, etc.)

IN CHARACTER

Full name: Wells Donovan

Date of birth: November 2nd, 1989

How long have they been in Foxcroft: (1-3 sentences. Please be consistent with bio.)Since September of 2016, I think, according to the bio and the timeline of when Adam Foxcroft was found in the swamps. So approaching a year, so far?

Sexuality: (include a brief explanation) Bisexual - Though I think his sexuality is not something he’s explored as openly or frequently until after his sister’s death. Not that he was purposely avoiding it, but I feel like circumstances were such that he was mostly with women in his younger years. Her death, I think, made him crave a freedom that he didn’t know he needed, much like when he took to the road to try to escape his grief.

FC change: (if applicable please include three possible changes in order of preference)N/A

How do you interpret this character’s personality? How will you portray them? Include two weaknesses and two strengths. (2+ paragraphs) Wells to me is a passionate and loyal individual who, despite being friendly and easy to get along with, is a lot more private and reserved than people think on first impression. I think his outgoing nature makes it difficult for people to see or understand that just because he’s outgoing, doesn’t mean he’s an extrovert. His ‘recharge’ time is when he’s alone or at home, in a controlled environment, and one of the reasons his relationship with his sister was so vital in his life, aside from them being twins, is that she was one of the few people he felt utterly himself and comfortable with at all times. He believes she brought out the best in him, and since her death, has struggled to know exactly who he is without her. His loyalty and pensiveness can make him sweet, at times, and he means well, always. But he is also deeply nested inside his chest, distraught with a loneliness he doesn’t quite know how to handle or deal with. He is extremely protective of those he cares about, and much like his mechanic ways, he is a 'fixer’. He likes to understand problems, especially those of others, and have his hand at assisting in correcting them. He likes to help people. [ strengths: loyal, disciplined, just | weaknesses: stubborn, pessimistic, self-isolated ]

How did this character react to the death of Hazel Abrams? Adam Foxcroft? Wells is naturally contemplative and cerebral. He tends not to react to things heatedly, but with pensiveness. Hazel died before he arrived in the town, and I don’t think he thought that much of it at fist because it makes sense that unexplained deaths would linger as a big deal in small towns where everyone knows each other. But when Adam died, I think that struck Wells with a new sort of suspicion, being able to witness the ripple effect reaction of the town in the aftermath. The fact that Hazel’s case was still unsolved, and that Adam turned up in the same manner, Wells is starting to become suspicious and he knows there is something unique to the town, and that there’s much more than meets the eye. He’s curious and wants to understand what’s going on and what’s behind this little town he’s landed himself in.

How do they see the town and its people? Think about the different groups of people and prejudices the town holds about them. He has a hard time identifying with the problems of the town. His life has involved so much changing and moving around between foster homes, etc, that he has a hard time adjusting to the mentality of people who’ve never known or seen change. Who live so much in fear of it. Regardless, he doesn’t have particularly strong feelings about the church or religion. He was not raised religious, and is a bit too much of a critical thinker to be particularly prone to faith. However, that isn’t to say he doesn’t like the townspeople. When he first moved, he was relatively indifferent, but now he is both drawn to and fears them, in a way. There is something about the town and the people that makes him feel connected to them, yet almost entrapped. He feels a part of something bigger, but he knows there is information just beyond his reach, and for now the puzzle pieces are too scattered and incomplete for him to have a strong grasp on the big picture of Foxcroft.

For non-human characters: What does this character know about what they’ve become? Have they had any experiences that made them aware that weren’t exactly human? Elaborate. Considering the nature of Well’s new 'ability’, it’s not something he noticed right away, and even still he is only just beginning to realize that there might be something going on with him that he can no longer attribute to coincidence or good karma. Due to being a new arrival to the town, and knowing so few people, it took a few months for any circumstance to arise in which he’d accidentally happen upon his healing ability. However, he first noticed it in a way that was more difficult to shrug off, when he was helping a kid up who’d slipped and fallen on his bike just outside the Wicked Wrench. The kid had bloodied up his knees pretty bad, and when Wells was wiping them off with a warm, wet rag, carefully cleaning pebbles form the wound, suddenly it seemed as though the cuts were much less prominent than he’d thought. There was barely any abrasion, and the blood seemed to be coming from a cut so minor, it hardly made sense. He swore just a moment ago it’d been a gash… unless it’d simply been the blood smeared that had made it look that way…. it wasn’t until after the kid had left and Wells had stepped back into the garage that he noticed his own jeans were red at the knees… He doesn’t know what’s going on with him, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like he’s an exception in this town of the unexplained. He feels very much as though whatever is going on, is linked to where he’s currently living, and he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He can feel it coming.

Please include 1-2 possible plots your see for this character (1 paragraph brief explanation for each) I think the fact that he’s a 'healer’ when he didn’t have the power or the chance to save his sister, will wreck him. No doubt that went into the decision making when you made him a wryth. But anyway, that fact is one of the first things that gave me a hit of inspiration for this character. This is probably something that nags at him daily and plagues his nightmares, because it’s bad enough losing your twin and your only anchor in the world, but suddenly obtaining an unforseen power to heal, only it’s too late? I would like to explore this with him extensively, and I can see it kind of breaking him, to a certain degree. Like he could become obsessive with it, to the point of almost putting himself in the hospital, because he’s getting reckless with his healing. I’d also like to explore how it affects his psyche—to have the POWER to heal, but to not be ABLE to because it might kill him is like a certain kind of torture, especially for someone like Wells, and I think that this could really mess him up, and badly affect his relationships and decision making. Connected with that, I can also see him trying to take matters into his own hands to do with getting to the bottom of these mysterious deaths, etc. Partially because he’s desperate for the distraction, to keep himself from thinking about his continued grief, and partially because for some reason he thinks it might give him a sense of relief, that he’s helped or avenged someone, even if it could never bring his sister back.

WRITING SAMPLE

Hiya! So I’m pasting these samples of my writing in because the blogs they used to exist on are private now. Hope that’s okay! (The one from Derrick is not actually from the account I’m applying from, haha.)

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SAMPLE EXCERPT 1 - Derrick

Everything was oddly lethargic today. Although, perhaps lethargic wasn’t the word. Perhaps a better description would be slow with a false sense of relaxation. A certain kind of conceding to the feeling of sadness that now coated his throat in a gradual, thick drip. Something he was now used to, or getting there, at least; a new phase to the turning down of his mouth. He’d waded through anguish, thrashed through anxiety and now he was treading water warmed by his own movement. Disturbed sand from a distant bottom he could not see churned beneath his feet and made his skin and toes feel gritty. The darkness of the lake he was trying not to drown in remained more or less as impenetrable as ever, but Derrick now found solace in its darkness. Familiarity with his hurt; it was an unlikely friendship they had now, he and pain, but this was the way it was. This was the way it had to be because he would not change anything, should he had ever been given the chance.

He straightened the collar of his shirt in the cracked and crying mirror, its grunge too thick to see through. The tremble of his fingers against his neck was slight this morning, and he took a moment to stroke at the smoothness of his clean shaven skin. The normalcy of it brought him comfort, cleanliness, control.

A control he would not lose again; not this time, and not in this way. He would go downstairs and meet his lawyer for the third time within these walls, shake his hand and thank him for coming. He would find Lukas on the way down, perhaps, and smile like nothing had changed or there had been no clicking of new concepts in his head. Or rather, perhaps that was wrong; perhaps the smile would just be with a new surrendering, to the knowledge that this was the way things were, and the loss of his ignorance would not stop him from picking up where he’d left off. He’d continue with the case, he’d move forward in his complicated relationship with the sociopath he’d never anticipated growing close to. He’d continue with the same ease and intuition as he had while adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve, the same simple fact that was his sorrow. Because these things were what brought him closer to ‘Derrick’, and further from his father. These were the things he clung to, because what world with no one to live for was worth living in?

His love for Oliver made him stronger, his empathy for Lukas, courageous. His dissonance with Allison made him human. And somehow, he would make peace with these things. Because changing them was not an option, had never been.

He left his room, his doubts lingering at his fingers and sticking back on the scuffing of the doorknob like invisible prints. He would not need them today—more accurately, he could not afford them. The click of the latch behind him was the precursor to the click of his shoes down the quiet hall on this otherwise uneventful Saturday. And then, two steps, three steps, there was something similar, an echo of his own departure and he turned around to see black hair, fine limbs looking stiff in even stiffer clothing—a hesitant smirk of disdain and perhaps even what Derrick has come to read as friendly greeting. Well, as friendly as this particular teenage presence got. But Derrick liked that he could recognize it now, the varied levels of Lukas’ often overlooked depth. It was there, just murkier and more challenging to define.

And he smiled. Rose a brow and prepared a sly quip or two about the teen’s cleaned up attire. Because it was familiar. Because it was safe. And because Derrick was tired of wallowing in things he could not, and would not change.

Because if and when the worst thing he did in this sick and twisted world, was to love too freely, then he could consider himself in a good place. And if he had the capacity to believe in the case that he and Lukas ventured to tackle, he must also have the capacity to embrace what he could not shun. It was the only way. And it was better.

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SAMPLE EXCERPT 2 - NOAH

*TW: mature themes, sexual/violent content* - lemme know if this is an issue and I can send you a different sample!

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As Phoenix ordered Noah onto his hands and knees, muttered in a low and hot command, Noah thought about how dangerous this could be. Having Phoenix move in, be here on the good nights as well as the bad, experience Noah in his extended, uncensored edition. He thought about how unlike him this was, this decision, because having Phoenix around full time meant committing to him in some way. It meant admitting that he was something more than just a random fuck, regardless of what that ‘more’ even meant.

It was dangerous, and he felt sure he would many a time in the future consider this choice to be a lapse in judgement—and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, as much as he wanted to. He wanted to seriously feel like he’d made a mistake, wanted to have that inkling suspicion that this was all wrong because that would then eliminate the risk of Noah’s future let downs. If he regretted it now, he’d be less likely to find himself terrifyingly close to someone three months from now, in a way he hadn’t been in years.

He was pretty sure he wasn’t ready for that. He’d hardly been capable of it even before her death. Felt most times like he hadn’t been wired to function that way.

But nonetheless, he couldn’t bring himself to feel precisely the emotion of regret as Phoenix fucked him raw and without shame into the headboard. As he bent his limbs with the kind of brutal insistence that would leave bruises and sore spots, muscles strained and stretched uncomfortably for the evening and the day following, in the least. He couldn’t gather any feelings that weren’t numbed, ecstatic pleasure, white hot and sharp, as Phoenix pounded him so thoroughly it became difficult to breathe, difficult to tell exactly where inside his body Phoenix wasn’t touching. Because he seemed to be consuming Noah from every end, every angle—burrowing himself inside Noah’s body so deeply and so thoroughly that there was no escaping him, no part of Noah’s narrow, bony frame that went unclaimed by him.

And it was numbing. And it was fucking perfect.

And that’s how he fell asleep that night. Perfectly numbed and completely obliterated with exhaustion—worked to the bone by Phoenix’s nails and teeth and pelvis, worked until there was absolutely nothing left of himself to give and he laid there in a mess of sheets, wrung out and winded, passing out sometime after Phoenix had cum inside him for the second time.

He had a vague memory of the blond leaving breathless kisses on his shoulders, but then the rest sort of faded to black.

He’d slept hard—so hard he hadn’t moved—fell asleep on his stomach with his hands under the pillows, his head turned away from the heat of the man beside him, not by choice so much as by habit. And when he would wake, a few hours later, it would be in the very same position—but it would not be before Noah remembered the way the roof shingles felt textured and rough beneath the heels of his palms, not before he could taste that half-smoked joint on his tongue.

They were laughing, again, as they often did, and it was that sort of lazy, rolling chuckle that came from being completely and totally relaxed around a person, as if being with them was equally as natural as breathing. And Noah was leaning back on his elbows, the scratch of the roof almost a comfort purely for its familiarity, and the stars were bright spots in the sky that had been just the same as last night, and the night before that, and the night before that.

And she was talking—she’d talked a lot, actually, and she was the only person whose talking hadn’t bothered Noah in the slightest, maybe because it came out sounding so smoothly to him, like her thoughts were the same as his thoughts, even when they weren’t. She’d had so many wildly different opinions, and even when he hadn’t agreed with them, he’d felt them in some way, as if… as if they’d lived inside a part of Noah too, even when they weren’t his own. They belonged there, too, because they were Kaitlyn’s and because she was as much a part of him as he was of her.

He remembered so vividly; the sound of her laugh and the abrasion of the tar and dried rubber beneath them—and then she was falling, kicked off the roof by some unknown force and he couldn’t reach her, couldn’t stop her, could do nothing to change it other than sit there helplessly and watch as she was torn from him and fell and fell and fell like there was no earth beneath them, no nothing, and suddenly he was falling too, only in the other direction, yanked away from her by the gut at a horrific speed, falling like the very essence of gravity, because his up was now down and no amount of thrashing could stop it, could stop any of it, she was just going, going and going and she would never hit the ground, Noah doomed to watch her fall away from him for eternity.

He woke in a sweat and with a gasp that was more like a choke—he didn’t know there were tears on his face until he felt them, sticky and wet against his palms as he tried to quell his heartbeat into something less violent, something less debilitating. He’d shot up, face falling to his hands, sitting bowed and broken-spined away from Phoenix, who he could now hear stirring behind him and this was why, this was why he couldn’t do this, couldn’t have this because he would always be this—this barely functioning toy marked 'as-is’ whirring and stopping and going and ticking in unmediated tempos, half-hazard patterns, and he couldn’t bare the fact that he was a cracking shell, somewhere between empty and overflowing, and that the young blond would get to watch his crumbling, night after night after night after fucking night, and he couldn’t fucking do this—

—he couldn’t breathe, either.

It was like his chest was gasping for air but each swallow was pulsing back into a curved spine, bouncing off ribs and ricocheting back out. Leaving Noah with no oxygen, no air, and he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t function and he’d been here before, time and time again and he usually waited until the worst of it passed before willing himself onto wobbly legs to get himself water. Run his head under the tap when he couldn’t manage anything more. But Phoenix was there and Noah was not, he was gone, somewhere far away, tangled and choking and compressed and every movement was an ache, every slight, an ignition for his head to spin so fast he thought he might puke and he just needed air and maybe then, if his God damn lungs would start fucking working for fuck’s sake, he would be able to get to the part where he could deal with the crying bit—that is, stop it a-fucking-mmediately. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t do that until he caught his God damn breath, and with every moment he was more awake but no more coherent, no more capable.

All because he’d been forced to remember, when all he wanted was to forget.

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EXTRA [THIS SECTION WILL NOT INFLUENCE ACCEPTANCE]

How would you feel about this character dying?: (In this roleplay there is always the possibility of death, and as an admin I’d like to know who is and who isn’t comfortable with this ahead of time.)

I’m mostly pretty uncomfortable with it, because I get excruciatingly close to my characters, and the idea of them getting killed off really freaks me out. I get pretty vulnerable with the characters I write. That being said, if for whatever reason in the future, I was interested in switching characters but staying in the RP, I’d consider it? But that depends, because I have a hard time with personal character deaths haha.

Why did you choose this character?:

I connected with Wells immediately, partly due to the fact that I’ve written a character in a very similar situation as him before. Admittedly, they have very different personalities, and I’d neverdream of playing them the same way, but still, it was a character who is nestled desperately deep in my heart, so I connected with Wells’ story quickly. Also, I connect with his sense of loneliness, and his independence. His desire to just drive and see where the road takes him. Function on impulse getting from gas station to gas station and make up the rules as he goes along. He strikes me as someone who is strong and loyal and someone who people like to be around because of this, but underneath he carries this darkness with him that he hasn’t yet properly faced. The layers and potential in his bio and his story truly inspire me <3

Extras: (pinterest boards, mock blogs, aesthetic posts, drabbles, etc.) N/A at the moment, sorry my dear! I’d do some up, but I really want to get my app in tonight and I have a bunch more homework to get to before bed!

How did you find us?: (certain roleplay tags, friend referral, etc.) In the literate rp tag I think! And a looooooot of scrolling to find something worthwhile. Then TADA. Paradise :)

#rp #rpg #roleplay #lsrpg #bio rp #wells donovan #accepted

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