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#though the flooding has returned to the farmlands
dawn-of-worlds · 11 months
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Swords into Ploughshares, or Setting the Bone
(Haebarik has 0+3+4=7 power)
As the defenders of Wera pushed Kalkayer out of eastern Incarien, the extent of its damage to the land became more and more apparent. Floods had turned land and water into one semisolid waste: roads had been destroyed, fertile topsoil washed away, dams broken down. Algae-pits were everywhere, poisoning the land around them, their stringy contents refusing to burn even after having been left out to dry for days. The villages, farms, and keeps that used to stand here were all gone; a few befuddled slaves were all that remained of the land's glorious past.
However impossible, the land had to be rebuilt. Wera had relied on the goodwill of nearby cities, on influence and deep coffers, but now the war was over, and if the city did not recover its lost farmlands, it would surely lose the peace. And so the city sent out large groups of laborers to undo the damage Kalkayer had done.
The scale of the endeavor was massive, coordinated by Wera's engineers and Unimaa's banker-druids. Hardy grasses were planted to revitalize the soil. Irrigation projects were rebuilt, streams diverted to rinse out the algae-pits. And yet, so much land despoiled, so much work to do!
But then, there arrived a group of titans. These were not like the mellow few that inhabited Incarien's coast, who had long since fled the war, but had come from far to act on an opportunity. They offered to lend their strength to restoring the land, to grant a great tribute of food each year, and even to stand as a bastion to defend the land from future assaults of Kalkayer, asking nothing in return but autonomy. Wera's governor, in no position to refuse such a generous offer, accepted, and merely by giving up land it had not controlled for decades, the city secured its future.
So was established Armamaniq on the east coast of the river Kaalaree, from where broad-handed titans would go out to fight the muck. With their efforts, the despoiled wastes grew smaller and smaller, and the land in time grew pure again. Many humans moved there, and some of the Messonir, and even a few Ataila, summoned to defend Wera and now freed of that burden.
But what of the Titans' motives? Perhaps there are none: titans are cryptic beings, and much of what they do serves no mortal purpose at all. Perhaps they truly only wish to see the land healed, and are willing to take up these duties to make it so. Perhaps the vast fields of white-leaved plants that surround the city, each closely guarded, are just a precaution against future assault.
And yet, the speech and manners of these titans is that of those from southern Tuula, and they act with a determination unlike their laid-back kin, and are often seen conferring among each other in distant places, and glancing south with worry (or regret? or deference?).
Are they rebels from Tuula, looking to harness the Noble Poison against the tyrant-Havonaar far south? Or bound servants of the very same, researching the substance for far more sinister ends? Only the titans themselves know: and they remain silent on the matter.
(Command Race 3pt. to let a group of southern titans establish a city in Incarien. They perform research into the Noble Poison, and hold some kind of link to the Havonaar, though whether ally or enemy remains unclear. 4 points remaining)
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pennyscientist · 1 year
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November Palette; Stillwater, NY
Gray, deepening to charcoal. Boar bristle strokes of mauve where the cornfield meets the forest. Sodden, rust-colored leaves underfoot. The field is hewn and barren; rows of broken stalks stir uneasily in the damp wind. The cotton pods have long burst, disgorged, and dispersed. All that’s left is a few dingy fibers still clinging to their shells—the seeds that failed to launch.
I haven’t cried since I learned how he did it. The method was not a surprise, though I knew many had hoped it was an accident, an overdose—widening their eyes to invoke the phantom of fentanyl lurking in yuppy party drugs. But my friend was too proud to die by accident. No, it was the cruelty of his execution that shocked me. He had arranged it so that his estranged wife, returning to the apartment they shared for a day date—(hopeful, giddy with the prospect of their reconciliation)—would be the one to find him.
The sky is empty and white. A flock of geese circles above the field, sounding their plaintive discord as they seek a place to land. There are fewer this year. The vast V’s that once canvassed the clouds have dwindled to a mere checkmark. On the other side of the ridge, the developers have clear cut the land and scraped it clean. Now, when it rains, mud streams down the hill, toward the houses crowding the lake.
I suppose no one is at their best when committing suicide. Even as my heart hardens against my friend for the sheer selfishness of his final living act, I can’t help thinking that this, too, was always a part of him. His brilliance could be brought low by his pettiness. Among his gifts of perception was a knack for knowing a person’s insecurities and, quick as a surgeon, lancing them with a word and the intention to wound. We often talked about that, how sometimes what we love most in a person is also what makes them the worst.
The field and farmland recede, giving way to more domesticated territory. When we first moved here, this too was a field. I used to call it “my field,” as if I could ever claim domain over such a wild place. But now a row McMansions squat on anemic green lawns. One of the neighbors fancies himself a vigneron and has erected columns of grape vines. But it’s November now and the plants‚ if they ever bore fruit at all, are long bare. They twirl around the posts like ropes of barbed wire.
I can’t keep anything to myself so I tell my mother. And my husband. I don’t tell my brother. Suicide has contagious properties and though I suspect that Patrick is like me—self-destructive, but sturdy in the will to live—I don’t want to risk it. My husband doesn’t know what to make of it. My mother only shakes her head. “He must have been in a lot of pain,” she says.
I scan the power lines criss-crossing over the road. I was eighteen the summer we arrived in this place and eager to absorb its every detail. Near the end of the road, someone had slung a corded video game controller over the wires, like boys used to do with tennis shoes. It was new then. I could spy its red and green buttons from the pavement. Somehow, it’s managed to linger for nearly two decades—dangling over the roadway through storms and snow, avoiding the workmen’s grasp, bleached pale by the sun. Despite myself, I’ve attached to it a talismanic significance. I seek it every time I return and find myself flooded with relief upon spotting it still suspended above the road.
It’s astounding how life goes on even in this limbo between knowing he’s gone and saying good bye. Back at my parent’s house, I make the soup. I make hummus. I tell my family about his hummus recipe—more complicated and more delicious than my own: chickpeas, tahini, roasted garlic, caramelized onions, salt, cumin, balsamic vinegar; blended until smooth. He liked to go about everything the long way. On more than one occasion he had tried to persuade me to grind my own spices. I knew that if he had really decided to kill himself, he would be sure to do it right.
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bang-to-the-tan · 4 years
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Moth to Flame
Chapter 16
Reader x OT7
► Vampire!AU
Smut/Porn With Some Plot That is Rapidly Getting Out of Hand Dear God Why Please Help Me
Warnings: Cunnilingus, Mentions of Various Sexual Acts Including Blowjobs and Group Sex, Complicated Morality, Lots of Stockholm Syndrome, Addiction, Possessiveness, Vampires (Graphic Depiction of Biting, Blood-Sucking and References to Death), Depictions of......uh. Drug-Use Equivalent?, Language
↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…
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You smell Hoseok. 
Feel his palm, warm and comforting, soft, against your cheek. You huff a small sigh at the feel of it, loathe to open your eyes just yet. The world spins around his touch and you wish you could melt into the feeling, becoming nothing to the universe but how he holds you.
“We’re moving, pretty girl,” he hums, and he’s a lot closer than you thought he might be, his breath casting across your forehead. You want to kiss him, but when you arch forwards, his hand slips from you and his smell moves away. 
Mewling quietly in disappointment, you crack your eyes to peer up at him. Your body is tangled in the sheets, and you’re clutching a pillow to your chest like you might drown without it. Your head is already threatening to start to ache, and it only gets worse when you get an eyeful of the overhead light. Above you, Hoseok has his jacket and hat on, his lips pressed into a straight line that dimples his cheeks.
“Hobi,” you mumble. 
“Come on,” he adds, reaching to rub at your shoulder. “Everything’s packed.”
“I didn’t—” you struggle to sit up, desperately clawing yourself from both the heavy effect of a hard night’s sleep and the bedsheets, which you’ve managed to bundle about yourself like a straitjacket.
“Hoseok,” you continue, voice lowering, trembling, “I don’t remember hitting that man. I’m not…” 
Emotion, emotion, bubbles up from your throat as you try to keep going, but he shushes you. 
“I know. I know you don’t. Come on, you need to get dressed.” 
He has to know, does he know? Does he really understand how you feel? You can’t tell. You want to keep pressing the issue, but when he presents you with his hand, palm-up, you’re grabbing it, pulling it into yourself to sit up. You could cry when you stagger upwards off the bed and land in his arms, head on his chest. The gentle scent of his body wash floods your senses, the feeling of him around you, body heating yours, promising that you belong there. You wish it didn’t break your heart when he steps away and lets go of your hand. 
“Namjoon and Yoongi are already in the car,” he says. “We called in a favor and got some clothes for you so you can wear them, plus one of Namjoon’s sweaters.”
“Another one of Namjoon’s?” you mutter, rubbing at your eyes and casting a glance around the room, only just now realizing that there’s so little of it left. It’s mostly gone. The drawers are open, raided, but the side table is still here. The bookshelf is empty. The frog is missing. You have no idea how they managed to do all that while you were sleeping.
“He wore it all last night,” Hobi says. “We’re hoping it helps Yoongi while we’re in the car.”
Yoongi.
You disguise your sharp inhale as a yawn. Hoseok gives no indication whether he notices. 
“Do you need any help?”
You shift your legs, but the ache between them has dropped enough that it’s barely noticeable. You shake your head.
“Alright. I’ll be just outside the door. Get ready quick.” He slips out, closing the door behind him. 
Dammit. Why did you answer honestly? He could’ve wrapped his arms around you, held you like he did in the shower, close and sweet and caring. Why did you have to tell him the truth?? You get dressed in miserable silence, drawing a discarded comb through your hair briefly. There’s no mirror, so you just assume it’s good enough. Namjoon’s sweater is a cardigan this time—oversized enough that on you it’s almost a dress, covering your hands and draping over your shoulders. Like a hug. You pretend you don’t nose into it for the briefest of moments. You reach for the handle, taking a deep breath and curling your palm over it. 
Back to Jin’s. 
What do they think of you over there? Are they going to accuse you of being a murderer? Are they going to call you a threat, too?
You don’t know. 
Even though you slept presumably through the daytime, you feel tired. Achy.  
The car ride is hell. A cacophony of the rap track playing insistently over the speakers versus the heavy, sullen silence of the passengers. You do your best not to look at Yoongi too much, but when Hoseok herds you into the seat at the front, you do catch a glimpse of him. He’s wearing a hoodie that dwarfs his entire frame, turning him into a little black lump, scrunched up in the corner of the car furthest away from you. He’s even got a black face mask and cap, all but hiding his face. You can’t see his eyes from here, but what little skin you can see, peeking above the fabric over his nose, is drawn and pale. Shining. He’s sweating, and you can see him shivering. Hoseok clambers in beside him once you’re in, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, and you have to turn away. Looking to Namjoon is pointless. His expression isn’t angry. It’s blank. He’s obviously lost in thought as he starts to pull out of the driveway, coaxing the car to speed down the road, leaving the tiny apartment in the dust. You eventually settle for staring out the window, losing yourself to the threadbare scraps of thought spinning lazily in your head like a typhoon played in slow motion.
At one point, Hoseok quietly asks Namjoon to pull over, on a stretch of road cutting through miles and miles of farmland. There’s a shuffle as both he and Yoongi stumble out, Hoseok mumbling encouragement, shutting the door. Namjoon throws them a glance out his side of the window and hangs his head, brows pulling taut. You turn back to your window, watching a nearby street light flicker. They’re out there for a couple minutes before you hear the click of the door and both of them scooting back in. The car rocks as they move.
“You okay?” Namjoon asks, low, in the kind of voice that suggests he knows what the answer will be.
“Never better,” Yoongi croaks, hoarse. 
“We’re almost there, big cat. Just...hang on.” 
“Just feeling a little carsick, is all,” Hoseok says softly. “It’s alright. We’ll get you to Jin’s and give you a break. See if we can’t get you something to help.” 
Something to help. 
It takes real effort on your part not to chase the spark that flits through you at that. You return by force to thinking about nothing much at all.
The car continues, taking a side road out through a half-dead forest, over a rocky path that all but disappears through bare trees. The way the vehicle navigates the bumpy terrain has you feeling mildly ill yourself, misgiving pooling in your gut. The space opens up with no warning, revealing a wide field, the remains of an amusement park that’s been long abandoned. Booths, tattered and worn, rides that are all but rusted into nothing, clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Your heart rises in your throat when you recognize that must mean you’re getting close. It’s impossible to know if you’re more excited or anxious, but all the same you can’t help the warmth in your chest when the car makes a turn and suddenly you can see a hotel, notably better taken care of than the rest of the park, rising in the foreground. Standing in front of it, on the patchy, half-dead lawn, is Jin’s household, minus Jungkook.
All of them are smiling. Jin stands by, arms folded, looking almost businesslike. Jimin and Taehyung, by sharp contrast, start whooping and waving as soon as you pull into view. Even before Namjoon puts the car into park, they’re dashing for the vehicle, bouncing, grinning so widely their eyes disappear. 
All of you step out, you and Yoongi on opposite sides, and you watch with a faint sense of jealousy as Jimin launches himself at Namjoon, who catches him easily in a spin, a tired but contented smile crossing the taller man’s face. 
“You’re home!” Jimin crows, burying his face in Joon’s collarbone, and as their revolving slows to a halt, you can tell that he’s getting choked up. 
Taehyung immediately guns for Yoongi, who, even in the state he’s in, opens his arms slow, embracing gently. You can see his eyes squinting up past his mask. 
“You finally took those contacts out,” Hoseok laughs at Tae, pointing at him with a wide grin. 
“Ahh, they hurt my eyes,” Taehyung complains with an exaggerated lean. 
“They made you look like a cartoon character.”
“I thought they looked cool…” 
Yoongi chuckles, shoulders quaking.
“We cleaned your rooms for you,” Jimin’s trying to explain, but he’s bubbling up with tears, sniffling, rubbing at his face. “The whole left wing. We’ll help you with your stuff.”
“That’s alright, Jimin—”
“It’s not alright, I said we’d help—”
“—Honestly, we’ve got it—”   
Namjoon turns while he tries to argue light-heartedly with a stubborn Jimin who clings to him with a handful of his upper arm, and the moment he and Jin lock eyes is felt throughout the minor crowd. Everyone stills, watching the two vampires eye each other for a beat. They both stiffen, and you can taste the tension on the back of your tongue. Bitter, aged. Dangerous.
But Jin breaks first into a smile, stepping forward, arms outstretched, and Namjoon immediately copies him, the two embracing shortly but familiarly. 
“I’m sorry it was like this,” Jin says, quiet enough that you almost don’t hear him. “But it’s good to see you again.” 
“Yeah. Me too.” 
Jin turns to look at you, and it feels like the first time since you’ve gotten into the car that someone has noticed your presence. You’re thrown back to watching him denounce you on television, smartly dressed, telling the world to avoid you, and you realize you’re petrified. But longing courses headily through you when his smile doesn’t dissipate, sending warmth through every inch of your body, curling up your spine, holding your breath hostage.
“You kept her,” he says.
Namjoon sighs through his nose, jaw working. There’s a moment where it seems like he might say more, explain more, but instead, he nods once. “Yeah.”
There’s another beat, where Jin looks to Joon again. 
“...do you mind if I give her a hug?” he asks, hushed. 
The surprise that lifts Namjoon’s brows only lasts for a second, even though it feels significant. He blinks, and nods again, looking away. His attention is immediately claimed back by Jimin, who, sensing the tension has left, starts insisting again that he help with the luggage, peeling off the taller man finally to jog back towards the car. You can hear him chastising Taehyung as he goes.
Jin goes to take a step forward, but you’re already running, feet gifted wings, flying across the lawn into his arms so fast you don’t even feel the earth under you. He laughs in delight when you land solidly into his chest and you can feel it resonating through you, wrapping your arms around him, squishing your face against him as closely as possible, inhaling deeply the comfort, the belonging of him. When he curls around you, tender, one hand caressing the top of your head, and then leans forward to rest his cheek on your crown, the dam breaks and you start sniffling, eyes watering. 
“Hello, darling.” he hums, deep, pleased. 
“Jin,” you croak, tightening your hold. 
“It’s good to see you again.” he adds, swaying a little with you, back and forth. “Have you been good?”
“I missed you.” 
He hums again before letting go, and once more you could cry at the loss of the comfort you’re so suddenly needy for, but at least he doesn’t move away, warming your side. Even if he isn’t touching you, it’s something, and you can’t help the immense feeling of relief that he hasn’t decided to be mad at you. Unlike some people. 
“Well,” Jin says, raising his voice to address everyone, “Like Jimin said, we cleaned up the rooms. Even the spare one,” he adds conspiratorially to you with a flick of his eyebrows, “So you get your own room this time.” 
You beam back at him, drunk off his affection, fingers itching to hold his. Everybody starts to file past you into the house, Jimin and Taehyung bowing and shuffling under the weight of bags and boxes, competing to see who can pick up the most, Hoseok and Yoongi chattering congenially with their youngers as they slip past the handsome mahogany doors at a slow, easy pace. 
Namjoon casts a brief look up at Jin, his mouth twitching in a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He doesn’t turn to you as he stalks past, following the others. You frown at his back, swallowing down disappointment. 
“So,” Jin says after a beat. “Our own little criminal, hm?”
Something coils in your stomach and your world threatens to lurch beneath you. You almost forgot.
“I don’t remember doing it,” your neck snaps around to plead with him, but he’s only watching you kindly, lips quirked. “I don’t remember hitting him. I don’t even...I don’t even know why I would do that.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” he pauses, inhaling a wry breath, throwing a side glance to where Namjoon disappears into the hotel. “We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of.”
“It’s—I don’t remember doing it at all,” you argue. “I know it was me, but it doesn’t...Namjoon….” 
You feel Jin’s hand alight on your shoulder, squeezing once, and you nearly cave at the gentle touch, threatening to lose your train of thought.
“He’ll figure out where he stands eventually. Come on,” he urges, brightening. “Come see what we did for your room.” 
Jin leads you into the hall, underneath the chandelier, up the stairs, to the left wing. You recall the last time you came this way and repress a shiver at the scraps of memory. As you pass an open door to your right, you can see Hoseok unloading a meticulously packed suitcase set on a newly polished dresser, still talking with Taehyung, who’s sitting cross-legged atop the four-poster bed, cuddled up with a pillow, listening to his elder talk with all the rapt attention in the world swimming in his now-brown eyes.
To your left, you can hear Jimin chattering above the clatter of what you assume is electrical equipment from the apartment being shifted about the room. Ahead, there’s a click as the door at the end closes. Namjoon’s room. You remember that well enough. 
Something indescribable swells in your chest when Jin skips in front of you to the door directly to your front, a proud light in his eyes as he wraps his palm over the knob and twists, pushing it open with a wide grin and a grand gesture. 
The room past the doorway is clean, newly dusted, smelling like cleaning solution and every member of the household. As you step inside, you could swear you can sense the separate touches each man put into it. The thick duvet, when you brush against it, reminds you of Jin, and you can almost see him draping it over carefully, patting out the creases in the fabric. The lamp in the corner, scooted to and fro no doubt by Jimin’s hand, before settling on the perfect placement. The bookcase, filled with all sorts of books—thick, leather-bound encyclopedias and even some trashy romance novels, it looks like. You suppress a laugh. That’s Taehyung, you bet. It feels like him to you.
A stereo, just underneath the window facing out towards the side of the house. Jungkook’s contribution, no doubt. You brush your fingers against it, and you can almost feel him underneath you. 
“Where is Jungkook?” you ask, turning to look to Jin. His excitement deflates a little, shoulders dropping, but he masks the emotion well by turning instead to a cheesy display of an affronted huff. 
“He’s wandered off like a spoiled teenager,” he replies, quickly turning the subject back to the room. “But never mind him. Look! We got you your own clothes for the dresser. Namjoon gave us your sizes.” 
Something twinges inside you at that, and you have to pause, watching him carefully. 
“...You’re ‘keeping’ me,” you say after a beat, mirroring his phrasing from earlier. It’s easy to get caught up. It’s easy to forget what’s really happening, especially when your head is starting to ache and your bites are starting to itch and every casual touch leaves you feeling like it’ll never be enough.
“Things are... still difficult right now,” he begins, swaying on his feet, bending slightly, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.”
“While it lasts.” 
His smile fades some, his body stilling from its energized motions before he straightens. He takes a few hesitant steps forward, circling you deliberately, reaching a hand out to your face. It surprises you as much as it does him when you don’t move back, allowing him to stroke across your jaw, thumb brushing your lip. 
“As you like,” he acquiesces, barely above a whisper. “But you’re still here, anyway, aren’t you?” His eyes search yours. You’re reminded of when he asked to cuddle, what seems like months ago. That same strange vulnerability lurking. “You said you missed me?” 
Your breath catches. “I-I did. I do.” 
“Then? Do you like your room?”
“...Yes. Thank you, Jin.” 
The smile that breaks across his face is blinding, creasing his eyes. Despite yourself, the sight of him fills your own heart with light and air. He leans down hastily, and you jolt when you feel the plumpness of his lips caressing yours in a sweet, grateful kiss. He tastes like fine wine. Like velvet and furs. Like home. When you return it, pressing forward to feel more of the warmth, the silk of his pillowy lips, he hums deep in his chest.
“Good,” he murmurs decadently into your skin, kissing you again, eyes closing, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as if savoring it. This close, you can see the shadows trying to develop under his eyes. He disengages and leans back up just as fast as he’d come down to your level, hand slipping from where he’d cupped your cheek.  
“There’s real food in the cabinets, too!” he adds, returning smoothly to excited, walking backwards towards the hall. “I’d love to cook with you sometime...if you wanted.” 
“I’d like that, Jin.” 
“You remember where my room is?” He starts sliding behind the door with a raise of his brows. Your door. 
It’s a struggle to snap out of the loop that single thought throws you for. “Yeah.” 
“If you need anything.” 
You nod. “Okay.” 
“Okay?”
“Okay.” 
“Good.” Jin disappears behind your door, shutting it behind himself, but hesitates just before fully closing it. His head pops back out around the corner, his expression genuine. 
“Welcome home,” he adds, quiet. 
You feel warmth in your chest, spreading through you steadily like a cup of tea on a cold day. 
“...Thanks,” you reply finally.
The click of the door is too loud. Your skin is cold where his hand used to be. For a moment you just stand there, staring into nothing. What’s even happened to you? What are you even doing here?...But you can’t deny—you didn’t want to stop kissing him. You can still taste him on your lips, can still smell him against your cheek. 
You decide to spend a little time checking out your new room. Having your own space is nice, but you wish you had someone to share it with...You pause, frowning at your own thoughts, halfway to the dresser. That would circumvent the whole point, wouldn’t it? 
Maybe. But still. 
The clothes are a wide variety of styles and varieties, all of them the same sizes you and Namjoon had figured at the store. Namjoon...your lips still tingle with Jin’s furtive kiss. He kissed you like that once, too. Kissed you like you meant something to him, in the middle of the discount rack. You’re not going to cry over him. You aren’t, this is stupid. You’re not going through a breakup, you’re a kidnapping victim with stockholm and an addiction to fucking vampires. And fucking vampires. 
But your hand remembers how he entwined your fingers on the sofa. 
You aren’t going to cry over him, and yet, there is something wrong with your vision, even as you wipe furiously at your eyes. Your head’s starting to hurt more fiercely. 
Jungkook’s here. You know he’s standing behind you, just at the doorway, before you even recognize the click of the door opening.
“Hey.” 
You don’t even turn to look at him until you’ve successfully banished the start of what would surely be a full-blown pity cry if you let it get out of hand. You pretend to be focused on folding the clothes you pulled out of the dresser and shoving them back in before you move to acknowledge him.
“Hey.” Your voice is a little more hoarse than you’d like. He doesn’t seem to mind. 
He’s back to looking a little worse for wear—not as bad as the last time, but obviously what he took from you is starting to wear off. What a shame. You wonder if anyone in this house misses you, or just what’s in your veins.
“You’re okay?” 
Loaded question of the century. You grimace. 
“Sure.” 
He doesn’t so much as blink, lurking by your doorway like a kid waiting to be chastised.  
“Have fun over there?” 
“No more fun than I had over here.” 
His cherry colored head bobs, eyes suddenly casting downwards. An amused grin ghosts at his lips, but he hides it by passing his hand faux absently over his mouth. 
“I’m glad you’re still alive,” he admits. “I was really worried.”
“Were you?” 
He nods again. Hesitates. He throws his gaze to an indeterminate corner, dark brows creasing, before he looks back to you. 
“I’ll...I’ll see you around?” He sounds hopeful. You almost want to laugh. Fangs aren’t the only thing he inherited from Jin.
“I’m sure you will.” 
That seems to satisfy him for now, and with another awkward duck, he slips out of your room. Your gaze sticks to the door for a little longer, rubbing at your chest before you even realize you’re doing it.
You didn’t get a good look at Jimin or Taehyung, but you could bet money they’re starting to go gaunt around the cheekbones, too. Dark in the eyes. Hungry. 
A shiver rolls through you and you lick your lips nervously. A house full of vampires, and all of them need the same thing you need. The same thing you need. All of you itches, flaring to life as suddenly as if summoned by just the thought. 
Hoseok doesn’t look too bad yet. Namjoon, either. You don’t know where they’d been feeding, who they’d been feeding on, but you won’t think on it too long lest you allow that festering emotion any more room in you to grow into full fledged jealousy. 
It’s fine. They’ll come around eventually. They’ll have to.
Jimin and Taehyung didn’t even come to see you. Your guess is that none of the younger vampires are meant to be hanging out with you. On probation, of sorts. You’d hate for anyone to get in any more trouble, cause any more issues between the houses.
Jin won’t risk pissing Namjoon off this early into their being back. He’s too diplomatic for that. Even his kiss felt stolen.
That just leaves one person. 
You shake your head. No. No, this train of thought is no good to dwell on. 
Isn’t there a bathroom? Is that what that other door is for? You know it is, it’s the same layout as Namjoon’s room. You half-expect to find frog stickers decorating the tiles. 
Frog stickers...Remember when Jungkook fingered you in Namjoon’s bathroom? With Jimin in the other room? 
No. There’s no use chasing that memory.
You can’t have them right now. 
...But Yoongi. Yoongi is sick. He doesn’t look too good at all. You can’t imagine how he must be feeling right now...the poor guy...if only you could help him somehow.
You spin on your heel, turning instead to the window. Wonder what it looks out at. Probably just more grounds. Like you faced when Jimin talked you down from the sill. Before you followed him out to Namjoon’s room. Before he forced you down his cock. God, you can almost taste him. 
Not too far removed from when you sucked Yoongi’s cock, either. The weight of him on your tongue? The taste of his sweat? His groan echoes in your ears and it sends shivers reaching long fingers down your back.
How about how worried Namjoon was about him? 
It’s a public service, basically—if you, say, offered yourself up. If you offered him what he needed. What you need.
Maybe you should go downstairs instead. 
That one room would be nice. Down the stairs, through the hall, to the left. Namjoon, petting your cunt, sinking his teeth into your fucking skin. Jin, pistoning into you, sweating above your body, biting at your neck. Perfect teeth, perfect bliss, hurting you and hazing you and biting you and making everything golden and right. 
...You wouldn’t even really be in the wrong, if Yoongi drank from you. Either of you. You’re both consenting adults, who says you can’t? Namjoon? Fuck him. Fuck him, he doesn’t know how badly you need it. Namjoon did the same thing, by giving you to Jin. It’s the same thing. He can’t stay mad at you if you helped his brother. And what about poor Yoongi? So hungry. Why not?
A strangled, frustrated noise leaves your throat of its own volition and you want to curl up on the floor, clutching handfuls of your own hair. There’s no argument you can make against yourself. Now that your brain has gotten ahold of this idea, you can’t seem to shake it from its grasp. 
The mark at the inside of your thigh itches so terribly. It burns. God, you came so hard when he bit you there. You scratch at it absentmindedly, trying to hold off from grinding against your own hand at even so much as the memory. 
What if he kills you? It’s a possibility. They’re definitely capable of it. 
And so what?
So what? 
You’re a murderer, apparently. An addict. A pet, at best. 
Who knows how long they’ll ‘keep’ you. 
‘But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it’. Isn’t that right, Jin?
And what would you enjoy right now? 
You cast a glance towards your door. The surface of your skin prickles in anticipation, but your mind has already resolved itself. You don’t recall pulling the door open, but soon enough you’re facing the hallway, limbs twitching, thoughts furtive as if at any moment, someone might stop you.   
Maybe he won’t be in his room. Maybe you don’t even know for sure which one he’s in.
You remember where Namjoon’s room is. 
And you saw Hoseok in the room further down.
You take the steps necessary to stand in front of the other door, the one you heard Jimin in. Is he still there? No. No, you can tell, he’s left. It’s just Yoongi. You can feel him through the door, like a miasma, a siren’s song painted with sharp teeth through the wood panelling.
Electricity skitters down your body and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of how much of a very bad idea this is. It’s a terrible idea. An awful idea. It could go so badly. He could lose control.  There’s so few scenarios you can see panning out where you come out of this intact, and yet your fingers are still ghosting towards the door, brushing the handle, curving, turning, the excitement in your chest flaring when you realize it’s unlocked. 
Before you can rationalize your way out of it, you’re throwing yourself inside, pulling it shut behind, eyes trained on the form curled up on the far side of the bed taking up the right corner of the room. He has his back to you, legs pulled up to his chest, head resting on his knees. He doesn’t move, not even when the door clicks into place. 
He’s left the lights off, illuminating the room only barely with the moonlight coming through the window. Even in the dark, you can see that on the dresser, littered across the sides, placed delicately on the desk are all sorts of electronic boards. Drumpads, some, keyboards, speakers. A computer whirring in the background. Vaguely, you recall what Hoseok had said about making music. 
But that’s not important. 
It really isn’t. Not now. 
You clear your throat, wavering.
“Yoo—” 
“Out,” he rasps, low, dark. 
“Yoongi,” you start again. “Listen—”
“No. Get out.” He interrupts sharply.   
You take a breath, and find that you’re shaking, but from what you can’t tell. Fear or excitement? You’re still taking a step forward, despite every inch of your animalistic senses screaming predator. Danger. 
“I want you to bite me.” 
He shifts, the movement erratic, curling further in on himself. 
“Get out,” he repeats, and his throat sounds raw, hoarse. 
“I want it,” you insist, voice sinking as your heart pounds its way through your chest, threatening to overtake your veins. “I’m consenting. Right?”
“Get out.”
“I dream about it sometimes. Being bitten.” 
“No.”
You switch tactics. “I know you’re sick. I know you feel like you’re dying. Let me help.”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to hurt you.” 
“Good.” You pull up short, shocked at the truth in your own words, when you hit the edge of the bed and realize you’ve been stalking the whole way across the threshold, close enough now that if you leaned over and stretched your fingertips, you could touch him. 
“I don’t want to hurt you.” 
A flash of trepidation courses through you and you’re gifted a second of clarity. Pity. But you’re so close that a sinister triumph oozes through you insidiously, like oil on water, until the uncertainty is tampered and almost entirely snuffed out. You’re so close to your quarry, and he has nowhere to run. You’re between him and the door. You’re so close.
“It’s the only thing I think about,” you continue to wheedle, soft, as you start to skirt around the bed to his side. “The only thing I want. I need it. Fangs in my skin and haze in my mind. I want it so badly. Just as bad as you do.” 
Yoongi laughs at that, the sound humorless, short, wheezing. He moves his head to rest away from you, shoulders scooting when he tightens his grip around his legs. 
“I could kill you.”
“You could. I wouldn’t mind.” Wouldn’t you? You’re not sure what you’re saying. You can’t think above the rushing in your ears.
“No? You don’t think so?” 
There’s no warning. One minute you’re almost at his side, reaching forward. You’ll put your hand on his shoulder, maybe sneak it down his front if you can, slip it under his shirt. Feel for his skin, ease him open. Your mouth waters at the thought of being the agent of temptation. The next second, you feel force against your upper body, darkness obscuring your vision, hiding you from the judgement of the scant moonlight streaming through the window, bedding at your back and heat, heat, feverish, burning through your clothes at your front, legs forced apart by a knee knocking into yours, arms pinning you to the mattress, panting warmth across the column of your neck as he hovers, eyes obscured by the hair that straggles across his face. You can’t breathe, you’re so excited, a rush dashing through your limbs, adrenaline activated just that second too late to be of any use, fizzing into your fingers and toes like too much soda pop. 
“It’s okay—” you try, eager, but he’s violently releasing one arm to tangle his fingers into your hair, yanking your head into the mattress, baring more of your skin to his uneven, slavering breaths, forcing your vision limited to the wardrobe in the corner. 
He doesn’t reply to your mewling gasps, and instead you next feel a wet, velvet heat tasting a path up your neck, the opposite side to Jin and Joon’s marks, licking up the underside of your jaw, a growl resounding deep within his chest. 
His soft lips, next, mouthing there, a carnal pantomime of a kiss. Arousal, thick, insistent, boiling in your belly, curving your back towards the creature hunkered over you, your own mouth falling open, eyes rolling. So close. So close. You’re murmuring encouragement you aren’t even aware of, trying to pull him nearer to you.
His bite is so quick, so sharp, that you barely feel the pressure at all—only an intense pain, shattering across your skin and immediately casting fire down your body. He buries his fangs into your flesh, as deep as he can force them, the sensation crystal clear, acute, and yet dull, aching. He takes his first heady gulp of the life from your veins, tongue laving against you. 
You watch every star burst and cascade into glitter behind your eyes as the two of you gasp out for breath in unison, roiling towards each other like beasts. Yoongi readjusts to swallow down more of you desperately, the sound of your rushing blood deafening in your own ears, tasting your heartbeat in the back of your throat. Your body twitches under him, some survival mechanism beyond your control reaching to push him away, arms seizing, but he only pins you more firmly, and dimly you know you’re thanking him. 
Time slows into a syrup, its passing marked only by the ebb and flow of Yoongi feeding, the suction of his lips, his gulps, vehement breaths drawn through his nose, his hair tickling your cheek, hands constantly twitching, squeezing at you where he has you held down with a grasp like iron. Fire licks up from your fingers, coils around your torso, dips into your cunt, and you exhale it with every breath, feeling your vision sizzle and spark with its embers.
The wardrobe swims, changing colors, dissolving and reforming as you stare, open-mouthed, sinking through the bed, falling endlessly into sultry velvet nothingness. 
The suction at your neck breaks, pain resurfacing, welcoming, when he’s torn away from your skin, fangs retracting with a sick noise, and you arch, struggling, mind scattered, empty, but a slick fever bathes a trail from beneath your ear to your collarbone to calm you back into a hazy lull with a contented purr, lapping at the new wound that stings, smarts, compelling your frame to throb every time he licks back up at it. 
Your pants are moving. Namjoon’s cardigan slipping off you, your deadweight falling limply away from it, back into the cushion. The shirt. The jeans. Both socks, one by one, jerked at restlessly, until you feel a chill all over, raising goosebumps over your flesh. It doesn’t last long. 
The crook of your knee, hoisted up, meeting a warm shoulder, hair tickling at your thighs. Your head lolls drunkenly when you crane your neck in curiosity, bleary. The thing crouching between your legs meets your gaze, luminous in your sight even with the limited light, catlike eyes glassy, blown so wide there’s hardly any iris left, unblinking. He nuzzles forward, tongue parting your folds, beginning to kiss and nip there, quickly becoming unforgiving, rough. He snarls into your wetness when you gasp soundlessly, hips rising to meet his hot mouth. He pushes you further into yourself, pinning you again, attaching to your clit with a strength of suction to match what he’d done to your neck. You’re crying, twitching, head thrown back, half-lidded stare at the ceiling as you dig your fingers into his hair, tugging, pulling, moving him with you as you hump his ruthless tongue.
Fingers stroking at the inside of your thigh, just by his head, the scab. He sucks harsh at your clit, sweeping up, tasting your shriek, his breath moving from your cunt to reattach in a decadent kiss, soothing the itch, the ache, the desire carved into your flesh. His digits slide, wet, so wet, curling up through your pussy, knuckles circling, fingertips parting your velvety walls and you sigh.
Again his fangs pierce you, pulling you under a new wave of pain, pleasure, reality fracturing all around you into nothing but the pull of blood from your veins, the stroke of his lips, the rocking of his hand into you, and suddenly the knot in your belly is tightening, static crawling up from your toes, forming a tsunami that crashes over your entire frame, and you’re cumming, vision blurry, head full of cotton, teeth bared, keening and crying, tearing your throat into raw threads and so, oh so perfect as you convulse thoughtlessly.
The universe stops existing but for this moment of pleasure, pain, curled up into yourself. Your body dissolving, nowhere, everywhere, everywhere. The blackness of the room swallows you whole, pulls you apart and holds you hostage between the stars. 
Warm lips at your ear, kissing softly. Sweetly. 
A low voice, a groan, humming, muttering, insistent, constant, thrumming. The bed beneath you is soft, wet, cushioning your naked body. Cold. You’re starting to feel cold. Your hands twitch, fingers curling one by one as you slowly regain presence. There’s rapidly-cooling wetness up your thigh, something half-hard drifting up your leg as the shape above you shifts his weight, and it’s strange to you, peering up at him as your vision starts to clear, wavering, how brightly he wears the moonlight. It glows across his bare shoulders, casts flares down his stomach, his arms, lights icy blue embers off his hair. He’s shining with sweat, glittering with it. Where once he was obscured, you can see him almost flawlessly. Is he naked? His fingertips press delicately into your cheek, appraising, and you blink up to meet his gaze again. Yoongi. 
His tongue flits out between his lips, nervous, eyes darting to and fro. “Are you gonna pass out? Fuck. Do I need to—what do I do?” 
Your neck hurts. Your thigh hurts, too. Even your pussy kind of aches, with how hard it clamped down. You’re lost in musing, taking warm, faded inventory of yourself, but your eyes flit back to meet his, an amused, satisfied grin creeping over your face at the wide-eyed expression of concern on his face. 
“—orgive myself if I fucking killed you. Goddammit. I-I didn’t mean—”
“I’m not gonna pass out.”  
His head drops with a rush of a sigh, arms curling around you in an awkward almost-embrace. 
“Fuck,” he whispers, heady with relief. “Fuck.”
“It’s getting cold.” 
“I thought I fucking killed you.”
“Not dead.”
“No, not yet. Thank fuck.” 
“Stop swearing.”
“How the fuck are you okay?” 
“I dunno,” you hum. “Are you naked?” 
“Yeah. I kind of…” he clears his throat. “On your thigh.” 
“Makes sense.”  
He sighs again, sucking air through his teeth, before he raises his head to peer at you, eyes searching yours. 
“You’re not dying?” he reiterates, shifting upwards.
“Doesn’t seem like it.” 
“Fuck.” he pauses. “That was really dangerous. Really dangerous.” 
“Paid off for both of us.” you point out with a raise of your brows, moving uncomfortably. You sweat the hell out of his sheets. It’s soggy beneath you. He doesn’t seem to care, looking at you like you’ve grown another head.
“Ah. Right. I get it. You’re crazy.”
“‘Crazy bitch looking to start a war’. Wasn’t that it?” Maybe if you joke enough, eventually it won’t hurt. Not yet, though. Not yet.
Still, he chuckles at that, a wry grin pulling at his face, baring his gums briefly, pushing into his cheeks. He leans forward, and when he presses his silky mouth to yours, you can taste your own cunt and blood. You can almost see why he likes it so much.  
“If you’re sure you aren’t dying,” he hums when you part, licking at his lips. “Then...?” 
Your neck twinges and you reach to brush it lightly, swallowing down an inhale when the fresh marks spark pleasure down your exhausted body. Your fingers come back sticky and you make a face at them, rubbing absently.
 “...Shower?” you suggest. 
He bounces his head to the side. “Shower...sounds...good. Yeah.” 
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jester-png · 4 years
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TAZ Celestial AU
ok so basic gist is, after Story and Song, the birds got like, mad famous yeah? but what if, as thanks for you know, saving the multiverse, they were granted eternal life? and not just that, they were given new powers and, literal god status?
Davenport becomes the god of the seas and skies. The wind and waves bend to his will, and he saves many pilots and sailors from their demise at the hands of the elements. They all get back home safe with stories to tell of their encounters with one of the seven saviors of the universe. Word of his kindness spreads like wildfire.
Barry becomes the god of love. He has an unconditional love for every being on Faerun. He rejoices with them when they fall in love and he cries with them when their love is unrequited or unappreciated. He works with Istus to intertwine the fates of lovers, and he works with the Raven Queen to give each new soul time with their loved ones before departing to the Astral Plane.
Magnus becomes the god of strength and protection. He gives the inhabitants of Faerun the strength, not only to perform difficult physical tasks, but also to face hardship, physically and emotionally. He teaches them the true meaning of strength as the Power Bear once taught him, and the folk tales of his heroic deeds alongside the rest of the IPRE are passed down for generations as nursurey rhymes and fables.
Lucretia becomes the goddess of literature and knowledge. She dedicates her eternal life to the preservation of knowledge, and vows that the beings of Faerun will never again be left in the dark. She gains limitless knowledge, and the inhabitants of Faerun build temples in her honor and worship her as an oracle. They pray to her for knowledge and guidance.
Merle becomes the god of nature. He nurtures the lands of Faerun and blesses the inhabitants with lush forestry and beautiful landscapes. He works with Davenport to provide the right amount of rain in specific regions to adequately water the foliage. He returns to his beach clan every winter to rest and prepare for the spring. He often works closely with Pan, and though they have become close friends through their work, Merle never stops mentioning how honored he is to be in his god’s presence.
Lup becomes the goddess of fertility and rebirth. After Phandolin, she swore she’d always control her fire. With her new powers, she uses her fire not to hurt, but to heal. Her flames cleanse the land of the death brought on by the Hunger’s assault and give the soil new life in the form of fertility. She raises the land from its ashes like a phoenix. With the help of Merle, she ushers the scarred land into its rebirth and floods it with warmth and care. At first, the beings of Faerun fear her flames, but Lup has masterful control of her abilities, and uses her flames to create beautiful displays of magic and power, much to the inhabitants’ delight.
Taako becomes the god of fertility and bounty. He gifts the beings of Faerun with plentiful crops and fertile farmlands. He makes sure that every being is well fed, and teach them to make something delicious from meager ingredients. They thank him by throwing extravagant feasts in his honor, with ambrosial delicacies and opulent flavors. He and Lup tell them stories of times when they barely had enough food to live by and teach them to be thankful for their bounty.
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linelpisffxiv · 3 years
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FFXIVWrite2021 Day 4: Ignored Migrations
For the most part, Terpsichore ignores seasonal or yearly issues after the first time. They learn the first year, teach the second, observe (and alter methods if necessary) the third, and assuming all was well, moves on the fourth.
But the Cockatrice Migration holds a special space in their heart. It was the first time they tried to help, and so they met the first of their friends beyond the walls of Amaurot through it.
For the most part, the lessons have been learned by the birds, but there are several every autumn, and Hermes and Pan (among many in this stretch of land) rely on their harvests at the same time.
It’s been ten summers since they met their friends. Every year, as with most of these minor issues, they send word to the Convocation. Every year, they get no response.
That’s a lie. This year, the new Elidibus gave surprisingly heartfelt apologies about the floods in the east this spring. Along with a wish to one day join them on one of the easier ones.
Sabik is sweet and an optimist. Just as they were when they took this position. In all honestly, they still are when it comes to their journeys, all their recent cyclical events has found a new friend. They just lost interest in Amaurot and the Convocation.
They close their eyes and reach their aether out around them. Threads expand around them, they don’t need more than three helpers. Dora and Thalia, yes, but perhaps... perhaps... a thread reaches past Amaurot as they seek out that beautiful near-white soul.
“I can protect you, Sabik,” they whisper through the call. “Should you wish to see my adventures up close, you need only hold tight to where you feel me call. I promise I’ll return you ere long.”
They’re not certain he would take it. The youth is quite serious in his role, and not one to make a choice rashly.
It takes hardly a dozen ticks before he comes to her side, though.
“Ah, this is the farmland a few bells in from the coast,” he says. “That means... ah, yes, the cockatrices. What is it you said they need should any try and cause harm?”
“Who is this? Another one of your Amaurotine friends?” Thalia says. “I hope he’s nothing like that Hades fellow.”
They hope he isn’t either. “This is Sabik. He is, um, a new part of my group. I was surprised he took my call so quick.”
“I always wanted to see them do this. Their stories have always been amazing, even if the rest of the convocation disapprove.”
“Convocation? So perhaps Pan was right, that you are Azem. That makes one who fulfills the myth. That makes him...”
“Elidibus.”
“The other mythical member,” Dora says. “So, what do you know about how to divert these damn birds?”
Teri isn’t certain they’re happy how they knew the truth, not after so many told them of how little they held onto hope Azem was a real member, but most know them as they are.
One thing at a time. “We’ve got about two bells before they show up according to Ikaros’s reports. So far, they’ve been avoiding settlements, but this area generally is a wider stretch across their paths...”
They really hope Sabik keeps his optimism.
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eldritcharchive · 4 years
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battle cries, dear
Read on AO3 | @bamf-jaskier‘s Witchertober 2020 Day 9 - Destiny
"Come on, Mordred, just put me on the roster?" Beorn is not begging, but he's close. Mordred's been put in charge of a team the trainers are sending out to deal with the wyvern sealing sheep (and at least one goat, according to councilor Eskel's last count) from the farmlands of Kaer Morhen.
"Why are you so set on this, B?" Mordred asks, exasperation leaking into his tone. The Wolf pup cornered Mordred in the library, and he desperately needed to visit with one of the mages (Ashwood, if he was being honest he preferred talking to Ashwood) in order to get help preparing potion for the trip. It wouldn't be far, so they wouldn't need much. Yet, he's still here, because, despite Beorn's diminutive size, the idiot was fast (and Mordred is fond of him).
Beorn huffs. "Because for one, it never hurts to have extra people on a hunt like this, and witcher code or whatever doesn't prohibit traveling in groups," he says, sounding bored with his own explanation. "And two, there are no Wolves in your team and three -" he leans forward for emphasis "- you know the only reason they excluded me from consideration because of my size. I passed the trials, Mordred, I'm a full-fledged Witcher just like you and they treat me like a fucking initiate."
"There is a Wolf on the team," Mordred says with a sigh, "we're bringing Oskar."
"Good. He'll vouch for me then."
"Freya's blessed ass, Beorn." Mordred sees an opening and twists away from his friend, walking briskly towards the main hall. Beorn soon falls in step next to him, and Mordred growls. "Fine! Fine. Just meet us at the stables in two hours." They stop in the main hall and Beorn's face lights up. "If you're late, we're leaving without you."
                                                         ---
Initiates crowd around the hunting group as they gather at the stables - many of them haven't seen teams of witchers prepare for hunts and the elders are still used to the old days when witchers walked their Paths alone. Mordred spends time checking over their potion supply before addressing each member of the team.
"Wynona, did you bring explosive bolts?"
A young, lithe Viper Witcher stood slightly apart from the group with her arms crossed over her chest. Her lip curled from a large bite scar, the partners of which danced up the left side of her face. “Letho took a huge supply with him down to Aedirn,” she said, scowling. “Arms master said we can’t spare any for right now. Cactus helped me make some grapeshot to compensate.”
“How many grenades?”
“About ten.”
“It’ll have to do,” Mordred says, picking at the ragged scar on his forehead.
“We’ve got some split bolts,” called Liam, one of the taller boys, standing next to his twin brother, Gavin. The only difference between the two were the scars down their arms - Gavin sported bite marks from various necrophages; Liam, slashes and gouges from aerial beasts. (They wore Cat armor that exposed their forearms to help people identify them.) “Gav picked some up on his way back from Kovir.”
Mordred nods, “Anything else? We’ve got enough Swallow - more than enough, you know how Amma is with prep work.” A series of good-natured groans echo out from the group. “Hearing none, we gotta do a roll-call and then head out. Wynona, Liam, and Gavin are here, obviously. Drummond?”
“Here.” Drummond, a Manticore of considerable bulk and height, crouches near the initiates as he finishes pulling on his leather gauntlets and checking the various pouches strapped to his armor.
“Oskar? Beorn?”
“Both here, Dred!” Os calls as Beron finishes securing a section of chainmail over Os’ right thigh. Of the crew, the two Wolves have a more haphazard collection of gear - their swords are fine, but lack the pommels standard to their school. Both boys have linen and leather armor, well-cared for and hand patched in places. The Wolves still prized self-sufficiency, and their yearlings tended to purchase or patch their gear on the Path, rather than returning to a Witcher outpost for repair.
Mordred sighs - he’d hoped maybe Os would talk some sense into Beorn. Still, they were here, and that’s what mattered. “Cel?” He calls out. The Griffin (sporting traditional light-Griffin School plate over linen armor), waved their hand.
“Can we get on with it,” Wynona hissed. “We’re wasting time.”
“Look, if you want to explain to Papa Vesemir why we didn’t turn in a roster before leaving, be my guest,” Modred responds, looking over his list and making notes. He rolls up his list and looks over the crowd of initiates. “Alright, littles, you have training with councilman Eskel in fifteen and best get to the training grounds now.”
Most of the initiates scatter, though Mordred stops Friedrik and hands him the note. Friedrick nods, bouncing on the balls of his feet and sprints off toward the keep to deliver the roster to the keep’s Porter.  The team followed Mordred toward the eastern gate, and Drummond went over the plan.
“The wyvern has been spotted east of here, near a ruined watchtower at the other end of the Pond,” he starts, falling into step behind Mordred and allowing the others to circle around him. “It’s likely to have its nest somewhere in that area, perhaps even in the ruins. Plan is Wynona hits the nest with grapeshot -”
“Damn straight.”
“- Liam and Gavin will find high ground and use their scattershot to ground the thing,” Drummond continues. “Beorn and Os, you’re on the ground near the nest as Wynona’s backup, while Mordred and I focus on drawing its attention.” The manticore absently cracks his knuckles. “Not saying this’ll be easy - lots of points of failure. But it should be routine, yeah?”
Os groans. “Don’t fucking jinx it, Drummond.” Liam and Gavin burst into laughter (fucking, Cats) and clap Os on the back.
“Come on, Os, we have Beorn,” Gavin says with a toothy grin. “A whole extra witcher for a wyvern small enough that the trainers considered sending initiates with us to watch. We’re going to be fine.”
                                                        ---
Wynona doesn’t get up immediately after crashing into the treeline; the wyvern, The Killer, tossed her from her perch at the tower toward the forest. Os and Beorn are pinned by a younger wyvern - the Killer’s hatchling, and likely the wyvern seen at the keep - and can only watch as she sails through the air and crashes through the branches. The grapeshot ignites the nest (Wynona managed to plant two grenades before the Killer spotted her), but the rest of the bombs explode from the shock of hitting the ground. The Wolves have no idea if their Viper comrade is still alive.
The Killer screams above them, taking flight and circling over the field - Beorn manages to clip the young wyvern in the wing with aard and sending it spinning toward Os, who sinks his sword into its neck. The hatchling screams, the Killer screams, and Os yanks his sword forward, neatly severing its head from its neck. His sword slips free of the wyvern and he and Beorn sprint toward the tree line; crossbow bolts tear through the Killer’s wings, knocking it out of the air as it whirls back toward the Wolves. It crashes somewhere behind them as they sprint toward Wynona - she stumbles through the treeline, bleeding from a gash in her leg.
The next few things happen incredibly quickly - the Killer hauls itself into the air, low enough to threaten Mordred and Drummond with her claws; Beorn hears the Killer scream and pick up speed toward Wynona; two more sets of crossbow bolts screech through the air, slashing new cuts into the Killer’s wings; Mordred sprints toward Wynona but Beorn gets there first and lunges, attempting to cast Quen, but he doesn’t quite get the sign off in time. Beorn shoves Wynona out of the way and the Killer snatches Beorn off the ground, claws puncturing his armor.
Beorn screams.
Mordred knocks the Killer out of the sky with a well-cast Aard; the claw holding Beorn relaxes, dragging along his torso as the wyvern falls. Beorn hits the ground hard some distance behind the wyvern with a sickening crack that echoes in the ears of his friends.
Beorn loses track of his senses, the world turning to mush around him - he thinks he hears Drummond shouting, and the sound tastes like copper and heat and his own screaming. The world goes dark, but he feels Wynona’s knees thunk into the grass next to him and the burn of Full Moon on his lips.
                                                        ---
When the hunting team arrives, the pup they’re carrying is sobbing, delirious with pain. He’s babbling, the words largely lost in the tide of pain, blood, and tears. Elder witchers, yearlings and initiates flood the courtyard, and Drummond and Mordred lower Beorn onto a stretcher. Disconnected syllables continue to trip out over Beorn’s lips, but among them, Os manages to pick out a refrain.
"Amma. Get Amma, please. I want Amma."
Os sprints off toward the gardens, darting through the crowd at speed, barely dodging past people as he runs. The courtyard and artisan stalls give way to the gardens suddenly, as if they were portal-ed in from elsewhere. (In a way, they were - herbs were gathered in the wilds before Ashwood arrived at the keep.) Councilman Ashwood - their Amma - is crouched in the middle of the garden, scratching notes into a small notebook.
“Amma!” Os yells, unaware of the slip - none of them ever call Ashwood ‘Amma’ to his face. Still, Ashwood’s attention snaps upward; “It’s Beorn, please, he needs you!” Ashwood’s eyes widen; he snatches a bag from one of the collection tables, jogging toward the young Wolf.
“Where is he?” Ashwood asks, and Os turns heel, Ashwood not far behind. The return trip takes time - Ashwood is not a Witcher, and even at a dead sprint cannot match Os in speed. But he tries, and he skids to a stop in the courtyard, his chest heaving from the effort; the air is so thick with the scent of blood that it fills Ashwood’s lungs and mouth and he can nearly taste it. He swallows around his gag reflex - now is not the time to lose his stomach - and wades through the throng of people around Beorn.
“Please, give the boy some space,” Ashwood says firmly, barely louder than his normal speaking voice (the benefit of working with Witchers). Initiates and instructors alike move back, and Ashwood kneels next to Beorn. The boy - he could be called a boy, despite his twenty-four summers, because of Ashwood’s agelessness and the slowed aging of Witchers - has pulled at his hastily bandaged wounds, blood oozing from the deep gashes in his torso. Beorn babbled uselessly, and Ashwood takes his hand and gently brushes Beorn’s hair away from his face. “I’m here Beorn,” Ashwood murmurs, pushing a light healing spell into Beorn’s skin as he tries to comfort the young Witcher.
"Amma, Amma please, it hurts,” Beorn sobs, looking at Ashwood with hazy eyes.
"Shh, I know just stay still, we'll see what we can do about this, okay?" Ashwood looks up scanning the crowd. “Who did the field dressing?”
“I did, sir,” Wynona says, stepping forward. “I gave him a dose of Swallow and a dose of Full Moon, to treat any internal injuries, but the surface wounds…”
“You did an excellent job,” Ashwood says, holding up a hand. He makes eye contact with Mordred and Drummond in turn. “We need to get Beorn inside, to the infirmary,” he says, voice even and calm, “lift the stretcher gently and do your best not to jostle him. Keep him level.” The boys nod and gently lift Beorn off the ground. When Ashwood stands, Os hovers at his side, staying with him as they drift toward the keep.
“Amma, is he going to be okay?" Os murmurs, tentative and shy and almost too quietly for Ashwood to hear, but the name, ‘Amma’, sticks in his gut. He is Amma - Beorn had been calling for him, specifically. He wonders, distantly, why they named him that.
"We'll do what we can, Os,” Ashwood says, “Let's get inside where I can treat him better. The nickname can come later, right now he has one of his Witchers to treat. He and Os follow Mordred and Drummond closely, with a parade of yearling Witchers behind them. Instructors swarmed the initiates, moving the children back to the training grounds.
Ashwood hurls out a burst of magic as soon as they enter the keep - two birds erupt from green smoke swirling out of his hand and go screeching off in different directions. All activity in the keep stops; with no noise to distract from their frantic procession, it’s only a matter of time before people drifted over to watch them pass. Ashwood made eye contact with an instructor he recognized - Coën, of the Griffin School - and jerked his head toward the crowd.
“Okay, get back to your duties,” Coën yells through the crowd. “Stop fucking gawking!” Spectators danced away from the scene and parted as Triss made her way toward the infirmary door; she held the door open for Mordred and Drummond before tying back her loose, ginger curls and setting up a table of medical supplies.
“What do we need?” she asks, not bothering to look at Ashwood as he helps ease Beorn onto a bed. They’ve done this before, many times, with many Witchers.
“Catgut, sterilized needles,” Ashwood says. “Mordred, Drummond, you can go - make sure the rest of the yearlings know we’re doing everything we can.” The Bear and Manticore nod and leave the room, looking numb from the shock of things. Witchers are expected to die on the path, but not this young. Not on something that was supposed to be routine. Ashwood turned to Os - “I need you to go get us a few buckets of water, okay, Oskar?”
“Okay.”
“Warm, clean water. Not from the springs. You understand?” Beorn groans, rapidly losing the strength to even cry, pulling Ashwood’s attention away from the other Wolf.
“Yes, Amma,” Os says with a firm nod. He’s gone by the time Ashwood turns back to Triss, who pulls up a seat on the other side of the bed. She hands Ashwood a pair of scissors, and they begin the grim work of removing Beorn’s armor and cleaning his wounds.
                                                        ---
Vesemir arrives with Os, both carrying buckets of water. Ashwood and Triss are bloodied; Triss has a smear of blood across the coral brown skin on her cheek, obscuring her normally bright freckles. Ashwood is stitching up smaller wounds on Beorn’s chest, murmuring words of comfort as he works desperately to save the young Wolf.
“Amma… I can’t…” Beorn moans, fresh tears slipping down his face. Ashwood presses a warm hand against his neck, willing strength into Beorn’s failing body.
"Hush, pup,” Vesemir says, gently placing the requested water near the supply table. “Your Amma is doing his best, you need to be still." He turns to Triss and Ashwood, "Would this be easier if he was put under with Axii to keep him still?"
The mages share a look before Ashwood reluctantly nods. Vesemir makes the sign and presses it toward the injured Witcher. “Sleep,” he says, and Beorn is gone.
They send Os out for additional bandages and Vesemir gets to work grinding up celandine blooms and willow bark, mixing the herbs with water. Triss uses the mixture to gently wash Beorn’s deeper wounds as Ashwood works.
“When Os gets back with bandages, can you soak them in this mix?” Ashwood asks Vesemir.
“Of course,” he says, holding his hands out. “Is there anything else?”
“Prayer may not be out of the question,” Triss murmurs. “He’s feverish and in shock. Even if we get everything closed…”
“It’s going to take a lot of patience and magic to keep Beorn alive,” Ashwood finishes, a nearly imperceptible frown tugging at his lips. Vesemir lets out a ragged sigh.
“Prayer is not my forte,” he admits, “but I will help however I can.”
                                                        ---
It's early in the morning by the time they finish packing, stitching, and bandaging up Beorn. Vesemir took Os away hours ago and Triss takes her leave when she and Ashwood have dumped the last of the bloodied water buckets, leaving Ashwood alone in a chair by Beorn's bedside. Someone needs to stay, in case he wakes up. They agreed on shifts, but Ashwood knows he's not likely to leave the infirmary until Beorn does.
He sags a little in his chair staring up at the ceiling. Os has seen twenty-one summers; Beorn, twenty-four. Mordred is the oldest Bear of the yearlings, and he’s only seen twenty-seven summers. Aiden left home when he was five-years-old. They're children. Ashwood squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall, but he knows it's a lost cause as a ragged sob rips out of his chest.
 Amma, please, it hurts...!
They’d called him Amma - "A sort of version of Mama," Os told him, "because you're... you know... you and you take care of us."
Ashwood hadn't known what to say to that. He wonders, vaguely, when it started, but that wonder was snatched away by the sheer fucking injustice of it all. No one, none of the men (and the handful of women and others) who lived here deserved to be in that much pain. And yet Witchers had, for centuries, thrown themselves at monster after monster to protect folk that hate them. And hate them still. A fury burns in Ashwood's chest alongside his terror and sadness and he thinks he might kill the next person to insult the witchers to his face.
Beorn's breath hitches, his face momentarily twisted in pain - Ashwood watches him carefully, but he remains asleep. Ashwood takes his hand gently and traces the scars there - so many for one so young. Then again, was Ash any better? He'd inflicted his own wounds many a time by the time he turned four-and-twenty. Some days he felt like he might inflict many more.
"I just heard.” Ashwood starts when he hears Lambert at the door. “Is he...?" He's trying to be calm about it but he's rattled and angry and anxious and it's hard to keep your voice down and have it be gentle at the same time so he picks one and hopes the other one makes it through by force of will. It mostly comes through as a growl.
Ashwood looks up - there's no hiding tears that are sad and righteously angry. He lets out a shaky breath. "He's ah... Beorn's gonna be okay. Os and the others got him to the keep and then came and got me just in time," he says, trying not to look like an utter mess. "They're kids, Lamb," he mumbles into his hands.
Lambert finds a chair next to Ashwood and sits down, running a hand through his ginger hair - the beeswax pomade hadn’t held up well in his rush from repairing the walls. “What happened?” He asks. “They just told me he came in covered in blood.”
“He went out with the team of yearlings sent out to take care of the wyvern,” Ashwood says, eyes dark. “Coën got me the details - according to Mordred, the wyvern had a hatchling. Beorn was caught up in its claws trying to protect Wynona. He wasn’t able to cast Quen in time.” The mage sags again, leaning gently against Lambert’s side. “He was nearly incoherent when they got him here…”
“They’re just fucking kids,” Lambert mutters. “They’re kids, Ashwood, and we break ‘em down and build ‘em back up into Witchers and throw them out into a world that hates them. And the instructors don’t know shit about the yearlings. They just see a grown Witcher and assume they can handle the shit Geralt and I do.”
They sit in silence for a while, twin fires of rage and love burning down to their cinders. Because Lambert’s right - they’re practically children, despite their bluster and bravado. They have Lambert in their corner, obviously, but they have Ashwood now, too. And he’d do his best to keep them safe, to take care of them, make sure they knew someone on this fucked up Continent gave a damn about them. That, at least, he could do.
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mapsofthelost · 5 years
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WATER DREAMS
It’s a storm sewer outflow, of course, in the sea wall at Seaburn, designed for those days when it rains like it is never going to stop, and the drains fill up and the streets flood, and there’s an urgent need for run-off onto the beach and into the sea. It’s hinged so that the immense pressure of water can open the heavy metal hatch, but it’s very hard to open from the other side.
All of this is true.
But there is also a branch drain connected to this, built off the main network by the Victorians. No streets drain into it, no farmland is helped by it, it is just a long and dark tunnel which leads away from the rest inland to where it ends under a hill.
The engineer that designed this had his reasons. The navvies that built this were paid well not to question these strange design decisions.
Under that hill, sleeps a thing. It sleeps deep in the earth, and it dreams, and sometimes its dreams leak out and everyone for miles around has a strange night full of strange dreams. Other than that, it does no harm. The family know though, that if once a year the thing does not get to the sea to turn and twist to shed its old skin in the salt water, it will be in agony and will writhe in the earth under its hill. Then the people for miles around will have a terrible night, full of terrible dreams, and in the grip of this they will do terrible things to one another.
The engineer was the son of a family whose job it has been through centuries to know things and to do things about what they know.  So he was schooled to become a great engineer, and he returned to his home city to direct the building of the sewers and the drains, and he built that long dark tunnel exactly the size of the thing, so that once a year it can stretch its way down the tunnel, and through the hatch and into the sea. The family have to make sure that it can get back through, so if on a moonless night you see four people straining to hold a hatch open, walk on fast before you see what comes from the waves.
This family do many other things that keep us safe from the horrors we know nothing about, but they are for another time.
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staytheb · 4 years
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dragon bride [trivial matter and scene requests]
Word Count: 1,510 Summary:  more information of the pair and some other things that i wanted to include for the author to write about.
dragon bride masterlist.
because this was an apply story, i had applied with a different male as the lead since the author left that option to us. and because of how i wrote it, it’s why i had chosen WinWin overall since he seemed to fit it more for me in my mind even though at first i was gonna do Kun, but it kinda wouldn’t work out and what not. but that’s just me though, other than that, i was looking forward to this story and can understand how it ended up the way it did as of now, Admin Lia~
TRIVIAL INFORMATION :
▸ Xiàxuě prefers Sīchéng to choose the color of her outfit for the day as it reminds her of what her parents did for her. Sort of like a routine. Although at first Sīchéng finds it unnecessary, but over time he comes to enjoy seeing her wearing whatever color he had picked for that day.
▸ The nicknames they have for one another soon becomes one of endearment and a way for only these two to understand between each other although it may come off weird to others upon hearing them. In private, Sīchéng soon prefers to call Xiàxuě by YǔYǔ as she's the rain that refreshes him. As for Xiàxuě she often than not likes to call Sīchéng with Lǎogōng as that's what she heard her mother called her father while growing up. ▸ Because Sīchéng is in charge of maintaining precise control over water he promises Xiàxuě to one day teach her how to swim and she casually awaits the day for it to be fulfilled. ▸ Xiàxuě doesn't ventured that far outside of the home due to Sīchéng's words, but when she does she goes out far enough that he has told her to enjoy the scenery and would usually come back with a crown made out of the forest leaves and branches. Every time she makes one she presents it for Sīchéng to wear although he hardly does, but he appreciates the small gestures and collects them instead. ▸ Music has become a very large part of Sīchéng's life so when he doesn't hear any music playing at all throughout the day or when he returns home he becomes curious and seeks out Xiàxuě to see if something is wrong with her, but finds out that she's just copying scriptures and lost track of time. He promises to teach her how to read and write as well one day although she doesn't mind scribbling for fun as of now. ▸ What Sīchéng likes about Xiàxuě is her tolerance of him and towards him even though she probably didn't want to be here in the first place. Sīchéng also likes that Xiàxuě can sing and play the music instruments to which he never really found time for despite living for hundreds of years. He does enjoy it when Xiàxuě squints without knowing it due to her vision being slightly impaired and it kind of makes her clumsy at times. Some things that Sīchéng dislikes about Xiàxuě is that she doesn't take too much of an initiative in doing things for herself and pleasing herself without thinking of others' first. Also, he dislikes being compared to her father when he is his own person and not some mortal either even though he never asked her why she does so. ▸ As for Xiàxuě she likes that Sīchéng reminds her of her father at times like his silent yet strong personality that makes her feel safe and secure. It's the same for when Sīchéng chooses the color for her outfit as Xiàxuě loves seeing the smile upon his face when he sees her in the outfit she decides based upon his color choice. As for any dislikes, Xiàxuě doesn't like his vague answers when she asks him certain questions. Same as for when Sīchéng's watchful gaze lingers on her for a little too long and Xiàxuě gets a bit uncomfortable for some reason. Plus Xiàxuě's really afraid of the "dark" side that Sīchéng has that she only saw once although he has no clue that she witnessed that side of him. ▸ Because Xiàxuě hardly sees Sīchéng around and thinks he doesn't like her and so she gets lonely and becomes detached from everything around her and Xiàxuě's not sure how to deal with it and so a bad decision finds herself drowning her loneliness in wine. Xiàxuě has never drank before, but remembers Zijìng saying something about it helping to calm the nerves and to forget things. ▸ Sīchéng realizes that Xiàxuě resembles someone from his past long ago. Although Xiàxuě looks like the past person, but Sīchéng knows that Xiàxuě isn't exactly her and isn't sure how to handle the situation since the past Xiàxuě was another mortal woman that lost her life due to a water incident because of Sīchéng. ▸ Xiàxuě constantly expresses her desire to see her parents, but Sīchéng informs her that it isn't so easily done every time she brings up the topic. It gets to the point where Xiàxuě becomes desperate enough that she's willing to do anything to just see her parents one last time even if she has to disobey Sīchéng's words of going beyond further then she's allowed to of the Forbidden Forest.
▸ As for the past Xiàxuě that Sīchéng's knows about, her name was Jiàng Fāng. Fāng was abandoned by her parents at the age of three as her birth father wanted a son and when he got one her birth mother left Fāng with her birth mother's father since it was tough already feeding a family of four. Anyways, it was Fāng's grandfather that gave her the name as it meant fragrant and he didn't want to just call her 'girl' since Fāng's parents never gave her a name in the first place. Fāng was raised on a farm and she helped her grandfather as best as she could out in the fields since it was just her grandfather and her. Also there wasn't much for her to do except to help her grandfather with the farmlands and livestock and asking questions about her parents were long forgotten when her grandfather told her he knew nothing as each year passed by. ▸ Fāng met Sīchéng when she was seventeen as Sīchéng was mortally exhausted from overexerting his powers and was too weak to return home. He ended up in her grandfather's field where Fāng discovered his body and took care of him without her grandfather knowledge since he hated upper status people, especially those that were males. Sīchéng's outfit made her assume he wasn't a commoner like her. Anyways, Fāng never learned his name, but he knew hers and Sīchéng would visit her for some odd reason, but he would only watched her from afar. He wasn't sure why he kept paying visits when he had other things to do, but her peaceful life with her grandfather and working on the farm intrigued him. ▸ Fāng eventually died by drowning when there was a flooding that happened in her area. She was helping her grandfather to take care of things and while running across the field to check on the livestock, she fell into a hole that her grandfather was working on and because of the flood Fāng didn't notice it and fell in. Because she didn't know how to swim and the hole was deep and she couldn't grip her way out of it, she drowned. Sīchéng happened to witnessed the incident, but he was called by his father to take care of other things and left Fāng to her fate. So this is why the reincarnation, Xiàxuě, doesn't know how to swim and fears swimming and large body of water.
SCENE REQUESTS : 
▸ Xiàxuě asking Sīchéng about the stories of the Butterfly Lovers and The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl if he has met them and if they're true and real like him (lol) ▸ Sīchéng reads Xiàxuě a story one day after he learns that Xiàxuě can't read, but she can imagine the storytelling based upon the images to get a gist of it or interpreting it on her own accord ▸ Sīchéng overhears Xiàxuě playing a music instrument while singing and request for her to play and sing every other night or something without telling her why he wants her to do that ▸ Xiàxuě almost drowning and Sīchéng saves her, but then scolds her to be careful although he was the reason why she was near water in the first place even though he didn't know of her being unable to swim. Also this is where Xiàxuě finally calls Sīchéng by his real name and not a nickname like she usually does and he's actually happy although he won't show it ▸ some how and some day Xiàxuě and Sīchéng end up in a very heated argument about who knows what and lots of words were exchanged along with tears, anguish, and whatever else. because of this they don't talk to one another for several days and avoid the other ▸ the nine Dragon Brides freaking about what's going to happen when they're all awaken tied to the trees. and then screaming and shouting when they all get taken away one by one wondering what really was going on and what not. ▸ the nine Dragon Sons holding a "housewarming" party one at a time to mingle and what not and for the Dragon Brides to have sort of friendship with one another ▸ could they do something with the floating lanterns and makes wishes ^^
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sinsofaconfessor · 4 years
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(( Apologies! and warning! This post is LONG!))
The Stormwind streets, an almost peacefully quiet day save the typical shouts of Breels recipes and the local gnews echoing. Syred sat there, slumped at his desk. One hand propping up his head as his dull gaze watched the door. Not many came to his shop, the small demand silently astonished Syred. He was quite certain with the way Stormwind worked, the way azeroth worked people should be flooding for customized weapons, runes and enchantments, potions and poisons. The shop now was a waiting room, an eerie limbo where the elf sat and watched time pass. 
More often than not, he'd close the shop early due to lack of visitors and return home, but today the thin wooden boards that made up the back wall of the shop found a small fraction of curiousity. Syred had discovered his shop shared a wall with what sounded like a guard office of some time. Chatter day in and out of various events, information muffled through wooden planks almost interesting amid what was another day of very little. His gaze turned to the door up the stairs, contemplating bringing Amarah and Ari downstairs. He'd finished working on a book for them, blank pages enchanted to give movement to figures drawn on them. He suspected it'd keep them from coloring on anymore important tomes he'd tried desperately to keep from their hands.
Syreds shop was something he was...fairly proud of, a work of almost gaudy and over the top elegance mixed with the brick and wood theme of stormwind.  Enchantments keeping books tethered to shelves, candles mounted in metallic holders enchanted with levitation spells all for a bit of flare and appeal, if only to advertise some of what the store offered. All the while black and red themed carpets, curtains and tapestries settled and guided the patrons gaze to the wares, all completely matching Syreds own preferred attire scheme.  No one expected less from an elf. Syred enjoyed playing the part a little too much.
the sound of bare feet shuffled across stone, bringing Syreds ears  from eavesdropping on the muffle sounds behind him to the door. A night elf stepped slowly and carefully inside the enchanted parlour. Dark violet skin and muscle framed kilt and glowing runes simmered over the Kal'doreis chest and arms, blindfold settled loosely on the bridge of his nose as jagged horns curved forward and up, marking this one as Illidari, or at least former. Demon hunters.
Ugh, demon hunters. Syreds thoughts turned to telling the elf he was closed, turning him away. Business had been beyond slow, however, and the shop itself hemmoraged money. If Syred had sought to do this for actual profit the business would have gone under months ago. Money wasn't an obstacle, boredom however stalled his typical standoffish nature.
Syred straightened himself out, rising to his feet and offering a slight dip of the head to the demon hunter, noting the lack of glaives with mild curiousity. " Greetings, Welcome to the Needful. What are you looking for today? new steel?" Cordial, though strained he was at least momentarily polite. Syred didn't like demon hunters, or paladins, or cats, or drunkards, fools, Sundays,Lightforged, farmers....It could be said the list of things Syred did like was far shorter. " I'm looking for something to help me kill a demon. The King has sent me on a mission."  
Of course, Syred slouched, almost bored all over, of course the demon hunter was hunting demons. Of course a call to victory from the king. Syred  unavoidably sighed. " I recommend an orb, something to contain spirits and entities. Killing a demon isn't an issue, it's mostly what happens to their essence afterwards..I suspect you're careful enough to avoid overeating since you aren't a pile of ash." Syreds hand flicked, a crystalline orb floated off the shelf closest to the window, slowly gliding toward the center of the room. **Thunk..**
The orb fell to the ground,  its magics failed, in the same instant the whole shop seemed to falter like a gnomish machine running out of power. Enchantments lost their glow, candles fell to the ground spilling wax and rolling across the wood and stone. Everything in the store seemed to go dark. The entire fade of magic brought a moment of pause, confusion over Syreds face evident. All of this seemed...impossible. His eyes turned up to the window of his shop, outside a deep green glow just barely evident, a sign of tampering.
His eyes turned back to the demon hunter standing in the room with him, two feet taller, massive. His eyes stared down at Syred as thick rocky carapace coating his shoulders, arms and claws.
oh.
Oh.
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Inside the Stormwind office, a simple accountant keeping track. He was seated at a desk, keeping tally of each guards salary in a ledger. Mundane silence and peace. It wasn't even payday when the accountant had the most conversations his entire week. The only break in his silence was the soft scribbles of the quill over paper.It was just enough for the accountant to wish for something else. Maybe -he- could apply for a guard position for a more exciting life! This office was cramped and worst of all, strangely hot this early in the morning. Why -was- it so hot?
The thought was answered in a flash of fate-woven destruction. Splintering wood heralded an explosion of shattered singed and cracked wooden walls. The first sight emerging? A pitch foxtail, cropped by massive violet clawed hands, armored in thick rocky scales. Wood planks thrust outward as burnt discolored wood exploded outward, the accountants only friend  was the desk he'd ducked behind to avoid the shrapnel of splinters and chunks of wood. The immense form of a Demon hunter powered by vengeance burst through the wall, revealing the shop burst in felflames. Massive clawed feet gouged the wood of the guard house as he'd come to a halt, it was evident a charged leap had sent the demon hunter and Syred through the wall. Destruction and flames weaved through the now merged buildings, Syreds head clutched in the demons clawed palm.
Smoke spilled through the office, causing the Accountant to race from his office , screaming into the street. "  FIRE!. There's a fire! " He scampered toward the stocks, quick to call anyone and everyones attention. Amid the plumes of smoke the sounds of violent impacts, wood being crushed and grunts of pain, snarls as the howl of of something whipping quickly through the air. Grunts and audible tears of cloth, and furniture violently crushed tattled the hidden violence behind the smoke. Small sounds of bystanders gathering witnessed not a shopkeep being accosted, but the shadows of two bipedal creatures illuminated by green flame and clouded by smog trading blows.
Books fueled the flames as the second stories support gave way, groaning before shelves came crashing to the ground, support beams weakened and collapsing into the rest pushing smoke into the streets. The crowed scampered back from the smoke, some overwhelmed by the surge and encompassed with in it.
Then? The smoke dissipated,  the witnesses seeing the smoke taking to the sky and flowing rapidly off into the distance. All that remained was the two destroyed buildings, all sounds of violence gone. It was as if the two creatures had vanished, leaving two hollowed frames of buildings burned to ash from entirely within. Syred had now earned himself the title of completely and utterly uninsurable.
Smoke rocketed across the sky, billowing over cliffs and farmland before arcing downward as if the smoke trailed a cannonball now coming to kiss the ground.  What landed was far heavier.  A crash of locked limps and clawed hands sinking into flesh, gashing wounds across skin tumbling across the quarry of the gold coast, set just to the profile of the giant pit. Syreds form scrambled to his feet, shadow magic clouding him and the demon hunter dissipated. The Night elfs rocky skin, forged into spikes jutting alone his forearms, shoulders, and back. The Night elfs skin bore claw marks gashing his flesh over his torso and arms, blood stained his spikes. His jaw, temple and cheek held lines cut across his face. Fire sparked over the dry grass of the plains cropping his feet. His Metamorphosis burned with power, heaving pants and a pleased grin laced in dripping blood over his canines.
Across from the Demon hunter  crouched Syred, his shoes destroyed leaving clawed feet and carapace skin. A long spindly tail swayed, barbed points at the end dripping with the demon hunters blood. His clothes were in tatters, flesh burned a slight green tint over the darker red. Horns curved back over his foxtail. Bruised skin in the shape of fingers painted over his head with blood dripping down over the back of his neck. Cuts  and pierced wounds peppered over the darkened skin of his torso, cropped barely by thin fabric dangling but a few errant buttons clinging to the mockery of the shirt swaying in the air of the farmland. Black carapace wings twitching and lightly flapping behind him. The Demon hunter had revealed Syreds form in the brutal brawl of fire, brimstone and public destruction. Syreds demonic flesh had torn into the fabrics of finely tailored clothes, carapace legs pierced the fabric of his pants as dripping blood leaked down his figure. The bleeding seemed secondary injuries to the large bruise marks forging green welts over Syreds skin and what was likely close to broken bones barely saved by hard demonic sinew and muscle.
Both were panting, staring unblinkingly at one another as Syreds voice gasped out the first words between the two since their first round of brawling. " You...Lose." Kal'dorei cackled. " I lose? I got you alone with no guards to interfere. You..." Lose."
This person was after him? The realization brought a swell of shadowmagic, darkness spilled across the ground, shadowy tendrils birthed from the ground and rocketed toward the demon hunter, sharpened points of magic seeking to skewer and pierce him. Felfire flames burst around the hunter, repelling the shadows around his form as his massive legs propelled him into the air, launching him down onto Syreds form. Felfire trailed around the hunters figure as he lunged at Syred.
Syreds gaze widened, watching the hunter repel his magics, sigils of felflame marking the ground around him. Clouds of shadowmagic surged around him, working to disperse his form from physicality only to be dispelled as a massive clawed hand ripped past the smoke, gripping at Syreds neck and plucking him from his magics influence. Carapace hands grasped at the arm in range before the demons form was gripped, clawed fingers dug into his throat causing blood to drip down his skin. The hunters laugh was instant as his grip allowed him to turn, lifting Syreds shorter demonic body and hurl him into the massive crater of the quarry.
Syreds body tumbled, no mercy granted in his fall as rocks crashed against carapace, bone and flesh until he'd landed at the bottom, limp figure draped over a fallen boulder. This was where a villain would be mid-monologue, talking about how perfect their plan was. It was unfortunate Syred wasn't in a talking mood. The hunter himself wasn't big on words and it showed as a boulder found itself rolled from the edge of the quarry and sent tumbling after the devastated demon. The sound of crashing rocks hitting the side of the quarry brought conscious thought and survival instincts to kick in, pushing Syred to open his eyes and look up. Shadows swirled around him again, pushing past the boulder as it slammed against the bottom of the quarry where his body once lay, the smoke condensed into a cloud, swelling as if staying intangible for whatever reason. The hunter allowed for little time for a reprieve, massive clawed feet pushed the elf off the edge of the quarry as he leapt down and into the cloud, immolating felflames burning through the cloud of magic and forcing Syreds form into physicality.
**CRACK**
Carapace broken, bone shattered and the demons body was shoved back into the bottom of the rocky pit, his left arm bent the wrong way, his torso folded against a clawed fist that cracked into his side, sending the body bouncing uselessly across the ground. Pain Ripped through Syreds nerves, screaming in protest at pain he'd not felt in some time. It was blinding and with so little time to recover the situation only found itself more grim. Syreds brief dispersion had allowed him time to seal the gashed and cuts on his wounds, but did little for new wounds of the devastating connections of the demons fists with his form. Syred fell uselessly again to the ground, magic wasn't working, and in this moment a knock down drag down fight wasn't working either. What else was left to do? Shadows were ineffective on the hunter. " The King wants you gone... Imagine his surprise when I tell him what you really were. A useless pile of demon." The hunter looked to be rolling his shoulders, fuming with power as flames licked the air around him. He approached Syreds prone form, snatching at his leg with a crushing grip to lift his carapaces figure upside down. A moment later the hunters hand twisted, snapping Syreds leg and cracking clear through the carapace to break at his leg. " There will be no nether for you, I'll eat you myself piece by piece...starting with.."
The pain caused an unavoidable howl from Syreds lips, anger, fury and rage boiled up. Whispers began to call at his mind, calling violence and death to his mind. Sanity melted rational thought except for one single synapse, one track snapped into a singular idea.
A boulder smashed against the hunters back, causing him to drop the elf and fall over. The hunter turned, looking at the top of the quarry above him. Had someone come to interfere? His answer came in the form of another boulder -smashing- against his form. Shadowy tendrils had birthed from the walls, magics grasping over the physical, what couldn't be dispelled by the hunters magics. Each Tendril Hurling boulder after boulder from the bottom of the quarry.
Rock after rock battered against the demons spiked armor, crashing and raining a storm of rocks against his body, the strain of physical exertion and the time spent in the form caused the spikes to melt away, grunts and thrashes as the hunter swiped at the number of shadowy assailants with little avail, their distance and use of the projectiles kept hailing any number of gravel. smaller stones hailed at the elf like bullets, pelting against the elfs violet skin until? A sharper rock found it's home in his back. An elongated rock hurled like a javelin pierced elven flesh, the tip of the rock emerged from his chest.
Syreds azure eyes stared from the ground, his mangled frame willing the shadowy tendrils into murdering for his will. The demons gaze turned to look back at Syreds prone form, even with the meat of his body absolutely devastated. Flames licked at his skin as felflames and power built into his form. The hunter laughed at Syred, watching him before.
Chaos, power, flames burst through the quarry. Fire erupted from the hunter in spite and vengeance causing a surge of felflame to burst and cover the entire quarry in the blast. The force of the explosion sent a tremor through the ground in Westfall, green flame lighting the morning sky in a pillar of flame, heat and magic slagging rock and spraying molten magic across the ground.
The eruption was enough to get the guards of sentinel hill to send a patrol, paladins given a call to action and adventurers given quest to find the source of the danger. In hours passed, the guard that came upon the scene found two charred skeletons cemented into slagged rock at the bottom of the quarry, unidentifiable by any clothing or hair, one skeleton submerged in heated rock face down into the bottom of the quarry, the other face up adjacent to him.
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roswellroamer · 4 years
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Day 12. February 10, 2020. Te Anau day ride. 155km.
Woke to low 40's and gray which made me question the Carrot and Weather Channel apps which had shown 72° and sunny. But closer inspection revealed a marine type layer probably due to the massive lake's shores which was projected to burn off by 11. The kitchen came stocked with farm fresh eggs, bowl of assorted fruit, milk, butter, juice, yogurts, cereals. We set about making some eggs and toast and then of course after finishing off yesterday's blog we grabbed the two frisbees and the "golf course diagram" and headed out. A half life sized chess board on the sprawling manicured lawn provided the tee for the first hole. All the bikes were truck tires with the hole number painted on the rubber. Got to explore their grounds and have some fun tossing the 'bee. We then got into our GoreTex gear and headed towards Milford Sound after a CalTex has stop in town. Knowing we couldn't get to Milford due to road closures/flooding we were aiming for a swing bridge made of three cables. One for your feet and one for each of your hands that spanned the west branch of the Eglinton River. It was featured in one of the NZ touring books I had bought last summer. We saw that the trail sign to identify the turn off was the Earl Mountain turnoff and headed that way. We wound a bit away from the water and gained some elevation and then came to a construction zone. Not being sure if this was related to the recent flooding we got in mine behind a few cars and waited. Maybe less than ten minutes and the opposing truck, bus and camper passed us then we were allowed to proceed. Usually the 120km up to Milford takes over two hours due to the heavy traffic. Top tourist destination in NZ, one road in and out. Lots of buses and cars jockeying to get parking at the roadside attractions. One huge benefit of having the road closed about 75km ahead was that there was hardly any traffic! Great road and scenery as jagged Teton-esque peaks wound into view between the nearly sheer yet forested canyons as we gained elevation. After passing through a few more, wait, take a wild guess... sheep farms 🐑 we came to a diversion. Funneled into a lane off the road to what appeared to be a toll booth, explained to the gal we were in search of a cable bridge off the Earl Mtn. Trail before the closed section. She allowed us to pass. So far so good.
You can tell when you enter Fiordland NP. Sure, there's a sign off to the left (but placed behind a farmer's field/fence so inaccessible for a reasonable picture). But immediately farmland disappears and you are envelopes in the eery dense tunnel of what seems to be darned close to tropical forest. With the 21 feet of annual rainfall being lush shouldn't be a surprise but the immediate drop off in brightness is dramatic as well. Almost like going in a cave. There are some open "flats" but much of the area along the one road there is heavy forest. The other concern for vehicles but especially bikes involves the encroaching algae/moss on the roads. Two tire tracks are largely clear of it but the center of the lanes and the road as well are mostly a bit greenish with the slippery stuff. Lots of "slippery when wet" signage and it wasn't for the Bon Jovi album. I imagined it could be taxing to stay in the worn and clear tire tracks on one of the 250 rainy days. With clear blue sky and dry along with no traffic, the 55,65 and 75kph turns were superb sweepers and we had a ball carving up that road. One of the stops was at Mirror Lakes. Aptly names and even though a couple of fish had disturbed the surface, the pics are keepers. We rode up into Fiordland a ways and then there was the Earl Mtn. sign. We pulled in to the parking area and saw the line of yellow tape across the entrance to the trail. Also no other vehicles were there. The sign said it was closed and also had a few poison signs around the lot. They described the poison that was dangerous to animals and people to attempt (as is often done here) eradication of a non-native predator. In this case it seemed to be some sort of weasel that was endangering a bird that lived on the ground. We had discussed this cable swing bridge and yellow tape and warnings weren't gonna stop us! We worked around the tape and stepped into a dense forest trail. The first 10 minutes took us along an occasionally muddy trail. Tons of tree roots. Most of the deep mud had sticks or small logs tossed in to provide steps but a few ill advised steps resulted in 6" plunges and lovely boot pulling sucking noises to dislodge my Alpinestar SMX-6 from the muck. Then found my way down a thirty foot hill by treading solely on exposed tree roots from one tree! (Pic above) After that, following the well marked red triangular plastic blazes into the heart of Frodo land, the forest was a magic pliant spongy floor. It took a while to figure out that about 6-8" of moss has somehow grown over a network of interconnected tree roots. When I stepped, the entire ground in a five foot radius would give in and move a bit. It was weird and beautiful. After another 10' we heard the Eglinton River and were blocked by some fallen trees and yellow tape. A work around brought me to the river just above the cable swing bridge. A very large tree had fallen on the bridge from our side and collapsed it. Instead of a V shape, the 3 cables were mostly flat but still spanning the river. Ugh. No go. Managed to work our way with some difficulty through the dense brush to get close enough for a pic on the first rung of the bridge which was also the last possible one to reach due to the tree and damage. Pic above. There was a cute little bird on the ground by the bridge remnants. He seemed happy to see us. Wasn't afraid of people evidently as he strutted about watching us, walking under the branch I was balancing on without flying away. He seemed to enjoy company. Said goodbye to my new friend 🐦 and found the blazes trail which included a half dozen improvised detours to avoid deep muck. Scaled up the root ladder which must have been connected to Eywa as the whole forest seemed a bit magical. 🌳 One couple was following our lead to enter the forbidden enchanted forest as we exited. They were disappointed to hear the wire bridge was out. The entire trail from there is about a three hour hike.
I must comment that tons of serious hikers (trampers in local speak) come here and cover long distances. Temps are good. Views and scenery fantastic. None of those deadly spiders and snakes one may encounter across the Tasman Sea in Oz. I get it, just don't love hiking that much to spend days or weeks doing it. This area shows why Peter Jackson used it for LOTR. Nearly pristine and just overwhelmingly stunning. With boots and Klim pants properly mud coated, we were now sweating quite a bit. In fact while holding my Latitude jacket I believe I finally lost my first set of reading glasses on this ride. I have a couple spares but oh well. Think they fell out as I was scaling some of the hill or tree root sections. 👓 I opened up all the vents on my jacket and pants and started the bike to stand and let the 65° breeze do its job. Turned around a couple kilometers further at Lower Holyford Rd. as the heavy machinery was at work. Estimated repair on the sign said that the road would reopen on Friday, four days from now. We stopped a few times on the way back for scenic spots that were too good to pass by. One of the files above is the .gif of some chopper footage. Stopped to watch him load and fly away with a few tanks of what may have been fuel? Most likely bound for Milford Sound which was still isolated from the rest of the country's road system. On one of the last stops Ted must've not closed his bag since when we pulled into Te Anau town center his right saddlebag/pannier was open! Ba quick inventory revealed his polartec jacket and a plastic bag with a wipe were missing. The chain lube that Kiwi gave us as well as a helmet lock were still in the pannier. Those darned side opening clamshell designs! I said I'd get a table at the Ranch outside and wait for him to hopefully retrieve his stuff. I showed him how to flip up on the iPhone to reveal exactly where that last pic was taken. He was just putting on his helmet when a white car pulls up. A guy walks out and hands him his stuff! So lucky. They are bikers and saw his stuff and followed us into town. Nice. After some thank you a they drove away and the day got even brighter. The Ranch delivered me a couple Cokes and an interesting prawn twist dish. 8 shrimp individually wrapped in a long thin dough sheet and fried so the whole 8" long finger is edible and 3 sauces to dip accompanied the serving. Then a calamari salad. 😊 Back to the homestead for some blogging (so I won't fall asleep tonight trying to get this down) and rest before we scored a reservation at the top place in town. The Redcliff cafe. Ted was here last year and unable to get in! We rode to town and were walking down the street when Ted recognized the Aussies who returned his stuff at lunchtime. We turned around and flagged them down. They were perfectly willing to join us for a thank you beer and had a nice time talking with them. They were riders but here to scatter ashes of a friend up north and had received money and were encouraged to make a great trip out of it. They had been to Burt Munro as well. Our appointed hour arrived and we were seated on the back porch of the Redcliff cafe. A few tables of Americans nearby and some conversation with a California couple by us and an excellent meal. I had a salmon tartare dish followed by venison which was amazing and a date and ice cream dessert which were each remarkable. Redcliff did not disappoint. Probably the biggest culinary splurge of the trip. Even with a couple drinks my total ended up being just over $50 and it would've been 50% more for that same meal at home. Had a great evening and got back to the homestead in dusk around 10. Ready to roll northward tomorrow. 😴
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sweetsmellosuccess · 4 years
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The Sátántangó Experience
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How exactly does one prepare to watch a 7.5 hour film? A bit like what you might do in preparation for major surgery: Pack a bag of necessities (in this case, water and protein bars), kiss your loved ones goodbye, and try to make peace with your god. Or, maybe less dramatically, treat it as you would a long train journey, one that takes you through some harrowing terrain on half a rutted track before depositing you to your eventual destination.
Of course, this sort of conception of time is entirely relative: If you have to drive somewhere that takes half an hour, it feels unduly long; but if the trip were normally three hours long, and you somehow found a shortcut that would cut the time down to 30 minutes, you would be flying on dulcet wings for that amount of time, and think you were blessed by angels. In other words, spending an entire standard work day watching one film might seem excessive, but it all has to do with your expectations.
In my case, I was at Philadelphia’s newly renovated Lightbox Theater at the University of the Arts to take in Béla Tarr’s magnum opus Sátántangó, all glorious 450 minutes, in a new 4K restoration (it’s currently playing at select theaters across the country). Armed with my snack survival kit, and safe in the knowledge that we would get intermissions at roughly 2.5 hour intervals, I settled in to watch what has been described as a masterpiece in cinephile circles, and currently resides at number 36 in the most recent Sight & Sound critics’ poll.
Tarr’s beyond-bleak film is broken up into 12 segments, each having to do with a failing farmer’s cooperative in Hungary during the last throes of communism in the late ‘80s. Each section has its own feel and perspective  —  some of them are more lighthearted, others are desolate beyond measure  —  but all expertly shot in low-contrast black and white (by Gábor Medvigy), which renders the people and landscape in various tones of drudgery grey.
It originally opened in America as part of the 1994 New York film festival, at a time when Hungary was undergoing a transformation from Communism to shaky democratic capitalism, so it served as a kind of epigraph to the era, a showcase, as it were, as to the imperfections of a political system built on a promise of human egalitarianism that proved to be depressingly difficult to put into practice.
The landscape makes up a lot of Tarr’s vision, the flat, moody farmland upon which the collective has been toiling, and the unceasing rain and wind that constantly pelts the characters as they venture outside for one business or another. As the film opens, the collective  —  made up of three couples; a curious “doctor” (Peter Berling), who spends his time spying on the others, making copious notes in his stacks of file folders, and daily drinking his considerable body weight in Palinka (Hungarian plum brandy); and the cagey Futaki (Miklos Szekely B.), who has to walk with a cane from an unspecified accident, but seems a bit more shrewd than the others  —  is anxiously awaiting their annual wages, which come all at once and is meant to get divvied up amongst the members equally.
Early on, there are various halfcocked plans from individuals to try and steal the small fortune for themselves, reflected in much idle talk about meeting that evening and decamping for parts unknown, but that ultimately come to nothing. However, when word reaches the group that the mysterious Irimiás (Mihály Vig, also the film’s composer) is, in fact, not dead as they had been told, but alive, and returning to the collective he started, the group dynamic is thrown akimbo, with various members fretting for their future, and, one, the owner of the local bar (Zoltán Kamondi), furious at the thought his business will be taken from him. 
Just why they respond like this remains vague. In ensuing segments, we see Irimiás, along with his associate, Petrina (Dr. Putyi Horvath), navigating through a police interview  —  where the local Captain informs them they will be working for him now in ways unspecified  —  though it appears the collective had very actively planned on not having to include their former leader (and his right-hand man) in their financial arrangements. As for the non-collective characters, including the aforementioned barkeep, and various prostitutes sitting idly around, the collective is virtually their only business, such as it is, so they, too, await this potential flood of cash eagerly.
As the segments begin to collect, they also begin to fold upon themselves: Scenes that we see from one vantage point in an earlier segment are revisited later on, from the perspective of a different character, enabling a thrilling moment of realization that the stream of time we’re following has breaks, jumps, and hiccoughs throughout. Never more poignantly than a moment with a young girl peering into a window of the bar  —  one of the only lit buildings in the otherwise dismally dark countryside  —  watching the adults inside drunkenly dancing and cavorting.
About that girl. Easily the most emotional moment of the film involves her, but not first without the audience paying a heavy price, depending on your empathy for other creatures. Before the film screened, during its introduction, we were made aware that there was a scene of animal cruelty involving a cat somewhere in the proceedings. The sympathetic presenter, himself a cat lover, suggested looking away for parts of that segment, though a friend of mine in attendance who had seen it before assured me looking away wasn’t really an option. Fortunately, he also told me that the cat in question wasn’t actually hurt, and was still alive at the time of a 2012 interview with Tarr.
Needless to say, my worry about this poor cat dominated my experience in the early going: Every time I saw a feline in the background of a scene, I worried that it was coming up, such that it was almost a relief when it finally happened. The situation is this: Estike (Erica Bók), the young daughter of one of the local prostitutes, caught up in her world of half-fantasies after being sent out of their apartment by her working mother, holes up in an attic with a grey tabby. At first, she pets and cuddles him, but eventually, she desires to control him, bend the cat to her will. To the cat’s increasing discomfort and fury, she grabs him by the front paws and rolls around with him, all the while muttering how she alone can determine its fate. Looping up the poor fellow in a net bag and hanging it from a post, she goes downstairs to mix a batch of milk with some rat poison powder and force feeds him until he dies (though in actuality merely tranquilized).
Wandering around the farm that night with the stiffened body of the cat tucked under her arm (a prosthetic, the director assures us), Estike runs into the doctor, shuffling outside to refill his giant jug of brandy, shortly after peering through the window of the bar. Eventually, she lies down amongst the deserted crumble of a bomb-blasted church and takes the poison herself.
As gruesome as the segment becomes, its haunting evocations permeate the rest of the film (though not immediately: in a jarring juxtaposition, the very next segment takes us back to the bar, where everyone is still dancing wildly about to a loopy accordion refrain —  only towards the end of this extended scene do we see the face of the soon-to-be-dead Estike peering inside). Eventually, Irimiás does indeed return, in time to give a moving eulogy for Estike, while at the same time transitioning the group towards his next vision, a new farm some distance away where he assures them they can finally live freely and thrive. All he needs to achieve this goal for them is the money they just received from their previous year’s efforts.
With nowhere else to go, and no other plan on the horizon, the members of the collective dutifully deposit their wages on the table in front of their leader. He sends them out to pack their things so that they may meet with him in a couple of days at the new farm he’s selected.
Gathering their miserable belongings, the group reassemble and trudge down the muddy road on foot, as the rain pelts down on them without ceasing. Distressingly, the members don’t have any proper rain coats  —  in an earlier soliloquy in the bar, Kráner (János Derszi) laments that his leather coat is so old and stiff he has to bend it in order to sit down  —  so they wear their woolen winter coats, which do little to keep them from getting soaked in the heavy fall rains.
As they make their way to this new destination, it’s clear that Irimiás is up to something. Most obviously, he could make off with their wages and move on, but it turns out his scheme is less direct than just taking their hard-earned money for himself.
Towards the second half, Tarr’s penchant for long, elegantly composed shots gives gradually away to more adventurous camerawork, including a single steadicam shot in the woods that’s like something out of a Sam Raimi film. There are extensive elliptical shots with the camera spinning slowly on an axis, this particular effect never more effective than when after the group arrives at their new farm, yet another dilapidated series of box-like concrete buildings. Once they dump their belongings and lie on the floor of the unheated, broken-windowed main house, trying to sleep, our narrator makes one of his occasional VO appearances to describe in intimate detail the dreams each character is having.
It’s a shot that could have served as an excellent final salvo, one would imagine. Indeed, by the last hour of this opus, time and again, Tarr arrives at what might be considered a conclusive moment  —  in this, the confusion is aided by his particular style: It turns out many films end on a superbly composed, static long shot  —  only to keep the narrative flowing, circling back, eventually to the original farm, where the doctor, having just returned from a stint in a hospital, begins to narrate, again, the original opening lines. Such is the perfection in this device (the segment is titled “The Circle Closes”) that once you finally arrive there, it’s clear there could be no other ending that would have sufficed.
When finally the film ended, it was later in the evening. I met up with my compatriots also in attendance, and the three of us ventured back out into the city, heading to a bar where we could nurse a beer and attempt to articulate the tangled mass of feelings and impressions of the previous nine hours. In one of the very few bars in the city that still allows smoking, appropriately enough, we debated about the film in an atmosphere swirling with the poisonous fumes of an earlier era. It seemed hopeless, but still necessary, somehow; like bidding farewell to someone already in a coma.
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ink-flavored · 5 years
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The God-Dragons Wife: Full Map / Syo-Lang Focus
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This is the full map of the world that The God-Dragon’s Wife takes place in. For this post, we’ll be focusing on Syo-Lang. Also, Tumblr is going to murder the quality of this zoom-in, so I apologize in advance.
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About Syo-Lang
The largest nation on the Eastern Continent, Syo-Lang rules with a powerful bloodline monarchy, rivaled only by the neighboring nation to the north, Ciam. Unfortunately, what could be a powerful alliance was almost destined to fail. Their centuries-long disagreement comes down to a clash of culture, as those of Ciam view their neighbors as high-and-mighty, pompous and obsessed with politeness, while Syo-Lang sees people unable to see past their noses, and can’t look past “battlefield glory,” as a lifetime achievement. Ciam and Syo-Lang are still discussing borders from a war that ended seventy years ago, and that had lasted almost twenty-three years before both sides realized the bodies were piling too high to declare a reasonable winner.
Syo-Lang is on better terms with A’Shar, the tinier group of collected states to the west. Syo-Lang often provides military aid to the smaller nation, and in return A’Shar has many exclusive trade dealings, especially in the market of fine fabrics and dyes. For decades upon decades, the council of A’Shar and the sitting monarch of Syo-Lang have visited each other’s countries for both keeping political face, and for pleasure. Famously, the late queen of Syo-Lang was close friends with the head of A’Shar’s council.
Teux is a nation that Syo-Lang is neither friendly nor hostile towards. They hardly speak, though they’ve had no interaction that would provoke distance. Teux does most of its trade with A’Shar, and a moderate amount with Ciam, and there isn’t anything they have that Syo-Lang cannot make itself.
1. Dragon’s Head Gulf
A popular tourist attraction on the south-eastern coast of Syo-Lang, the unique shape of Dragon’s Head Gulf has encouraged many cities to spring up around the coast. The reason? Ports, food, and devoted worship. It’s said that the shape was left when the God-Dragon of Seas and Rivers, Lylang, laid her head down on the world for the first time, creating the gulf, and the rest of Syo-Lang’s coast.
2. Dragon’s Belly
The second-largest ocean on the planet, Dragon’s Belly plays into a similar religious context as the gulf it funnels into, though there is some conflict. It is believed to be Lylang’s belly, but some say it’s not just hers. Some believe the depth came from Lylang’s belly as she was pregnant with her three sons. Believers can’t agree on whether or not the God-Dragons “have” children as other animals do, or if their divinity creates new aspects when two or more of them collide. Regardless, the ocean has been named “Dragon’s Belly,” not “Dragons’ Belly,” so it can be assumed that the majority agree with the first party.
3. Dragon Print
The island off Syo-Lang’s east coast harbors only one port city, the rest of the island used for farmland and animal husbandry, and few would visit if not for the story of the island’s name and shape. When Taitou, God-Dragon of Skies, stepped up above his brother and sister, who had laid to create the world, his foot imprinted on the land, so his sacrifice to never touch the ground again would never be forgotten.
4. Lylang’s Tears
Framing the capital city of Haokai, the twin rivers of Lylang’s Tears are sacred to those in Syo-Lang that practice worship of the fifteen God-Dragons. It is said that Lylang, when she saw her sons for the first time, she wept tears of joy and cried every river, sea, ocean, and lake onto the world. The rivers are believed to be the first tears she ever shed, the beginning of her creation of all water. When the winter snows on the mountains melt in the spring, the rivers swell and flood, like the welling of tears in Lylang’s eyes.
5. Spine of Baokan
The longest mountain range on the Eastern Continent is named after Syo-Lang’s own God-Dragon of Mountains, Baokan. Also called World Spine, this mountain range separates the thick, lush Saojao Forest from the rest of Syo-Lang’s rolling hills and wetlands. It has also been the topic of political strife between Ciam and Syo-Lang, and the land on its eastern side has long been up for debate.
6. The Great Ocean
Though simply named, this ocean is, in fact, the greatest in the world, and is great for more than just its size. Most trade goes through the Great Ocean, as every county is easily accessible from it, and it’s faster than travelling on land. Dozens of port cities and towns face the Great Ocean all around the world, all vying to be the next profitable spot for trade.
7. The Disputed Land
The infamous disputed land between Ciam and Syo-Lang has been one gigantic game of, “he-said, she-said.” The land was taken by Syo-Lang in the war that ended seventy years ago, but Ciam claims the land was unrightfully conquered, and the peace treaty that was signed to end the war should have granted it back to them. Syo-Lang, on the other hand, claims that it is entitled to this land anyway on the grounds that it was the sacred place where Sao-Han, God-Dragon of Forests, first blessed the land with trees, and that it was conquered by Ciam before the war happened. The rightful owners were simply taking their land. Neither side is willing to back down, and while a treaty was devised, it seems as though Ciam is more than willing to break that truce and go to war again.
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run-writer-run · 5 years
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PEACE KILLS: CHAPTER 1
Story Description:
It's been decades since World War 3, and the world still hasn't gotten back to what it once was. Few technologies were able to be salvaged. At least, that's what Silven Owaris has been told. An organization called Peiwornt gathered the American people in a huge bunker before the nuclear missiles struck, and the former Americans found a way to survive an entire generation, just long enough for the overworld to be habitable. A city was built in a large expanse of fertile land, and Peiwornt created a government to get civilization back on track. The land has become a place of peace... That's what king Arwin says any way.
Rating: Teen and Up
Warnings: none
Part: 2 of ?
Work:
The yellowed paper crinkled in my grasp. The word 'WANTED' was written in large, threatening, black text. Underneath was a drawing of me. My bright blue hair and violet eyes seemed to pop out of the paper. Other than the bright colors of my hair and eyes, my face was plain. No freckles or distinctive marks other than a faint scar on my cheek.
Underneath the picture was slightly smaller text, saying 'May be dangerous, if seen contact closest guard'. I stuffed the paper into a pocket of the cloth bag I had slinged across my shoulder, and turned away from the wanted board. I pushed my sunglasses up my nose, and started walking towards the small market stall I tried to make a trip to daily.
"What have you got today, Erek?" I asked the man at the stall.
"Bread and produce. Not much meat unfortunately."
"Damn... Can I get a loaf of bread, a couple beets, and a potato then?"
"Of course."
"Great."
"It's on the house today, kid. You look hungry."
"Thank you."
He put the stuff I'd bought in my bag, and I turned away to return home. He was right, I could feel the growls coming from my stomach. It was a long walk to the wall between where I was, the outer-works, and the inner-works where my home was. Climbing up a tree that reached the top of the 20 feet high wall, I looked back to the streets filled with merchant stalls, shops, and small houses I'd left. My chest ached with the reminder that I didn't have a small cozy house to go home to, or a family.
I jumped over to the wall, and walked along it to an abandoned church. When I first found it, it was just as dusty and lifeless. Turns out people didn't really want to follow a god that allowed a nuclear apocalypse. I hopped over to the edge of the roof, using the slanted cross that stood there to balance myself. My hands itched from the rusted metal of the cross, and I started to carefully walk towards a balcony I could climb down onto. Entering through a glass door there, I raised my arms and stretched as I strolled towards the small table in the back of the room. A reflective piece of glass was propped up there.
The makeshift mirror revealed that bright blue was starting to show through the purplish hair dye I'd made out of beet juice. I glanced at the beets I'd bought, glad I'd be able to make more. Going through a door, I entered a large room with something resembling a kitchen/dining area. A couple of tables with no chairs sat in the center room, and a few counters and a gas stove that barely worked sat against the wall.
I set the bag on one of the counters and pulled out a potato. I set it on a small pan and grabbed some small twigs and paper scraps I kept close by, putting them in one of the stove's burners. I used a match to start a small fire, and turned the gas on. A bit would puff out every minute or so, keeping the fire lit and hot. I placed the pan on the burner. After the potato cooked and cooled, I set it on a plate with a hunk of bread and returned to the room I'd just been in. Sitting down on a cotton filled mattress on the floor, I ate. I set the remaining crumbs in a makeshift trap I had on the floor, and laid down on the mattress, exhausted.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●
I woke up to birds singing. The sun had just pushed its way a bit over the horizon. The sky was a pale orange near the sun, and a deep, dark purple above. Stars still lightly twinkled, barely visible but still there.
I sat up, a twinge of pain going through my back. That's what I got for climbing a tree every day.
With a yawn, I stood and moved towards my mirror. The beet juice dye had worn away more, but I had one more bottle that I applied. I wiped my hands on a piece of cloth, grabbed my knife from the table, and went to the kitchen to stick the beets in a cupboard. I left the bread in the bag and put in the knife, and went to the other room on this floor. It was a small library, filled with history books and books I'd stolen from outer-works libraries. I used the holy books that were in it as kindling long ago.
I grabbed a few historical and educational books from the shelves and stuffed them in the bag. I slung it over my shoulder and put on my sunglasses, then left the building. Heading for the back, I spotted and grabbed the ladder leaning against the church. I carried it towards the wall and climbed up, grabbing the edge and pulling myself up to the top of the wall. I looked back over the inner-works. It was mostly big houses occupied by nobles, but at the center was a castle, barracks, and an armory. 4 years ago, I used to call those barracks home. But I wasn't 16 years old anymore, and I wasn't a guard either. Turning away from my old home, I made my climb down the tree, and took a break sitting on a large root.
The usually crowded streets of the outer-works only held a few people. Nobody wanted to be up at this hour. I could relax a bit while I strolled through the streets, eating the bread, and heading towards a small gate in the outer wall. There was only one guard there, who was always too drunk or too asleep to recognize me. Today, he was asleep. I crawled under the half-closed gate, and resumed my journey. After enough walking to make my feet feel like they'd been sucker-punched, I finally reached my destination, one of the farming villages dotted around the farmlands surrounding the city.
I spotted the person I was looking for, Jayce, on his porch. He was a farmer, and a trader of goods and information. I made the journey to him once a week for money and information about what was going on in the castle. He was friends with a lot of people who knew important people.
"Where's my books?" He asked.
"Not even gonna say hi?"
"Fine, hi. If you want your share of the money and your info I need the books."
I pulled the books out of my bag and handed them over. He gave me some money and sat down on a chair, gesturing for me to sit down in the other. I sat down, relief flooding me now that I could finally rest. I looked up at the sky, which was now a light blue.
"If my intel is right, Anarila is gonna be queen soon. Her daddy's getting ready to step down, supposedly."
I only grunted in response, still processing it. I hadn't seen her in so long, she might just hate me. My chest felt heavy at the thought of attempting to return to her side, and I focused on keeping my breaths steady. Even though it was a big risk, I wanted to be with her again. I wanted to be home.
"Hey, you alright there?" Jayce asked.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"You're wondering if you should try and get your guard job back, huh?"
"It wasn't just a job. Protecting her was what I wanted to do with my life."
"What, did you have a crush on her?"
"It was a long time ago. I just..."
"Don't want to be alone anymore?"
"Yeah."
We sat in a comfortable silence, waiting for someone to visit the stand set up in his yard.  When they did, he went to the stand and negotiated with them. I looked up at the sky and closed my eyes, just basking in the sun's warm light. The feeling of being cocooned in a blanket swept over me. Sleep crept over me and took hold.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●
When I woke up, the sun was high in the sky, slightly to the west. Jayce had pulled a chair to his stand. The books were gone. He was smiling, probably because those books cost a pretty penny. When he saw I was awake, he walked over to me.
"Since all the books sold today, you can have another share of money right now," he said, dropping the money in my bag. "And you can have some cheese and bread before you go," he handed me the food.
I ate while he sat on the porch step, humming a tune I barely recognized. "I've got to go. Thanks," I said, getting up to leave.
He just nodded and returned to his chair. I started my trek back to the outer-works. I was about to pass back under the gate when I heard a noise behind me. I turned towards it, only to hear the twang of a crossbow being fired, and felt a dart hit my neck. In seconds the world was going blurry and my heart pumped faster, confusion swarming in my mind. I collapsed.
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thescrybe · 5 years
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Rammus, The Armordillo
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Idolized by many, dismissed by some, mystifying to all, the curious being, Rammus, is an enigma. Protected by a spiked shell, Rammus inspires increasingly disparate theories on his origin wherever he goes - from demigod, to sacred oracle, to a mere beast transformed by magic. Whatever the truth may be, Rammus keeps his own counsel and stops for no one as he roams the desert.
Some believe Rammus is an Ascended being, an ancient god amongst men who rolls to Shurima’s aid as an armored guardian in its times of need. Superstitious folk swear he is a harbinger of change, appearing when the land is on the verge of a great shift in power. Others speculate he is the last of a dying species that roamed the land before the Rune Wars sundered the desert with uncontrolled magic.
With so many rumors of great power, magic, and mystery surrounding him, Rammus compels many Shurimans to seek his wisdom. Soothsayers, priests, and deranged lunatics alike claim to know where Rammus dwells, but the Armordillo has proved elusive. Despite this, proof of his presence predates living memory, with crumbling mosaics depicting his image on the most ancient walls of Shuriman ruins. His likeness adorns colossal stone monuments made in the early days of Ascension, leading some to believe he is no less than an immortal demigod. Skeptics often point to a simpler explanation: that Rammus is just one of many such creatures.
It is said that he appears only to worthy pilgrims in great need of his aid, and those blessed by his presence experience great turning points. After the Armordillo rescued the heir to a vast kingdom from a terrible fire, the man renounced his position to become a goat farmer. An elderly mason was inspired by a profound, yet brief conversation with Rammus, and constructed an enormous marketplace which became the bustling heart of Nashramae.
Knowing Rammus’s guidance can pave an enlightened path, devout believers perform elaborate rituals designed to attract the favor of their deity. Disciples of the cult devoted to Rammus demonstrate their unwavering faith in a yearly ceremony by imitating his famous roll and somersaulting through the city in droves. Every year, thousands of Shurimans trek through the most treacherous and remote corners of the desert on a quest to find Rammus, for many teachings indicate he will answer a single question of those he finds deserving, if they are able to find him. Knowing his enthusiasm for desert treats, the pilgrims arm themselves with offerings thought to attract his blessing, packing their mules with flasks of sweet goat’s milk, chests filled with colonies of ants sealed in wax, and jars of honeycombs. Many never return from the deep desert, and fewer still with stories of the demigod, though travelers describe waking to find their packs mysteriously emptied of all edible provisions.
Whether he is truly a wise oracle, Ascended deity, or a mighty beast, Rammus is known for his miraculous feats of endurance. He entered the impenetrable Fortress of Siram, an imposing bastion designed by a crazed sorcerer. The structure was said to contain untold magical horrors - fearsome beasts mutated beyond recognition, corridors wreathed in flames, impenetrable tunnels guarded by shadow demons. Not an hour had passed when the enormous fortress collapsed in a plume of dust, and Rammus was seen rolling away. None knew why Rammus entered the darkened gate, nor what secrets he learned within the basalt walls of the fortress. In the year of the great flood he crossed the vast lake of Imalli in just two days, and dug many miles deep to destroy a giant anthill and kill its queen, whose daughters had devastated the nearby farmland.
Sometimes he appears as a benevolent hero. When invading Noxian warbands attacked a Northern Shuriman settlement, disparate tribes banded together to defend the territory beneath the Temple of the Ascended. They were no match for the invaders in size or skill, and the battle was all but lost when Rammus entered the fray. Each side was so shocked to see the elusive creature that fighting halted completely as they watched him roll between them. As Rammus passed the towering temple, the foundations of the building shook, and enormous stone blocks toppled onto the invading army, crushing many of its warriors. Now outnumbered, the army retreated to elated cheers from the Shurimans. While many swear Rammus saved the town out of love for Shurima, others argue he was merely defending the territory in which his favorite cactus flowers grew. At least one tribesman claims Rammus was simply sleeprolling and had no intention of taking down a temple.
Whatever the truth, stories of Rammus are treasured by the people of Shurima. Any Shuriman child can list a dozen theories on the question of his origin, half of which they likely invented on the spot. Tales of the Armordillo have only increased with the rise of Ancient Shurima, as they did just before its fall, giving way to a belief that his presence heralds darker times to come.
But how can such a benevolent, epicurean soul herald an age of destruction?
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newstfionline · 6 years
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A Pastor Pushes Forward as a Drought Threatens His Town and His Church
By Rick Rojas, NY Times, Oct. 7, 2018
WEE WAA, Australia--The Rev. Bernard Gabbott bumped along on a road so remote the asphalt had given way to gravel, heading out to see a farmer who had been working seven days a week, straining to keep his cattle and sheep fed.
He pointed to an empty patch of earth. The farmer had plowed it to plant as pasture for his livestock, but instead, the afternoon wind kicked up clouds of dust.
“It’s been like that for months,” Mr. Gabbott said as he pulled up to a small farmhouse.
When he arrived nearly a decade ago in Wee Waa, a small town surrounded by scrubby farmland, Mr. Gabbott’s mission seemed straightforward. He was the vicar of the town’s small Anglican parish. His job was to bring people to Jesus.
But now, he has found himself wrestling with a far more complicated reality. With the worst drought in decades threatening a way of life in Australia’s rural communities, he has become a one-man support system for earthly concerns.
He is a counselor, a social worker, and a philanthropist drawing from his own modest funds. At times, he provides solace; in other moments, he must convince hard-pressed families to set aside their pride and accept vouchers for the grocery store.
The repercussions from the drought--now affecting a stretch of Australia larger than Texas--seem almost biblical. There was the town swarmed by famished emus searching for food. The crops overrun by feral camels migrating toward water. Around Wee Waa, it has been the kangaroos invading soccer fields and crowding roadsides after dark, their carcasses littering the pavement in the morning.
But the consequences have been especially brutal for livestock farmers, who have been forced to sell off stock and take on mountains of debt. Hanging over everything else is the specter of harder times to come, leading many to reckon with the potential devastation of their livelihoods and their communities.
“I think there are two droughts going on,” Mr. Gabbott said.
The farms are endangered. So is the town.
Wee Waa, a onetime cotton capital a few hundred miles northwest of Sydney, is one of many rural communities in a part of Australia enduring its driest year since 1965. Scientists have shown that climate change makes Australia’s droughts more severe, but many farmers said the cause matters less than their immediate needs.
Mr. Gabbott introduced Ron Pagett, 75, a lifelong farmer with thousands of acres on the edge of the Pilliga Scrub, an expanse of scruffy woodland. Mr. Pagett, 75, has lived through other droughts, but he figures it will take years to stagger back to profitability from this one.
A truck pulled up to the house with boxes of canned goods, and Mr. Pagett sighed. “Surely,” he said, “they can find someone poor to give that to.”
Mr. Gabbott said it was a response he heard often: farmers refusing charity, playing down their troubles.
More than $1 billion dollars have been made available by officials to support agriculture. More recently, the prime minister, Scott Morrison, Australia’s first Pentecostal leader, has urged the nation to pray for rain.
It’s a common refrain. Here in the sweep of Australian farming country, where land is measured by the thousands of acres and the horizon consists almost entirely of different shades of brown, there has been a flood of entreaties for divine help--at dinner tables, in schools, at gatherings of friends.
“We pray for your mercy in sending soaking rain,” Mr. Gabbott said, praying at a regular Bible study at home, “that really replenishes the land and restores the country.”
He is a convert to rural life. Mr. Gabbott, who is gregarious and quick to laugh, grew up in Sydney, the son of missionaries. He had a brief career in politics working with the conservative National Party before entering the ministry.
For nearly a decade, he has lived in a century-old house behind the church, where his wife home-schools their children--Seth, 12; Baxter, 9; Elsa, 6; and Sage, 4.
The shiplap walls are covered with stickers, family portraits and a timeline of Australian history that stretches across the kitchen. There is no television, but overstuffed bookshelves are everywhere.
The parish owns the house, and Mr. Gabbott said he couldn’t afford to buy his own if he wanted to. He and his wife, Anita, could probably earn far more if they moved; they have a half-dozen university degrees between them.
“We would live nowhere else,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve sacrificed a thing.”
Even before the rain stopped falling, Mr. Gabbott, 43, could see the families moving away and the shops on the main street emptying as farms needed fewer workers and residents were drawn to bigger cities. He could sense the apathy that pervaded Wee Waa, a town of about 2,000 people.
The drought has only accelerated that decline. It’s tugging on the community’s already-fraying fabric, imperiling the entire town.
He has tried to hold together what he can. He assembles a slice of the community on Sundays, when he stands at the front of his brown-brick sanctuary in the center of town, reads from the gospel and delivers sermons that, as some of his congregants joke, he takes his sweet time to unspool.
But these days, most of the work comes during the week. He is a constant presence in Wee Waa, dashing around in a T-shirt and sneakers. (Long distance running is his diversion from ministry).
“I’ve got six days off,” Mr. Gabbott said. “I think that’s the common myth in town.”
Most of the people he encounters will never join him at church. Instead they drop by his office--his regular corner booth at the town bakery. Or they listen to him teach scripture at school or they run after him as he crosses the street, asking to borrow his car, which he lends them, even though last time it was returned badly dinged.
Sometimes, in his “existential moments” as he puts it, he questions if he’s effective. He has noticed a slight uptick in church attendance but the offering is dwindling. In nine years, he has converted one person, a cotton farmer he reads the Bible with every Monday.
Now, he said, his church might not make it: It’s just months away from not being able to afford his wage.
“I don’t know if we made any change or difference in town,” he said, sitting in his house one afternoon. “Someone shared with me, I think it’s an urban myth, but 80 percent of ministers who quit in America go into construction because you’ve got something to show at the end of the day.”
When Mr. Gabbott was in Bible college training for a rural church, another pastor gave him some advice. Learn how to work on a farm.
A family paid him $1,000 for 10 days of work, and then he kept at it.
Over time, he found that, out on the land, men would open up, their minds distracted, their eyes focused on the job at hand rather than the person they were talking to.
“You have very different conversations with men at the dinner table and in the paddock,” said Kaylene McClenaghan, who became close with Mr. Gabbott’s family while he worked on her family’s farm. “Bernard took that to heart.”
In small towns like Wee Waa, the figures who are pillars in community life--teachers, police officers, pastors--are often just paying their dues and passing through. “It often takes people a long time to trust who’s there,” Ms. McClenaghan said.
Mr. Gabbott’s willingness to hang around has changed him, and Wee Waa. He offered funerals as evidence. He averages one a week, and many of the deceased were never regulars in his pews. Yet they requested him. Even Catholics in town have asked to have their funerals in his church with him presiding.
The strength of that bond has made a decision about his future all the more agonizing. He does not want to leave his parish without a pastor. He does not want to leave Wee Waa.
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lord-tathamet · 7 years
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Dungeons & Dragons: Adventure Prompts
 1. Traveling through a particularly dense part of an elder forest, the adventurers come across eery, man-sized totems fashioned from animal bone, furs and hide looming over the roadside. Though dead and motionless, its almost as if there were eyes watching them from the dark, hollow sockets, following their every move. They come across a small but heavily fortified village, a few simple cottages hiding behind a tall, wooden wall. The inhabitants wear grim and weary expressions on their faces and all are armed to the teeth. Salt is laid out in front of every doorframe and window board and talismans to ward off evil hang over every doorstep. When questioned about the totems lining the road outside, the villagers seem to fall into complete and utter terror. Then the lights of the village suddenly go out.
 2. TROLLS! IN THE DUNGEON! TROLLS IN THE DUNGEON
 3. A new religion has been founded and it is already passing pamphlets and sending heralds and priests to voice the new scripture out to the people. All's well, you can never have enough gods to worship and blame for all your troubles in your life. There's only one problem. Their new deity happens to be an ancient red dragon.
4. An elder entity from beyond space and time has been watching our adventurers for quite some time and finds their actions of chaotic heroics highly amusing. So much so, it decides to kidnap them and have them run through a dungeon of terror and geometric madness for its entertainment, promising three wishes to the victor. Victor. Singular.
 5. An accident in an alchemists lab caused the many hundreds of potions stored inside to be shattered and their liquid contents to vaporize and spread and mingle in the form of a multicolored gaseous cloud that is now covering the town and infecting its inhabitants with random arcane effects.
6. A town painted in bloody smiles, an ivory altar rising from obsidian tiles   Their eyes so hollow, as their god they follow   To bring forth the lamb for the slaughter, all to appease to his eternal laughter   They welcome you with open arms, and hide the bodies under the soil of their farms   They wait for you to sleep so tight, then they slit your throat the same night.
7. The Vassa'li-Estate, once the proud and shining home of an old noble family, now stands abandoned and grey amidst its rotting lands. Locust swarms surround the building and feast on the flesh of those poor foolish enough to set foot on the family estate, while the river that springs forth from a source on the Vassa'li lands has become as deadly toxin, poisoning the surrounding soil of the farmland, driving its inhabitants away. They say the Vassa'li have broken the sacred laws of hospitality, and that the gods are punishing them for their transgression. But what really lurks beneath the estate does not swear its allegiance to a divine curse…
8. They are there. You know they are. They creep behind the walls and crawl through the shadows of your home. They hide under your children's beds, grinning and licking the drivel off their teeth. Their arms are long and their hands are strong, as they take your child out of its crib and vanish into the night. They dwell in the forests, under crooked roots and in dark leaved trees, their eyes lit with deceitful innocence and their smiles wide and sharp. They wear crowns of thorns and berries, their faces as fair as a dying summer. They are known as the lords and ladies. The Fair Folk. Fey or Fae. They are beautiful. They are amicable. They are promising. They are gifting. But they are not nice. They are not good. They are the Fair Folk, and they are coming.
9. Every night, people vanish. Old and young, strong and weak, poor and rich. They are robbed off the streets, out of the safety of their homes, always in the shadow of the night. The only signs of a culprit even existing are the ripped off doors and foot-shaped craters in the stone roads and the cracks in the walls of the large, shovel-like hands heaving the creature's way up the buildings. The city does not dare to sleep. The guards too terrified and understaffed to deal with this creature. But one thing they know. The creature is multiplying.
10. Ever since the Blood Moon rose above the village, madness has been spreading like a plague. Randomly does a villager stop dead in their tracks, gaze up at the dark-veined sky and laugh at the grinning moon, gouging out their eyes with their own fingers while screaming in a language foreign to this and any other world. And the Blood Moon, it hangs there, watching and grinning and feasting on the madness, its insides bulging and boiling - ready to give birth to a new Child of the Far Elder Realms.
11. One of the party members comes across a mysterious goliath gentlemen, who offers them the opportunity of a lifetime, presenting them with a strange deck of cards and ushers them to pick a single card from it.
12. A rift to the Elemental Plane of Water opens in the middle of a green valley, flooding it and the surrounding landscape with currents of ocean water and spilling all sorts of elemental creatures forth into the world - and threatens to drown the entire land if it is not closed.
13. An ancient Vampire seeks final death - but his hunger for blood has corrupted his mind to such primal thoughts that he can barely even remember his name. In desperation, he sends a servant with notices into the nearby towns, putting an anonymous contract on his own head.
14. One of the town's graves has upturned in the night - the grave of a man that died through a horrible accident. But now his course stalks the night as a revenant and seeks out vengeance against his murderer.
15. The heroes notice that curious posters have appeared throughout the land - and discover, that a playwright has apparently started to adapt their adventures for the stage! As they visit one of the plays, they discover that unfortunately, the playwright chose to ridicule a long-term enemy of the party in his adaptation, and now this enemy seeks grim satisfaction against the playwright.
16. A powerful Lich has awoken from his centuries-long slumber and seeks to further his arcane knowledge and magic experiments. The heroes hear of this, and rush to end this potential threat… Only to discover that the Lich has apparently applied as a lecturer at an esteemed arcane university, and is thus as a member of this facility and protected by its sanctioned laws.
17. A glabrezu, a heinous treachery demon has taken on the shape of a deva and is guiding a solitary village down the path of corruption, disguised as wisdoms and commands of the gods.
18. A young humanoid approaches the party, face hidden under a cowl. They ask the adventurers in aid of finding their parents, whom they have lost sight of a long time ago. When asked to reveal their face first, the humanoid reveals the glowing eyes of a celestial and the dark, curved horns of a fiend.
19. The party is approached by a harvester devil, who promises them a wish if they aid him in claiming the overdue soul of a wizard, who plans to escape their contract by turning into a Lich.
20. A succubus has opened a lucrative business in the royal city, her customers including several high-ranking members of the court. Using her charm and skills of persuasion, the succubus goes on to sell information to both cults of demons and darchdevils. Now, two representatives of both cults, one demon, one devil, approach the party and bid them to kill the succubus and extract whatever information she may have on the other cult.
21. A crafty bunch of imps have infested the holy temple of a good-aligned deity and start turning the residing friars and paladins against each other with their pranks, whispers and invisible shenanigans.
22. A high-ranking pit fiend appears out of nowhere in front of the party. But, instead of attacking, he goes on his knees and asks for redemption…
23.  A letter has been sent to bards and musicians throughout the land! An ancient copper dragon and self-called lover of the fine arts announces that he is about to host the greatest musical competition of all time: Whoever writes him the most beautiful song and performs it in front of him and the assembled crowd, shall receive a great, legendary artifact in the dragon's possession.
24. Good is not soft. It is a fact that applies to many of the metallic dragons, as their sense of good and evil and the means necessary to do the one and end the other is vastly different from that of most mortals. A group of bronze dragons has therefor decided that the only way to achieve peace in the world, would be by subjugating the mortal races under their benevolent rule.
25. Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons. A well known idiom and wisdom that the common folk adhere to. Such an idiom apparently does not exist for the dragon's themselves, as a young copper dragon believed it to be funny to steal two objects from the horde of two chromatic dragons and hide them in the other's horde, laughing as the two chromatic drakes in their fury do battle over the landscape - and causing heavy casualties amongst the poor people that are helplessly stuck between them.
26. Storm clouds gather and brew above the endless desert. A mysterious, blue haired stranger appears in the city of a wealthy sultan and bends the knee, proposing for the sultan's eldest child's hand in marriage. As the sultan refuses, the mysterious stranger angrily reveals his true form, that of an ancient blue dragon and carries the sultan's child off to his lair. A typical damsel in distress-quest, nothing new to hard-boiled adventurers… But under the golden facade of the sultan's palace hides rot and deceit, and the sultan's child does not seem too eager to return to their father…
27. After hundreds of years, a terrible doom has awakened under the ice of the northern islands. A terrible white archdrake, a beast of primordial winter and elemental fury, its mere presence causes summer itself to turn into the coldest winter. Soon, it will spread its eternal blizzard all over the world.
28. A city under siege - a chromatic dragon of great size and strength furiously lashes out against the city walls. The citizens ask the adventurers to slay the beast, but when confronted, the dragon reveals its true intention: To save their child, held captive as an exotic pet by the king.
29. The Hobgoblins have decided to play against the rules of land-based warfare and have taken to the seas, building an entire armada of ships under the command of their new Warchief. Yet, when  one vessel of their fleet is one day captured and the crew questioned, not only is the ship empty of loot or even rations besides of weaponry and the Hobgoblin soldiers seem to babble only of one thing: "The Deep Lord."
30. A drunken sailor comes up to the party and tries to sell them some trinkets and garbage he fished out of the sea. Next to broken compasses, an old cutlass and some sea-glass baubles however, there is a shining, round stone stone as big as one's head, pearl-like and shimmering. And there's something moving inside.
31. On a travel over sea, a terrible storm breaks out, capturing the ship the party travels on and shattering it against the rocky shore of a small island near the mainland. As the party awakes, not only do they find their means of travel and return destroyed, but the coast of the mainland steadily growing smaller in the distance, as the small island swims away with them on it.
32.  Hiring afoot! The captain of a harboring ship recently lost their crew after a falling out and is now seeking a replacement. The goal? A fabled island in the far east, where according to old documents the captain has discovered, an ancient temple to a forgotten deity lies in hiding...
33. There are rumors going about of a shipment of actual dragon eggs having appeared on the black market, sold by an individual known as Kaveth Dyr.
34. An infamous criminal has escaped from prison where he was awaiting his execution. The town guard warn the population that the criminal was once a study of the magic school of Illusions - meaning he could be hiding anywhere or as anyone.
35. One of the temples of the gods has been desecrated - offensive graffiti smeared in goat-blood on the wall, feces stains on the doorstep, and symbols of the deity's divine rival are hung over its gate. The priests are now seeking aid in finding the culprit, before the angry planetar that  is currently residing within the temple and was send by the deity starts rampaging through the town.
36. A rat plague is rampaging through the town - not rats as in tiny vermin, but bloody huge, spike-sprouting, rabid Dire Rats as big as dogs.
37. A rich noblewoman is looking into expanding her collection of ancient artifacts and scriptures - promising a grand reward for any adventurers willing to retrieve or sell such artifacts to her. Such a shame that these adventuring parties often never return from the same ruin she always sends each team to…
38. Over the course of the last three weeks, several of the young women of the village have gone missing. The party is hired to look into the mysterious disappearances, only to see that the women weren't being kidnapped, but saved…
39. A young wizard has set up shop in the village and is promptly being swarmed by the locals for all sorts of potions and spells and charms to aid them in their every-day business. At first business goes well, but very soon things change as the various charms and potions show weird, nasty side-effects on the villagers…
40. Ominous calls and whispers echo through the night, sending chills down the people's spine and causing the hooting of nightly owls to shush. In the morning there is much uproar and panic, as the villagers find the old graveyard entirely uprooted - every single grave desecrated and empty.
41. Near a small fishing village, a coven of sea hags have made their home on a offshore crag rising out of the sea. In return for worship and a yearly tribute, they gift the village with their nets full of fishes and clams that carry pure pearls within. A fair trade… Where it not for the fact that the tribute consisted of this year's firstborn child.
42. A farmer reports strange happenings to occur on his farmstead - the crops are withering, in the night whispers sound from behind the walls and tiny footprints are found on the wooden floor that belong to no human or beast.
43. A traveling merchant comes through the village, carrying nothing on him but a small satchel on his side. The merchant gives no trade, but sells exactly what anyone asks him for from his bag, but never demands gold - only a favor.
44. A young priest of the pantheon’s sun god, eager to prove himself and the authority of the sun deity has come to the village and moved into the old church. From there, he begins a crusade against the ancient traditions of the village - such as the reverence of the woodland spirits, fey creatures and calling to the forefather's spirits for guidance and started to tear down the old stone circles meant for bringing peace offerings to the woods- thus starting a deep, escalating rivalry between him and the village pellar.
45. Thirty years ago, a child went missing in the woods near the village. All searching was for naught, and the villagers had to hold the funeral rites over an empty grave. Now, thirty years later on the night of an empty moon - the child stands on its parent's doorstep once again, not aged a day, asking what's for supper.
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