#where they saved each other and doomed themselves in equal measure

[transmasc-rose]

I think they should make drowning a recurring theme with the Master. Intentionally, I mean.

We have the Torvic rock murder (where due to the discrepancy between the events and memories of the events, he was both the drowned and the saviour), the, by the audio's standards, foundational moment that made the Master who he is (who the Doctor was supposed to be).

Yana washing up on the coast when he was a child, devoid of memory, or background, or evidence of who he is.

And I know it comes up in at least one other audio.

The association of the drowning with change, not necessarily for the better, could be an interesting connecting theme.

#the master #doctor who #koschei #yana #lots to do with it #all connecting back to that one childhood trauma #where they saved each other and doomed themselves in equal measure #maybe the master chooses once to save the doctor #but drowns before he can be given the sme mercy.because fate has had her grips on him since he was young #and fate can be fought #but. so it seems. not for people like him

[ghostbustermelanieking]

(will there ever stop being an abundance of tma time travel au potential?) anyways: time travel au set now -- at the end of season 5 -- where the main season 5 crew (jon, martin, basira, melanie, georgie) end up going back to either destroy the fears or try and prevent the ritual from ever happening, instead of making a decision that could doom their world and others. they all wake up like circa 2016 and start meeting frequently in the tunnels of the archives to try and figure out a plan, while avoiding the hell out of elias to try and keep melanie and basira and georgie from being trapped at the institute too.

but you know who doesn't go back? tim and sasha. because in season 5, they're dead. so in 2016, the two of them are left with an immense amount of whiplash in the wake of this, left wondering what the hell happened to jon and martin -- one of whom they were pretty close friends with before all this happened, and the other of whom they were growing close to -- but now they're both being distant and acting strange (hiding things and getting emotional)... and not only that, but they seem to like each other now, seemingly out of nowhere. (tim and sasha find them hugging in jon's office once, and the sight is pretty startling on multiple levels.) jon's started collecting fire extinguishers and taking them down into the tunnels, and he doesn't assign anyone field work re: follow ups (especially the carlos vittery statement; he and martin both panic when that one comes up). martin spends half his time in jon's office even though neither of them seem to be doing any work, but when he does come out, he asks strange questions about how much tim and sasha like working here, and if they'd want to quit (they've both said yes at previous times, but always in a casual way -- never with this deadly seriousness and sadness that martin has). sasha mentions going to artifact storage to pick something up, and jon and martin both panic in equal, abrupt measure that startles the hell out of her. and they've both started killing spiders, with a ferocity that is genuinely startling to see in martin, who isn't lecturing jon on their importance to the ecosystem anymore.

maybe this would've be so weird if it weren't for the visitors that start coming to the archives, not to leave statements but apparently to talk to jon? three women, two of whom are the host of ghost hunt uk and the host of what the ghost -- this is weird, but it's weirder how they react to tim and sasha, especially tim -- the youtuber and the woman martin introduces as basira keep shooting tim odd, startled looks like they're surprised he's there. and sasha; melanie king keeps staring at sasha like she's seeing a ghost. this is unusual, because tim and sasha don't remember these friends -- they didn't think jon and martin had many outside friends, much less internet famous ones, and they don't understand why they're spending so much time in the archives. (tim jokes, once, that they spend so much time there, they might as well work there -- six assistants makes even less work, right, boss? -- and they react a little like he's hit them.) or why the five of them kept sequestering off in the tunnels under the archives -- there are tunnels under the archives? (yes, tunnels jon and martin randomly open and pour five full fire extinguishers into one day. how the hell did they know they were there?) the five of them spend hours in the tunnels, without ever inviting tim or sasha -- sasha tries to listen at the trapdoor, but she doesn't get much of anything. whatever they're discussing, they don't want tim and sasha to hear.

and that's not to mention how all of them react to elias. elias starts hanging out in the archives more often, hovering around tim and sasha, and asking questions they can't answer, after jon's and martin's friends start showing up three or four times a week. jon and martin have started being more hostile towards elias -- surprising, considering jon's original attempts to impress elias, but it makes more sense than how basira, melanie, and georgie react. on the few times they actually interact with elias, they clearly have a lot of contempt for him, vicious contempt that makes no sense. (once, tim swears he hears melanie mutter something about wishing they'd killed elias when they had the chance???) tim's half paranoid they're all going to be fired. but at this point, he's wondering if maybe that would be a good thing.

it's clear jon and martin are hiding things, something serious, something odd and maybe even dangerous. tim's more concerned; sasha is more angry. she starts wanting to investigating, starts asking pushing questions. steals the key to the tunnels from jon's office and asks tim to go and investigate it with her. if there's something wrong, really wrong, neither of them understand why jon wouldn't just tell them. they're friends -- or, they thought they were friends.

(meanwhile, martin and jon are panicking on the daily about how they're going to save tim and sasha in all of this. they barely know how to interact with them now, after everything, and clearly hiding things has only made it worse. but how can they explain, now? what if tim and sasha don't believe them? what if they just hate them after the explanation -- what if they already hate them? what if telling tim and sasha puts them in danger, puts them in the path of anything or anyone that might oppose them -- breekon and hope are still coming, the circus is still out there -- what if they lose sasha and tim a second time?? but what if not telling puts them in more danger -- what if they lose tim and sasha to ignorance instead of knowledge?

they don't know what to do. they are very stressed. melanie has told them to get over themselves and just explain about a dozen times.)

#im sorry i had this idea last night and couldnt stop thinking abt it. like i think a time travel au with all those ppl cld be rly fun #tma #the magnus archives #tma au #s1 archives crew #tma spoilers #?? sort of

[tomesandsuch]

The Long Way

How many times have you found yourself swept into this pointless game?

How many times have you made such attempts to eke out some manner of victory from this doomed cycle? Worse than attempting such a hollow victory is claiming such when it was never truly won to begin with.

His hands traced along the haft of the polearm, a smooth, deep-green length of lacquered wood. Its blade curved into a shape like a witch's crooked fingertip, ending in a thin point. When the dim lamplight hit it, the reflection of that meager flame wobbled across the surface, curving back and forth in serpentine arcs. Dull, faded patterns, etched in shallow crevasses of the weapon's surface. 

Slowly, insidiously, I have seen your reason eroded. To you, the changes are too gradual to notice. From your perspective, this ebbing is natural. 

His lips stretch into a thin frown, and fingers cross where his arm meets his shoulders.

They didn't leave any marks of true consequence, this you must understand. You were never at risk. How much value can one life carry if it is offered up at every opportunity, taken at none? Yet still, you remember those old squabbles. To you, it was a miracle that those coils did not ensnare you for good, but in the eyes of those who were at the center, it was never in doubt that your presence was temporary. Your interest in their troubles only as deep as finding another foe, another thing to be slain.

Once the final blow was struck, did you find yourself dealing with the aftermath? Did you care to linger? To lend your assistance towards matters far more complicated? Or did you depart, satisfied with the breadth of your role? It is customary, after all. The drifter departs only once the work is done, and even if it is not, the final result is hardly of any consequence to one who has long since moved on. One who has exercised the luxury of banishing it from his mind.

In the end, the victims of those troubles, those they had bound and tormented, were left to salvage themselves whilst you sauntered away with another trophy. Do you even remember them? Can you remember their names? Can you remember any of it?

When the man breathed, the swell of his lungs was long and deliberate. His shoulders tensed, rolling back and stretching beside his head. He loosened his buckle and pulled the cluttered tool belt from his waist. Halfway past where it met his hips, there was a small scabbard of leather in a comparatively pristine condition, save for the shallow horizontal gashes that ringed its side. Its blade was hidden by the leather sheath itself, but the pommel was of a vibrant green gem, the handle carved of smooth wood, the hilt detailed and exquisite, even the small parts of it that peeked out past the comparatively shabby sheath.

A fine weapon for a fine contribution. Did you believe, all that time ago, when you tried and failed to end the would-be corsair king, that such things would spiral into what they did? That you would find yourself in the midst of a war that you tried and failed to avert? There you fought, there you spit iron and water with the rest of them in the midst of your very own failure.

It was a true unwillingness to understand the world around you. The dread Queen and the throngs of broken things she’d left in her wake, acts so wicked that the living barked and clawed at each other to reach some manner of closure from them long after she had returned to the darkness. 

Did bringing the terrors of her late reign to an end ever interest you? You could only ever see the most tangible of those ripples, those that only went so far as producing another sword arm possessed by ill will. Another adversary, another trial. For them, it seemed like the culmination of all their misery, one final piece of their history to spar over until the end came. Do you remember why they fought? Do you remember what it was that compelled them to let their corpses pass into the boundless sea?

The man sat on the edge of the rock, a finger prying itself between his eyepatch and the curve of his brow, placing the garment down next to the lantern that shone a dim light in the shadow of the stone barrier at his back. At times, he would simply stare into the lantern’s base, watching how the shifting flame created a ring of moving shadows at the bottom. When the light wasn’t enough, he would close his eyes and lean back against the rocks, taking in the way that the wind-chilled stone made his back stiffen, how the sensation banished lingering, unclear thoughts from his mind. At the very least, it steadied him somewhat.

Now you stand here. Worn, wasted away. Your body, your mind appear stronger, but the time has taken its toll. I have seen it in your resolve, how it has faded, replaced by ire and desperation in equal measure.

As your resolve fades, so too do your circumstances change, becoming all the more muddled, unfortunate. 

There are few who would try to contend that the Master of the Coils was anything less than a worthy foe that deserved the end he was given. The Black Captain was a more complicated issue in of himself, but at the same time his fate was preordained. Now, here at the ends of the world, who is it that you truly wish to raise your hand against? You fight on the behalf of one you hate to destroy those whom only ever wronged you in passing. It is plain to see. Your arms cannot reach, and they grasp for the nearest to what they seek in lieu of it. You cannot reach a satisfactory end with the willful shunning of true understanding. These tales of heroes and devils banish themselves from your mind the moment your part is done.

Can you remember any of it? Can you remember why you are here?

-- 

I can't remember it all. But I remember enough.

I remember a great winged beast with a man's visage at its heart. The face of a man so twisted by hatred for the one he once loved that he cast his heart away and became a demon. 

I remember the face of a long-dead warrior whose heart began to beat once more. How his heart drew him across nations in pursuit of what he'd been promised in life, and how eventually he returned to his grave having never found what he sought. Did he deserve that? It's one thing to die, but utter defeat is something else entirely.

I remember that wicked one whose heart troubled the living long after her demise. How it drove lost souls to a place long-abandoned and nearly swallowed them up. How her will persisted long after her body ceased to be and troubled the living until those islands returned to the sea.

Now I stand here, and after all this, I can see the path’s end in sight.  

Out there, drifting, I see another heart, a small spark of light against the formless dark. I see faces around it, hands that cling to it. They’ve taken the long way. They’ve fought, wept, clawed and suffered through a thousand trials to be right here, at this moment, in this place. Whether or not there ever was another path for them, there’s no stopping what happens next. Even now, I feel the crooked limbs of old men pushing these gears along. To me? It's unmistakable, sickening familiarity. 

The longer I look at them, the less I see. Their faces shift and their features fade. Soon they become simple shapes in my vision. “An imperfect understanding is bound to crumble with time.” Eventually, I see nothing. Empty forms, devoid of will, devoid of feature. The path continues all the same. I only have so much time.

#FFXIVHeartless #Gwannes Oskwell #uhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[bittykimmy13]

Reunion (GT)

The 6th installment of The Heart Between Kingdoms mermaid AU!

Characters belong to me and the lovely @marydublin5 <3

(( More mermaid!Esmae AU ))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sash missing from around Esmae’s waist had been apparent from the moment she swam away from Daniel. She had hesitated for only a moment, but even as he offered back what was hers, she simply could not bring herself to swim within arm’s reach of him again. So she had fled. With each desperate beat of her tailfin, equal measures of relief and horror had set in her bones. 

She was free, but she had left behind her most treasured possession.

Her father was furious over the missing sash—but more relieved that she had finally returned to her clan. It wasn’t unusual for merfolk her age to swim off for days, but she had been gone too long. And she could not bring herself to tell the truth about where she had been. It was lucky for her that she had always been the adventurous type; otherwise, no one would have believed that she had simply been away exploring. 

As two weeks passed, the emptiness at her waist translated into an even deeper emptiness in her heart. Day and night, she wondered what Daniel had done with the fabric. Perhaps he had discarded it. Maybe the moment she was gone, he had simply let it go, and now it was lost to the sea forever. Yet, deep inside, she was certain he had kept it. One last reminder of the strange creature he had happily held captive. It was agonizing not to really know, though. Since he supposedly wanted to give it back, perhaps he had left it somewhere she could reach it.

When wondering became too much to bear, one night she found herself drawn back to the shore—specifically, the cavern where Daniel had let her go.

He had let her go.

No matter how she tried to spin it, no matter how she tried to replay it differently in her head, there was no denying that. She had been sure she was doomed when she tried to slip past the rocks that contained her within the cavern, yet he had been the one to pick her up and move her to the other side of the wall, to the open ocean. All because he realized she could speak. It was surprising, however, that the very thing that saved her had not actually secured her captivity. His fascination with her voice could have easily landed her right back in the glass prison.

Once she knew she was getting close, she surfaced and found herself a good distance from the cavern. The tide wasn’t low, meaning she could swim right over the rocks that served as a barrier when she was last there. As she swam closer, she pulled to a stop and tensed.

There was a light glowing from within the rocky walls. She wondered for a moment if it was another merperson, but that theory died quickly when the light gave the faintest flicker. It was a lantern—human-made and horribly familiar from her time in captivity. Sure enough, she caught sight of a human’s silhouette beside the light. Her human.

She balked at the idea. No, not her human. Her captor. 

Daniel was there. Even after weeks, he was still coming back. He was sitting at the edge of the lapping water within the cavern, reading something in the light of the lantern. And he was annoyingly perceptive. His silhouette glanced up to look past the exit of the cavern, and he tensed, no doubt seeing her glow.

“Hello?” he called. His voice broke, and he sounded breathless.

She backed away. This was a mistake. What was she thinking?

“No, please,” he said. “Please don’t go yet! Don’t be afraid I have your—your cloth. Do you want it back?”

Esmae hesitated. She was still in open water, safe. Big as he was, she doubted he could catch her if he decided to give chase. She stayed where she was, listening and weighing her options as he went on. 

“I swear, I don’t mean to trap you or anything of the sort. I won’t come toward you. I can lay it right at the edge, and you can come get it.”

The silhouette held his hand up, and she could see the barest shimmer of the cloth pinched in his fingers. The sight made her want to cry out, but she could make no noise above the surface. Her sash was there. It was not lost. As Daniel laid it on the edge where water met rock, he shuffled back, giving her plenty of room to retrieve it.

Something possessed her to bolt forward. Even if he meant to grab her, the tide was on her side. She could take the sash and get away as fast in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t until the cavern ceiling had replaced the stars overhead that her foolishness caught up in her mind. She paused and flinched when she looked at Daniel. This much closer, he was no longer a mere silhouette. He was him. That handsome face watched her intently.

It was the size of him that made her snap out of it. There were any number of things he could have planned, traps he could have set, nets ready to spring up on her, no grabbing required.

She flinched lower into the water, only allowing her eyes to peek out as his voice echoed off the cavern walls.

“I really am sorry,” he said. She stared hard at him. The flicker of his lantern made his eyes shine like blue flames. “I wasn’t thinking before. All those times you were afraid, and I thought… I thought the solution was for you to come to trust me. I was wrong. And I know apologizing isn’t enough, but I’m glad you came back for your cloth, at least.”

Esmae sprang for the sash then, fairly certain that something terrible was going to happen the moment she approached the edge of the water. But she grabbed the sash and lunged backward, and nothing happened. Head and shoulders out of the water, she clutched the fabric close and brought her eyes back to Daniel. He hadn’t budged an inch. 

“You’re very brave,” he said in a hushed tone. “I thought you weren’t ever going to come back. I wouldn’t blame you, of course. But for you to get this close…” He gave his head a small shake. “That cloth must be very important to you.”

Thinking back to her time with him, she couldn’t remember a single instance where he lied to her. When he had offered to return the sash just before she fled, perhaps it hadn’t been a trap back then. Perhaps it wasn’t now, either.

“I just—one more time,” he said. “I’m so sorry. If there were anything I could do to make up for my actions, I…” He trailed off and looked at her in surprise.

Esmae was looking at him exasperatedly, one finger pressed to her lips. She raised her eyebrows. Do you ever stop talking? 

The point seemed to come across, because he chuckled sheepishly. “I suppose that was always the trouble, wasn’t it? One-sided conversation. If only it were easier for me to hear your voice.”

He gazed at the water beside him in the cavern, and then back at Esmae. She knew what he was thinking, and part of her wanted him to go through with it, while another part was ready to swim away forever if he dared move a muscle in her direction. Heaving a great sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck. 

“I really would like to, you know. Hear your voice again.”

Twisting around, Esmae swam for the cavern’s exit. She heard him start to protest, but his voice died. He did nothing to stop her, neither in action nor words. That was what made her pause. She stopped once she could see the stars in the sky, then slowly turned to face him, watching as his ashamed and disappointed features softened. Taking her time and watching him all the while, she tied her sash firmly around her waist—triple-knotting it. Then she lifted one hand and beckoned him.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Not in the slightest. She nodded.

He removed some of his outer clothing, then carefully slid down into the water. Esmae bobbed gently as he moved closer and closer. All the while, he kept his gaze on her, watching for any sign of fear. When she was just out of his reach, she raised a hand for him to stop, and much to her amazement, he readily obeyed. Tense as she was, it was comforting to know there was absolutely nothing blocking her from swimming back out into open water, where he could never dream of catching her.

Although he was chest-deep in water, she needed to tilt her head back to see his face. His expression was focused, almost brooding, as he awaited her to make the first move.

She ducked under the water, and he followed suit. Beneath the surface, he squinted at her, and she giggled. He looked so unnatural in the water, but it was strangely endearing.

“Thank you,” she said. Even though he had put himself in an environment unnatural to him, those two words made wonder light up on his face. She couldn’t be sure if it was the words themselves or the sound of her voice. Touching her sash, she couldn’t help but offer a smile. “I thought I had lost this forever. It was my mother’s. It’s all I have left of her.”

When he came up for air, she joined him at the surface.

“I knew it had to be special,” he said reverently. “I’ve been coming by every day and night when I can, hoping… I thought of leaving it here, but I was worried the tide would wash it away. I couldn’t risk that.”

She nodded, astounded by his thoughtfulness. It was hard to wrap her mind around it, given that mere weeks ago he had treated her like nothing more than a simple creature incapable of surviving in her home.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” he said suddenly. “But… will I be able to see you again?”

Esmae blinked at him and made no motion to accept nor deny his question. She merely stared up at that face she had come to associate with imprisonment. A lonely but kind face—one that was giving her an option and would not stop her from turning him down. At least, that was what she wanted to believe. 

“If that isn’t what you want, I understand wholeheartedly,” he added. “Even if that can’t happen, may I at least have your name?”

Pressing her lips in a thin line, she ducked back under the water. When he joined her, she didn’t speak right away, trying to find the right words herself. The least she could do was answer the easier question.

“Esmae. My name is Esmae.” She swallowed hard. “I… All I can say is that if you want to come back outside of low tide tomorrow, maybe I’ll be here. Maybe I won’t. You can’t expect me to decide right now.”

Daniel came back up, and she rose just enough that her chin brushed the water’s surface. Despite everything, she was ready to bolt if one of those massive hands decided that this wasn’t the answer he wanted.

Water dripping from his hair and face, he exhaled excitedly and nodded. The warm smile on his face made Esmae lift herself a little higher. “I’ll be here,” he promised. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Esmae. And even if you decide not to come… it was a pleasure seeing you one last time.”

The words made her balk at him. Sometimes it was easy to forget he was a prince. Now that he was speaking to her like a person rather than an animal, she supposed she should expect more of that.

She gracefully twisted backward in the water, partly to show off to him, and swam out of the cavern, hiding a smile. If she was already expecting more, clearly she had already made up her mind about whether she would accept Daniel’s invitation to meet again. That didn’t mean she had to give him the opportunity to feel smug about it. Let him wonder.

#tbhk mermaid au #the heart between kingomds #mywriting #gt #gt writing #daniel #esmae #gt story #size difference #giant tiny #giant #tiny #mermaid #mermaids #merfolk

[setinprovincialbohemia]

ON SELF-RESPECT 

Joan Didion (1961)

Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, I recall with embarrassing clarity the flavor of those particular ashes. It was a matter of misplaced self-respect.

I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships which hampered others. Although even the humorless nineteen-year-old that I was must have recognized that the situation lacked real tragic stature, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nonetheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honor, and the love of a good man; lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proved competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed apprehension of someone who has come across a vampire and has no crucifix at hand.

Although to be driven back upon oneself is an uneasy affair at best, rather like trying to cross a border with borrowed credentials, it seems to me now the one condition necessary to the beginnings of real self-respect. Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that well-lit back alley where one keeps assignations with oneself; no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through ones’ marked cards the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed. The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others – who we are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without.

To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable documentary that deals one’s failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for every screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there’s the hurt on X’s face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, the Phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commissions and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice, or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

To protest that some fairly improbably people, some people who could not possibly respect themselves, seem to sleep easily enough is to miss the point entirely, as surely as those people miss it who think that self-respect has necessarily to do with not having safety pins in one’s underwear. There is a common superstition that “self-respect” is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation. Although the careless, suicidal Julian English inAppointment in Samara and the careless, incurably dishonest Jordan Baker in The Great Gatsby seem equally improbably candidates for self-respect, Jordan Baker had it, Julian English did not. With that genius for accommodation more often seen in women than men, Jordan took her own measure, made her own peace, avoided threats to that peace: “I hate careless people,” she told Nick Carraway. “It takes two to make an accident.”

Like Jordan Baker, people with self-respect have the courage of their mistakes. They know the price of things. If they choose to commit adultery, they do not then go running, in an access of bad conscience, to receive absolution from the wronged parties; nor do they complain unduly of the unfairness, the undeserved embarrassment, of being named co-respondent. In brief, people with self-respect exhibit a certain toughness, a kind of mortal nerve; they display what was once called character, a quality which, although approved in the abstract, sometimes loses ground to other, more instantly negotiable virtues. The measure of its slipping prestige is that one tends to think of it only in connection with homely children and United States senators who have been defeated, preferably in the primary, for reelection. Nonetheless, character – the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life – is the source from which self- respect springs.

Self-respect is something that our grandparents, whether or not they had it, knew all about. They had instilled in them, young, a certain discipline, the sense that one lives by doing things one does not particularly want to do, by putting fears and doubts to one side, by weighing immediate comforts against the possibility of larger, even intangible, comforts. It seemed to the nineteenth century admirable, but not remarkable, that Chinese Gordon put on a clean white suit and held Khartoum against the Mahdi; it did not seem unjust that the way to free land in California involved death and difficulty and dirt. In a diary kept during the winter of 1846, an emigrating twelve-yaer-old named Narcissa Cornwall noted coolly: “Father was busy reading and did not notice that the house was being filled with strange Indians until Mother spoke out about it.” Even lacking any clue as to what Mother said, one can scarcely fail to be impressed by the entire incident: the father reading, the Indians filing in, the mother choosing the words that would not alarm, the child duly recording the event and noting further that those particular Indians were not, “fortunately for us,” hostile. Indians were simply part of the donnee.

In one guise or another, Indians always are. Again, it is a question of recognizing that anything worth having has its price. People who respect themselves are willing to accept the risk that the Indians will be hostile, that the venture will go bankrupt, that the liaison may not turn out to be one in which every day is a holiday because you’re married to me. They are willing to invest something of themselves; they may not play at all, but when they do play, they know the odds.

That kind of self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth. It was once suggested to me that, as an antidote to crying, I put my head in a paper bag. As it happens, there is a sound physiological reason, something to do with oxygen, for doing exactly that, but the psychological effect alone is incalculable: it is difficult bin the extreme to continue fancying oneself Cathy in Wuthering Heights with ones head in a Food Fair bag. There is a similar case for all the small disciplines, unimportant in themselves; imagine maintaining any kind of swoon, commiserative or carnal, in a cold shower.

But those small disciplines are valuable only insofar as they represent larger ones. To say that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton is not to say that Napoleon might have been saved by a crash program in cricket; to give formal dinners in the rain forest would be pointless did not the candlelight flickering on the liana call forth deeper, stronger disciplines, values instilled long before. It is a kind of ritual, helping us to remember who and what we are. In order to remember it, one must have known it.

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out – since our self-image is untenable – their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

It is the phenomenon sometimes called “alienation from self.” In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves – there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.

#joan didion #vogue

[lesbiansforboromir]

Suppose boromir did make it to the end of the saga of lord of the rings, how would he navigate his relationship with Aragorn? And what if Denethor also survived? Would he come to accept Aragorns kingship over the course of their journey? Part of me is inclined to say yes, but I don’t have as good of a grasp on his character as you do

So listen… this came 18 21 40 days 3 months ago but I’m a sleepy bastard so I couldn’t muster the passion it deserved but nOW I’m here so! 

I have to reinforce that Boromir doesn’t care whatsoever about Aragorn’s kingship one way or the other during the Quest. He’s only ever going to manufacture an opinion on it as an when he needs too. Gondor’s safety is his primary priority. So discussions upon Boromir’s denial or acceptance of Aragorn’s kingship are really only going to occur after Sauron’s defeat.

Lets take this in parts because Boromir managing his relationship with Aragorn alone vs Boromir doing it whilst his dad still around would be wildly different. Denethor takes up a great deal of emotional space.

So, for ease of understanding, lets say that in the Denethor dies verse Boromir stayed with Aragorn after the siege at Pelargir and sailed with him up the Anduin so he doesn’t arrive in time to stop his father from burning alive. Then, in the Denethor lives verse, Boromir actually rides directly to Minas Tirith, either from the paths of the dead, or the moment Pelargir is secured. Either way he’s speedier and arrives in time to sneak past the armies and enter Minas Tirith, saving his father from his despair and breaking him from Sauron’s grasp. 

Lets also say that Boromir and Aragorn maintain their kinda easy back-and-forth trusting friendship all the way through till here so we’re jumping off a knowable baseline. After Boromir returns to Helms Deep from his recuperation in some small Rohir hamlet, he arrives as a positive and trusted voice and a bolster to Aragorn’s confidence. Aragorn didn’t tell anyone what happened with Boromir and Frodo, which is a point in his favour and a very good reason for them to just put it behind them for now. Boromir’s back and Aragorn had been holding onto that guilt until now. It’s good for everyone. They’re all glad to see him. 

So with that decided! Beginning with Denethor dying and Boromir becoming Steward, the first thing we have to deal with is who the hell tells Boromir that #1 his dad is dead and #2 that Faramir is dying. I’m inclined to believe it’s pretty rough, I think Boromir’s return is something that’s almost feverishly grasped upon by the Soldiers of Gondor and they demand a lot from him, guidance, reassurance, a sense of purpose. It takes a while for him to manage to pass up through to the higher levels of the battered city. 

Now the only people who know about Denethor’s death are Pippin, Gandalf and a few Citadel Guard and I think Gandalf certainly passes Boromir by a few times without telling him squat. Perhaps there’s a brief ‘I am surprised you live!’ but little else. I’d say he finds out about Faramir first, through following Aragorn up to the houses of healing, already a shock to his system. He looks for his father but is still battered by demands and it’s quite a bit later that he’s told by a Citadel guard about his dad’s death. Which ALL is like… rough. Gandalf definitely told Aragorn what’d happened. He just didn’t think it was his job to tell Boromir. Because Gandalf’s like that! Sorry! He is! So it isn’t until like close to the songs of mourning that anyone lets Boromir know Denethor’s dead. Also that Denethor’s body is still under rubble too. 

Which is… woof, a rough image huh? Boromir probably hears of his death first, not any specifics, there’s so much to be done. But then his body isn’t present at the funeral and he turns to Aragorn and heartbreakingly asks ‘where is my father’ and Aragorn has to look him in the eye and tell him he forgot. He forgot to send anyone to dig through the rubble to find the body of Boromir’s father. And man that certainly crumbles a good few months of bonding between them huh? Boromir probably goes to do it himself, declining Aragorn’s help. There’s a seed of distrust planted for how much Aragorn truly cares for Gondor, her heritage and the people who’d been sacrificing themselves to defend her. 

Anyway essentially this starts Boromir off on a rocky footing. And it only goes downhill from there. There’s a GOOD bit admittedly. There’s a bit where Aragorn comes to heal Faramir, as Imrahil and Boromir fearfully stand over him. And even Boromir’s staunch manner cannot help but find some amazement and a hint of the instant fealty in Faramir’s eyes as he awakens like magic. 

And then Boromir sets aside all his feelings to focus on a battle and be the leader of men everyone needs him to be. And it’s good, it feels good to make plans with Aragorn, especially now that they are in HIS element where men know and believe in him, the seat of HIS power. It levels their interactions somewhat, they are equals here. So it feels good to do that, and it feels even better when they WIN. They probably find each other in the scrum, they probably embrace, they’re probably just so elated that it’s over, together. Even if this victory cannot mean the same thing for Aragorn as it does for Boromir, who’s picking at such things? It doesn’t matter, they WON. 

But then… He finds out what was said between Gandalf and Denethor from Pippin, the lack of care or respect, how lost Denethor’d been at Faramir’s side. Gandalf had rid Theoden of Saruman’s dreadful curse, why hadn’t he even tried with his father? The obvious answer to Boromir is Denethor did not want Aragorn on the throne but Gandalf did and that made Denethor’s survival less than important to the wizard. And with this realisation he’s put in a difficult position. 

He’s crowned Steward pretty quickly and sets at his task with the vigour of a man very much trying to avoid grief. It’s not the time. Now is the time to talk about reparations, peace treaties, rebuilding, medical funds, housing, refugee care, and OH MY GOD FINE I GUESS ALSO THE KINGSHIP. It’s uncomfortable, Boromir knows he likely shouldn’t be equating Gandalf’s actions with Aragorn’s. But… it’s right there! The even MORE EXTRA awkward part is Faramir’s now awake and he’s walking and talking and even more Royalist than ever. The fact that Boromir is dawdling over a coronation is, in his mind, clear evidence that Boromir wants that seat for himself. Is he not grateful that his King has returned and saved his brother? 

So Boromir gets a brief latency period where Faramir’s just happy he’s alive and then a more complex one where they’re not-grieving-really-but-sort-of grieving their father, but that’s all way harder and more emotionally problematic than arguing over the kingship and getting way too angry about it so they shift into that mode asap. 

Now I should say here, even Boromir isn’t stalwartly going to deny Aragorn the Kingship. The line of Kings has a nearly religious right to it, and Aragorn does have a claim sort of we all guess kinda, along with a lot of prophesised evidence on his side. He FEELS like the King Returned, and after all his heroics you’d be hard pressed to find anyone in Gondor who STRICTLY disagreed with him taking the Throne in general. Gondorian culture puts a lot of stock in doom and their past and prophesies and the like. But the devil, as always, is in the detail.

Three distinct camps are created in Gondor’s political sphere. The Cautious, a band who agree with Boromir’s careful approach of taking each step properly and making sure all parts of their new constitution under a King are thoroughly agreed upon. They want a new constitution. 

The Royalists, headed by Faramir, who believe the Cautious are trying to drag this out for as long as possible in order to weedle more power for themselves and their families out of these discussions and undermine the power of their rightful king. They want to dig the constitution that had been in place during Anarion’s reign out of the Archives and reinstate it wholesale without even an amendment. 

And the Annoyed, headed by the Master of Waters and other union leaders, who could not give a flying fuck about all this and really wish the council would get back to actually running the damn country, good GOD give us money before the whole plumbing system collapses in on itself and takes the city with it. They want whatever piece of parchment will let them get back to work, although their members are also divided on how much they revere a king returned.

It doesn’t help that Boromir is NOT good at this. He’s not a bad Steward, perhaps he could be called a good one. But after Denethor’s example? It’s not even a comparison, there is no way for Boromir to measure up to Denethor’s skill in this arena, nor Faramir’s for that matter. And in all honesty there probably ARE some players within the ‘cautious’ sphere of Boromir’s supporters that DO want to ensure their power isn’t diminished with the coronation of a new king, Boromir wouldn’t be so adept at knowing what to do with them, he needs supporters! He’s very much caught between a rock and a hard place.

This period is rough, it’s exhausting, it involves a lot of talking, just days and days and days of it. It involves motions being passed in one assembly only to be thrown down at the next. Boromir and Faramir’s relationship is the rockiest it has ever been and Imrahil’s just so upset with all his family’s internal fighting after losing their patriarch, he doesn’t know what to do! Denethor’s sisters both put their support behind Boromir after hearing of the treatment of their brother, which causes even more strife within the Stewards. Some of their children don’t agree with them. Utter madness. And Imrahil can’t take sides between his nephews! Even though his reputation and influence would definitely sway the discussion one way or another, he refuses to do it, it’s CHAOS. And all the while the Dunadain are in their seperate sphere, getting more and more angry because really they don’t know why there needs to be any discussion about this at all. In their mind, Aragorn’s the rightful King and should have been accepted with only unending gratitude, along with those who’ve been faithful to his line. 

Aragorn has a better grasp of this, he knows what’s expected of him and some of what the issues are, a lot of the talking surrounds Aragorn inviting Boromir into his tent (that he still keeps, flying his banner and everything, reminding everyone of how this still isn’t settled) and them talking and arguing and agreeing and then disagreeing. Aragorn will bend somewhat to Boromir’s demands, for the Steward’s position to be protected and maintained, defined as a close and powerful advisor with strict protections against being susceptible to bribery so that there’s some reliable oversight on a King’s dealings. But he refuses to give the Stewards any definable powers, he refuses to give up any of his executive power to debate or voting, he refuses to be bound by other’s decisions or take on any of the obstructions that the Stewards had during their rule. 

And the discussions around this range from generally good talks, perhaps even followed by a little of their old natural banter, a kind of humorous agree to disagree, to just… god just the most bitter and furious of fights. Aragorn is used to men bending under the weight of his displeasure, as is Boromir, and when that works on neither party they resort to louder and louder and more genuinely angry words. 

Aragorn calls Boromir a faithless friend and says Faramir must be right, he IS power grabbing. Boromir demands to know how Aragorn can be such a hypocrite to say such a thing, when he arrives here after a thousand years and demands a crown that was never Isildur’s to hold. Aragorn throws up his hands in frustration, declaring that Boromir and Gondor refuse to learn the lessons of their past and refuse the infinite wisdom of the Eldar whom have known what is right for a millenia now. Boromir’s near disgusted, barking a cruel laugh and saying he is not surprised Aragorn’s speaks so, he should have known that Aragorn is still nothing more than an elf in man’s clothing, who cares and knows nothing of the people he wishes to rule. Aragorn asks what more Boromir wants from him, has he not proven himself? Has he not succeeded in his tests, where Boromir had failed? What right does Boromir have to judge him?

This draws them both up short, the cruelty of everything said saturating the air. For Aragorn, there’s a taste of guilt to it that he refuses to admit now. For at the time, he had known Boromir’s loss to be his fault and the breaking of the fellowship had been one of his few great failures. Boromir’s voice isn’t loud but malice is apparent as he slowly replies that it is not him that Aragorn must measure himself against, but his Father, a man Aragorn had done nothing but abandon, malign and ignore, and yet if not for Denethor there would be no country left for Aragorn to rule over. Not to mention every Steward before him. Denethor lost his wife, his youth, his sons, his sanity and his life to the defence of Gondor, what does Aragorn know of that kind of sacrifice? Nothing. Nothing at all.

It’s a while until they speak again, but Boromir makes a decision in the mean time. He cannot be acceptably neutral in this decision and, at this point, the stalling of government has become far too dangerous. Using his executive powers, he insists that there will only be one vote to pass any and all motions from now on, no more repeals, and the Council must be decided within a fortnight. This declaration both wins him the support of The Annoyed, and loses him support from many Lords within his own faction. He decides he doesn’t care, which as a strategy works surprisingly well in his political sphere. He’s happy to weather the consequences of bad decisions and he is not his father. 

With the shock of this sudden rush to completion, no one has any time to continue their lobbying or machinations. Even Aragorn is barely able to keep up with the proceedings, especially since he still cannot enter the city. Councillors and Lords hurry from one chamber to the next, civil servants are run off their feet trying to assign and inform everyone upon the dates and times of particular votes, it’s messy. However, mess levels the playing field.

In the end, with the new support of The Annoyed, an amended version of the old constitution is drawn up. In particular, treason is redefined. Lords have more allowance to speak against a King’s word. The Stewardship’s two capacities are redefined to more befit the times and the position of Warden of the White Tower is also put into more solid writing. The majority of it is more an edit of language. More moral and honourable emphasis is put upon unity and agreement and less upon a King’s divine word. To go against his vassals wouldn’t be illegal for Aragorn to do, but it would be legally frowned upon, which is at least enough of a basis for further legal challenges and can give requests for freedom of information more power in the long run. Gondor is a nation built upon it’s honour and morality after all. 

Everyone’s left in kind of a state of shock afterwards, surprised they managed it, exhausting, confused. Except apparently for Boromir, who’s remained remarkably calm throughout. Even with this very watered down version of what he apparently had wanted, he’s obviously content with it. Faramir’s surprised by this too, he and Boromir are too different in this regard. Where Boromir’s passion is for the agreement and process, Faramir is focused on perfect results. 

So! With less pomp and ceremony than it should have, Boromir goes to present Aragorn with this proposed constitution. Aragorn reads it and has it read by a few of his people. Faramir is present and ensures Aragorn know he has the right to refuse it and propose his own. It’s a whole thing. But, in the end, Aragorn agrees to the terms and, in a far more lavish ceremony, both he and Boromir sign the new document and make a public agreement. Boromir offers Aragorn the Steward’s sceptre in service, Aragorn makes his speech, Boromir makes HIS speech and asks all the gathered people of Minas Tirith if they’ll accept Aragorn as their king and they give a resounding affirmative cheer and Aragorn FINALLY stops sleeping outside and comes into the city to make ready for the coronation. 

But then, what of Aragorn and Boromir’s relationship? I think there’s some mollification for them both with this move. Aragorn’s mollified that Boromir got this done. Boromir’s mollified that Aragorn accepted it. And then just time lets things simmer down. Bad blood is still there, most particularly on Boromir’s side, but they find a working relationship. I honestly don’t think it’s ever what it was when they were on the Quest. They just aren’t the same men anymore, they don’t quite have the same goal, nothing is simple any longer. I think they find a new kind of friendship which allows for more up and down relations, gives more allowance for them to just be annoyed with each other. I don’t think apologies are ever forthcoming from either of them but it needs to work so they make it work. 

Aragorn needs Boromir to help him through this knotted thicket of a country, to be guided in this culture he’s not been a part of for forty years. And Boromir gradually is aware and accepts that Aragorn’s heart is in the right place, he does want to be good for Gondor, and his greater and more decisive powers certainly help push through change that they’d never been able too before. 

But does Boromir ever truly accept Aragorn’s kingship as the best and right thing to do? I think he still has his doubts. Aragorn might be a good King, but what of his son? And his son’s son? They did not just give all this power to Aragorn, they gave it up to a thousand unknown royals of the future and Boromir often asks himself if he made the right choice. He doesn’t have the same sense of faith as most Gondorians, the same reverence for the past. I think he’ll always wonder if Denethor would have approved, if Denethor might have done better than he did.

… Lets answer that question!!!

Yes he would.

 I- god I’m not going to go into the detail of before because this is already at 3000+ words, but Denethor’s mere presence chills everything out a great deal. This man has a near legendary track record in both wisdom, cunning and dedication to his responsibilities. As much as the Lords of Gondor remember Thorongil the great Captain, Denethor was their Captain-General long before he arrived. Denethor went to war for decades, Denethor held the country together through thick and thin and Denethor is universally trusted in at least his motives and purposes. No one who has dealt with Denethor truly believes he’s coveting power. 

With Denethor there’s no mess, there’s no distress or confusion. Denethor lets everyone know what’s happening. He knows which Lords are playing for their own power, he knows which of them to trust, he and the Master of Waters have been good friends for years, and he’s well trusted amongst the unions. With that all in play, the number of the Faithful is smaller than it might have been, and Faramir, whilst being definitely a thorn, is not so powerful when pitted against Denethor’s weight of experience. He also has Boromir on his side still.

I do think Denethor would conceed to Aragorn’s coronation, after all there’s just so much prophecy and timing and divinity to it all, and Gondor is a nation that puts a great deal of stock in gestures and how right something feels. Denethor knows that intimately, and a new age with a King might be actually very profitable. But Denethor has a new constitution draw up, voted on, and agreed to by nearly the entire council, before it’s presented to Aragorn. And this is his arena, they might be mental and physical equals, but Aragorn can’t win against Denethor’s time spent. 

This constitution has checks, it’s got balances, it’s got a defined and clear path to dethroning an unliked King and the kinds of abuses of power that could be it’s catalyst. Aragorn’s power is significantly reduced and tied to a more Steward-like system of government. And Aragorn has to bloody well accept it, because that’s what he’s going to get. He isn’t all that put out, in the end, it’s just another challenge to overcome. And you know what? He and Denethor do reconcile. Just simply by virtue of being so damned clever, and knowing that their hearts are both in the right place. That age old respect comes back to the fore and they remember how enjoyable it was to just talk to each other. Honestly I’d say Aragorn and Denethor’s relationship ends up being better than his and Boromir’s in the end. They’re just so damn alike and with the both of them at Gondor’s helm the country is really speed boosted into a bright and blinding golden age. 

… holy FUCK we did it lads, I’m gonna pass tf out now adIEU 

#tolkien #boromir #aragorn #denethor #lotr #lord of the rings #soap operas in mannish sindarin #erran vs tolkien #chats #when does meta become fanfic how detailed does the writing have to be

[jtannerposts]

Valaran

Valaran is a plane dominated by truly massive arcologies, completely self sufficient, self contained cityscapes dotted across the landscape. Some are massive spires reaching into the heavens, others are spheres residing beneath the oceans or buried pyramids beneath Valaran’s surface. While no two acrologies look alike they all share the same traits of self sufficiency, being built over confluxes of mana. Even the smallest acrology contains hundreds of thousands of souls, supported by mage engines that convert mana into matter, conjuring material from the aether.

While each arcology has their own governments all are in practise mageocracies, given that their vital systems are supported by the magical expertise of mages every arcology is dominated by mages. Whether it’s by political philosophy, economic power, or sheer intimidation mages comprise the majority on ever political body of note. To be born with magic is a golden ticket to a life of plenty, to be without is to be doomed to be looked over. Even democratic and progressive arcologies have mage lead councils and presidencies, the sheer power and importance of mages in Valaran society ensuring their supremacy. 

The world outside the arcologies is a landscape dotted with ruins, once home to a truly massive plane spanning Empire, the rise of the arcology spelt it’s downfall. The old Empire relied on a monopolization of resources to maintain it’s hegemony, encouraging a massive trade network that linked continents across the globe to establish an economic dependence on it’s markets. When the arcologies were built, their self sufficient nature provided an alternative to the Empire’s tyrannical rule. Slowly tensions mounted as arcologies began to sprung up across the globe, decades of labour going into their construction, draining resources and entire cities of population into them. Eventually the arcologies declared independence from what they saw as a failing Empire that had been imposing it’s culture and beliefs on the world for too long. 

Most of the arcologies declared a mutual defense pact, some stayed neutral or even declaring loyalty to the Empire. Each had developed distinct cultures of their own over the years but the majority all decided that the time had come to break away and become their own political entities in their own right. Each arcologies free to rule it’s people as they wished.

The war raged for nearly a hundred years, slowly swinging in the favour of the arcologies as more and more were completed, people flee behind their defenses for shelter from the war. Powerful magic was tossed around by both sides, the megaspells of the Divines devastating the very land for centuries. Desperate weapon projects were started and abandoned in equal measure by all factions, littering the plane with rouge war machines and horrific monsters that still roam Valaran today. This proliferation of weapons would finally break the back of the old Empire, by the end of the war the overwhelming majority of the plane now resided inside the safety of the arcologies, the once great cities of the Empire being reclaimed by nature and the land was seething with monsters lurking in the shadows.

In modern times most people are born and die in their acrologies, growing up on stories of how dangerous the outside world is. In theory each arcology is capable of support all it’s inhabitants equally, in practise every arcology experiences a massive inequality in the distribution of resources. While people with magical talent make up barely a quarter of the any arcology, they take up over 70% of most the resources in most arcologies. Massively opulent and hedonistic parties are thrown from golden towers while non magic’s busy themselves with making a living Most people live comfortable lives and public education is a mandatory policy in every arcology so that only the poorest reach adulthood illiterate.

Because each arcology is self sufficient traffic beyond the walls is an uncommon occurrence. But it’s not unheard off; for the fabulously rich, mostly mages, they travel across the land in massive ariships, cruising through the sky on personal party barges. Everyone else is force to travel by caravans, hiring a small army of mercenaries for protection, or if they can afford it hiring a Hunter. Aside from tourist Mages the people most likely to travel are Adventures looking to plunder ancient ruins of the Old Empire for valuable scraps, travelling merchants and performers, or people just desperate enough to risk life and limb for a taste of opportunity somewhere else.

And that opportunity is found in two places the Freeholds or the Frontiers. The Frontiers communities of people who for whatever reason leave the arcologies to eek out an existence in the world beyond the arcology walls. These townships usually spring up around major trade routes, if a community can survive the initial few years and establish themselves with the patronage of an Arcology they usually grow into small cities of a few tens of thousand souls. The Frontiers act as extensions of an Arcology, many Frontiers reliant on their parent arcology for advanced magic and resources. While more equal they still suffer from the class inequality of the arcologies. But most people who live in the Frontiers prefer their harder life of honest work makinging a life to toiling in a mage’s sweatshop. 

The other option for people who want to leave their arcology but want to truly break free from the yoke of the mages is to venture out into the wild and join a Freehold. Freeholds are rough communities of people who wish to live apart from their Arcology. No two are the same, some are hardy pioneers taming the land free from the yoke of their mage overlords, others are hives of scum and villainy. Religious convents worshiping a Divine, secretive cults, Arcane research facilities that the mainstream discourse dream unethical, Freeholds are a broad classification that covers any settlement not subservient to an Arcology. While they rarely grow beyond a thousand souls, most dying out in a few decades, a rare few survive to truly establish themselves as real cities. The Free Cities are often less corrupt than the Arcologies but with the added drawback of resource scarcity. Most are forced to trade with Frontier townships for resources and the number of truly established Freehold cities is less than a hundred.

Monsters and the old warmachines are a constant threat for these communities, even the arcologies regularly maintain purges on their surrounding lands least anything infiltrate their walls. Which is where the Hunters step into play, mercenary professionals who travel between the Frontiers, Freeholds and Arcologies taking contracts on monsters or occasionally providing protection to travelers.

Hunters are an offshoot of an old super soldier program from the plane’s history, centuries ago in the twilight years of the old empire a cabal of mages banded together to create the perfect fighters. Children were taken and experimented on with alchemical and magical concoctions, out of a hundred only 10 would survive the procedures. But those that did developed superhuman reflexes, mental acuity, stamina and strength. They were made resistant to all manner of disease and toxins, taught a small amount of magic and purposely had their empathy dulled. Expensive, brutal and highly lethal these soldiers were also rendered infertile, least the mage’s weapons slip their leash and breed a new race of superhumans.

Effective as they were their numbers were simply too small to save the failing empire and as time went on they all died out. Or so the world thought, in reality a squad of these soldiers saw the writing on the wall in the empire’s final days and disappeared into the growing wilderness, emerging over a century later to offer their services. In their self imposed exile these soldiers had survived in the wilderness, learning how to fight the roaming monsters of the new world.

They formed the Hunter Guilds, becoming a group of mercenary organizations selling their services for gold and supplies. They still follow the Procedures that created them, taking in orphaned children or purchasing them from the desperate. Even centuries later the odds of survival are no better than when the Procedure was first invented. Often a parent who sells there child never learns of their fate, and in the vanishingly rare moments it is often bittersweet when they do cross paths. The Hunter often either carries a chip on their shoulder at being abandoned, or doesn’t even recognize their parents.

The origin of the Divine Exalted is a mystery as records indicate they predate the even the old Empire, but what isn’t is the forms they come in, seperated into Holy and Unholy shards of White and Black mana. On Valaran angels and demons don’t just emerge from the plane’s mana, instead a shard of energy is formed called an Exaltation. This Exaltation seeks out a soul that fits it’s profile and merges with the person’s soul, granting them fantastic power. A person is chosen for how they act in the moment of exaltation, regardless of the actual content of their character. Angelic shards pick people performing Heroic or monumental tasks, while Demonic shards pick for profoundly selfish or cruel acts. Because of this it is not unheard of for Angelic Divine to go drunk with power and Demonic Divine to be overcome with guilt, but the majority of Divine play to type. 

The Divine barely number more than 600 in total, a combination of the rarity of their creation and the tendency for new exalted to take massive risks while still riding the initial wave of power. The Divine are to the best knowledge of the plane immortal, the Exaltations keeping the bodies of their hosts sturdy and strong. The Angels and Demons of Valaran share some traits with their counterparts across the multiverse, but the biggest divergence is that the powers of the exalted is determined by the abilities of the host as the Divine shards boost it’s host’s abilities beyond what is possible by mere mortals. A mortal swordsman can parry an axe, with training an Exalted can parry magic. A mortal mage can throw fire, an Exalted mage can incinerate cities. The Divine look mortal, capable to manifesting their otherworldly nature at will, the only signs that a person of more than mortal is the tell tale glow of their eyes. Angels possess glowing golden pupils while Demons possess similar violet pupils. Many an arrogant mage or conniving trickster has sought to mimic this through illusion magic, though many Divine loath impersonation and most use this strategy sparingly to avoid retribution.

For this reason the Divine are venerated far and wide, with many setting up massive cults of personality around themselves. On Valaran most Arcologies have at least one patron Divine, or multiple. For the most part though the Divine don’t factor into the daily lives of the people and are content to enjoy the mind boggling luxuries afforded to them.

#Alethea #Fanwalker #Valaran #I try to write about my fanwalker #Ended up writing a dissertation on my fan plane #Writer problems

[fablemonger-ao3]

Me-Oh, My-Oh, What a Girl!

There_Was_A_Star_Danced

Summary:

A little over two weeks after bringing home their first child, Emma Bernadette, Marinette wakes up to hear her husband serenading his “other girl” and thinks back.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

Marinette thought it must have been the floorboards creaking that woke her, but she couldn’t be sure in the first three seconds after coming to consciousness. She stayed still, knowing how light Adrien slept, and that if she moved she would wake him. Emma was quiet for the moment, but Marinette had a new mother’s radar that knew when her child was awake and was just waiting for Emma to realize that she was hungry before Marinette herself moved.

Wait. Floorboard?

She shifted silently onto her back and looked towards the crib where, to her relief, Adrien stood smiling down at his “other girl”, his golden head shining in the moonlight from the window. A second or two later and the cooing baby was in his arms, being shifted onto his shoulder as she liked.

‘ Barely over two weeks old and she already prefers being tall. ’ Marinette thought wryly in her sleepy state. Whenever she wasn’t being fed, Marinette’s fussy infant enjoyed being held, the higher the better, and so when Grandpa Tom wasn’t around preferred her Dad’s arms over her mother's.

Adrien started humming as he walked around, nothing set at first, just something to send vibrations through his chest and so keep Emma calm. He brought her over to the window and stood looking out over Paris, a little golden spot above the blankets where his daughter’s head rested on his chest. Gradually his humming gathered strength and rhythm until she recognized it as an old Dean Martin song they’d translated into French for a project in high school. They’d both preferred the original version in the end though, and it was a staple for a little while when they dated. What was it called again? She listened.

What started out as humming changed to singing when the little one had gotten fussy again, Adrien shifting over with a quiet “Oh, you want to hear the words to it too, huh? Well okay, if you promise to go to sleep.”

“ The naughty lady, of shady lane, has hit the town like a bomb; ” Adrien began,

Marinette thought back to when she found out she was pregnant, and how she had told Adrien, her parents, Alya and Nino, Tikki, Plagg. Adrien had been thrilled beyond measure to learn he was gonna be a Dad, his “positive waves” as Nino called them easing any fear Marinette had that she was gonna be a good Mom.

Tom and Sabine had been equally supportive, and ecstatic they were finally gonna have a grandchild. Alya and Nino practically put Marinette under house arrest when they had found out, not letting her do anything until she had finally blown up (hormones, everyone agreed) and said if they didn’t stop smothering her she would transform and climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Everyone stopped smothering her.

Tikki and Plagg had been happy too, though worried for Marinette and Adrien’s safety as was everyone else. But in the end, they pacified themselves and set about making themselves useful. From Tikki, that meant a lot of practical advice and rationalizing with Marinette, and from Plagg that meant, well, he tried not to bring Camembert too close to Marinette while she had morning sickness.

“ The back fence gossips ain’t been this good, since Mabel ran off with Tom; ” Adrien went on, his voice soothing in the otherwise quiet of the room.

Marinette remembered the gossip that went around when Ladybug didn’t show up as usual to fights. She was there, of course, but hidden, cautious, generally hiding and dodging and telling Cat Noir what to do. Eventually, She stopped coming out at all when she started to show, and she had her loyal partners (Thank you, Master Fu) handle it and only call on her when she was needed. The Press had had a field day until Ladybug’s partners had shown up to a press conference with some hints being thrown out about a secret mission that required Ladybug’s attention for a matter of some months and she wasn’t likely to be back in circulation for a while yet. Marinette sighed in her mind. She wasn’t ready to go back into the fights that came their way. Did Superheroes take Maternity leave?

“ The town was peaceful and quiet, until she came on the scene. The lady has started a riot, disturbin’ the suburban routine… ”

She certainly had. Marinette thought to the early days of having her Miraculous and how everything grew since then, and yet stayed the same. And then suddenly being a superhero wasn’t the most important factor in her life anymore with a little plus sign on a plastic stick and the doctor’s words: “Congratulations Mrs. Agreste! You’re a mother!” Then it was a flurry of excitement and planning, talking with her mother and getting advice, being teased by Alya and Nino, setting up the nursery… actually, that one had evaded them for a while, which is why for the first month or so until the finishing touches could be done and the air purified of the residue of carpentry and painting, the baby was sleeping in their own bedroom.

“ Oh, the naughty lady of shady lane, has the town in a whirl!” Adrien went into the chorus, petting his daughter’s head against his chest, “ The naughty lady of shady lane: me-oh, my-oh, what a girl!”  

Marinette smiled. Adrien had fallen head-over-heels with their little angel the moment she had been placed in their arms, and looking at him now, he hadn’t fallen one jot out of love. Of course, it had been easier for two people who were used to only sleeping half the night each anyway to adjust to having to wake up every hour to feed a little cooing bundle, so maybe that helped to dull the usually sharp disenchantment pains that most new parents felt. Marinette was grateful for that. In fact, she’d found it a little bit of a cushy assignment, and now she knew why.

As Adrien hummed the interlude between verses, he moved away from the window and to the new mini-fridge still awkwardly installed by the crib, pulling out a pre-made bottle and sticking it under his arm. ‘Sneaky little cat...’ , Marinette thought, with a smile as he began singing again.

“ You should see how she carries on, with her admirer’s galore. She must be giving them quite a thrill, the way they flock to her door.”

Marinette giggled softly, thinking of the near-constant flow of their many friends in the hospital and when they had gotten home. Even Chloe and Sabrina had stopped by once or twice to hold Emma, and Sabrina had gotten a little kick out of feeding her. Aunt Alya and Uncle Nino had almost moved in, and Tom and Sabine weren’t much better. But Adrien and Marinette liked the company, and it was well known that the Agreste's kept an open house, to “Aunt Nathalie’s” complete unamusement. Poor Nathalie; when Gabriel went missing, Nathalie wasn’t sure that Adrien would ever want to see her or his bodyguard again. But to her surprise, Adrien had relied on her as much as his father had, and Marinette had welcomed the extra protection that his bodyguard provided.

“ She throws those come hither glances, at every Tom, Dick, and Joe! And when offered some liquid refreshment: the lady never-never says no!”  

Emma Bernadette might have been born with her father’s coloring and strong head of hair, (the doctor’s first words upon seeing her had been: “Look at that hair!”) but she had inherited her mother’s eye shape, and consequently “Marinette’s look of doom™”. It was physically impossible to resist loving those eyes, and Marinette dreaded with a passionate fervor the days when she would learn how to turn on the “baby-doll eyes”. And she certainly never turned down “liquid refreshment.” Sabine said she’d never seen a baby that greedy, but Nathalie swore she got it from her father.

“ Oh the naughty lady of shady lane, has the town in a whirl! The Naughty Lady, of Shady Lane: Me-oh, my-oh, what a girl!” Adrien sang the refrain again, and deeming the milk warm enough, began feeding Emma. Marinette swore that man could heat the whole room on his own if he tried. She’d often curled up with him on the colder of their runs around Paris, saving herself from frostbite through his warmth, and after many many trials (though less errors) Nathalie had finally agreed that he didn’t need to keep too close an eye on his diet and Marinette could finally stop having to sneak her own husband his favorite foods. Marinette smiled again, drinking in the sight of her Adrien and her Emma in the light of the window, Emma sucking greedily on the now warm bottle, and Adrien grinning and continuing his song.

“ The things they’re trying to pin on her, won’t hold much water, I’m sure. Beneath the powder and fancy lace, there beats a heart sweet and pure.”  

Marinette had to hold back her habitual groan as she heard the puns coming from her husband’s mouth. She had known he was Cat Noir the first time they had heard the song together, but couldn’t understand why he had cottoned onto it so fast, especially that last verse. It wasn’t until a few days later, when they were talking about the project alone in her room that Adrien had let himself go, singing the puns at the top of his voice and suddenly it made sense why he had chosen this one. She had groaned heartily at it then, and she almost groaned now; but as in the first instance, a reluctant smile had pulled itself onto her face as she listened to her dorky husband.

“ She just needs someone to change her, and she’ll be nice as can be! If you’re in the neighborhood, stranger, you’re welcome to drop in and see-”

Marinette rolled her eyes silently and grinned.

“ The Naughty Lady, of Shady Lane! So delightful to hold! The Naughty Lady, of Shady Lane! So delectable! Quite respectable!” Adrien was forcing himself not to sing it in its usual way, but to sing it as a lullaby which in this last verse was hard. But he pushed through and finished and Marinette smiled.

“ And she’s only nine days old!”  

Emma was cooing contentedly now, her bottle gone a couple of seconds ago, and Adrien stayed in the window with her for a while, re-singing snatches of the song as Emma burped and calmed down from the bottle, cooing all the while. Eventually, she fell asleep, and Adrien laid her down in her bed, whispering softly to her.

“Que des vols d'anges te chantent à ton repos, ma petite dame,” he whispered, kissing his daughter on the head before heading back to bed himself, crawling in beside Marinette. (“May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, my little lady.”)

His hand came around her waist and he curled around her (she chuckled to herself) like a cat. She was almost sure she’d gotten away with seeing the whole thing unnoticed until he spoke softly in her ear.

“You should be asleep too, my ‘bug’ lady.”

Marinette opened her eyes and spoke drowsily, a smirk on her lips. “Who are you calling ‘bug’? I’m not ‘bug’ anymore. And whose fault was it in the first place?”

Adrien snickered.“ ‘Bug’ is relative to ‘little’, mon dame. And two puns in twenty seconds? From you? That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

Marinette snorted. “Hardly. Using the same pun twice when you are half asleep doesn’t count. And anyway, I’ve done better than that.”

Silent laughter from her husband shook the bed, and his rapid breathing tickled her neck. She broke into stifled giggles.

Adrien got up on his elbow and slowly kissed her shoulder, her jawbone, her cheek, her lips, and her forehead. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear: “Je t'aime mon dame.” … Then he promptly collapsed over top of her, and cuddled into her to never let her go while saying sternly, but not harshly: “Now go to sleep.” They both fell asleep to her breathy giggles into his shoulder. (“I love you, M’lady.”)

#fanfiction #fanfic #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #marinette agreste #adrien x marinette #adrien agreste #miraculous fanfic #babyfic #the naughty lady of shady lane #In honor of it's almost 500 reads #I am finally crossposting to Tumblr #sorry guys #these last couple months have been busy #hope you enjoy

[randykorn]

2019 Writing Roundup

Under the cut because I have never been succinct in my life and this is no exception

JANUARY: Welcome to Aglionby

“Okay, okay,” Maura said, holding up her hands for peace, swinging her gaze between Blue and Gansey.  “We don’t know everything-“

“We hardly know anything, really-“ Persephone interjected.

“But I will tell you what we do know.  This boy is on a quest for a lost king.  This boy is touched by death.  This boy will either save this town, or doom it.  And you, Blue, are going to help him do it.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means that there’s a prophecy,” Maura said, “that we’ve been monitoring for quite some time now.  It means that the cards say that you’re both at the heart of it.  It means that you’re both going to face danger and decisions that will change you forever.”

“It means that it’s starting,” Persephone said with a laugh that struck Gansey like lightning.  “It’s finally starting.”

FEBRUARY: Welcome to Aglionby

Slowly, he unfolded the letter, already dreading what he’d find.

Henry Cheng called.  Went to Hirshhorn.  Be back soon.  Safe dreams.  -Gansey

The crumpled letter was hitting the opposite wall before Ronan even realized what he’d read.

This close to the full moon, Hirshhorn would be an endless maze, easy to enter but impossible to leave.  And that wasn’t even accounting for the line’s gathering energy.  Gansey would be in there alone, without Ronan to guide him and keep him safe by navigating the fluctuating magic.  But Gansey wasn’t alone, was he?  No, he had-

“Henry Cheng,” he hissed.

Henry Cheng, who modeled for Ronan’s art classes and gently kissed him in empty hallways, never forcing Ronan to speak, instead trusting him to act. Henry Cheng, earning Ronan’s voice and truths and fears when he was drunk enough to give them.  Henry Cheng, who promised something softer than Kavinsky, but just as exciting, and likely more real.

Henry Cheng, who seemed to be involved in this fucking prophecy.

MARCH: Welcome to Aglionby

“What in the nine heavens is that?” Henry asked, pressing against Ronan’s seat to get a better view.

Something moved in Gansey’s peripheral vision, in front of the car.  Something large and white and glowing.

“That,” Adam said quietly, sounding just as shaken as Gansey felt, “is The Beast.”

Gansey whipped back around so fast he felt the Camaro shake.  Standing directly in front of the Pig was the largest deer he had ever seen.  Easily twenty feet tall, the sight of it made his stomach drop out, equal parts fear and awe.  It was just as Adam said - glowing white fur woven from moonlight, with a subtle sheen of blue.  Small, silver butterflies fluttered around it, dancing in its glow. Moss and vines draped elegantly between its antlers, forming a natural crown of delicate, pale blooming flowers.

The Beast suddenly struck him as a wholly inaccurate name.  It was far too crude, too rough, too lacking for such a magnificent creature.  What stood in front of them contained all the delicacy of the moon and all the strength of the sun.  The Beast simply didn’t come close to capturing it.

It looked at him, stark white eyes meeting his through the windshield, and Gansey found that he couldn’t breathe.  Its gaze bored into him, looking far past his physical appearance.  Gansey felt a shiver run through his mind, his soul, through everything he was and everything he would ever be.  He felt himself pulled into that all-encompassing white expanse as it read him, judged him, measured him against what he needed to accomplish.  For the moment he felt blank, peaceful, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that this soft, floating space within himself was akin to death.

APRIL: Welcome to Aglionby

“I’ll do it,” Adam said, standing up and turning toward The Beast.  “I’ll do it, if you’ll have me.  If you’ll keep him alive.”

He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t help his younger self when no one else would, but maybe, just maybe, he could help this boy here, now, right in front of him.  Maybe he could manage to be what his younger self had always needed, by being what this boy needed now.

Adam climbed up onto the stump, standing tall as the wind whipped and swirled around him.  He still had to look up to meet The Beast’s eyes, but at least they were on more even ground, now.  The boy shook beneath him, beside him, within him, and Adam hoped he was making the right choice.

“Well?” he asked, staring upward with a confidence he didn’t really feel, spreading his arms to the sides.  Open.  Vulnerable.  “Will I do?”

Yes.

MAY: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

Adam was quiet for a while, slowly unwinding his anger as his eyes searched Gansey for some unknowable quality.  Gansey, for his part, let himself be studied in silence.  

This was the moment he had told Ronan about Glendower - about the truth and the pain and the magic - but reversed.  Inverted, a mirror reflected out.  He had watched Ronan like Adam was watching him now, carefully cataloguing everything he knew of his friend and weighing him against a lifelong desire to be believed.  To be known.

He could feel a secret rising up in the air, and he hardly dared to breathe lest he scare it away.

Trust me, his mind whispered.  Trust me like I trust you.

JUNE: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

For an instant, Ronan imagined the scene.  Gansey waking to find Ronan missing, sighing to himself as he pulled on days-old clothing and grabbed the keys to the dreadful Suburban.  Gansey wandering the streets, worry squirming in his gut, holding off on calling the others - but only just.  Gansey finally making his way to the church as the dawn inched across the sky.  Gansey seeing the blood spattered across the steps, already turning brown, before noticing Ronan’s broken body crumpled on the ground.

For an instant, Ronan wondered if the Grey Man would be smart enough to make it look like a suicide.  

For an instant, Ronan wondered if Gansey would believe that.

Of course he would.  A part of Gansey was always braced for the worst Ronan had to offer, even as he yearned to believe that Ronan was better, now. Ronan was starting to believe that “better” was a myth, that healing was an unattainable platitude forced upon grieving teenagers that no one knew how to handle.

Did he still want to die?  

Sometimes.

Did he want to die under the hands of the same man who had murdered his father?

Fuck.  No.

JULY: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

A flash of darkness surged out of the trees, landing on top of his car with enough force to dent the roof inward.  Adam cursed as the back wheels buckled and skid sideways, sending the car into a wild tailspin.  He wrestled for control as an inhuman screech scraped against his ears, calling for blood and destruction.  Gleaming claws pressed against the windshield, and Adam screwed his eyes shut as glass exploded inward, several large shards shattering into dust as they hit his skin.  

Cabeswater, protecting him.

But from what?

Adam blinked upward, just long enough to catch a glimpse of an amorphous dark shape against the swirling vortex outside the car, everything in shadow except for the small details.  The teeth glinting in the shuttering light of his dashboard. The claws curling around the space where his windshield had just been, piercing the underside of the roof.  The six eyes glowing like ravenous fire, ready to swallow him whole.

The trees, he thought wildly, abandoning the steering wheel entirely to brace his head with both arms.  I’m going to hit the-

AUGUST: Welcome to Aglionby (unpublished)

There was no ground, no sky, no way to orient himself as he fought his way through the smoke, the darkness, the voices that rolled around him, over him, through him.  His body felt heavy, sluggish, each small movement taking more energy than he was sure he had.

He lifted his hand to his face, knowing it wasn’t the first time he’d done this, either.  The memories fell into place in his mind, identical dominos all collapsing into a single, present moment of uncertain fear.

He was fading.

His skin was transparent; wispy and thin, layered over his bones like an indistinct x-ray.  The bones themselves gave off the faintest glow, making it easier to pick out the tiny veins and arteries that curled through him, rivers that wound their way through the valleys and peaks of his physiology.

This would be great for anatomy class.  The thought startled a desperate, panicked laugh out of him that faded within seconds, and he was left with a terribly hollow feeling.  Something told him he wouldn’t be going back to anatomy class for quite some time.

Noah pulled his hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat pulsing through him, steadying some wordless fear within him.

Alive.

SEPTEMBER: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

Adam remembered carefully researching the cheapest way to get to New York, remembered thinking that it would be easy to get lost in the crowd of the city. He remembered slowly filling his backpack with clothes and snacks over several weeks, remembered shoving in his toiletries in the panicked silence of that final night.  He remembered sneaking into his parents’ room and stealing the credit card out of Dad’s wallet.  He remembered biking to the nearest gas station and buying a bag of nuts so he could get enough cash back to fund his trip.

He remembered the terror of the bus ride.  The freedom.  The hope.

He remembered New York, a blurred haze of uncaring crowds and dirty sidewalks.  He’d been one face among millions, impossible to notice, impossible to find.  The sudden release from his life - from what it meant to be Adam - had completely overwhelmed him, and he’d spent most of the first day squatting in a back alley next to a dumpster, struggling to breathe through his decision.  The second day he’d managed to find his way to the library and began the process of figuring out how to live on his own at fourteen without his father finding him.  The third day, someone far more desperate than him had stolen everything he had while he slept in a park, including Dad’s very traceable credit card.  The forth day, the police picked him up and dropped him into Officer Soltero’s sympathetic but useless hands.

OCTOBER: Welcome to Aglionby (unpublished)

Now it was Adam’s turn to look pained.  “I don’t care to hear his tragic backstory.”

“I think it’s related to the ley line,” Gansey said.  “Ley lines.”

Adam paused.  “You didn’t know, did you.  That there were two.”  Gansey shook his head, his perfect lips pulling into a frown.  “Ronan did.”

“I know.  Ronan seems to know quite a bit more than he ever let on.”

“Why didn’t he tell you?  Haven’t you been poking around here for a while with him?”

“Years,” Gansey whispered, his eyes somewhere far away from here, surrounded by memories that Adam couldn’t reach, emotions that he couldn’t fully see.  “But I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Adam couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be searching for something for years, only to find out that your best friend and partner in magic had held the vital clue all along.  Ronan had been by Gansey’s side for every step of the way, as far as Adam could tell, and he’d still chosen not to mention his obvious connection with magic, with the lines.  He’d chosen to keep Gansey searching in the dark while he’d held the light.  Adam couldn’t imagine the anger he would have felt.  Or, he could, which was why Gansey’s utter lack of animosity was both perplexing and alarming.  Adam didn’t trust silence.  Stillness.  Not when there was reason for it to break.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” he said instead.

“No offense, Adam, but you don’t know him very well.”

“No,” he agreed.  “And I don’t care to.”

NOVEMBER: Carry On Rewrite (unpublished)

If I don’t kill Baz, he will kill me.

I’ve always known this.  It’s been the foundational fact of our relationship, the thing that’s driven us to become mortal enemies for the past seven years.  It’s why he and his family have tried to kill me so many times.  It’s why I hate him.

It’s easier to kill someone you hate, especially if that someone is trying to kill you.

I shift my sword into a two-handed grip.

If I don’t kill Baz, he will kill me.

He lunges for me, bloodied hands reaching for my face, fangs reaching for my neck, eyes swirling with a desperate, wild hunger that will only be sated by my blood, my death.

I don’t think I hate Baz.

I don’t think I want to kill him, either.

I don’t think I ever have.

I drop my sword, feeling it vanish - and with it, any real chance of killing the bloodthirsty vampire in front of me.  Feral, ruthless, deadly.  Broken, starving, terrified.

I’d rather save him than hurt him.

I hope I haven’t made a mistake.

DECEMBER: TRC Rewrite (unpublished)

Noah drew close to the girl for the first time in seven years.

It’s starting.

She sat on a crumbling stone wall, tapping her pen against the notebook open in her lap, diligently scribbling names down as the woman called them out. Later, her family would contact their customers if their names appeared, giving them time to get their affairs in order.  It was a macabre job, but Noah didn’t mind.  Death came for them all, and perhaps it was best to be prepared.

He drew even closer, leaning over to read the names scrawled into the book. He wondered if his own name was there, pages and pages back, or if his spirt had failed to walk the line all those years ago.  He was stuck, after all.  The normal rules didn’t seem to apply to him.

Her hand jingled pleasantly as it slid across the page, the multitude of bracelets tinkling like bells in the night.  He looked up into her face as she frowned down at the page, a mixture of frustration and wonder woven into the slant of her lips, begging to be wiped away with a quick joke or a quicker kiss.  Her hair was pulled into a dozen pigtails with a dozen mismatched hair clips, the variety of spikes making her look like a hedgehog.  Noah fondly brushed his fingers against it, smiling at the way the tight, prickly curls tickled his palm.  He had always enjoyed this, even if this was the first time he’d done it.

#i need a writing tag #WtA #ICYH

[anon-e-miss]

Desert Crystal 4 - Nomad AU

When the red and white Polihexian referred to as Fix It pronounced Prowl fit, he was finally allowed free of the berth and the tent. He had wondered he would be trapped in the confined space for a stellar-cycle, or until he gave in. Prowl dismissed the latter notion, there was no way he would agree to a bond with the madmech. Gratitude for saving his life did not go so far. Formulating a plan of escape was near the top of his priorities, his first priority was confirming Flash was functional.

It did not surprise the Praxian that his captor remained close to his side as they walked beyond the cluster of small tends and towards the far larger temporary structures. Close to his side translated to holding Prowl’s servo, and the Lord of Law loathed this. He was not a sparkling that needed minding. Prowl was willing concede to the idea that he needed an escort, a guide for the time being but the tactileness of this mech was absolutely unseemly.

But there was no wisdom in resisting, certainly no publicly so for now the prince suffered the indignity in silence. He walked willing by Jazz’s side, let his servo be held, and hoped for the opportunity to break his digits, some mega-cycle. They passed a circle of nomads, near all Polihexian frames, chattering in that strange language Prowl had heard his unwanted companion speaking to Artfire mega-cycles before. They looked Prowl up and down, and he tensed.

Jazz pulled him along, away from the gathering, and deeper still into the camp. There were mechanisms everywhere he looked. Sitting together on colourful tarps, or leaning against tents. Most were mechs, but there were a few femmes. Each and every group they passed paused their conversations and watched them go. Prowl felt their optics and visors on his doorwings, and he flared them up in his agitation. There were only two things he found truly difficult to tolerate, being stared at, and willful stupidity. General foolishness, or simple lack of intellect were both forgivable, so long as it was not intentionally cultivated.

“There they are!” The Polihexian declared, and looked ahead and saw another pile of tarps, pillows, and amongst it all was Flash.

“Your… Sir!” Flash exclaimed, catching himself before he used the imperial prince’s title, and switching to the Praxian dialect of Neocybex. He waved his doorwings in a circle. “You’re alright?”

“I am, thank you Flash,” Prowl replied in their native language, and he dipped his own doors. Jazz nudged him over, next to Flash, and Prowl sat next to the younger Praxian. “You also appear to be recovering well.”

“Yep!” The sentry said. “I’m back in one piece. Fix It said he’ll fix up my paint when we get… to the oasis?”

“Jazz, my captor, said we were headed to a permanent city, now that we have recovered, and their business here,” the prince replied. If the other mechs, Jazz, Artfire, and a flamboyantly painted Polihexian Prowl assumed was Ric, did not care that the Praxians were speaking their own language, they did not say anything.

“Artfire said that that mech, that Jazz is courting you?” Flash asked, confused. “What does it mean.”

“He wishes to have me for a mate,” Prowl explained. “By their laws, because he rescued me, what they call an act of valour, he has the right to court me for one stellar-cycle. I must reside with him until that time is up.”

“Has he hurt you?” The younger mech asked, doorwings flared up. “I’m fit enough, we could try and escape!”

“There is no need to rush,” the Lord of Law said. “He has… done nothing properly inappropriate, apart from insisting he court me. I intend to formulate n escape, but I will not act in panic.”

“As long as you’re sure,” Flash replied. He gestured out at the tents grouped around them. “Fix It’s let me loose so Artfire said he’s going to take me to the Skéné Chloerós after we fuel.”

“The… what?” Prowl asked.

“The Green Tent,” the sentry explained. “It’s where all the unattached recharge. Courting pairs, mated couples, and the elite all get small, private tents.”

“Perhaps Jazz decided to court me to get some privacy,” the elder Praxian wondered out loud.

“He’s the headmech of this camp, that’s what Artfire said,” Flash replied. “He already had his own tent… So… he probably saw something he liked.”

“I do not see what,” Prowl replied.

“Bet it’s good to see each other safe ‘n sound again,” Jazz said in his accented Neocybex. Both Praxians inclined their helms, abandoning their conversation for now. “Haven’t found anymore o’ yer caravan. Figure Urayans got  few, but more probably got away, back to the Tyger’s Peace.”

“There must have been dead,” the prince said. Jazz nodded soberly.

“We put’em to rest in the desert, ‘n put up a marker,” the nomad replied. “We didn’t leave’em to the mechanimals. The Urayans ya scrapped we tossed back in their desert.”

“That will have to be enough,” Prowl said, and next to him Flash nodded.

“Before we fuel, I’d like to introduce ya to Ricochet, my flashier twin,” Jazz declared. The other Polihexian, with white and black armour like his brother, but decorated with flames. Where Jazz’s face plates were silver, Ricochet’s were gold, and his visor was red.

“Give him Pit,” Ricochet ordered, his mate gave him a look of exasperation. “What? Ya know he deserves it.”

“Love ya too,” the… tamer… twin said. “Poor Artfire is a candidate for sainthood, puttin’ up with ya.”

“It’s true, I am,” Artfire interjected. “Energons ready. Med grade for you two. Drink up.”

Along with the med grade, Flash and Prowl were served gels and oil cakes. The younger mech followed his prince’s lead and only took a serving of the solid fuel when Prowl did. It was reassuring to see how well the sentry was tolerating their circumstances, and it was comforting having another Praxian present. It might have been harder to remember to interact with him, to watch over him, had they not shared the hideous experience dark-cycles before. Only Flash had stood with the prince, and he had been wounded saving him. That was enough motivation for Prowl to treat the young mech as an equal, even if they were obviously not. The Polihexians need not know that. Prowl was not sure why he thought it was too much of a risk to reveal his true status, but he had not, and he would not reveal the truth.

Prowl had never had a meal like this. The twin brother… twins… an unusual thing, traded barbs, as Artfire sat back, field all but glowing with fond exacerbation. Other nomads joined the meal, it appeared the tarps were considered a communal space. Under Jazz’s watchful optics, the newcomers left the Praxians alone. But as they fueled, the prince saw these young Polihexians optics were not so much on him, but on Flash, and it irritated him beyond measure. Flash was young, not as much younger than Prowl as anyone might have thought, older than Bluestreak who remained only a youngling. But the Lord of Law felt a stirring of protectiveness for the mech who had saved his life, a debt of gratitude, if only in part.

Flash did not appear concerned. But then he had worked the caravans before, all the guards had, or so Crosscut had said, and so he would have been more familiar with the nomads who traded along the route. The younger Praxian was likely familiar with some of the customs, and Prowl thought here it would be best to follow Flash’s lead. As they grew more comfortable, the younger Polihexians chattered about the exploits, as Flash and Prowl returned to speaking their own dialect in soft tones. These young mechs certainly appeared to be trying to gain Flash’s attention, and perhaps he was motivated by spite, but Prowl took pleasure keeping the sentry’s attention as they discussed the doomed caravan.

“You said you thought Crosscut was behind the attack,” Flash said, snubbing the Polihexians.

“I believe the energon was drugged,” Prowl replied. “Had you ever spontaneously dropped into recharge on a previous guard shift?”

“Never,” Flash confirmed Prowl’s suspicions. “I can go mega-cycles without recharge before I get twitchy. When it started, the attack, everyone was pulling themselves off the ground. I felt like my processor was mush, the first clear thought I had was to tell you.”

“You never saw Crosscut?” The Lord of Law asked.

“No,” the young mech said. “And you know, I never saw his personal guard. You’d’ve thought they’d have tried to protect his convoy. Crosscut was always fussing over his trailer, making sure his goods weren’t touched.”

“I suspect he, his guards and his Convoy were gone before the attack began,” Prowl replied. “I never saw his Convoy’s load. I suspect he lied on the manifest. I suspect the Convoy will change his paint, and continue on with the business of hauling for caravans, and Crosscut will reap a handsome insurance settlement.”

“What about you?” Flash asked. “Won’t be emperor have a conniption when he finds out you’re missing.”

“The emperor may scarcely notice,” the prince confessed. “My elder brother will demand answers. He will demand a search, and he will succeed in launching one, eventually, but if they go by what Crosscut says, they will likely be led in quite the opposite direction. It will be some time yet before Praxus receives news there was even a problem. And we will be well across the desert.”

“At least it isn’t the Urayans who have us,” the sentry said. “Raiding teams have always been a problem, but Polihexians have usually been up for trade. Sometimes you’d see them watching in the distance. I knew you couldn’t just cross through their desert, but there are so many sigils on the route, and I haven’t’ learned them yet. Some let ya know there’s an energon well nearby, some mark a spot for trading. I guess others say: Keep Out.”

“Perhaps some of your time here might be well spent learning some of their language,” Prowl suggested.

“That’s actually a pretty good idea,” Flash said, and he grinned. “Then I could charge more for my expertise.”

“You intend to remain a caravan guard after we escape, or are freed?” The Lord of Law asked.

“It’s what I know,” the young mech replied. “Besides, I like the desert, like not being stunk in one place… It’s a good life. Apart from murderous Urayans, and I hear the ones farther north aren’t so murder happy.”

“I cannot say their framekin have made a good first impression,” Prowl said.

“How ‘bout we head back to my tent, sweetspark,” Jazz suggested, again interrupting the Praxians’ conversation. “Artfire wants to make some introductions to Flash.”

“That is… acceptable,” Prowl replied.

He wondered if the Green tent as Flash had called it would not be a preferred shelter, but doubted it. The idea of recharging with so many other mechanisms around him was deeply unpleasant. These last dark-cycles had not been terribly unpleasant, beyond the lingering recovery. Jazz made no suggestions of joining him in the berth, made no attempt to touch him, he was being respectful. If he had been Praxian, Prowl would still have kept him at a distance, still considered him insance, but he at least to himself, he would not deny that being courted was much less unappetizing than being bought and sold.

That did not mean Prowl would surrender to the courtship. The prince had a duty to his empire, and too much love for his brothers to be swept up in this. But as he curled on his borrowed berth, Prowl had to admit being courted had not been a terrible experience so far. It was a sad state of affairs when the uncultured desert wastes held more promise than the Empire of Praxus.

#desert crystal #nomad au #transformers #ficlet #fanfic #jazz/prowl #artfire/ricochet #maccadams #multicultural confusion

[nayleaharvez97]

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[sburbian-denizens]

Sample: Elements Anthology (Doom Aspect)

Doom Aspect

Fire

Verdigris Ignition

The beginner’s introduction to the Fires of Doom, it is simultaneously the most versatile and the weakest in terms of damage. As its name suggest, these flames are of a copper greenish color, and would often simply cover the Player’s hands. They are, of course, immune to their own fires.

The flames deal little damage, and though it would become more potent as the Player grows stronger, it shall always deal less damage than most abilities of equal level. Rather, its strength lies in its moderate Shenergy cost and sheer versatility.

At first it only coats the Player’s hands and weapons, enhancing their damage with its own heat. The Player would quickly learn to shoot it out as a beam, and then use it as a sort of reactive armor by coating themselves in it. God Tier Players can use this ability to create temporary weapons and tools out of the fire and, at the very peak of mastery, create servitors to fight for them.

Dahlian Detonation

The second Fire of Doom, and one of the most famous (or infamous) Doom ability in the game. It creates an explosion of blood red flames centered around the Player, which automatically hits everything within a medium radius.

The attack leaves the Player unharmed, but inflicts a not inconsiderable amount of damage on everything else in range, along with setting them all on fire. As a note the Player is only immune to the initial explosion, any resultant flames can harm them normally.

As the Player progresses, the explosion’s radius and damage would grow with them. In time, they would learn to ‘tag’ an object by touching it, turning it into a makeshift bomb that would explode after an amount of time the Player chooses. God Tier Players who have mastered this ability can simply will objects in their sight to explode, making them quite dangerous opponents indeed.

Sable Scintillation

The last and most dangerous Fire of Doom. This ability creates a pitch black fire that, while less versatile than any other Fire Ability, is one of the most damaging, and costly, attacks in the game.

The flames are potent, capable of killing most Underlings upon contact. The Player is, thankfully, immune to their own fires. They cannot be extinguished by any means save the utter annihilation of their target, and Fire Resistance and Immunity has no effect on it. The only bright side is that it is completely incapable of spreading once it has latched on to its target. Also its ridiculously expensive Shenergy cost.

As the Player progress the flames shall grow stronger and deal much more damage, though controlling it is another matter. All but the greatest of Mortalitier Players must spread the flames via physical contact, and even the rare few that can blast it out must contend with its incredibly short range. Even God Tiers have trouble controlling it, having only a small boost in range to testify their control, it still does ridiculous amounts of damage though.

Earth

Forged of Ashes

One of the more useful abilities of Doom is to destroy or sacrifice something in order to gain materials or Shenergy. This Earth of Doom represents that aspect. This ability can create an inro grey ash that the Player can freely manipulate. The Ash would disappear after a period of time unless the Player expends more Shenergy for upkeep.

Unlike most Elemental abilities, which simply creates the Element out of Shenergy or takes advantage of what materials is present, this one requires the Player destroy something first. Once an object is destroyed the Player can spend a miniscule amount of Shenergy to convert it into the aforementioned Ash. While it does require more effort than simply through will or Shenergy expenditure, it has the advantage of a consistently low initial Shenergy cost and upkeep and its flexibility.

As the Player progresses the amount of Ash each sacrifice shall yield would grow, and so would their control. At the start they would use the Ash as projectiles, one that can move according to their will. They would quickly learn to form them into obstacles and to control and shape the surrounding area, before moving on to more fine control and forming weapons and armor. God Tier Players can maintain control over large amounts of Ash allowing them to drastically alter the area and to create servitors under their command.

Entropic Wasteland

While Doom can convert materials due to its almost capitalistic nature, it can just as easily kill and destroy without constraint, such as with this Earth of Doom. This ability turns the ground around the Player in a medium radius into barren green rock, one that seems to drain the life out of it’s inhabitants.

The drain is slow, yet noticeable, and affects everything in its range. It is very much capable of killing anything given enough time. Unlike other abilities the Player is also affected by this drain, if to a lesser degree than others. Its cost, while moderate, seems too prohibitive for an ability that hurts the user as well as everything else.

As the Player progress they would gain a resistance to this abilities’ effects, though not when used by another Doom Player. Its life drain effect would increase as well, making the ground seem eager to drink upon the life of others. God Tier Players have little to worry from their own Wastes, those who have mastered this ability can even tap into its reserves, healing themselves.

Adamantine Crypts

Doom is the Aspect of Laws, once its laws have set in, not even its Players can easily break it, which is what this Earth of Doom represent. This ability creates rocks the color of the darkest of nights, completely immovable and unbreakable, even to its creator.

While abilities that attempts to damage, move, or go through the rock in any way are completely rebuffed, abilities with other effects or ones that simply goes around the rock instead of through it are completely unhindered. This is true even of the Player’s own powers.

As the Player progresses they would be able to create more of the rock at a time, and even shape it to some degree. While beginners could do no more than a simple wall, those with greater experience can create small homes with it. God Tier Players can create entire palaces out of invincible stone, though the cost would be tremendous.

Blight

Withering Ailments

The most obvious, and most dangerous, Blight of Doom is the ability of poisons and pathogens to wither their victim's body away, until there is nothing left. This ability enhances a poison or pathogen the Player has created or handled, granting it the ability to rapidly degenerate their target.

As the ailment enters the victim, it begins to work rapidly. Shutting down and killing certain cells and attempting to fight off the immune response. The victim suffers many different symptoms, culminating in their cells rapidly dying and their health failing rapidly. They can still be healed, but any outside help must be administered before the ailment reaches their heart or brain and renders them nonfunctional.

As the Player progresses this power, their ailments become much deadlier, becoming faster and more damaging. With enough experience the Player may learn how to affect beings without biological systems. God Tier Players can create poisons that can affect even beings made out of pure energy, and mastery grants the ability to poison Universes,albeit at an incredibly slow rate.

Symbiotic Contagion

While it is their primary purpose, there are occasions where Doom’s maladies can be used for medicinal purposes, rather than for killing. Take this Blight of Doom for example, its poisons neutralizes that of other sources, it can also be used as a vaccine to build up certain immunities.

The contagion, as its name implies, is at least partially symbiotic. It replicates the shapes of other pathogens and poisons and allows itself to be exterminated so that the immune system could adapt to those maledictions. It’s not quite healing, it’s barely even a cure, but it is effective in that it allows the target to build up permanent resistances to things they have suffered before.

As the Player progresses, the contagion would be able to enhance the target’s immune system further, allowing for stronger resistances to be built up and for the contagion to aid the system in protecting the target. At higher levels the symbiote could even start to reverse the effects of other contagions, granting a very minor healing factor. God Tier Players have symbiotes that could work in minutes, and those who have mastered this ability have a slightly better healing factor.

Pathogenic Constraints

Doom is the Aspect of Limitations as well as Decay, this Blight of Doom happens to embody both in equal measure. This ability creates poisons and pathogens that prevent their targets from performing certain things, mostly preventing healing and regeneration as well causing effects such as paralysis and slowness.

Healing prevention would only reduce the effectiveness of any healing or regeneration on the target rather than outright negating such abilities. Paralysis would also start as that, merely slowing movements, defences, as well as throwing off attacks.

As the Player progresses the effects shall increase in duration, as well as potency. The Player would soon learn to temporarily inflict complete paralysis, and then to hinder the use of powers as well. God Tier Players could completely negate healing and regeneration for a short period of time. Those who master this ability could temporarily prevent the target from expending any Shenergy at all.

#homestuck #doom #doom aspect #heroes of doom