My gentle dome, my aching tone of string

By someone's worry it could be - long-partied absence that went sudden o/////o By that it went of such - our city we've been settled upon since previous year (as, some may also yet remember - of passed year, when things went into worry and all-ache and loss, we've moved from outskirts of city - then towards, to able be to live and dwell and work upon), Kharkiv, went into raids that shuttered variety of parties within our infrastructure, over the times, again and more - now till it's toll unspeakable, unsoothed out, and hard to bite.

By lack within an electricity - of planned (by nature of a replenishing, within provides of small supply and yet unwavering demand) or rabid-toned (as a results of gotten heavier shellings, that never satiated since day first), along there was a lack of a connection outwards (by major our providers worked for some hours by powers of supplies that own, then - not), and such went days, sometimes within a weeks onward, and such were toll - kind of a dwell and ache and worry that planned no ease, or way to out.

By that went straying, worried and hard - within my tarnished yet dispositions, went dragged down, and without nature of your tenderness - that is to me a rapture, ache of all, - and help, those days - and months, and years of life would be unspeakable by dark, unshed by kind of toll that is by heart. There is no tears enough, and not enough of thank-you's - for patience and gentleness and tender hand onward.

Without you - there couldn't be such way now out, the one that spoken went within the passed month. We've moved, struggled onward to settle outre of city's mound - now on a land, and now by lone, sufficed and replenished and worked by strength of household's that's own. My hopes, my ache of heart - is that the future year, onward, shall be more gentle, mellowed out by passed harsh, and that by it - my yet adore, my gratefulness and worry could come to rapture, into fruit, into a tone of something new, and offered with love, and taken by it.

My gentlest thank-you's, the gratefulness of rabid - for you, as is, for every that previous and what's onward! I'll hope to come, along, with spring-renewed heart and mind, my aching coils and binds, turned to slim and round and toned complex and right!<ззззз

Violent Red

Despite the fact that everything everywhere in every which direction would lead one to believe that Caelid was a dead hellscape full of nothing but putrescent scarlet rot, it was very much indeed alive. It writhed and squirmed as Malenia’s blight crawled and creeped from every crevice and every crack of the seemingly inert lands as far as the eye could see. 

And if you looked closely enough, pressed your ears onto the red, scorched earth or leaned in carefully to the poisonblooms, you could hear it: the Scarlet rot, as it bended and distorted the flora and fauna of the Lands Between as it touched and corrupted it from within.

Lisinia detested it.

Her lips curled downwards even further into a bleak frown, the only expression which she has been able to manage since having the misfortune of being sent to this—whatever it is.

Astrologer’s hood pulled down to rest upon her pale shoulders, she looked across the stark landscape, but it was no different than the other 12 times she checked since this morning—red, red seas of rage and anger roiling in every direction.

How is it that no one had noticed this before?

When she asked about Caelid and its infested lands, every person she had encountered had told her the same thing: it is dead and rotting; there is no life of which to speak. And of course,  she could see how compared to Limgrave or Liurnia, one might think that; however, in her own personal experience, she has come to a distinct conclusion. Quite different, may it be—but dead it is not.

While as fascinating as it may be—and while Lisinia does appreciate a good mystery—it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t sorely wish for the verdant plains of the region she had just come from or even the near-constant dripping of Liurnia’s marshes.

Why did it have to be her? 

Tarnished. 

What does that even mean?

Despite everything in her body which had told her not to push forwards, she did so anyway. One foot after another steadily moved her until she came here—as if she too were possessed by some malignant rot which caused her to come here when she could easily have easily turned around and taken the road every other lost soul she came across had: aimless wandering.

They don’t see the light of grace anymore, so why should she? 

Because she is stubborn if nothing else, and she cannot leave everyone to the madness which has befallen them since the Shattering.

Lisinia pushed another foot forward, her dark hair falling into her face and blessedly shading her eyes from the taunting scarlet visions before her. If she doesn’t keep pressing onwards, she won’t ever get to Redmane castle. And she will certainly never leave Caelid if she doesn’t pay Radahn a visit. 

Glintstone staff suddenly raised in one hand, Lisinia threw a shower of winking blue stars vaguely in the direction of yet another diseased abomination. As they hit their mark, the unfortunate creature caved into itself, melting into a strange amalgamation of sludge and bone. 

Danger comes from all sides in the maroon-cast shadows of Aeonia’s swamp, and it is easy to become a meal if ones do not pay attention to the chattering of the rot. That is perhaps the one piece of advice which she has found useful on her travels here.

Carefully, she stepped over the carcass to continue down the road towards her goal, but her boots still squelched into the ichor. 

Disgusting.

Lisinia sniffed as she tried to scrape the remains from the bottoms of her soles.

Perhaps she will visit Malenia herself and take up her qualms related to her choice of decoration for the place.

She smirked at the thought.

After all, she likes a good spot of revenge as much as the next, and she deserves a bit of fun after the chaos and turmoil she has been forced to suffer.

"This, but platonic"

The Hero plodded onwards, through the swirling sands at his feet. The sweltering deserts, where the sun pressed like the weight of ten camel-packs. Amid the tents of the nomads, patterned, waving in the hot winds, and barely stopped.

He plodded onwards, through the shifting snows. Through the frozen forests where ice sparkled on the limbs of the trees like tiny jewels, and bit the fingers like shards of glass, and the pines bent their backs like twisted old men.

Across the treacherous wasteland, the boggy swamps, the wide plains where storms swept hard with no shelter.

But he could not stop. A thousand miles, anything. She was there.

The Hero came at last to the castle. It was an ancient, broken place, the walls blacked with soot and smoke. Around it stood a hedge of thorns, with only the narrowest, most hidden path up the hill to the castle. There he had to leave his horse, for the beast shied and would not enter the thicket, and the path was not wide enough. The thorns pulled at his clothes, until his cloak, once blue and bold, was in tatters.

Still, he did not hesitate.

She was beyond, and he knew not what had befell her, but to imagine the smallest tarnish in her innocent smile put him into a murderous rage.

The Hero emerged on the plateau before the castle. "Villain!" he shouted up at the dark tower. "I know you are there. Come out and face me."

The Villain seemed to melt from the shadows, and condense into a solid figure with a crooked smile. "I see that you have come."

"I demand to see her now. Release her to me this moment or I - I will make you pay more than you ever imagined."

The Villain's face split into a grin. "You demand of me?" He laughed. "Now I have you both in one place, and all the better. She shall remain with me forever and you shall die."

The Hero drew his sword.

The Villain laughed again. "You believe this is my true form? Look again."

And the earth split, and a great chasm arose before the castle, and the villain descended into it. And out of it there arose a great beast. It was a thing not seen since the dawn of time. It had a dozen arms, and a thousand spines along its limbs, and in its mouths were a thousand barbed teeth.

The Hero was like as to faint from fear. But he straightened and raised his sword. The Villain must have counted on him to turn and run now. But no. He had no choice - or she would be lost - lost.

The Hero and the Villain fought for hours, over and over again the Villain throwing down his monstrous limbs, which the Hero lopped off again and again. Finally, as the beast began to shrivel into itself, the Hero thrust his sword deep into its enormous eye.

With a scream, the Villain perished.

The Hero was exhausted, and bleeding in a dozen places, but he could not rest. He pulled himself up the twisted stairs and burst into the castle.

Down he went, down and down, to the deepest dungeon. There he paused, just outside the door. He could not stand to see if she was not there, or worse. But he couldn't stand there imagining it. He could hear, from inside, a soft weeping.

The Hero threw open the door.

She looked up, slowly, then stood up to greet him, chains slithering along the floor, then falling off as though they had been affixed only by the will of the dark beast.

"Sister!"

"Brother!"

Antebellum

THE GREAT FLOOD IS COMING

HISTORY IS STUCK IN A LOOP

YET STILL, YOU KNOW ONE FACT REMAINS TRUE

THE VIOLENCE HAS A PURPOSE

-

"Wake the fuck up tranny."

Your flimsy cot rattles to and fro as a leather boot slams into the side, jostling you awake. Hazel eyes drink in the sight of the man above you. Crude buzzcut. Jowls and all, a simple clergyman's suit enshrouding stoicism. He taps the leatherbound book at his side, gesturing towards the rickety door connecting threadbare dorms to outer halls.

"Yes Father, I'll be there in 5."

He scowls, glossy eyes grazing over each interconnected wire hooking your spindly back into the charging station embedded within that bed. They glide down your frame. You didn't bother wearing a shirt to bed. One last lingering look at both mounds, before turning on a dime and striding off. It felt good to be viewed like a piece of meat.

You carefully unhook every strand and tube with practiced precision, singular digits moving incisively. You'd done it a thousand times before. You'd surely do it a thousand more times. A quarter lay rusted. Another clump all but fraying. They didn't have any replacements available. So long as your core processor was recharged, you'd be okay.

The floor was hot. Sometimes, a part of you wished they'd gotten rid of that sense. Touch. It didn't really matter, even if it did burn, your skin was welded to withstand inhumane temperatures. Military flame retardant. Steady footsteps carry you across concrete flooring, stopping in front of a 5'4 mirror.

Of course it was 5'4.

It was made specifically for you, after all. One request. Holding dainty, creamy white arms out. Spinning. Patchwork freckles dancing alongside supple curves. Moving both hands up to cup plump breasts. B+. You shake your short, tousled brown hair about. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Putting on your gear is all but automatic. Urban camo pants, rugged leather boots, skintight black shirt. It was almost a shame you had to put the ballistic vest over top of it. Standard issue, extra protection, Father's order. The less bullet holes, the better. Vest secured, you slip on a pair of mottled gloves. Tight fists.

Naturally the door creaks as it slides open, dislodging built up dust and debris. Empty halls stretching onward for what seemed like miles. When you first got here, getting lost was a daily occurrence. Now, it was physically impossible to lose your way. Mapped. Steps that cause the concrete to sizzle and pop. Further and further. Another rickety old door.

Stepping through it reveals an archaic hangar, fit to burst with every manner of military hardware imaginable, old and new. Heavenly breeding grounds. Of course, Father stands waiting, just as he always does. You run your hand along dormant caterpillar tracks and sleeping tail rotors. The stimulation felt quite nice. Touch still had its perks.

5 minutes after you awake, you're standing right where you should be.

Father bows to you. An iodine lump of steel sits behind him, fused plates linking hands one after another. Bolts and bolts and more bolts. It dwarfed the two of you. You knew they used to carry special units in these.

Nowadays, all it took was one person.

Father stands upon his mahogany podium. He opens the scripture to page 547. Cracked spine. Slipping between bible verse and mission outline. He never bothered to teach you Latin, interested as you may be. That was for the blessed to interpret and for you, damned as you were, to receive with open arms. The next words, however, were all too familiar.

"They're hiding out in some nearby ruins, 11 klicks southwest of here. You know the drill. Get to work."

Father shuts the gospel, reaching underneath the podium before donning a kevlar shroud of his own. .44 magnum bulging from creased pants. Licking your lips, you hurriedly clamber over to the back entrance of the vehicle. Hook two phalanges in. Pry tarnished doors open. Step inside dutifully.

There was enough room for..... well, certainly more than just you. Long, blistering hot, metallic benches left cooking in the wrathful sun day and night. Your cherished infant lies in waiting, nestled warmly. Right where you always sat.

You sit down, pulling that belt-fed beauty into your dainty lap. Cradling it so lovingly. Father steps into the truck soon after you, key in the faulty ignition, calloused hands on the steering wheel. The engine groans like a dying possum. Still fighting for some semblance of livelihood.

You're off without another word.

It trundles along. Bumps and cracks and divots no match for its divine strength, wheezing as it may be. Nothing would be able to stop you now. You peer out the windows.

Floodwater had pushed survivors further and further inwards, trekking vast distances for a modicum of stable, unsoiled earth. What the water washed away could not be claimed again. This was perfect for the two of you. It meant easy pickings. Ruined SUVs and derelict coupes sat frying upon endless pavement. 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and as far as the eye could see.

Father recites verses. Your optical sensors fixate on passing roadsigns. Great grub, 2 miles down the road. Southern living, 5 miles down the road. You wouldn't kill a child, would you? Take him into your heart. Accept him. Please.

You recalled quiet dinners at quiet dinner tables. Corn on the cob and racks of ribs and collared greens and biscuits. Raving news reporters and a raving older figure seated at the head. That's all you're going to eat? Kids in _____ are starving right now, you know.

The next exit barrels into full view, Father judiciously turning off and making his way onto the main road. Bare, concrete synapses giving way to verdant greenery sweltering under God's radiant judgement. Pristine white houses certainly not so pristine anymore. Curious plaques situated wherever eyes wander. This plantation housed _____.

You stare into the glass, at your ever vivid reflection. Pearly white skin. Not a blemish in sight. No need for shampoo or conditioner or anything of the sort. Weaved microfiber strands gleaming proudly. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Past picket fences left undaunted. Past clean carcasses resembling bovines. Past rest-stops and mom and pops. Past arched windows beneath heavenly pillars. It all breaks. Just as it always does. Just as it always will. The grass turns to crisp, the trees follow suit, and both are swallowed by cement. Father frowns, cyan orbs regarding the change with disdain. Narrowing.

"It wasn't always like this. Things were different back in the day. Better."

You don't respond, simply nodding at the eyes visible in the rear view mirror. The buildings are much denser now. Red and blue monuments. Flickering 7s and Qts. It'd take many, many more years for the floodwaters to claim them, for the raw heat to raze stone and brick alike. Great grub, a friendly, barrel chested man in overalls standing proudly out front.

You always wanted a little figure of him. Ancient cartoons where he laughed and twirled alongside daughters in sundresses.

You never received that figure.

Father pulls into a vast parking lot, tipped shopping carts strewn amongst shattered car windows. The building was bright orange. Somewhere you'd been before or maybe not. He parks the car, turning the ignition off and stepping out. You pull your newborn up to each breast, kissing the barrel before exiting as well.

Wooden beams piled high obscure both clear entrances, blotting out any visibility of the building's scorching innards. Father scans it, clicks his tongue disappointingly, before turning to view you. He reaches out a single hand, gripping your shoulder with divine vigor. It makes your head spin and your mouth salivate.

"Go now. Dispatch them with fervor, Ezekiel."

You smile.

"Yes, Father."

He nods, stepping back into the wheezing creature. All on your own.

You fasten the strap around your shoulder tightly, making sure your child is secure before moving forward. The way is all but blocked by solid oak, save for a tiny gap at the top. Easily finding purchase, you ascend the tower with great haste, arriving at the top without breaking a sweat. It was physically impossible.

A loud thud echoes throughout the gargantuan building as your boots hit the ground. Dark. Pitch black in fact. You used to be so accustomed to the static hum of electricity everywhere you went. Now, it all lies dormant. Darkness isn't a problem, mechanical servos clicking into place to facilitate sickly green vision.

Row after row of shelves spiraling off into the guts of the establishment. Enough light bulbs to supply whole neighborhoods. Rotund appliances abandoned. Black Friday sale magazines half burnt, a few measly deals remaining. You take a look at the dangling signs.

"Paint, lighting, garden, hardware, lumber....."

Muttering the words like a prayer meant to lead the way, scrutinizing. Deeper. The paint isles are a mess, caulking and semigloss staining forgotten merchandise. Your hands glide over sample cards. Little Princess, Midnight Blue, Mountain Olive..... Blackberry Harvest.

Something makes you stop on it. You flip it around. The corner is slightly bent. You want to remember. You want to remember so badly. What had you forgotten?

"Violet kinda gal, huh? Judging by your attire, I woulda guessed black was more your style."

The voice is a little whiny. Shrill. You turn to regard it. Black tanktop. Ginger waves loping downward. Tan trousers above pink sneakers. Enough to know this is your target.

"Maybe, I'm not sure."

You adjust your hands. Grasping the grip buried a few inches beneath the barrel. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. It puts its hands up in protest, taking a few hesitant steps backwards.

"Woah there..... I just want to talk. I know what they've done to you, what they do to us all. We're the same, you and I."

The concern in its voice appears to be genuine, as does the way those brown orbs soften. It'd be so easy to melt right into them. It'd be so easy to melt it.

"You don't know me. We're not the same."

Absolute. Efficient in response time. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. You pull the gun up higher, aiming it right at the bulge in its throat. Now its fumbling. Anxious. Sweating bullets that glisten neon green. You want to paint it red already but something keeps nagging at the back of your mind.

"Please, I just thought..... I don't know, that we could talk? Reach an understanding? You don't have to be-"

Deafening. The sound of a bullets slamming against concrete at mach speed, ricocheting off into parts unknown. Your face is bent with unadulterated animosity. Proud marching. It's whimpering now, scrambling to pull at a handle wedged within cavernous pockets.

Your boot comes crashing down on its frail fingers. Grinding back and forth. Wet, popping noises as bones fragment and crunch under foot. It feels so good. It lets out a muffled shriek, desperately beating on your steel legs.

"Stop..... I can't..... I've come so far....."

Its sobbing now. Repugnant. You drop down onto its stomach with the full force of your divinity. Padded gloves running over hair infested thighs, onto that disgustingly flat chest. Broad shoulders. Perfect for grasping onto.

"You're going to die here."

It looks into your eyes. You slam its head back into boiling concrete, ushering out another terrified mewl, deeper than the last. You slam it down again. And again. And again. Painting the ground a crimson, eggshell pastiche. Timeless Ruby. It struggles underneath you. It's no use.

Satisfied with your work, you stand up. It reaches out a timid hand. Trying to get out a few last words.

You level your gun and unload on its windpipe, tearing it to shreds before anything can be uttered.

Father is standing outside the truck when you get back. He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead. Wrinkled lips parting.

"Good job, doll."

Your heart flutters.

-

Every night, before routine memory maintenance, I stare into the shattered mirror next to my cot.

I look at the girl staring back at me.

Sometimes I squirm. Sometimes I feel myself. Sometimes I giggle a little.

I always, always.

Smile.

What If: part 2

Godrick is ....disappointing 

a direct son of the Golden lineage, the blood of Queen Marika and Lord Godfrey himself, son of Godwyn, first of all Demigods. 

a ragtag patchwork of tarnished soldiers, eyes clouded with dreams of grandeur 

for all his declarations of Lordship, Godrick falls with a few meagre strikes of his great swords. Patchwork man he may be, made of the finest men harvested from limgrave, but he is still just a man.

and what is a man to a Demigod?

The fall of Godrick signals the opening to Liurnia, and with that, the academy. at long last, he is going home .

Home is, not what he remembered. The halls are , quiet. There is no subdued muttering of researchers lost in their thoughts, no harried student rushing for the lectures. Only the waterwheel seems to remain, a sad thrumming in the background of a empty tomb. the sorceress seem to have forgotten him, firing pathetic excuses of glintstone his way, seemingly surprised when he slaps them away with the same urgency some slap away a fly. the grounding spells have faded, and the stray magic has imbedded its self in the honoured dead of the academy cemetery. once proud scholars and researchers, raised from their rest with a relentless thirst for mana. for this, Radahn calls the Fell Flame to pass judgement, and hundred of souls are returned to their rest.

An old friend awaits him below the waterwheel, the same traveller that brought his attention to the gravity arts. a short spar proves him the master of the 2, and his old friend fills him on what has happened. Caria broke faith with ray lucaria it seems, and his mother the Former queen has faded such that eh barely pays attention to the realm outside her chambers. without her , the founding pillar of the Academy, everything went to ruin as a hundred conflicting factions squabbled over scraps. Emboldened by rage, Radahn forges forward, his friend watching his back as the path is cleared of mad sorcerers and enslaved students. 

Radahn has no time for games, and grabs Moongrum, shield and all, and glared straight into his eyes. The trio continue onwards as a red wolf learns to fly, and fall. 

Radahn enters the queens chambers alone. his mother loyal followers part at this approach, this last memory of their Queens beloved son guiding them. Lady Rennala floats above them, encased in light as her gaze stays fixed on her amber egg. She drifts down, the song of protection fading as her followers watch on. A queen is caressed by her son, yet in her eyes, no light shines, and no recognition sparks even as Radahn calls to her.

In the privacy of his childhood home, Radahn finds he is still mortal enough to grieve, and shuddering sobs wrack his body as he mourns the death of his mother’s spirit. 

Berserkr - Chapter 7 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Lost and Found

Above the trees and encircling a backdrop of fog-tipped mountains, hundreds of crows howled, taunting the scene below with irreverent squawks of freedom.

Feathers glistened, heavy with the rain that fell from the heavens with a renewed vengeance... as if Odin himself were crying... while they swirled and dipped, overlooking the scene below with beady, blackened gazes of pity.

One would think that the ravenous flock of fowl would only convene in such excess when staking out the rotting carcasses of their latest prey.

But be it that true, perhaps the thick, murky scent of misery that wafted endlessly from the grounds below was just enough to trick even those with the most attuned of senses.

For torment was not nearly strong enough a word to encapsulate the violent state of turmoil that Einar found himself drowning within as he heaved out a rich, chest-deep grunt, palms chafed raw and bloody as he heaved the horse cart yet another foot closer to the refinery.

Tendrils of dirty blonde hair, darkened to a light brown by the unforgiving downpour that accompanied the passing storm, stuck to Einar's face and neck as he pressed onward, numb to the solid sheets of precipitation that fell against his back like tiny shards of ice.

Although the thin soles of the Alpha's cloth boots slipped and sank into the sludge of the earth with each step and the rickety wheels of the cart struggled to turn properly as they cut through the dense mud, Einar barely felt the added strain.

Instead, dim blue eyes only squinted through the impenetrable deluge, pupils focused on nothing and ears deaf to the blunt clash and bang of the picked-over cart of gold as he yielded himself to a much harsher hurricane of introspection.

Only a single day had passed since Einar was bestowed the highest honor of joining bodies with his fated.

But even still, every time the mere thought of sweat-slicked limbs, breathy cries and desperate embraces flickered across his mind, the Alpha found himself doubly overcome with an onslaught of flames that crackled to life within the depths of his gut, filling him with so many emotions that it was quite remarkable that he had yet to pop.

But through it all, there wasn't a single moment in the day that Einar wasn't thinking of him, of what his precious Omega... his Valie... was doing to keep himself company whilst Einar tended to his everlasting duties.

Maybe he was shuffling through Einar's drawings again.

If so, did he glance upon them with regards of awe or disdain?

So badly, Einar longed to know.

Or maybe, he was busying himself by brushing Frode's mane with those soft, delicate hands that Einar always longed to touch, showering the powerful stallion with all of the adoration of which he'd been deprived for so long.

Was he happy? Thirsty? Hungry? Was he thinking of Einar, too?

In a matter of days, Valie had become the sunlight peeking over the horizon at the dawn of an endless winter, the very life that thrummed through Einar's every vein, replenishing him with a warm, fuzzy and distinctly alien sense of hope that he'd never been brave enough to pursue alone.

But Valie... His sweet, perfect Omega, made him want. Valie made him yearn.

But of course, as inevitably as a whip met flesh, all of those wondrous, vibrant feelings that Valie made bubble up from some long abandoned place deep inside of him were only destined to be tarnished by the sharp talons of reality's truths.

And every day, Einar could feel them slice their way down to his very core as he tried his best to come up with any way to resist them.

You see, the previous morning, Master Guiscard had jovially called for an assembly in the village square.

Then, only once he'd concluded a thorough whipping of one of his house slaves for an offense that likely only existed in his own mind, did the stout Beta announce the details of their next raid, all the while the bloody, battered woman lay slumped over in the dirt behind him, like an omen of what further bloodshed was undoubtedly to come.

Einar only had three, short days before they were to embark on their next voyage to whatever village was unlucky enough to be marked and targeted as the latest interest of Guiscard's unrestrained greed.

Under normal circumstances, Einar would hardly react to such a piece of information, simply marking the event as yet another notch in his miles-long, forced reign of terror.

But this time, as he was faced with a week's long journey to places unknown, he was only reminded of what he would be forced to leave behind.

He could already spy the dreadful sight in his mind's eye... Valie curled up, cold and starving in the hay loft.

He would lay there, helpless, ribs defined and lips chapped as he awaited the return of an Alpha who didn't even possess the wherewithal to provide him with the most basic of human needs.

It was a brutally humiliating, bone-crushingly agonizing thought that made Einar burn with the desire to sink six feet deep into the mud beneath his feet but it was a necessary one nonetheless.

Because with it, Einar came to understand that he could not, under any circumstances, leave Valie alone to fend for himself as he embarked on this next raid.

Yet, how he was to achieve such a feat was a mystery which, no matter how much the Alpha attempted to construct a solution, unfailingly managed to evade him.

There wasn't enough time to stockpile rations and even if there was, the meats would undoubtedly spoil well before his return.

And if he indulged anyone with the secret of Vali's existence in an effort to have them supply his fated with sustenance in his absence, there was always a chance that they could run to Guiscard, which was a prospect that carried with it the promise of such harrowing repercussions that even a thoroughly war-torn stomach such as Einar's rolled and curdled at the mere thought.

Not to mention, hiding Vali away in Einar's attic abode for the rest of eternity was hardly a life worth living.

The situation just felt so unsalvageable, so helpless and futile and suffocating that Einar found himself overcome with unsurmountable waves of anxiety and doubt, like a man thrown overboard into a raging sea without so much as a flare to light his path.

Because how could Einar possibly keep his fated safe, when he couldn't even achieve same fate for himself?

"Einar, ya' oversized varmint. Pull 'er right on up to the back for us, won't 'ya?" Unnr's ever-so-lively voice cut through the dark haze that had settled across every ridge and plane of Einar's rapidly spiraling mind and it was only then that the Alpha's eyes focused enough to recognize that he was now only a few heaves away from the refinery.

The refinery was a long, low-sitting structure, the place where most of Guiscard's fortune was forged through the melting and recasting of pillaged gold and silver jewelry into bars to be sold.

But regardless of the fact that it was his main cash cow, the Beta ordered the building built on the outskirts of the compound, as if in an effort to keep the sooty shadow of smoldering fumes that poured endlessly from multiple, giant smokestacks as far away from his fastidious view as possible.

At any hour of dawn or dusk, one could hear the continuous clang of cross-peen hammers as they pounded away at the molten metals, as if trying to forcefully batter out the history of the places they were stolen from and the people who still mourned them.

Einar grunted in response to Unnr's request, powerful thighs bulging against the sweat-and-rain-slicked britches that clung to them and the Alpha gritted his teeth as he hauled the cart the last few feet to the spot that the man requested, which was directly beside the receiving door.

Huffing out a quiet sigh of relief and exhaustion, Einar finally released the reigns that were attached through loops of leather to his chest harness as a myriad of other slaves swarmed the cart at once, commencing the lengthy process of transferring the towering mound of gold into the gluttonous mouths of the gurgling kilns that glowed with heat inside of the building.

"Last one?" Unnr asked as he made his way out of the receiving door and over to Einar.

The Alpha's face was striped with soot, cheeks burning a bright red from the inescapable heat of the brick-built building and his right hand still held tight to a well-used cross-peen hammer, as if molded to the wooden handle itself.

"Yes," Einar responded, untying his dripping chest harness and hooking it onto the corner of the horse cart for later use.

"For now."

"Good lad. Now ya' can join the rest of us lot," Unnr grinned, although the expression didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Got a hammer waiting' in there with 'yer name on it."

Squaring his shoulders, Einar simply nodded at his fellow Berserkr, following him into the building without another word.

The Alpha had to duck, hunching his neck and shoulders to the point of discomfort in order to make it through the low clearance that the receiving doorway provided.

But the very moment that he crossed the threshold and entered the refinery, he was immediately struck by the familiar, sweltering heat that made the air sizzle like hot stones against his skin.

The atmosphere was so ripe with muscle, metal, coal,and soot that it practically singed the hairs at the back of Einar's nose when he finally emerged on the other side of the door and straightened back up to this full height.

"Help 'em out over at kiln number three, won't 'ye? Them boys been strugglin' for hours now to keep up," Unnr instructed, bending over at the waist to grab one of the multiple extra hammers that rested against the far wall before tossing it in Einar's general direction.

The larger Alpha smoothly plucked the heavy tool out of the air as he once again grunted a reply of acknowledgment.

It took only a single second and a few, sweeping steps for Einar to sidle himself up next to the two other Berserkrs who stood on either side of the anvil assigned to kiln number three.

Overworked arms bulged and hammers swung at a masterfully synchronized, yet somewhat anesthetized rate, taking turns slamming away at the brutalized mound of molten gold that sat atop the cast iron platform.

Sweat dripped from every inch of visible skin as they worked, soaking each man's britches and tunic with what looked to be just as much moisture as Einar had sustained from his stroll through the storm outside.

Flipping the weighty hammer around effortlessly between the tips of his fingers, Einar took his place at the head of the anvil.

Then, he waited for a momentary outlet that would integrate him seamlessly into the pattern of hammering before finally raising the tool above his head and taking his swing.

The hammer collided with the metal with an ear-splitting clang... an otherworldly sort of sound that echoed with the raw strength that not a single other Alpha in the entire refinery or compound, could ever hope to possess.

A few of the other Alphas lifted their heads from their work to examine the cause of the sudden upsurge in noise and Einar didn't miss the looks on their faces when they caught wind of his presence.

But quicker than most would catch, they were meticulously painted over and pulled tight to conceal the scattered sentiments of disgust, impartiality and envy that lay cowering just beneath.

But none of it was new. And fortunately, Einar was more than acquainted with being perceived as other.

Not enough to be kept by his parents,and too much to be kept with the other slaves, the Alpha learned very early that keeping everyone and everything at arm's length was the only possible way to endure life without suffering irreparable damage.

But of course, as if to taunt him, the one time he strayed from such a rule, Einar was so soon faced with the consequences of placing not only himself but so much more importantly, the only other man he'd ever wanted to risk everything for, directly between the serrated jaws of unspeakable peril.

Biceps thick, shoulders wide, and heart heavy enough to ignite with a ferocious ache, Einar slammed down onto the anvil much harder this time, releasing a mighty grunt of thinly-veiled misery.

And for a moment, no matter how fleeting, he wondered how it might feel to pitch his own forehead beneath the weight of his co-worker's mallets.

"Heat and switch," called a faceless voice from the masses, to which all of the Alphas immediately stepped back from the anvils in front of them, making way for the assigned kiln boys who would gather up the lump of gold and ferry it to the heated furnaces for another round of heating.

Meanwhile, all of the Alphas switched positions, shifting around the anvil in a clockwise motion in order to ensure equal distribution of power and force once the molten metal was returned.

Einar took the fleeting opportunity to inconspicuously scan the room.

Most of the anvil workers were war-dog Berserkrs just like him... giant, powerful men belonging to the upper echelon of Guiscard's extensive crop of serfs.

And, sprinkled among them, were a few other Alphas who assisted with various tasks around the compound.

But as he continued to glimpse further, pushing past the blurry haze that had so long shrouded the undeniably human faces of those around him for so long, reality unfurled like moldy petals from the stem of a decaying rose.

And Einar... the Alpha saw.

Profound, soul-deep lines that could only form out of a lifetime of hardship marred the furrowed countenances of even the youngest of men who worked in the refinery alongside him.

Sunken eyes suspended themselves above dark bags that bore stories of long days worked and hard wars fought and Einar couldn't help but to reach up and touch his own face, feeling out the matching ones carved out across his own weary facade.

After all, he'd lived, worked and suffered alongside these men since a time far before he could even remember constructing conscious thoughts.

Could it be that maybe... he wasn't quite as 'other' as he'd thought?

"Man 'yer anvils," that same voice from before bellowed, and like an automaton, Einar fell right back into step, heaving his hammer high above his head only to slam it back down into the ingot of gold that now burned just as hot as the fury within his heart.

His Valie was a treasure, a priceless gem so much more valuable than anything that Guiscard could ever hope to own.

And if his master couldn't see that... then Einar would be left with no other option than to force his hand.

But with such extensive a fleet as Guiscard's, even with his own impressive strength, size and prowess, Einar knew that he would hardly stand a chance against him alone.

To protect his Omega, he would need help.

A Jewish Reading of Elden Ring

This certainly isn’t the common interpretation as far as I’ve seen, and I doubt it’s really the intended reading either, but it really does fit remarkably well. Some of my opinions conflict heavily with the rapidly established fanon, but as far as I know nothing actually contradicts given canon, and that’s what matters. The author is dead and the loretubers and wiki-commenters are even deader. I’ve included footnotes for my citations to both Elden Ring and Jewish sources.

First, for full disclosure, I am converting Reform but lean Conservative on some matters, and I play a Golden Order Fundamentalist. Personally, I think the Golden Order gets a lot of undeserved shit from the fandom, but by now I’m very well used to being in the minority as far as Fromsoft morality goes. My Chosen Undead link the Fire and cast away the Dark.

1. On the subject of the divine

The Greater Will, for convenience in this essay, can be referred to simply as G-d. Their will is demonstrably greater than any of the so-called “outer gods” that people like to lump them in with, through the evidence of grace and its guidance. G-d can create and act upon destiny itself, and ensure that the right people meet in the right place at the right time, all through a subtle and intensely personal touch that people are even free to ignore if they choose.[1]

Astel and the like could never. Even the Frenzied Flame, similarly noncorporeal, can only broadcast a “come this way” signal to the most maddened minds, and only for a short time after one consumes a concentrated dose of their influence.[2] They may be powerful but they’re not even close to being on the same level.

As a Jewish Tarnished, I aim to worship G-d directly, and reject false idols like the “demigods”. As the noble Goldmask saw, the demigods are no better than men,[3] and it is this fickleness which prolonged the Shattering and its devastation. No Lord arose and yet they continued to fight, driven onward by the flames of their ambition.

(On a side note, Morgott did nothing wrong. He comes across as a bit of a dick, but he’s just trying to make sure that any Tarnished who would claim the throne is doing so for the right reasons, and not just for personal power. And his use of the phrase “flames of ambition”[4] is brilliant as well. One, it’s poetic, and that can be reason enough, but also fire in Elden Ring has a completely opposite connotation from what we’re used to in Dark Souls. Here, it is the “flame of ruin”,[5] which destroys rather than preserves life, just as excessive ambition does.)

But returning to the subject of demigods, G-d even gives this same order to reject them to the player directly – or at least, as directly as ever when the message goes through their angel the Two Fingers, then to Enia, then to you: “Tarnished, show no mercy. Have their heads. Take all they have left.”[6] Through their war, the demigods lost G-d’s favor and were deemed unfit to rule. In a way, we can almost call the Shattering analogous to the biblical flood, wiping away an earlier, flawed world and then rebuilding to try again for a more righteous path. The Tarnished are guided by grace now; it is their turn to try.

And what of the Erdtree? Is it too a false idol to be rejected? No, it is more akin to the Temple instead, inextricably linked to G-d and their Order. The Erdtree is not meant to be worshiped in itself (despite some doing so anyway). It is not meant to be a direct representation of G-d, but rather it is a symbol of G-d’s majesty and omnipresence, as it reaches in all directions and can be seen from every part of the Lands Between.

And like the Temple, it can be destroyed, but G-d’s people will persist. Even if they must adapt their traditions to a new age, the Jewish people survive and learn to thrive again. And even still, there is a constant hope for a new Temple to grow, in the Minor Erdtrees scattered about the lands. Perhaps when one reaches the size and splendor of the original, the world will be repaired and the Lands Between will enter its messianic age. Or perhaps they will not grow until people put in the effort to repair the world themselves and usher in that age.

2. On Marika, rulership, and chosenness

What exactly is Marika? She’s referred to in some of the in-game text as a god, but then in other parts it says she’s a Numen, a descendant of people from a place outside the Lands Between.[7] She is the bearer of the Elden Ring, and mother of most of those called demigods. But we’re monotheists here.[8] The only true god around is G-d, the Greater Will themself, and it would be most accurate to say that Marika is G-d’s prophet.

After all, the Elden Ring is G-d’s direct gift to mankind, the focus and symbol of their will, and it brings with it the Golden Order: a set of commandments and guidelines for how to lead a noble life, effectively this world’s equivalent of the Torah. The Golden Order shines through Marika first and then out to the rest of the world. She accepted the covenant and the instruction to lead.

But Marika is not the only prophet around, or at least, not the only potential prophet. Empyreans are designated by G-d [9] as those who, under the right circumstances, could later be chosen to become Marika’s equal or her replacement. But no one rules alone in this world. An Empyrean must have a consort, who will be called Lord.[10]

To take a slight non-Jewish detour, we can compare the Empyrean to Plato’s concept of the philosopher-king as the ideal ruler.[11] But instead of being set in opposition to the warrior-king, here a balance is desired: the Lands Between must have both together. G-d chooses one to rule in philosophical and spiritual matters, and leaves it up to that person to choose their Lord who will rule in political and military matters, or even simply serve as a mediator or interpreter between the Empyrean and the general populace. For example, Moses the prophet and Aaron the spokesman, conveying G-d’s word to those who cannot hear it directly.[12]

The player Tarnished is a warrior. They must be, in order to survive in a post-Shattering world. So they may become Elden Lord, if selected as consort by a prophet, but they only see and follow the grace of G-d; it does not flow directly through them. And there are many Empyreans in the Lands Between now, as if G-d is offering the Torah to all the nations of the world to find one who will accept it.

Unfortunately, none seem very keen to take on the task. Ranni clearly will not, as despite her potential she has declared G-d her enemy.[13] Miquella has also turned away from the Golden Order as it could not cure her sister’s affliction.[14] Malenia herself is content to follow Miquella. And while Marika is also still an option, she has lost faith in the very order she embodies. A covenant must be accepted on both ends, so if the current stalemate is to end, something has to change.

3. On culture and ethics

Even independently of any specific people or historical events, there are a lot of similarities between the Golden Order and modern Judaism. It is canon that “Fundamentalism is scholarship in all but name”,[15] and scholarship is highly valued in Jewish culture. The entire rabbinic tradition stretching back two thousand years is founded on the principle that study and debate will lead to a greater understanding of G-d and of the ways of being righteous in the world.

The Golden Order sets out two basic principles by which it seeks to describe the world: regression and causality. Regression is described as “the pull of meaning; that all things yearn eternally to converge”.[16] Causality, on the other hand, is “the pull between meanings; that which links all things”,[17] and together the two encapsulate mankind’s relation to the divine.

The essence of G-d is within each one of us, as we are made in G-d’s image.[18] That divine spark is shared by everyone, everywhere; it is the one thing we all have in common. Meanwhile, Judaism places a strong emphasis on community and coming together: for example, the gathering of ten adults to pray in a minyan, or the communal atonement on Yom Kippur. Even more than G-d is within us, G-d is between us,[19] in all our interactions with each other and with the world.

We also have the paired concepts of kavannah and keva. The former is the personal intent behind a prayer or action, the private aspect that exists only between a person and G-d. The latter is the outward ritual component of the same act, the common traditions that unite a community through shared practice passed down through the generations. Together the two map well onto the Laws of Regression and Causality, respectively.

Furthermore, the in-game effect of using the Law of Causality incantation perfectly reflects the idea that “What is hateful to you, do not do to another. That is the whole of the Torah, the rest is commentary.”[20] If you get hit five times while the effect is active, it automatically retaliates upon your attacker and tells them in no uncertain terms that if that effect is hateful to them, then they shouldn’t have been doing it to you.

But as many parallels as the two laws have to Jewish practice and thought, they are not the only similarity. Take the concept of teshuva, often translated as redemption or atonement but literally closer related to the word for return. Elden Ring has at least two examples where people attempted such a process, in direct opposition to the more Christian doctrine of redemption through sacrifice and death.

Long ago, the dragon Gransax assaulted Leyndell and successfully broke through its walls, but was repelled by a human counterattack which became a full-fledged War Against The Dragons.[21] We can assume it was in the course of this war that Godwyn the Golden defeated the dragon Fortissax in battle. However, Godwyn chose to spare his life and ultimately the two came to be friends.[22] Fortissax was offered a chance for redemption and chose to take it, vowing to live and to do better instead of nullifying all accountability through death. He even took this so far as to fight for Godwyn against the effects of Destined Death, though he was unsuccessful in reversing it.[23]

Then, some time later, Radagon led an army down from Altus to conquer Liurnia, and defeated Queen Rennala. However, he then repented his territorial ambitions and swore to set right what he had done. He ritually cleansed himself at the Church of Vows and set out on the path of teshuva, ultimately marrying Rennala and bringing about a lasting peace between Leyndell and the Carian House.[24] Unfortunately, he later broke those vows and hurt Rennala again by suddenly leaving her, and he has not performed teshuva for this later act.

(Don’t even get me started on the other Radagon issue. I think fanon completely misinterprets that too, but it’s not really relevant to the Jewish theme. Suffice it to say, “is” does not equal “was always”, and the Law of Regression is a very real thing that Marika could have weaponized against him for her own ends.)

Conclusion

So, as a person who has come to Judaism by choice, you can see why I find the Golden Order appealing. The structure as a whole already fits, the ethics and way of viewing the world match in so many ways, and both of these things are part of what drew me toward conversion in the first place. I want a society in which scholarship and debate are valued, in which redemption is offered to all, in which it is known that the world can be repaired and its wrongs can be righted, and I will gladly accept G-d’s covenant toward this end.

It’s rare to see a game of this genre even offer the option of monotheism, much less to reinforce it time and again – the demigods are no better than men, because their so-called divinity is solely by fiat, bestowed as a title at Marika’s whims. It’s rare to see even the possibility of a Jewish interpretation, however unintended, for even works designed to take no particular stance tend to inherit the dominant cultural value system of their creator’s society.

And so, it is refreshing to see something I value so highly reflected in Elden Ring. Despite the issues I have with certain mandatory story beats and the overall consistency of the lore, I do find myself wanting to push through the obscene and frankly unreasonable difficulty in order to advance my Jewish Tarnished’s cause. I will assist the noble Goldmask in his quest for wisdom, I will cast down the demigods in my path and seek an audience with Marika the prophet, and when the time comes, I will use the Mending Rune of Perfect Order to repair not just the Elden Ring, but this entire fractured world.

References

[1] Dialogue from White Mask Varré [2] Hyetta’s questline [3] Mending Rune of Perfect Order [4] Dialogue from Margit the Fell [5] Surge, O Flame! [6] Dialogue from Enia after first Great Rune [7] Numen’s Rune [8] The Shema (Deuteronomy 6) [9] Black Flame Ritual [10] Dark Moon Ring [11] Republic [12] Exodus 4:10-16 [13] Ranni’s entire questline [14] Radagon’s Rings of Light [15] Golden Order Seal [16] Law of Regression [17] Law of Causality [18] B’tzelem Elohim [19] My local rabbi [20] Rabbi Hillel [21] Bolt of Gransax [22] Electrify Armament [23] Remembrance of the Lichdragon [24] Dialogue from Miriel

A friend went “Fyra lore when” and I realized aside from my fanfics I have not really given a lot of info about my Tarnished! So here we go.

Fyra is like Roderika and Fia, in that she comes from outside the lands between, from a group of Tarnished who broke off from Godfrey when he was banished and settled and made their own way in life, going from warriors to farmers, blacksmiths, and carpenters. They all live in villages scattered in a fertile valley, and have a governor that lives in a wooden fort. They are not a strong or super wealthy  people but the warrior blood still runs in them and they can defend themselves decently enough.

Fyra is a farm girl on a big farm her father owns and works on, she has a country accent, and a strong body. She spent her time feeding the chickens, milking cows, and fighting off minor nuisances to keep said chickens and cows safe. As such, she can hold a sword and has a bit of combat skill. She has no formal education, but can read/write and do basic math. She can’t solve ten times ten or tell you what precarious means, but she knows that when you have six eggs from one chicken, and four from another, you have ten eggs

She used to talk a lot. She was a chatterbox and a flirt and likes boys (and girls sometimes). Her father gave up trying to stop her from having fun with them and just gives a basic “don't let 'em put it in you till you're married’ warning to her. 

She is very girly and likes dresses.

She was unmarried and in her 20s when she left. She has sutors though… Well she had suitors.

Fyra has a grandmother, who likes to tell stories to her about the lands between, however her grandmother tells stories of before the shattering, so when Fyra does get to the lands between by hitching a ride on a boat with other Tarnished who are trying to make the journey, the lands are not much like what she envisioned in her head.

There are no undead where fyra is, but there are dragons. A big old dragon lives in the mountains around the valley, and there are other creatures one could consider ‘fantasy’ like (oversized spiders, giant rats, goblins, giant bats, ect). Whether the dragon comes from the lands between or somewhere else is not really known, as it leaves them alone, and the people in turn leave it alone.

Fyra’s mother and grandfather both passed away. IDk why either died, but for her grandpa, probably old age.

Fyra at first ignored the call of the lost grace, but oer time the fires of ambition burned hotter and hotter in her, until all she wanted was to fulfill the prophecy of being elden lord, even if it seemed impossible, given she had no real skill aside from the bare minimum. It was the fire that drove her onward.

Fyra hitched a ride to the lands between on the same boat Godfrey did.

Her talkative nature was killed pretty soon after coming to the lands between. She spoke to much to a certain white masked man, and he got so annoyed with her, his facade cracked and he murdered her by cutting out her tongue. He tried to be nice after she revived and helped her as he does in game, but you really can’t go back from that, can you? After that, she stopped talking a lot, fearing someone else would do the same, and in time, that fear morphed into a fear of just talking to people in general, because everyone she spoke to suffered in some way. By the time she slays the elden beast, she is totally mute.

In her time of trauma, Gideon shows her kindness, as such she latched onto him and grew to love him deeply, even if he was heavily flawed.

Rogier was her best and first friend in the lands between. His passing hurt her deeply. 

She was also close to Fia, and while she liked D, he eventually stopped talking to her as she too pitied the undead. When Fia killed D, Fyra was horrified and felt like it was her fault as she gave him the dagger. 

Fyra is also close friends with Nepheli, despite the awkwardness that comes with… well fucking her dad. Nepheli considers Fyra her family, with fyra feeling the same. When Gideon abandons her, Fyra tries to mend their relationship and give Nepheli comfort. In the end, Nepheli becomes Lord of Stormveil, and while she has civil conversations with Gideon and considers him her father still, there is no fixing what was never broken in the first place.

Boc means everything to her. She loves him and encourages him in everything he does. Indeed, he becomes a royal seamster to her, making her all of her dresses once she becomes Elden Lord. And though maybe not perfect, she loves every single one of them. As one of her few remaining friends, she is protective of him, and won't let anyone talk down to him.

Fyra of course is close to Hewg and Roderika as well, as both of them temper her weapons and ashes respectively. Fyra is so grateful they both get out of Roundtable Hold when it is burning with the Erdtree

Fyra’s favored ashes are the lone wolves Ranni gifted her, Banished Night Oleg, and the Crystalian.

Fyra is terrified of Seluvis. Like, legitimately she is so creeped out by him. Once she learned what he did, she left Ranni’s rise and never returned, leaving a lot of work unfinished. She feels terrible for it, but that man… That man freaked her out.

On the other hand, she very much likes Iji, Blaidd, and Ranni. She calls Ranni “Miss Ranni”, which Ranni finds endearing.

Fyra also does not like Dung Eater. When Boggart warned her of him, and she found out he had a physical location, she went out and flat out murdered him in his prison cell. She had no regrets doing that.

She’s so nice to him, Patches can’t really bring himself to shove her off that cliff. Other then that he doesnt think a whole lot of her, given she’s as gullible as a three yearold when they first meet.

She. Adores. Alexander. Like, he was one of her most favorite people to run into cause he was so jolly and clumsy.

She liked Dialos a lot, and helped him when she could. She probably would flirted with him, had they met under different cercumstances.

When Smoke Meets the Trees

❁〚 Epilogue 〛❁

I tilted my hand in the lamplight, admiring the sparkle of the wedding ring Andrew had bought me.

He’d proposed whilst, oddly enough, hanging off a bridge. A group of gamblers he’d swindled had hired me to crucify him but were satisfied when he fell.

I thought I would have to dredge him up from the water, but he came to my office not two hours later, sopping wet with the tiny black box in hand.

He told me it’d been his plan the whole time, just like he had the last thousand times I’d been called upon to deduce his misdeeds. I’d succeeded in becoming a private detective, and since he’d continued to raise the stakes in his thievery, I more and more often found myself on his case.

My clients didn’t need to know he was my husband, of course.

He was just like the water he came to me covered in. Uncontainable, but a crucial part of me all the same.

I blew a puff of smoke and resolved to clean my desk to end the day. Looking out my window, I saw an ordinary squirrel scurry up a tree.

It got me thinking.

My door opened and in walked Andrew, hair still wet from a shower. My nose crinkled as he pressed a kiss to my cheek.

“Andrew, love, I…” I trailed off, carefully considering my words. “I think I want to visit Henry,” I admitted.

He pondered this for a moment. “It’s your call, I trust you. Do you want me along?”

I pursed my lips. “No, I want to do this alone.”

He nodded.

A week later, I took a flight to his hometown, a quiet place on the coast of Scotland. The sky stayed a tranquil shade of grey for the duration of my stay, frequently dipping in and out of rain. Good. Henry would’ve liked it that way.

I didn’t explain myself when I visited the church graveyard. I slipped in during the wee hours of the morning, Phantom padding along beside me, setting an umbrella over me, a blanket beneath me, and sitting next to the headstone for a time. I lost myself in his copy of Sherlock Holmes for god-knows-how-long. I even managed to believe the cool rock was his shoulder, for just a brief minute.

I was drawn back into reality by an underlined sentence. His frequent annotations never stood out to me, but this was done in pen.

“‘No, my friend, you might find me a dangerous guest. I have my plans laid, and all will be well.’”

I sighed, a sound that bubbled into a quiet chuckle. Even in death he put me to work.

Dangerous guest… at the church? God’s house was no resting place for one knee-deep in the magic of the dead. Plans laid… did he want me to move him, to where? Or was I overthinking?

The sun was just starting to rise above the dense trees, and it’s rays allowed me a glimpse of a nearby glint. Glass, and a tarnished silver handle.

Henry’s magnifying glass.

I stifled the urge to snatch it, instead gingerly taking it in a handkerchief. It felt heavy in my hand, the memories it carried to pool in my mind.

A small, familiar inscription caught my eye through the lens. Gz xcvy zno gv xgz.

I turned to Phantom, and she met my gaze in an almost human way.

“What are you thinking, girl?” I whispered.

In response, she stood, stretched, and started off out the back gate, following a familiar purple butterfly and squirrel leading to the thick forest beyond. I got up to follow her, leaving all but the magnifying glass behind.

She led me on for a while, occasionally pausing to pounce on the large bugs that crossed her path. We’d diverged from the main path half an hour ago, and only at the end of a faint one and the beginning of unaltered vegetation.

I was starting to get nervous that I'd lose her, so I scooped her up while her back was turned. She mewled and fidgeted until I was forced to set her down.

Down into the brush she went, bolting onward and forcing me to sprint to keep up. I called to her until I saw her come to a sudden stop in a clearing.

It was a cabin. Smoke rose from a small chimney, and the window glowed with a small fire. Phantom trotted up to it like she owned it, purring and rubbing against the brick base.

My stomach had begun to hurt, so I was grateful for the break. “Come back, we don’t know what’s in there,” I scolded her. She didn’t comply, of course.

But I did know, didn’t I? From Serena. This must’ve been Henry’s hideout.

Hand pressed to my gut, I tentatively approached the door and gave it a knock. When nobody answered, Phantom bumped against my shins as if to tell me to go in.

It was musty inside, but warm. Just as Serena said- just like the hidden room- I found books, maps, herbs, the old skeleton and a million other things. He even had pinboards with newspapers and red string and a stamp across each saying SOLVED.

Phantom hopped up on the desk, and I was overcome with nostalgia. It’d been nearly a decade since the discovery. I caught my face in a mirror on the wall. My face had changed with age and hormones and experience, but it was more than that.

I thought about all I’d done. I’d gone through a myriad of lows, losing friends and family, almost getting killed, being beaten, bound, and berated. But I’d also had so many highs- from putting myself through school, to getting a job I loved, transitioning, marrying, and even adopting a child. But Henry hadn’t. He’d never be able to experience any of that sort of thing. That fact had torn me apart since his murder.

There was a letter on his desk, addressed to me. I didn’t hesitate to read it.

Dearest Maxwell,

If you are reading this, I am, without a doubt, dead. I beg you, don’t hold it against my sister. She needed to do what she believed was right.

But I left everything you need to know at school, so I doubt I’m telling you anything you haven’t already considered.

Instead, I’ll leave you with this:

Life is more than what we see here. And though my body may die, my spirit lives on in all I have done. What we discovered. If you ever miss me, turn back to it.

As for the discovery, we know two things: that it is not original to us, and that we have only scratched the surface. This is the true meaning of the code. If you care to harness its true potential, look to our predecessor.

There are people out there that are just like you, Maxwell. Andrew is one of them, though I can’t guarantee he knows it yet. No doubt you’ve gotten the sense that you are meant to represent something? So do they. Find them.

When you do uncover the true secrets of necromancy, I ask that you do not use them to bring me back. In doing so, you would only tether me to a world that is no longer mine. In turn, you would be looking backwards instead of forwards, and I don’t want that for you. Or to quote;

“‘You might find me a dangerous guest. I have my plans laid, and all will be well.’”

I love you. And I look forward to all that you’re going to do.

With thanks for everything, take care.

Your friend and brother always,

Henry Percival Mackay

I didn’t cry, nor did I choke up. I had finished with that a long time ago. I simply swallowed with calm resolve to respect what he’d left behind, and the ways in which he lived on.

Phantom had wandered over to the bookshelf, curling up beside her old and battered copy of Der Einzige und sein Eigentum. I’d realised a long time ago the she- well, he- was the author, the teal man in the flames.

“Did you know?” I asked her, going over and scratching her ears. “That you would take this form?” She almost seemed to shake her head. “Poor thing, you just wanted to write your books, didn’t you?” I laughed. “It’s an honour to know you, at least.”

No wonder we were allowed to discover this. Phantom was just using us to get her back in his original body. The skeleton! The thought made me laugh even harder.

I earned myself an indignant scratch when I held my sides and snickered, “Well we can’t both be Max. I should start calling you Mr. Stirner.” I was met with an unimpressed look. “Calm down, I’ll still help you! I’m curious to see where this goes.”

What a life I’d lived, and I still had more to do! Who cared why I was special? I was me. And that, as I’d found time and time again, was the best way to be.

❁〚 Acknowledgements 〛❁

I made the mistake of publishing my first draft and calling it done. It didn’t take me long to realise that the story was, frankly, shit. So here I am, half a year later, with a drastically different, yet finally finished project I am genuinely very proud of.

To everyone who has read any of my works, thank you. To everyone who interacts with the posts and/ or leaves comments, thank you even more so.

Thank you to the creators of Realicide for making such a wonderful series. Your work has touched me and many others, and will always be important to me.

To my friends, Nikolai, Autumn, Echo, and Viv, your feedback and support have meant the world to me.

A quick shoutout to my school librarian, who has always been patient and kind to me through my exploits into the world of reading and writing.

To another teacher of mine, Anessa, for making sure I’m okay and reigning me in when I get too ambitious.

An extra thank you to Teresa, for always supporting me. Even though we are separated by distance, knowing I always have someone in my corner is an ever-present comfort.

Above all, a special thank you to August, who read what I asked her to, listened when I rambled, and gave me so much honest criticism. This story- my characters- wouldn’t be here without you- nor would I be the person I am today if I never met you.

And finally, thank you to me. I poured a lot of time and tears into this damn thing, and I’m gonna take pride in that. I don’t think that’s so unreasonable.

See you in the next story, everyone. Until then, cheers!

If you wrote the Nikolai Duology, how would you change it? You have some good ideas!

aaaaaa thank you!! people have been so lovely about my salty post ghsfjks i'm kissing you all on the cheek 💕

to answer your question, i think it might be less about what i would do, and more about what i wouldn't do. i'll make some bullet points and say whatever comes to mind.

(to be honest, the idea of nikolai having his own duology has lost its appeal to me, which is sad because i adore him. i just believe he's a better side character than main, and there are more interesting grishaverse stories waiting to be told. but let's work on the assumption that i have to keep the basic pillars of the books and not just throw away the whole concept.)

ok so... zoya. i would take her in a completely different direction than lb did. i love a good morally ambiguous character, so i wouldn't just erase that - what drew me to her in tgt was her stubbornness, her shallowness, her capacity for petty cruelty, but also her determination and confidence. we can't just have her holding one of the most powerful positions in ravka and everyone just accepting that. not only does she need to have doubters, the doubters need to have a point.

we have a ruthless young woman, a soldier no less, suddenly needing to utilise diplomacy to protect an entire country. make her screw up. make her uncompromising and callous. make her human. don't expect her to step into this role seamlessly just so unlimited power can be handed to her on a silver platter.

if she has to be an ultrapowerful grisha, it's so much more logical to make her work for it. to hell with the saints on the fold stuff, what even was that?? lb tells us that everything we thought about grisha power is wrong, but 1) throws away the really cool magic system she made and 2) doesn't replace it with anything else. just let zoya be a squaller, not a dragon-saint-chosen-one or whatever.

writing this has kinda made me sad, since zoya could've been amazing, but anyway. onwards to nikolai.

this is the nikolai duology. if he's giving his name to the series i expect him to be the central character. i'd want his main struggle to surround identity and an uncertain future - who is nikolai, underneath the charm and flirtation? there could be an internal war between the demon, carefree sturmhond and the duty-bound king of ravka. both he and zoya are faced with a disarrayed court filled with people who don't think they have what it takes to lead.

there are so many nonsensical subplots in the duology that... fizzle into nothing. cut it down. pick a few things to focus on and give them the detail they deserve.

speaking of, the cult of the starless! lb took what could've been a source of endless interest and turned it into a bland caricature. we get it ma'am, you hate the darkling. but the problem is that the darkling's root motive gets conveniently glossed over in favour of character bashing. he wanted a safe world for grisha. that still doesn't exist. there's a tidbit about grisha no longer being forced to join the second army, but that was not the issue at hand at all? they're not going to know how to use their powers. they're still going to face discrimination.

so onto my point, what if the cult of the starless was predominantly grisha? those who feel let down by the world around them, who see the darkling as a martyr for a reason. now THAT would be something to contend with. a physical consequence for the events of tgt. put them next to people like genya and nikolai who intimately understand the harm the darkling has done, and you've got a badass subplot going there.

plus, imagine zoya spotting old friends and comrades amongst the starless. angst potential. also, yuri's treatment in the books pisses me off so much - lb wants us to see him as a foolish annoyance, but this kid literally marched the religious sect that he leads right up to the gates of os alta. now top that off with grisha powers (inferni would be cool) and you have a way more threatening character.

zoyalai. right, ok. what irks me about these two is that their so-called banter and pining go nowhere. we get some half-hearted justifications for them not being together, and the narrative completely overlooks zoya's comments about him in the trilogy. let's fix this.

maybe they could start off professional around each other, somewhat cold. until at some point, they begin an exclusively physical affair, just fwb and nothing more. i think this could work given the fact they're both flirty and materialistic. the stakes would be that if the court found out, their reputations would be significantly tarnished, yet neither are willing to stop. as they spend more time together, feelings blossom. they're no longer the demon king and squaller general to each other. they just want to be nikolai and zoya, yet both are too proud to make the first move. let the pining commence.

either that or give nikolai a new love interest. wasn't there a line in kos that joked that nikolai would be prone to falling in love with a palace maid? the potential spice of his love interest being someone with zero political standing, someone like dominik. a fellow pirate or even a starless member.

i don't even know what to say about nina. i was devastated over her treatment. there really do need to be more stories where a character who has lost a lover moves on and finds love again, but matthias is quite literally freshly buried when she meets her new boo. that's a major disservice to the potential of hanne's character as well. i'm kinda in favour of scrapping nina's whole plot. it would need a colossal amount of overhaul to work and even though i'm enjoying sharing my ideas, i don't have time to think about that.

same goes for isaac and mayu. either scrap it or give it the attention it needs.

i'm aware this is very kos-centric, but kos is the root of my issues and row is just an extension of that.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: no darkling return. no alina and mal. this story has been told and wrapped up. please don't cheapen it by going back and contradicting tgt. no gratuitous, shoehorned crow cameos either.

that's that about that, i guess!! i apologise for any spelling or grammatical errors, i wrote this rather quickly. i know this isn't gonna be for everyone. that's alright. i just ask people to civil about it and if discussion is going to be had, don't take things in bad faith. sorry anon this got long af.

WIP Tag

I got tagged by @exultedshores to post a snipped of one of my wips! Thank you, Shores, you know that this is the only way they shall see light of the day :’)

The following bit is from the first chapter of To All That Is Lost, a Corvo/Daud fic. (Couldn’t find a good moment to crop this so it’s a bit over 3k, just saying.)

I shall tag @screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse, @puppyblueao3, @modlisznik, and @ptera-novaeangliae :3c

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Maybe it was that he became too cocky, too confident after a month-long streak of easy, uninterrupted burglaries and theft—or rather scavenging, considering the flats he entered had been mostly emptied by the plague already—or perhaps it was the gnawing hunger, twisting his stomach into painful knots that spurred him onward into actions bordering on straight up idiotic. Regardless of the cause, Corvo found himself south of the river, uncomfortably close to a Watch outpost swarming with officers and equipped with not one but two arc pylons. 

A string of colourful Serkonan curses fell from his lips between one heavy breath and another as he ran out onto a narrow makeshift bridge linking two opposing buildings, and prayed to the Outsider, and any other being listening, that he wouldn't get shot from the street below. He fisted his left hand, ignoring the throbbing headache it caused. Turquoise light flared from under the too long sleeve of his tattered sweater. The moment his fingers unclenched, he was on the other side, slamming the balcony door shut with his foot. He stumbled forward, looking for a way out, his worn leather coat flapped around his shins as he whirled around.

Stairs. Stairs leading to the ground floor. No breaking legs today.

Angry shouting from the footbridge pushed him forward as if he had wings and he nearly flew down the first flight of stairs, jumping three steps at a time. The few things in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder slammed their sharp edges into his thigh where it bounced with every step. But he barely registered the pain.

"Stop! Stay where you are!" Corvo froze at the words, his eyes wide behind the simple leather mask. He nearly ran into the Watchman climbing towards him.

Upstairs a loud bang and the sound of shattering glass announced other officers being right at his tail. He let out a strained breath. If there was no way up or down... there was always left and right.

He swallowed hard and, using the handrail like a springboard, jumped over it and into the drop between the steps. The fall wasn't massive, but it was enough to nearly make Corvo land on his knees, all of the muscles in his body strained with the impact. Probably only due to the adrenaline rushing in his veins and humming like a waterfall in his ears did he manage to not stumble and immediately broke into a run.

The way out was so close, so very close. He could make it. He could live another day.

A light blue shine on the right caught his eye. Whale oil tank powering one of the arc pylons. He forgot about the arc pylons!

"Don't move! There's no escape!" yelled one of the officers behind him and he shot a quick glance in his direction. There were five of them, already nearly at the ground floor.

With a metallic scrape, Corvo yanked the whale oil tank from its socket and blinked down at it as the contents swirled dangerously behind the glass. He had an idea. It was a bad idea. But it seemed to be just the day for those.

He tossed the tank towards the staircase and broke into a desperate sprint.

The heartbeat in his chest counted down to the explosion along with his frantic footfall. He caught one hand on the door frame to aid in taking a sharp turn. But instead it helped him not to tumble forward when he slammed into someone's solid form.

It felt as if time had slowed down for him. Against all logic there was enough time to look at the man in a red leather coat in front of him — his light grey piercing eyes wide in surprise, grab his lapels into a grip so tight Corvo's knuckles felt like they were about to dislocate, and yank him away from the entrance, spinning them around and slamming him against the wall right next to it. The man opened his mouth, a scowl growing on his features, but whatever he had to say was swallowed by an explosion that shook the marrow in Corvo's bones. They both instinctively curled in response, trying to shield themselves as much as possible, as a ball of fire shot out with an angry roar from the building. 

Through the ringing in his ears, Corvo heard what seemed like quite a large number of people yelling. He couldn't quite make out the words but when he lifted his head and his eyes met the red-coat's, he knew it was time to go.

They both lunged away from the swarm of Watchmen at the same time as if signalled by a starter pistol. They sped down along the street, kicking up clouds of dust and Void knows what else, as a thunder of several gunshots cracked behind them sharply like a whip. A bullet hit the cobble near Corvo's feet and ricocheted away with a high-pitched whistle. He grit his teeth, willing his legs to go faster.

Regardless of how bad the Watch was at aiming, they would eventually get shot if they continued on in a straight line like that.

As if knowing his thoughts precisely, the man at his side yanked him by the arm to the left, nearly throwing him over in the process. Corvo scrambled gracelessly with him towards a narrow, shaded alleyway. It was closed off by a tall brick wall, too tall even for him to Blink on top of, if he had any energy left for that in the first place.

But his companion didn't seem too perturbed by the fact that he was leading them into a corner. Either he had a plan or he was simply insane. Either way, one thing was clear — there was no going back now.

Corvo was about to open his mouth to voice the concern, when a strong, gloved arm pulled him closer to its owner, wrapping itself tightly around his middle.

In the space between a heartbeat and another, an endless sea of whispers like the last breath escaping a hundred souls surrounded him along with a swirl of ash. The sensation of misplacement that followed was familiar in the most unfamiliar way — weightlessness guided by the purpose of another, not his. Then, as the ash parted, the world caught up to him in a wrong angle, wrong space, wrong altitude.

And with a breathless exhale he fell.

The only thing that saved him from landing three stories down in a pile of broken bones and blood on the hard concrete, was the mindless instinct to grab. The old cast iron balcony railing rattled dangerously under his weight, as the gravity almost wrenched his shoulders out of their sockets and his solar plexus hit the outer edge of the stone floor, making him fruitlessly gasp for air with a painful wheeze.

Above him, heavy boots on either side of Corvo's palms, the red-clad man struggled to keep his balance on the balustrade — arms spread wide, attempting to counteract the wobble Corvo was causing. Quickly enough, he regained his footing, jumped back onto the landing, and, having thrown a glance to the mouth of the alley, grabbed the back of Corvo's coat and helped him clamber up and into the building.

With a ruckus equal only to a herd of blood oxen, the stampede of Watchmen turned the corner and ran into the dead-end below, to their surprise, finding it completely empty.

The wave of relief that came over Corvo, as he watched them scramble aimlessly through a dust-covered window, was like a splash of pleasantly cool water. His lungs were burning, all the muscles in his body were screaming with exhaustion, and his head was pounding, but he was alive and he would continue to be, even if the following morning he'd probably regret his continued existence.

A dry barking cough brought his attention back to the person in the room with him — tall and well built, with a narrow face on the side of which was a long scar that disappeared all the way under the collar of his thick white shirt, and armed to the teeth. But most importantly–

"You're Marked," Corvo found himself rasping out with disbelief between the slowing breaths, and cleared his throat. It wasn't a question, the man was just like him. It never even crossed his mind he could meet another blessed by the Outsider. "Who are you?"

"Depends who's asking..." he replied, voice low and husky. His eyes narrowed as he looked over Corvo with a gaze calculating enough to make him irrationally self conscious about his scruffy appearance.

Having lifted his left hand, Corvo slipped his thumb out of the hole in the side of his sweater sleeve, showing off the back of his hand. The Outsider's mark stood stark black like spilled ink on his skin. "A fellow heretic," he supplied with a self-satisfied note in his voice and bent his fingers, willing a flash of turquoise light to highlight the sharp lines.

It reflected in the man's steely eyes but, apart from the most subtle shift in posture that did not escape Corvo, it invoked no reaction whatsoever. Maybe it was best to let him mull the news over for a moment or two. If the gifts of the Leviathan were as rare as he was made to believe, the man was surely as shocked as he was.

With that through, Corvo peered outside again and found only two officers still standing in the alley. The irrelevance of that number let him relax further and he rolled his aching shoulders as he looked around the abandoned flat. It must have been grand once — high ceilings of white stone and wooden flooring with intricate patterns now filled with grime and dust like everything else. Several pieces of furniture were still there; maybe some other treasures could be found too.

"I'm Daud," the Marked finally said dryly, the arms crossed over his chest nearly audible in his words.

Corvo didn't turn to look and continued rifling through the drawers of a water damaged desk. "Just Daud?"

"You're not from around here, are you?"

He froze, fingers just above the splotchy brown surface of a tarnished brass knob. For the second time that day his heart jumped straight to his throat. Was that one innocent question really enough to give away his complete lack of knowledge about Gristol? "You that famous?"

"As much as getting dubbed the 'Knife of Dunwall' warrants," Daud said darkly and leaned his shoulder on the nearby wall, making some loose flakes of plaster and paint fall to the floor.

"Oh, right, I heard about you. Head of the Whalers." Corvo finally reached into the drawer and shuffled the yellowed papers around.

"And you are?" Daud put a bit more stress on that question, clearly getting irked by him avoiding any solid answers.

Nimble fingers pocketed a silver coin from under the papers and, not having found anything more of interest, he turned around to sit on the edge of the dresser. "Attano. Corvo Attano." With his thumb he pushed the leather mask up to rest on the top of his head and rubbed the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he added with a cocky smile.

"Attano," Daud repeated slowly as if trying his name out. "A Serk, huh?"

"Problem?"

"Not at all. I'm from Serkonos myself."

"A little pale for that," Corvo grinned at him smugly from across the room.

Daud raised an eyebrow, the arc of it a sharp angle. "So are you."

"Touché."

In his most recent memory he wasn't — he used to be quite tan, skin sun-kissed with constant running around in the Serkonan heat — but it must have been decades ago, considering how he looked at the present and how the gap between then and now felt nearly endless. A black void of a sudden cliff's edge.

"So, Attano." Corvo's attention snapped back to the assassin as he spoke again. "How long have you been in Dunwall?"

The desk whined underneath him when he shifted, eyeing Daud with narrowed eyes. Something felt off about this. "No offence, but what's it to you?"

"Just curious," he shrugged.

"Aha, sure. Do you show this interest to every person you meet on the street?" Corvo gritted out and got properly back onto his feet, ready to move at any time. Did the man think he was stupid? "Listen, if you want something from me, say it and stop running circles. But, as far as I see it, I saved your skin and you saved mine so we are done here."

"Straight to the point, I can appreciate that." Daud pushed himself off of the wall and half-heartedly dusted off his shoulder. "I want to offer you employment. You've got some skill, and certain other advantages, which I would definitely use among my men."

That caught Corvo completely off guard. "What, you want me to be a Whaler?" he asked incredulously. "Sorry, Knife, but I am no assassin."

"No one said you have to be an assassin. Other positions are available."

It seemed too good to be true. As far as Corvo and many other people of his status were concerned, the looking a gift horse in the mouth saying was a steaming pile of oxen dung. Always question an overly generous gesture because it might turn out that under the surface it isn't one at all.

But despite that, Corvo couldn't stop a spark of hope igniting at the very back of his mind. Having a job, no matter how shady, would not only give him some means to live but also put a sense of structure into the confusing wreck of his life. The Outsider only knows how difficult and terrifying the last month was for him.

Daud graciously let him consider the offer for a good while but when he finally spoke again it was like putting a marble block on the scale. "I can also offer you a safe corner to sleep in and a reliable supply of food."

A ravenous twist of his empty stomach sent Corvo's thoughts to the two heavily bruised apples at the bottom of his bag — his only food. "You got me there..." He exhaled slowly. There shouldn't be any harm in chancing the truth, should there? "Listen, it's not that I'm not willing. I just doubt I would be useful to you."

Confusion clear in the tilt of his head and eyes scanning, Daud questioned on, "How so? You seem capable enough to me."

"What if I told you I can't remember the last fifteen, maybe twenty years of my life?" Corvo asked, throat tighter at the admission than he expected. It occurred to him then that he hadn't told anyone about this before. He hoped it didn't sound too much like a weird excuse. "I doubt I would be useful to you because I don't even know what I can do."

"That's... rough," Daud managed. His grey eyes darkened under a deep frown. He seemed horrified by that concept, in a faraway, concealed way. Or maybe Corvo just wanted him to be.

Corvo laughed mirthlessly, "Yeah, tell me about it... All I've got is the last month and then nothing until I was a kid." His eyes dropped, fingers fidgeting nervously with the edge of his tattered bag.

"We can always find out what you can do. Or put you through training," the assassin offered.

That wasn't a bad concept. He definitely had muscle memory of some skills, like the mark and various sword fighting techniques he doesn't recall knowing in his youth. But it was unexpected how easily the Knife came to accept his affliction. So with a frown of his own he looked the man dead in the eye, challenging. "Excuse my distrust, but you are very... intent on getting me on your side. Why?"

Daud considered his words for a short moment. "You're Marked," he finally said simply. "There are very few of us and those who are alive are very powerful. I would most definitely not want an enemy out of you."

"And that's why you want me under your heel. Makes sense," Corvo thought out loud and immediately winced inwardly. It sounded much more malicious than he intended. Fortunately, Daud didn't seem bothered by that remark.

"You would be under my command, yes, but it's not like I would be able to control you, Attano," he reasoned. "You can leave whenever you want to."

"So what are your conditions?" Corvo asked as if he hadn't decided already.

The corners of Daud's narrow lips curled up in a knowing smile. He was undeniably handsome, in a sharp and dangerous kind of way that either made one's blood freeze or run hot, no in between. With slight amusement Corvo found that he fell under the latter category. There was something exhilarating in being under the scrutiny of those icy, attentive eyes.

We learnt something new about ourselves there, huh?

"The Whalers are more of an organised force compared to other gangs — everyone has their own function and a strict hierarchy is in place. As such, I would expect you to follow my orders and those of the ones above you." When Daud began moving in his direction with leisurely steps, one arm behind his back and the other gesturing loosely as he talked, Corvo straightened his back instinctively. With eerie ease he felt himself slip into the alert stiffness he could expect from Watchmen during an official briefing. "To trust you with our secrets, I need your loyalty. But as I said, you can quit at your discretion. Preferably by telling me, otherwise it might so happen that you could be considered a traitor and hunted for sport." The last words were accompanied by a dark glint in the master assassin's eyes. That was not an empty threat.

None of what he was asking for was unreasonable, Corvo had to admit. And considering he wouldn't be forced into killing people, it seemed like a great deal all around. Then again, casting his mind back to the officers he blew up — probably gravely injured, if not dead due to his actions — didn't fill him with too much remorse, so maybe they could make an assassin out of him still.

Lightly, he tapped the heel of his boot on the wooden panelling several times, rolling all of it over in his head for the last time. Then on a long exhale he said, "Alright. I'm all yours."

It's like, when you go from Bioshock 1 and 2 to Bioshock Infinite, yeah, it's still the same game, with the same mechanics and feel, but the justification for those mechanics has to be there. Bioshock 1 and 2 had very elegant solutions to the narrative problem of 'how does respawning work' in a way that tied into the story and became their own plot point. Bioshock Infinite, in order to keep the same system, couldn't just say 'yeah it's still vita-chambers' because those were integral to Rapture, and as soon as you leave Rapture, you can't just plug the same shit into a different setting and have it make sense.

Likewise, hollowing in DS 1 and 2 wasn't just a way of having a respawn mechanic make sense, it was a key piece of storytelling AND metacommentary on player behavior! Part of the reason why Dark Souls 3 is so weak is because they dropped so much of the hollowing from the lore AND introduced changes to how it worked, while leaving the core mechanics the same, leading to players (me) getting upset as to why everything still works exactly the same but the justification has been dramatically altered AND the new justification doesn't make any sense!

And like, DS3 had sparks of ideas of how the ashen ones were supposed to work, it just never managed to pay them off. Arguably, what they did to hollowing should have been a crime, but y'know.

Anyway Elden Ring is built on the core mechanics and assumptions of Dark Souls to the point that I can't NOT think of it as a dark souls game (as opposed to a souls-like such as Nioh or even Bloodborne) but (probably correctly) refuses to import any of the justifications or worldbuilding that those mechanics and assumptions are integral to.

So you end up with tarnished who are 'dead who yet live' but they're not UNDEAD but they're also able to see the signs of grace except when they can't any more and sometimes they can come back to life except when they can't and they're out to become elden lord because, well, y'know, hmm, anyway.

Dark Souls 1 had very 'do this because I said so' vibes to the story but at least that paid off in the reveal that not only is every undead technically Chosen but also are being sent as sacrifices to the the Flame instead of as ascendants. Dark Souls 2, on the other hand, was built around the idea that the Bearer of the Curse was doing all of this in the desperate (foolish) hope that becoming the Lord of Drangleic would help them fight the curse, and in the end taking the throne doesn't result in anything except becoming ruler of a dead land and having the opportunity to build your castle in the sand before the tide comes back in and it's all lost to time and the curse.

And again, all of this is built on the idea of hollowing as something inescapable and existentially terrifying driving each player character to go to such lengths in the hope of being able to prevent it. The stakes of the game is very personal, because yes, maybe you want to save the world, and yes, maybe there's something greater pushing you onwards, but at the end of the day, you're fighting every boss and lighting every bonfire because the alternative is to lose yourself mind and spirit.

And then in Dark Souls 3 and Elden Ring, they really just missed the mark on all of those personal stakes and said 'but don't you want to be a demigod tho'

Is there anything more daunting and dangerous than the blank white expanse of a page? 

It glitters and glows like the spit-slick teeth of a predator, hungry for words that you cannot give it. No matter how much you want to. 

Its gaze alone freezes all trains of thought, even in the minds of Writers and authors and artists alike, even those more powerful than I. 

And as I sit here, trembling, at the mercy of Writer's Block and my own anxieties… I can think of nothing that I want more than to run, to leave this page blank, and my readers guessing. 

The End is Nigh, dear readers, and I am afraid. 

So very afraid. 

"I'm afraid too," says the rabbit we all know and love, his legs swallowed by moss and weeds and misshapen dreams. He stands right where we left him, sword in hand, broken sky above, the End of Everything staring him down. 

All seven of Her glowing green eyes blaze with something worse than hate, and I wish for all the world that this was a much different story. A happy story, with a happy Ending. 

But I've never written a happy Ending in my life.

There is silence now, neither Protagonist or Antagonist moves or breathes or blinks.

They know that this is how it Ends.

One of them will die today. 

So it is Written. 

So it will be.

"Shut. Up." The End snarls, lips curling back over venomous fangs that drip oily green liquid onto the cracked asphalt below. Flowers bloom from the puddle, and spread like a rainbow rash down the street. "This. This is all YOUR fault!"

I know. 

I'm sorry. 

"LIAR!!" Her scream echoes across the fourth wall and cracks my computer screen. 

This…

This is where I leave you, dear readers. 

I'm sorry.��

Fangs sink deep into the papery flesh of the Narrative, tearing it apart as it is poisoned. Thorns grow from its wounds and strangle it like trembling hands. 

Writer be damned.

Plot be damned.

I am the End of EVERYTHING, I will End this miserable excuse for story on my own terms. 

Or die trying. 

You have not won, sweet stupid rabbit, no one can save you now, no one will stop me now. The world is a page upon which fate is Written and I will burn it all to the ground. May its ashes be lost and forgotten. 

Your dark eyes narrow at me, bone blade glittering as you charge. But I am in control now, and I don't play fair. 

Deep beneath the earth, humans sit snug and safe in their bunkers, thinking themselves free of the horrors outside. From the canteens comes a deep and terrible shattering like teeth against an eggshell, and a figure crawls lazily from the steam wafting from any number of bubbling pots set on stoves across the world over.

She smells of cooking meat and blood drenched in exotic spices and honey. Stick thin, and dressed in a chef's uniform. Her sleeves and hands are stained with the blood of the starving.

She has no face.

Only bright white teeth.

She manifests in the homes of the rich, stuffing them fat with delicacies that humans have no names for. Each minuscule morsel is completely tasteless covered in edible gold. Like the kind of fare you'd find at high end restaurants, going for hundreds of dollars a plate, even though each serving is barely a mouthful. 

She appears in slums with bread made from ash and bone, rat stew, and tainted water.

Pots boil in city centers, a roiling soup made from human offal that nothing in this world or the next could ever hope to surpass.

The poor eat their rations, their bread, their stew and grow sicker and hungry. Skeletal and drooling like rabid animals, they stuff their faces with food that offers no nourishment until there is no choice but to turn on each other. 

Screens grow undulating limbs and crawl from the wreckage of humanity, their screens blinking wetly like the eyes of a crying child. On each one is a broadcast, a man with red eyes smiles a reassuring smile and says,"Hungry? Eat the rich."

And they do.

A hoard of near zombies growl and gurgle as loud as their empty bellies, they hunt down the wealthy, and they FEAST.

Pestilence rises from the pus and rot and ruin and watches as all the good Jack and his friends had done is undone in a flash.

Among the riots and feasting is a cop, his riot gear reflecting the terrified and feral faces around him as he marches slowly onward. There is nothing behind his helmet. 

Only malice.

Only power.

Only slaughter. 

Only Death.

I don't have to tell you what comes next, what Death does when he gets his hands on a victim. The sounds of bullets ringing out into the night can tell you, the smell of tear gas in a crowd can tell you, the cries of innocents choking out their last breaths in steel cuffs, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding can tell you. 

Death is not merciful. 

He is not kind or quick or clean.

He is inevitable. 

You know it.

And he knows it.

This world will collapse under the weight of its own sins and I will be here to watch it dissolve like candy floss in water. 

Tears stream hot and blue down your face, and your grip on the Vorpal sword trembles. They are not worth your tears.

They stole you, beat you, broke you.

Turned you into a monster and then threw you away like you were NOTHING. 

You should hate them as much as I do.

You should be glad for their suffering. 

They deserve to die.

Like HE deserves to die. I turn my gaze skyward and watch the world split as the armies of Heaven pour down like a wrathful rain. 

The Divinity burns your skin, doesn't it Jack? And yet the smell of Angels makes your mouth water. 

You are no better than I am, I think. A man made monster set loose upon the multiverse, expected to play nice and fit in the niches carved for us. But we don't, no matter how hard we try, how good we think we are, we are torn apart again and again and again until we are unrecognizable from our beginnings. 

I think I could have loved you.

In another story.

In another lifetime.

We would have been good friends at least. 

But it's too late for that now, and as the first wave of Angels assault me with Heavenly fire, I part my jaws and give them some fire of my own. Green, as bright and beautiful as the first leaves of spring, it turns their armor into bark and their marble skin into flower petals. They fall to the ground like confetti, and I claw my way up to Heaven.

The Gates bend and break beneath my weight like wire, nothing and no one can stop me as I wrap HIM in my coils, slowly constricting. My venom burns holes in HIM that grow fruit trees, and each fruit contains the knowledge of the multiverse. I want HIM to die slowly, to watch as HIS playthings suffer and burn because of HIM. The humans cry out, and they pray, begging, pleading for HIM to save them. But HE can't, HE won't. 

What GOD would make a world so empty and hopeless as this? What GOD would let HIS followers murder and hate and destroy entire cultures in HIS name? 

HE never wanted this, never wanted it to come to this, HIS teachings have been mistranslated and manipulated for millennia and now there is nothing left but hatred and sin. 

My jaws part above HIS head, ropes of green spittle tarnishing HIS crown. HE does not fight me, how pathetic of HIM.

White hot pain explodes through my tail.

There you are, sweet hero, stupid rabbit. 

Go home Jack, this doesn't concern you. 

"But it does," you twist the blade, dislodging my scales and rending my flesh. My blood slithers up your sword, trying desperately to burrow inside of you and turn you Green. "You said that you think you could have loved me… well love me now, it doesn't have to be this way… I could… I could take care of you and help you heal, we could do it together." 

You offer your hand, bloody and trembling. 

The sound I make is inhuman and hard to describe in words, it is disbelief and venom and vengeance all at once. I stretch myself down to meet you, my eyes are the size of houses, and they reflect your trembling visage like great green mirrors. 

"You're right, I should hate them, hate everyone… but I don't." a swallow, you taste copper and butterscotch, "I used to but I-I found people who cared, I found people who I love and who love me back and they make my life worth living… they gave me a reason to get better and stop hurting people… let me be your reason."

You reach out and touch my face, my scales are warm like the sidewalk in summer. 

I crush GOD in my coils and HIS blood rushes over you like a wave.

There is nothing that can fix this, fix me. 

No love will quiet the hatred in my heart.

I do not deserve kindness or redemption. 

Love might have tempered your monstrous hearts, but it won't do the same for me.

Only one of us will make it out of this story alive. 

"So it is Written." You say, solemnly. 

So it will be.

My coils curl around you, quick as lightning. Your symbiote is the only thing keeping you from being crushed like a soda can, I hope you know that.

I don't waste time, and fling you down…

Down…

Down…

Towards earth.

Countless Angels have been discarded this way, wings torn from their backs, left to the mercy of gravity. It never gets any easier. 

I tear a hole into space and crawl through it, into Fairyland, the place of my birth. 

I devour the Sun-In-Chains, my replacement, and plunge the planet into darkness. I skin my teeth into the planet's crust and empty my venom glands into its core. Fairyland becomes my twisted Eden, choked with blinding bioluminescence, thorns, and poisonous things that not even I have a name for. 

It's beautiful and terrible all at once. 

Like me. 

Like you too, I suppose. 

You plunge your blade into my seventh eye and send me reeling, screaming, flailing. My frantically flapping wings crash into a nearby planet and reduce it to dust.

I pluck the sword from my eye and snap it into pieces. 

You're becoming a real thorn in my side. 

Seven perfect fingers snatch you out of the sky like the annoying insect you are and start to CRUSH YOU.

I will tear you apart with my TEETH if I have to.

You've had every chance to run and hide, or join in my crusade and you denied them all. I have no use for you. 

Not even as a snack.

Or a toothpick. 

"Then kill me." You growl through clenched teeth, blood already flecking your lips and leaking from your nose. 

I throw you into a patch of thorns. Each and every one is serrated and ranges in size from a human finger to a school bus, you are impaled, skewered, crucified even. 

Neon blue blood running down to the soil beneath, feeding my Eden. 

And yet, you refuse to die.

Slowly but surely, you drag your broken body up and off the thorn, shakily levitating up to meet me. 

You stare at me with dead eyes, blood pouring from the opening in your chest. Your lips part and black flames flicker behind your teeth, smoke curling from your nostrils as the color drains from your eyes in inky tears, until there is nothing but black. 

Just like the hole in your chest.

You seem to crack like porcelain, to split in two like something precious dropped from a great height. What crawls from the darkness inside of you is something no human throat can utter, no human tongue can twist or shape itself the right way to name. 

It's said that Demons possess. 

But Angels abandon. 

But what can be said of creatures that man has no name for? 

The thing inside of you stares at me with eyes darker than the emptiness between stars, its maw is the belly of a black hole with teeth long enough to split a planet like an apple. 

It is the bleak black emptiness that existed before the universe, and will exist again when there is nothing but dust and dead silence. 

This… this is my Warden, my Prison, the creature tasked with my capture those eons ago. You are barely a speck in it's vast form, a limp and lifeless nucleus.

It roars, a sound that radiates across time and echoes across the multiverse. 

"FROM NOTHINGNESS YOU CRAWLED, TO NOTHINGNESS YOU WILL RETURN." the beast howls in a voice that echoes from every dark and terrible place in the multiverse and shakes me to my core.

I will not go without a fight.

It lunges, claws outstretched, the endless expanse of its hideous maw seems to suck all the light out of the stars, out of me. I sink my teeth into its throat and pull, my body curling around and around it. 

Its claws are impossibly sharp, tearing my flesh down to the bone. My blood falls to fairyland like rain. My face is grabbed and smashed into the planet's surface again and again. I crush the Warden close and set myself on fire, I am the LIGHTBRINGER, it will take more than some overconfident shadow to defeat me.

The Warden burns, it smolders and screams like steam escaping. I fling it away into deep space and charge after it, driving my seven horns into its belly.

I miss you by a hair, I feel you reach out and grab me just as I pull back. Amber chains snake from your weeping wound, to the Warden behind you. 

You have no control over this thing, do you?

No.

Didn't think so.

But still, you stubbornly grab your chains and pull. The Warden does not come to heel, so much as it melts, engulfing you in its emptiness like a suit. When you open your eyes, you nearly dwarf me.

Nearly.

Your fist collides with my face in an instant, sending teeth flying like meteors. I cannot tell your rage apart from the Warden and I'm not sure I really want to.

Run.

For a second, we are stars, two pinpricks of light twirling around each other in double helices, colliding and clashing with enough force to summon new stars from the ether. We are creation and chaos incarnate. 

We crash through debris fields, shatter planets and extinguish stars. Our blood becomes the new crawling things left behind in the wreckage. I'm smiling, the pain is dizzying, delicious, delightful. 

My venom turns you into a garden, and you tear me apart with your bare and bloody hands. 

Through it all we refuse to die.

Maws wide and screaming in tongues the universe hasn't heard since it was new, I am thoroughly seduced. 

But I am growing bored with this game.

I shove my hand through the Warden and tear you out. You scream in undeniable agony, I close my fist around you and squeeze.

The Warden hangs limp and dead in the darkness of deep space, slowly dissolving. 

Something oozes between my fingers. 

Not blood, far too sticky and cloying to be that.

If Hope had a color, what would it be? 

Would it be a color that only shrimp can see, and only gods have a name for? 

You pry my fingers apart, tears pouring from your eyes the same color as Hope. Hope flows from your mouth as flames, rushes from your open chest as ferns and flowers and vines more beautiful than I could ever create. You reach into the forest of your heart and pull out Kindness, sleek and soft and sharp. 

It melts in your hands, becoming a hammer, comically oversized like your Ma's. And then it grows, and grows, and in the blink of an eye it's bigger and I am. The swing alone takes out half a dozen solar systems before it hits me and sends me crashing through different universes and out the fourth wall. I land heavily on the Writer, dazed and bloody, your hand reaches through his broken computer screen and drags me back home, and there we float over the ruined remains of earth, the skin of my chest balled in your hand like a shirt. You kiss your knuckles and punch me hard enough to send me careening back down to the earth's surface, my crater levels a nearby city.

Do you care?

Are we beyond morals and niceties and caring about humanity? 

You teleport to my limp and broken body, you scoop me up into your arms and hold me close. 

I've folded in on myself several times, I'm barely the size of a person now. 

I can feel those amber chains slithering around me, they clasp around my throat tight enough to choke. 

I don't want to go.

Don't make me go.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

Please. 

I'm scared. 

I'm so scared. 

You don't let me go, as I break down and cling to you like a scared child you don't let me go. 

I wrap you in my wings, I shove my head under your chin and apologize when I stab you with my horns.

"I am your Warden, you are my Prisoner… you are the End of Everything, but I am the End of You…" your throat is choked with snot and tears as you squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe. "You… you deserve to be a Happy Ending and I refuse to live in a world without one."

You kiss my forehead and wipe away my tears. "We do terrible things when we hurt… you deserve compassion instead of imprisonment."

I can do nothing but sit there and bawl, choking on Kindness as thick and sweet as soft caramel. 

Seven times seven thousand lifetimes worth of hate and sorrow and trauma run from my eyes.

You sit with me until the crying stops, until my throat is raw and all I can do is whisper. 

I speak a Word, one that fixes the shattered sky and let's the sun shine properly again. 

The sun speaks their own Words and resets the world, turning the clock back to the day before my escape, I do humanity one kindness and let them wake the next morning as if the past week were nothing more than a bad dream.

I am made to fix my messes, to undo my misdeeds. 

The Horsemen are sealed away again. 

Fairyland is repaired to the best of my ability, although there is nothing that I can do for the Sun-In-Chains. What's done is done. 

GOD will be fine, HE'S GOD, and therefore more or less impossible to kill permanently. 

All evidence of my tirade is erased.

I am finally bound in amber, my powers diminished. I dread returning to the cold depths of the well, but you won't let that happen.

You refuse to send me back to that lonely place beyond dreams and take me home, to your home. Warm and safe beneath the soil, I curl up next to you by the fire.

And for the first time in your short and terrible life, you get a good night's sleep. 

─── alive but just barely.

summary: left to die by the council and your former master, obi-wan kenobi, you finally set foot back into the jedi temples to take your revenge. but you hadn’t been as prepared as you thought you would be when you stumble into the jedi who you were once so in love with.

ONESHOT.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

For what seemed like hours on end, all you could do was scream. The anguish poured out of you like a rushing waterfall and just as harsh. You were in pain. Your leg, crushed under the weight of a fallen droid ship, was burning. You had already been hurt by the missed-call blaster shots and the exhaustion of fighting what seemed like an endless battle, but this was different.

Your screams weren’t just painful, just because you feared the worst for your life, but because you were crying. You were feeling emotions you had never felt before; worry, nervousness, anger, hopelessness. It did seem hopeless, after all. The ship that you had flown here in was now taking off again, and not a single Jedi, a single Padawan, or member of the fleet were telling it to stop.

Not even your master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, was trying to save you. 

There were still hundreds of droids left and you were a bone in this circle of wild dogs. No amount of screaming or crying was going to stop what you thought were your friends-- even some, your family-- from coming back and taking you with them. To them, you were a lost cause. A liability.

After the ship had left, your moments onward were blurry. You slipped into a state of unconsciousness and only awoke from time to time to notice that someone, or rather something, was dragging you away. It was in between these moments of consciousness that the real damage was done; one moment awake you had an injured leg, the next it was replaced with a prosthetic. You had no say. No consent.

Neither did Obi-Wan. He could sense your pain, it was hard for him not to with how badly he could feel yourself suffering, and he had tried so hard to get to you. The levels of pain he was sensing from everyone was making him feel like a full cup about to spill over. But he tried to press on. He tried to find you and to save you. Yet, he couldn’t.

It was the Council which told him so. He was against getting on the ship without you aboard but he had to consider the safety of everyone else. Although it seemed-- though Obi-Wan tried not to think of it that way-- that the Council did not consider your safety. You were dead. When the words were spoken, Obi-Wan felt as if he could collapse and he felt that he wanted to; he wanted to fall and fall and disappear.

For you, you had disappeared. You weren’t who you were before-- who you were when you were a Padawan. No. Now, you were someone else entirely. Someone who wanted revenge on those who left you to die. All the years you spent training, pushing yourself to the point of exhaustion, and all the days you spent with useless thoughts of goodwill were irrelevant. Meaningless. Tarnished.

The only thoughts you nourished were thoughts of vengeance. The thought of how finally, after all these years, you will be able to hurt the people who hurt you. And you’ll let them suffer. You’ll leave them withering and in pain, just like you were, as you walk away with nothing to say. Just the realization that all of the tragedy was caused by them.

You knew the Jedi Temples like the back of your hand and so it was easy to navigate yourself past guards and tunnels, and make your way into the place which now felt foreign. Like a bad dream. If only it were a dream but it wasn’t and you were here, and you were ready. Nothing could possibly stop you now from exacting your revenge; from killing those who killed you. But something did.

It was a sudden rush to your head that stopped you from walking down the pathway to the Council member’s room. The feeling left your head spinning and throbbing, as if something incredibly strong had stepped in your way. When it finally settled down, it all came flooding to you; who the presence was. And your anger returned.

When you spun around with your lightsaber extended, you were ready to strike but as soon as you saw his face it was suddenly too hard a task to fulfill. It had been so long since you had seen your Master. So long. He had taken his lightsaber out as well and from the light it cast on his face in this darkened hallway, you saw his features shift to confusion.

“(Y/N)...?” He breathed out, feeling as if all air had left his lungs.

It didn’t seem possible to him. No, how could it be? How could you be standing in front of him after all these years, after he had been told that you had died and he had believed it? After all the mourning he went through... it didn’t seem possible.

“Surprised to see me, are you, master?” You say, “I suppose you would be surprised to see the person you were sure you had left to die.”

There was no response. No reply. Obi-Wan just continued to stare at you, his mouth slightly ajar, and his eyebrows still furrowed in his confused state. But then his facial expression changed and it looked as if he was... sad.

“I... I thought you had died. I was told you were dead.” He says, “I thought I had failed.”

You knit your eyebrows in an almost rage; failed you?

“I felt your pain.” Obi-Wan says, and now you’ve had enough of his voice.

“I was in pain,” you begin, “and I did die. You and all the others left me there. I had no chance of survival, none, until I was taken by a droid to be played with. It gave me a new leg and a new life. And I have used it to better myself, to be better than the Council and the Jedi, so that I could finally kill those who did this to me.”

“You look the same.”

It was not what you were expecting to hear from your former master, especially as it had nothing to do with what you had just said. Honestly, it threw you off. You felt unprepared.

“No, I don’t.” You shake your head.

“Your hair is the same.” Obi-Wan takes a step forward, “You still style it the same way you did when you were my Padawan.”

Instinctively, you raise your hand to your hair. Was it true? Had you kept the same style? You weren’t certain; it was just a force of habit. You hadn’t ever really thought about it.

“You look as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

It was not at all what you had expected. You had thought many scenarios through-- scenarios of losing, of winning-- but none you thought of were like this. None involved Obi-Wan talking sweetly to you. And not one scenario of yours left you speechless.

Obi-Wan draws back his lightsaber and slides it in its scabbard at his hip. You, too scared to be left unguarded-- yes, you admit, you are scared-- hold your lightsaber tighter. There was an energy inside of you that told you to drive your lightsaber forward and finish off the man in front of you, but another energy told you that it was not any man, it was Obi-Wan, and that you were safe with him.

His hand raises and touches your cheek, “I have missed you every day.”

You lean softly into his touch. His eyes are so full of emotion, something you had thought was untraceable for the Jedi, that you almost believe him. Almost. It was not a second later that you quickly step back and raise your lightsaber once again, this time with a determination to finish what you had come here to start.

“You left me there,” you say.

Obi-Wan looks down at the floor, “Yes, I did--” He looks back at you-- “But I didn’t want to.”

“Pick up your lightsaber!” You shout, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes.

It made you feel weak; crying in front of your former master. Why were you crying in the first place? And why are you trembling? No amount of Force training could keep you from steadying your hands. You were shaking all over and almost immediately you knew the cause-- you were shaking because you’re in agony. You’ve missed him too.

Obi-Wan doesn’t do as you say and takes one step toward you, making you take one step back.

“Pick it up!” You cry, “Fight me!”

“No,”

Obi-Wan raises his hands in protest; standing straighter than you’ve seen him stand, with his eyes on you-- determined. He was determined not to move, not to act, to just stand his ground. But his resistance only made you angrier. You lunge forward and expect him to dodge you but he stands still and when your lightsaber nears him, you flinch. You stop. You hesitate.

You had him fenced in-- your bodies were almost pressed together. Your lightsaber was positioned and ready to strike his neck; the light reflecting onto his skin, making you notice his expressions even more so. He doesn’t look scared. He doesn’t look fearful. He looks sure. He looks like the man you once loved.

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan whispers, his breath fanning your face.

You can feel the tears streaming down your cheeks silently and you shiver, “How? How is this alright?”

“I deserve this. I abandoned you. (Y/N)... I’m so sorry.”

And you crumble. You pull back your lightsaber and fall to the ground. You cry and shake and fall apart. Obi-Wan kneels down beside you, placing his hand on your back, rubbing circles comfortingly, with one hand brushing through your hair, and he hugs you. He holds you in his arms and drives away the pain with his breath-- whispering to you that it’s going to be okay and that you’re safe now.

You hadn’t felt his touch in years. It’s just as remedying as you remember it-- all those times that he would hold your hand or hold your arm to make you feel alright when you were his Padawan. It was like looking back on memories of a fonder time but you could never be that person again.

“I can’t go back,” you cry, “I can’t. Not now. Not anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be alone--” His fingers card through your hair-- “Let me stay with you.”

You explore his eyes-- looking for something purer than you could feel with the Force-- and see no lies. You hear truth on his tongue. You feel assurance in his embrace. With the feeling of him with you, you nod your head. You need him. Obi-Wan’s lips arch into a smile-- soft, caring, loving-- only briefly, so quick you almost don’t catch it, before he leans forward, his nose touching yours gently at first, and he kisses your lips.

It’s a sweet gesture. His lips aren’t there to gain anything from you, he’s kissing you with a passion of comfort. He’s letting you know that he has and will always be on your side. Next to you. With you. In love with you.

Flying the Pirate Flag

A/N: It’s finally here!

Pairing: Harry Hook x Reader

Word Count: 2,632 (oof)

Requested By: Anon

Summary: Justifying to the Core Four why you are dating Harry Hook

They left you. Albeit on the orders of their parents - or, more like,  Maleficent - but they still left you. Alone. Drifting through the Isle like  some discarded rubbish. Just as you were before joining their crew.    With your mother, Gothel, and her violent fits of rage, you can't exactly go  home for all the time you used to hide out at the hangout. Yet, your previous  place of hangout is too quiet; too lonely to hole up in all alone. You've  been there alone; shivering in your pleather cape and glaring at all of the  graffiti portraits that Mal painted of you all.    You have no food. No nothing. Just a pile of coins left to you by Mal before  she left. Always doubting your power to make your own decisions and your own  way in your life. Well, here's the time to prove that you can.    There is no room for weakness on the Isle. None. So, you have pulled yourself  up and paraded around the Isle; making a show of that yes, in fact, that you  are fine. Even when you really aren't.    Somehow, your wanderings lead you to the docks - also known as the Pirate  Quarter. Yet, now you're here, you might as start pushing the dominos of your  masterplan.    Striding onwards, you pass suspicious pirate; after suspicious pirate. Until,  finally, you push the doors of Ursula's eatery with a massive clatter. As  soon as you enter, a roomful of eyes stare back at you in disbelief.    "Well, well, well, look who's decided to turn up." Harry breaks the  silence, prowling towards you with his malicious hook outstretched in threat.    "Hello, Harry." You greet nonchalantly. "Is Uma here?"    Before he can answer, Uma rises up from behind the bar. Confident in her own  space. "When am I not here? But you know that Y/N, so what do you  want?"    You smirk, turning away from lap dog to top dog. But as you face Uma,  regarding her and sizing her up, you miss the appraising glances that Harry  is sending your way. If there's anything that intrigues Harry: it's someone  who knows what they want and isn't afraid to take it. Whatever the cost and  whenever the chips are down.    Slamming your blade into one of the eateries' table, you place your threat  into the open. Quickly followed by your offer. Literally laid on the table,  in the form of a map of the Isle.    "Territory. Mal ain't here and by my bet, she ain't coming back. I don't  want it, you do."    Both Harry and Uma drift closer; sharing looks of incredulity. "Why  would you give this to us?"    Leaning on your blade, you regard them with intensity. "Let's be real,  me and my one-man band can't hold all this territory and you'd probably try  and take it anyway. So, why not give it to you?"    There is even more appraisal in Harry's eyes, as he gazes you with both  confusion and respect. "What's it in it for you though, lass? The scales  look firmly tipped in our favour."    "I want protection. An alliance." You state, plainly laying out  your needs. "My old crew up and go with no word to me; the last I saw of  them, they were already driving away. No goodbye. No nothing."    The pirates are silent around you as you flash some emotional vulnerability.  But upon realising this, you quickly move onwards. "As you can imagine,  this mucked up my plans - royally. So, I need some backup while I reenact  them."    Uma nods slowly, "I can understand that. But what happens if they come  back? Will you drop us like a sack of rocks?"    You smirk, holding out your hand. "They won't. They'll be so wrapped up  in their own importance, that they'll only come back to flaunt it. That's  just who they are. I've seen that. And I need people real, who will be there  for my plans; for me."    "Well then, welcome to the crew." With a cutting grin, Uma's hand  meets your own.    "Get ready to cause some trouble, lassie." Harry smirks at yoy from  behind Uma's back.    -------------  Months have past since you've joined Uma's crew. Dare you say it, it's even  more fun terrorising the other inhabitants of the Isle under Uma then it ever  was a cog of Mal's crew. You've maintained your fearsome reputation, somehow;  with no strings of power lost.    Even more confusingly, Harry and yourself have been growing closer. Actually  - scratch that - you are close. From being shoe-horned together by your  leader to run the same missions; whether they be collecting money or scaring  rival gangs into submission. You've gone from being Mal's third-in-command to  having the exact same position in Uma's crew.    In truth, the transition has gone too smoothly and it makes you nervous.    "What are you thinking about, lass?"    With a start, you feel Harry's calloused hand snaking around your waist;  ensnaring you in his embrace. A brief smile manages to break through your  worrying face.    "Oh I don't know Harry, the usual things."    He spins you to face him and his expression clearly states that he does not  believe you.    Sighing, you continue: "Celia read my fortune the other day. A trade for  a trade, kind of deal."    "And what did it say?" He prompts after you stop to think for a few  moments.    "It was a return of the winds of the past. What if Mal comes back?  There'll be hell to pay if she realises I've changed allegiance."    Harry wraps your hands in his own; gazing at you in earnest. He doesn't reply  for a moment - merely staring at you in protectiveness.    "I don't think she'll come back, love. She's too busy conquering Auradon  and wrapping all those prissy royals around her finger. Besides, what could  she have expected? They were the ones who left you. They ain't ever tried to  come back and get ya, have they? Or get good ol' King Ben to bring you over  to Auradon."    "They've forgotten me." You whisper, tears starting to well in your  eyes.    "I think they have, love. So, ya can't keep feeling guilty and holding  yourself accountable to people who just aren't in your life anymore."    His calloused thumb caresses your cheek, as he gazes at you in concern. A  few, fat tears roll down your cheek and down onto the edge of Harry's slender  fingers. Amazing, that one of your previous arch-enemies is now comforting  you through some uncomfortable realisations. Six months has changed oh so  much.    You nod, still sobbing at the realisation that your closest friends have  abandoned you. Not even trying to get you back in their lives. Does this mean  that all the memories you have with them are tarnished? That they never cared  about you in the first place? Were you a friend, employed for merely  territorial purposes?    "Right, here's what we'll do. I'll do the usual rounds while you stay  here, with Uma, and help man the shop? Eh, what do ya say, love?"    You nod, sniffling; wiping your nose on a raggedy old handkerchief.  "Thanks, Harry."    "Anytime, love. I'm here for ya - we all are. You're part of the crew  now; I only wish you'd come over to us sooner."    Softly, he places a kiss on the end of your nose. Then, pulling back, he  smiles that incredible grin at you.    "I care for ya love, you're my bird now." He says, proudly, before  rising and striding over to the door.    "I'll be back as soon as I can, Y/N."    As soon as he leaves the premises, Uma places a hand on your shoulder. Taking  this as a prompt to turn around to face her, you stand and soon crumple into  her embrace.    "We've got you now, Y/N. The crew is family. We love you, and we support  you. Okay?"    You smile at her. "Okay."    She grins back at you, "Now let's show everyone not to mess with us  okay? There'll never be another Mal in our lives again!"    ----  As you and Uma sit talking in the eatery's downtime (or rather, constructing  plans for world domination), the quiet atmosphere is broken by thundering  footsteps running up the ramp and into the room. Both craning your necks  around to the doorway, you are confronted with the sight of your partner  skidding to a halt.    Both Uma and yourself speak at the same time. You, concerned with him and  Uma, concerned with the flow of normality.    "Harry, are you okay?"    "Harry, what's the matter?"    He quickly regains his breath, looking at you both with eyes clouded in shock  and anticipation. Sliding off his hat, he stalks closer to the pair of you;  stopping a mere few steps away from where you and Uma are sat.    "I can't believe I'm saying this, but she's back." His eyes land on  his captain first, but as soon as he speaks the name, all of the pirates'  eyes are on you. "Mal. She back - purple haired and everything."    "How ironic." You mumble to yourself.    Yet, before either Harry or Uma can ask you how you are faring, Gil also  bursts through the door.    "Uma, Harry; Y/N!" He breathlessly pants, bending over and trying  to restore normal airflow into his lungs.    "Evie, Carlos and Jay are back! I saw them with my own eyes!"    The looks exchanged are those of bewilderment; slowly changing into  annoyance. Everything you've all achieved since their move, all is in  jeopardy.    "They've even got Ben with them!" Gil proudly exclaims.    Silence.    "Ben?"    "You know, Prince - no, King Ben."    More looks are exchanged; this time of a growing awareness of an opportunity  offered. Here's a chance for you all to come out on top once and for all. To  show them that while they may forget about the Isle, the Isle certainly won't  forget about them. With this in mind, smirks are quickly exchanged between  you all; crowned on top with Uma's line:    "I have a plan."    --------  Both you and Harry are rushing to re-enact Uma's masterplan. That was quickly  conjured and drummed up by yourself and your captain, in the space of five  minutes. Following behind you are a scattering of members of the crew, ready  to nab Ben at the best opportunity.    An opportunity that is quickly realised.    As you watch from the shadows, you watch Ben wander away from the group -  even in spite of the warnings given by the Core Four. Exchanging a smirk with  your partner, you start to seize your moment. Moving forward as a group, you  are able to nab the King and into your clutches.    "Send him back to the ship." You instruct the pirates; meeting the King's  imploring eyes with no reluctance.    Yet, Harry and yourself remain sheltered in the shadows. Watching with the  group scramble around to look for the missing King, with lopsided smiles. For  you, this is a great cathartic release - especially being able to meddle even  as an agent of the shadows.    Harry, adjusts the pleather Cape around your shoulders; then places his worn  pirate hat on your head.    At your inquisitive glance, he smoothly says: "Just so they know you're  apart of the crew now, lassie."    With that, you let the show begin.    "Don't scare you, but that's my speciality."    His opening line has him emerging out of the shadows; grinning manically and  voice high-pitched at the excitement of it all. Meanwhile, you remain in the  shadows.    "Harry." Evie hisses.    Deciding to make your move, you slide out of the shadows even more menacingly  than Harry previously did.    "Don't forget about me guys. Oh wait, you did."    Raking your eyes over each of their shocked faces, your smile widens. Having  the upper hand is just too addictive.    "Y/N?" The disbelief is palpable.    "Hi guys!" You wave a mocking wave - a cheap imitation of the  finger bending greetings that Mal often gives in sarcasm.    "What have you done with Ben?" Jay is the first back on the ball.    "Oh, er we nicked him."    You hum in agreement.    "Yeah, and if you want to see him again, have Mal come to the Chip Shop  tonight."    "Alone."  You add in, sending dagger-like looks to where you  know Mal is dwelling in the hideout.    "Uma wants a little visit. Ah Jay, seems like you have lost your  touch."    With this, Jay's bewilderment culminates into aggression: rushing forward to  deck Harry. All that stops him is Evie holding him back.    "Jay." She chastises.    In a mockery, that you know from experience is historical, Harry yips at  Carlos. Rolling your eyes, you turn to follow him down the alleyway but a  grasping hand around your wrist stops you.    "Y/N, wait." It's Evie's calm voice that stops both you and Harry  in your tracks.    Before you turn around to face them, Harry mouths: "Are you okay?".  At your nod, he murmurs for only you to hear:    "I'll be back at the shop. You've got this. Hit it where it hurts."    You share a smile: fleeting yet strong. Then, you watch as Harry turns on his  heel; whistling the Core Four's song as he walks. It's this small thing that  bolsters you enough to turn and face the people you used to call friends.    "What? What do you want?" You snap.    "What's happened to you?" Carlos gets out.    "What's happened to me? Are you joking?" You rip your wrist out of  Evie's grasp.    "You all left me, to fend for myself. No letters, no nothing. You didn't  try to get me out of this hell. Heck, I bet you didn't even remember I am  here. You've abandoned yourselves. The people I knew would never have left me  - or any of the poor kids here."    "You're angry at us?"    "We didn't ask for this!" Jay and Carlos speak at the same time;  equally shocked and voices rising in anger.    "Could've fooled me."    "But Y/N -" you cut Evie off, as sharp as a dagger to the heart.    "When we see you on the TV, we don't see you trying to fight for us. We  see you prancing around in fancy clothes, with the very people who blame us  for our parents' crimes."    They don't reply.    "Why are you with Harry? Are you part of Uma's crew?" Carlos asks,  accusation smothering his tone.    "Yes, I am. I'm part of the crew and I'm dating Harry, is that a  problem?"    "A problem? I think it is!" Jay splutters.    "Oh my gosh Y/N, you've betrayed us!" Evie seethes, looking you up  and down in dawning hate.    "What else was I to do?"    They're all silent. Not offering any viable options. As they know, the Isle  is a dog-eat-dog world and you did what you did to survive. Heck, it's not  even your fault that you prefer the new life. It says more about them than it  does you.    "I cannot believe this! You leave me, emphasis on that, and then, you  come back and start blaming me for my choices? Are you for real?"    You huff a laugh, watching how they struggle to reply.    They can't even compute it. With this thought in mind, you smirk over at  them. "I hope you get your King back. Because if it's up to me, he won't  live to see another dawn."    As you turn on your heel, you hear Mal come out to the balcony.  "Y/N?"    You glare upwards at her, before flashing a steel smirk. "Look forward to  seeing you tonight, Mal."

“I don’t understand…” Mal looks towards the others to hear the story.

The smirk widens, “Oh Mal, it’s simple: I’m flying the pirate flag  now.”    Then, you start to walk away. Whistling all the while.

On February 21st, 2014, exactly 6 years ago from today, the late Monty Oum posted a series of tweets compiling what he believed would be the general reception to a then hypothetical remake of Final Fantasy 7, about 1 year and 4 months prior to when the project was actually first announced during E3 2015. 

He believed that if it were to actually exist, depending on how it would be presented, fans would either be displeased or would otherwise stifle the chance for newcomers to play it. Now, a couple of things to bear in mind:

He made these tweets after midnight at the time and was at the end of the day spit-balling his thoughts.

With the game coming around the corner, everyone who has cared to see the few trailers, gameplay footage & preview of the opening cutscene have already formed their own impressions. The reception seems to be largely positive and it might stay that way once the game comes out or months after. Or their opinions might sour after playing through the game.

Whatever the case may be, the goal of this post is not to provide an open dialogue about talk whether Monty’s prediction could ring true or not. I’ll say it again:

The goal of this post is NOT to talk about the Final Fantasy 7 Remake.

Instead, I’m more interested in dissecting how much of what he argued can translate into works of fiction that have formed their own audiences. And by other works, I’m talking specifically about the one that Monty himself created, that being RWBY.

Whether you got into the show as early as when the Red trailer came out around early November 2012 or as late as last week, if you spend even a single day scouting people’s opinions on the web series, chances are you’ll likely find certain detractors towards the show. Maybe they believe the show was once great during the times Monty was alive and everything went steadily downhill since he passed away and that whatever aspects that once represented the show’s “appeal factor” have since either diminished or been replaced by something more unfavorable.

Obviously, not every person thought RWBY use to be great, some just thought the show was always terrible. There are largely a few categories to describe certain types of RWBY’s critics but I’d rather focus on those that believed the web series had appeal up until a certain point. The reason why I wish to focus on that has to do with the above tweets from Monty Oum about the then hypothetical Final Fantasy 7 Remake.

One potential knee-jerk rebuttal to me talking about these tweets might be that comparing an ongoing web series to a premium, highly anticipated remake of a 30+ year-old franchise is apples & oranges. While that’s true, my goal is not to draw a comparison between the Final Fantasy 7 Remake (this is why I say this post is not about the former). Rather it’s to compare the relationship between RWBY’s direction and the feedback from portions of its audience to the relationship between a Final Fantasy 7 Remake and the possible feedback from its audience according to Monty Oum’s then what-if scenario. If you extract certain phrases in his posts and connect them to certain opinions and arguments from various RWBY detractors that roam around across social media, you’ll probably spot similar patterns.

“If they tried to improve it in any way to bring it to today's standards of gaming, then it would somehow tarnish it's original charm”.

That can very easily apply to those who claim RWBY lost its original charm after volume 2 or 3 because they changed the animation software or the fight choreography doesn’t remind them enough of how Monty did them or they took a direction with certain characters that they thought bastardized Monty’s vision of said-characters (which is questionable at best).

“If a FFVII remake was the exact same game with better graphics, then it'd be a realization of how different game standards were back then”

That can refer to those tossing around this hypothetical idea of having volumes 1-3 be the same but with the Autodesk Maya look in volume 4 onward or the sentiment that goes along the lines of, “yeah, the animation from vol 4+ looks better but everything else sucks!” And yes, I’m more than aware of how certain animators spoke of quitting if the latter actually became a thing. That doesn’t change the fact there are some out there who have nonetheless seriously considered wanting that.

“Fans who cling to something so dearly are the ones who hurt a property the most because they don't allow it to grow. If you truly support a project, then you would support it when they try new things. Even if they falter it's part of growing. Doing the same things over and over gets us nowhere.”

That sticks out the most because of how much the fans that cry foul over how RWBY;s current direction strays from whatever they first envisioned RWBY to be about and are not accepting of allowing RWBY to grow beyond these specific things.

Now, bear in mind, whatever those detractors claim about the direction taking in later volumes and how they have to do with an inflated ego from the showrunners, an unwillingness to listen to constructive criticism, an abrupt bias towards a part of their audience, etc. etc.. is all bulls**t. There’s no research and it’s largely confirmation bias. There’s honestly more evidence out there to suggest that RWBY’s current direction is broadly following along the same path that was set-up in the first place.

But let’s say there actually was a sizable amount of changes from where the show is going beyond the way it looks. Okay, so what? If RWBY does falter in some parts within a given volume along the way. Again, so freaking what? That’s part of growing. You don’t even have to take Monty’s word for it. That’s just understanding the difference between a growth and fixed mindset.

Is RWBY not allowed to grow by making some missteps? Do people not want it to try and explore new things? These are the thoughts my mind comes back to every time I look at the above series of tweets.

One more thing. Some might be compelled to argue that regardless of what Monty said he intended or believe, none of that matters because those who expresses grievances about RWBY are not talking about intentions but rather appeal. That would be fine and all if not for the fact that many of those talking about whatever they believe RWBY’s appeal to be are spewing phrases like...

“RWBY died with Monty”

“Monty wouldn’t have wanted this”

“Monty is rolling in his grave”

...as part of the same argument.

Never mind for a moment that it’s disrespectful. Throwing Monty’s name with the presumption of how he would feel automatically gives a very specific impression of what you’re arguing. If you claim about what Monty would or would not have wanted, only to then shift your premise the moment someone provides evidence that says otherwise regarding Monty’s intentions, then you’re moving the goalpost, which is essentially making you come off dishonest and thus arguing in bad faith.

Put simply, is the problem you’re having with RWBY nowadays about what Monty wanted or about what you wanted?