"there’s a sort of evil out there. something very, very strange in these old woods. call it what you want. a darkness, a presence…"
Helpful Indy gifs for all of your archaeological needs
PEOPLE NEED TO LEARN THAT LAST ONE FOREAL
it’s okay I know everybody forgets Meet The Robinsons so I got your back
I think we’re forgetting someone:
Finally! As with any project, there are some things that I’d like to tweak (darn brooch broke right before the shoot and I had to do some sorcery to stabilize it), but overall I’m really happy with this costume! I’ve been wanting to do a Flight Rising cosplay since I first started on the site, and gijinkas are something I really enjoy doing, so I’m glad to have been able to do this!
As of right now, this costume will definitely be worn to Gen Con ‘14 in two short weeks (probably on Thursday, but that is subject to the whims of another cosplay group at the moment) if any of you are going and would like to see it in the flesh.
Photographer: Jennifer Smith
Horrorterrors kill you.
Perhaps more machine than coatl. Nameless, without the least hint of magic, except for the white miasma that comes from nowhere and stifles more than hurts. Solidity, everywhere. The delicate wing joint, the sensing headfeathers, the balancing tail: everywhere important, protected, and the wings cast over with a fine glaze of metal or magic. The soft green glow offers internal modifications: the frankly ostentatious gear suggests otherwise. Whatever, wherever. A decent killer, and a better conversationalist.
“The sign you have found is a lie.” Jovian said, peering down. The ash was held together by a minefield of electricity, sparking on a taut black surface: Bioshock lay half in a stupor, not acknowledging her mate, her eggs, nor Jovian. The ginger Imperial leapt down, in a smooth movement. “I can see the hole you’re digging yourself into.”
“There is always a sign.” Bioshock said, and her great head went up to curl around Louis’s side — the Skydancer reeled, moaning. Jovian’s eyes did not blink.
“If you are looking for a Seer you will not find one.” she said. “I hardly doubt, with your mating times. Do you suppose a surrogate would come for you? Aemilia’s doppelgänger, perhaps?”
“Those are only Coatl lies.”
“There is a reason why most Imperials are seers, Bioshock.” Jovian said, and felt acutely the burn of dark flesh giving way, as alternate-her licked the eyes out of the steaming corpse before Founder came after her with all of Rosary behind. “Your son—“ “Oh, so it will be a son—“ “won’t live to maturity.” and the wing flapped at the three-egg nest the former leader sat by. “Any more than your mother’s boy would?” Bioshock asked, her eyes full of rare malice: she shrank back when Jovian hissed at her, a heavy paw laid on the collarbone. “Here is what happens.” Jovian said, “In one reality, I kill all of you. You won’t stop me because you think I wouldn’t dare. Founder kills me — presumably — there is only pain, after that,” she said to Bioshock, whose cyan eyes had widened, “In the one you’re talking about your son breaks through the egg prematurely, when you are not there, devours the eggs and kills my brother. He is not mine, by the way — I never see Flamethrower in this vision, and I kill the monster before it erupts from the eggshells and creates a seven-headed monster with a slim head at its apex.”
“… you speak blasphemy.” Bioshock said. Jovian shook her head.
“No. You will all die. I will not prevent it. I actually died, twice, trying to escape.”
“My son —“
“Will die if he does not kill. He’s Plague through-and-through. Don’t look at me like that, it’s what you wanted.”
“Maybe I want him to live.” Bioshock said. “Maybe a threat would not snap his neck!” Jovian said. “You knew what you were doing, Mater. Skydancers and Spirals live because they’re harmless, and too swift to kill. The superstitious will not ignore him, after this. They’ve already sent a mercenary down to dear Pyrrhic: that’s why he has the new skin on.”
“You brought him here?”
“I had no choice.” Jovian said, and the little brown hatchling looked up at Bioshock with large rimmed eyes.
Bioshock let out a harsh jagged laugh. “Why is it, Seer, that your offspring consistently lend themselves to rulebreaking?”
“Hush, there is no choice now.” Jovian said. “They will fight for dominance: I don’t like it but it is the way it will be.”
“And if he wins, you leave me alone.” Bioshock said. The insubstantial shackles shimmered, for a moment, and faded. The hatchling nudged at Bioshock’s leg, and her glimmering wing slowly lowered to rest on its back, hiding it from view. Jovian inclined her head. “Thank you for believing in me.”
She was out of the gorge with the same gracefulness as she had gone into it. “I don’t believe in you, Seer!” Bioshock cried. It echoed, oddly. “I believe you!”
you know ive hit quality blogging when i post a picture of 16 vicars riding on oblivion
You would think that teenagers would be the rudest customers when really it’s mostly old, middle-aged people.
Teens always look terrified as customers.
His head hurt. The floor was cold, and there were hard rocks perched on his chest, looking and staring with all their families. As he blinked without seeing the blood crept into his nostrils and he retched. The rocks neatly pushed off from his chest. There was a click, the door of a cell with a lock. His chains were white and crusted-over, more like stone than ice.
His assailant was wearing scents that were wrong, both strong and unfamiliar, some of which he immediately recognised as being brought from the hoard. “That is an absurd mishmash you are wearing.” he had said, he remembered when he first saw the figure in the doorway: a stranger on his hind legs, too low to be Elly or Hipster, a hip well-balanced, a cocky smirk through the smoke.
“I am a dragon of borrowed tastes.” had replied the coatl smelling of murder. “I find others test them well. I can’t have them looking too good, though.” There was not much to say, after that, and the coatl was silent while Pyrrhic tried to breathe. By the sound of it they were in the upper-level storage rooms, amongst the pipes, and he thought of screaming except that he would have his throat cut, likely, before they found him, and with the devastator long gone. “What do I call you?” he asked of his guard, on the off chance he would be set alive.
“… don’t have a name.” the coatl said, mulish. His head kept twitching. It was making Pyrrhic nervous, so he said again, louder, “Would you like me to give you one?” and didn’t shrink back as the figure turned to face him. It really was outlandishly garbed, abet that the intended effect at intimidation shone through. There was a green light illuminating the neat face, all smooth contours, no ears or even a muzzle at length. Pyrrhic thought of metal skeletons, wrapped bright around nerves.
“Something about being born in imperial bones.” the coatl answered, offhanded. “Ostentatious, old man, just like that Imperial with the royal blood, but a name that everyone will recognise so that they’ll tremble at shadows in the night. I want— ” and then fell silent. Pyrrhic thought.
“I want something so frightening that it loops back down to ridiculousness and back again.” the coatl said, firestick balanced neat underneath his paws, voice through metal. Pyrrhic thought, with a mounting terror, that they could have been friends had they not been separated by tech and cell door. He might have killed for the machine’s blueprints. “You’re going to kill me.” he said, out loud, and the coatl hummed, displeasure he’d barely bothered to hide. “Probably.” he said. “I don’t see why you care.”
At that moment the meaning of all that red met Pyrrhic, and he burst out, “But why? You want to live!”
The coatl had turned. His carbuncles were as red as his eyes, and the pupils were just biology: the random tracing, as eyes did what ears could not. “Alexander.” Pyrrhic said. “You don’t want my name— ” in a panic, “Ivan Ilyich — Breivik, Komakech, Kamakura— ” “I don’t care for your mass murderers.” the coatl said. “You can keep your names.” He turned to leave. There was no relief. At any moment he thought that the coatl would turn, remember his existence and slit his throat with magic, or silence him and leave to die. White miasma pushed his head to the floor. Before the last blinding moment of pain he thought he recognised the bow, absurd amongst the wargear: as white as smoke, neatly tied.
Light shone from the cracks in the wall. Pyrrhic only had to shield his eyes a moment before Founder tromped in, clear-eyed and more lucid Pyrrhic had seen since before his sister’s ghost had started haunting him.
“The dragon who attacked you couldn’t have flown.” Founder said, finally.
“Thank you for being concerned.” Pyrrhic said. “And, by the way, he could’ve. It isn’t hard for a coatl to get off the ground, even with all the armour he was wearing at the time.”
“How can you — oh.” said Founder. “Do you want assistance with this?”
“I know I should, but I don’t.” Pyrrhic shakes his fur to his feet, the electronic illusion settling in on his scales.
“I present.” Founder said, like he was rehearsing. “A gift, in appreciation for your attempt. Make sure to try harder next time.”
you know ive hit quality blogging when i post a picture of 16 vicars riding on oblivion
important headcanons to consider:
- can they use chopsticks
- what do they do when they cant sleep
- what would they impulse buy at the grocery store
- what order do they wash things in the shower
- what’s their coffee order
- what sort of apps would they have on their smartphone
- how do they act around children
- what would they watch on tv when they’re bored and nothing they really like is on
- swear and roll pillow + bedsheets around their head
- like 100000 different kinds of cereal. seaweed wraps. tea, maybe.
- hair last, always.
- black with no sugar, caramel macchiato latte w/whipped cream hearts as a guilty pleasure
- a dating app, probably.
- why do they exist / can you not
- talk shows, nature documentaries
Jovian had been still for a long time before the birth, but when she finally rose the golden marks on her body flared back into activity, pretty but with none of the heat that went with real fire. It was the paint of a ceremony long-gone, now, but it looked natural on her in ways that no one else could match. Nutmeg greeted her with eyes tired of watching, but he laid his head on her neck. His warm breath seared her ear with the sign of life. She was reassured.
“Merope went.” he said, and she was genuinely surprised. He drew back. “You didn’t know?”
She hadn’t. Jovian had nothing to say to him, and she moved on to her true imposition.
There were plenty of adults milling in the breeding grounds: Tarakhe’s children, nearly old enough to breed themselves, but still together, unsupported and idle, grooming each other in a long pile. Bioshock’s twins sunned themselves on the hot rocks, illuminated and unconcerned, their steel flesh glinting like they belonged. They didn’t, Jovian knew. If she let herself sink into fatalism again nothing would get done.
This purposelessness was not entirely their fault, anyhow. Founder was distracted, and when he did rouse from melancholia he was intent to pursue a relationship with the ghost of his sister, regardless of Rosary and its duties. She could have understood, had she the mind to, but for now it was a burning resentment, for the responsibility that he would not shoulder.
He would return, some day. Perhaps at one of the Ceremonies due in the next season: perhaps a circumstance that even she could not foresee, though that would be rare.
The children were surprisingly loud after a stint in Solitude. Jovian ignored them all and went to the only single mother there, coiled up carefully in a lava pit with dark eyes that opened all the way when she saw her daughter.
“Shadowsong has politely requested one of the new brood.”
The circuitry on her back hissed as Flamethrower snarled. “Brood. I am not sending back any of my children to the place where I nearly died.”
“It is not your decision.” Jovian was tempted to say, but she stowed the impulse to a timeline where she did, and relished in the expression for a moment before the other Imperial lunged at her with bared claws. “The Fates have foreseen.” she said instead, gently, and she watched Flamethrower’s water-blue eyes retreat as she redirected her gaze at the children behind her. “They will thrive.”
“I’ve heard about what they do there.” Flamethrower said, gentling a little, but her gaze when it met Jovian’s again was stubborn, the low heat of desperation. “Don’t let me forget.”
“I won’t.” Jovian promised, and thought about another Seer-hatchling that she had seen with Jenna’s eyes. She leant down to nuzzle her mother. Her half-siblings gambolled around her, and when she lifted her head again her head was already swarmed with possibilities, half-marked passageways that blurred as she navigated them. When the ruby-red Imperial met Jovian’s eyes with all of her hundred thousand ones she was ready.
Let her be loved, Jovian thought, for her mother’s sake, and dropped the connection to examine the chosen.
The hatchlings were tiny, and neither of them precognitive the way she was: but they had blood she shared, and each of them were golden-bright with possibilities in ways that dizzied her senses with psychic output. One was sable, the other fawn, more like Mirror children than Imperials. Flamethrower had always made sure not to imperil her children with lore that they wouldn’t be concerned with, especially if they were about to survive in the Forgelands.
The littler one had ivory teeth and a hide that matched her parents’. She opened her mouth in a yawn, and Jovian scooped her up, with a burst of telekinetics to hold the child’s attention. Flamethrower watched her go, and mouthed Water blessings that Jovian could feel scalding weakly up her spine. Jovian let a wash of wry amusement that wasn’t hers sooth her, as the hatchling turned to rest its soft head against Jovian’s spine. Good tidings, little one. We’re long overdue.
this is how i would want my wikipedia article to end