Primitive Rage
Primitive Rage

New York Hardcore

All we know is steel and stone
We’re worked to the death, we’re worked to the bone
Spreading ourselves thin, striping ourselves bare
We turn the screws too beaten to care
Bottle up with spite, lying dead in the fight
Exposing our skin to parasites

The brain rot of the digital age leave our bodies stuck inside a primitive rage.


Royai Week 2017 - Day Seven
adjective - (of a device or attack) designed to cause fires
Flame Alchemy so profoundly connects Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye that I feel that this symbol qualifies as an element of Royai.

Sometime ago I posted a head canon that Roy Mustang is an excellent needleworker and hand embroiders all his ignition gloves. So I decided to try embroidering the Flame Alchemy Array to see how it might turn out.

By way of scale. Embroidery cotton on linen.




Sooooo this is not from the next chapter, but from a future chapter… I don’t know when I am going to get a chance to write this again, but I thought that this would be more interesting to read, so you kind of have an idea of where I was going with some things.

Meet Gellert.

The air of the Great Hall was practically vibrating with excitement. The Heads of Houses had ushered their students back inside while Dippet spoke with the other Headmasters, telling them all to sit and wait. The tables had all been significantly lengthened.

“Leave a decent space at the end, here!” McGonagall called to the Gryffindors, gesturing at the side closest to where the staff sat. Throughout the Hall, Harry could see that the other Heads were doing the same with their students. “We want to make sure our guests have plenty of space to sit wherever they like. And I swear on Merlin’s grave, if a there is a single word—a single word!—spoken out of turn from Gryffindor house, I will not hesitate to dish out detentions! I want Gryffindor on its best behavior!”

She looked pointedly at Harry for a moment before glaring at Fred and George.

“What?” Fred balked. “We never speak out of turn, Professor.”

“You are speaking out of turn right now, Mr. Weasley!” she snapped. George opened his mouth to say something else, but McGonagall silenced him with such a venomous look that even Harry felt threatened. He and Fred looked down, seemingly docile and complacent.

“That’s better,” she said. “Your best behavior!” she then reiterated. Once her students all bobbed their heads in unison, murmuring ‘yes ma’am’, she nodded curtly and went to take her seat at the staff table. The other teachers did as well, and the Hall fell silent.

Everyone stared at the front of the Hall with anxious expectation, waiting for the new students to enter. It was probably the quietest the Great Hall of Hogwarts had ever been.

Finally, the doors swung open.

First entered Dippet, looking merry and smiling brightly, and walking next to him was the largest woman that Harry had ever seen, dressed in fine, shimmering robes. He barely suppressed a gasp, stopping himself only because he could feel McGonagall’s patronizing eyes on them like a hawk.

Dippet cleared his throat. “May I introduce the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, Madame Maxime!”

The giant woman inclined her head, and the Hall clapped politely, despite the obvious state of shock most of them were in. She was massive! “And now, the students of Beauxbatons!”

Everyone shifted in their seats to get a better look. About a dozen young witches and wizards entered, wearing uniforms in light blue that looked to be made of silk. They walked proudly in two lines, moving in a haughty manner than almost looked rehearsed, as though they had practiced being unapproachable and detached—but not all of them. While most of the students had their shoulders squared and their chins raised, a few were obviously nervous or distracted. One gangly, ginger boy in the back was staring at the enchanted ceiling in awe, so blatantly impressed that he took his glasses off to wipe them clean on his robes so that he could see it better.

“Have a seat wherever you would like,” Dippet said, motioning towards the front of the tables. The group moved as one, exchanging glances and murmuring to each other. Obviously, they were going to stick together.

They passed the Slytherin table, and Harry could easily understand why—the Slytherins were all staring with cold, judgemental looks; a palpable hostility in their demeanors.

The Ravenclaws were also rather imposing, though their body language was less resentful and more curious than anything. The Beauxbaton students seemed to consider them, but then passed by this table, too.

Their attention flickered from the Hufflepuff table—the students of which smiled warmly and waved in a welcoming manner—to the Gryffindors. Their expressions became quickly alarmed when they looked at the table decorated in red, and it took Harry a moment to understand why that was the case. Nearly every Gryffindor had leaned forward, practically jumping up when the Beauxbatons students looked their way. They must have appeared far too eager, like a bunch of lions about to pounce.  

It was no wonder, then, when after about a two second deliberation in which they all whispered amongst themselves, the students from Beauxbatons sat at the Hufflepuff table. Harry couldn’t blame them. The Hufflepuffs did, by far, look the friendliest. Harry spotted Cedric Diggory and his fellow seventh years quietly greeting their guests, shaking hands and grinning.

Dippet cleared his throat, and everyone’s attention returned to him. Madame Maxine had gone to sit in a chair that was clearly meant for her next to Hagrid—who was staring at the Headmistress like she might be a mirage—and now a new person stood at Dippet’s side.

He was a thin wizard with a black goatee, and Harry could instantly tell that he was proud, harsh man. He did not smile when Dippet introduced him, only looked at the mass of students like he found them distasteful. He reminded Harry a bit of Snape. “This is the Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, Igar Karkaroff!”

A respectful round of applause. Karkaroff looked blasé. Dippet didn’t seem to notice, though, and clapped Karkaroff on the shoulder like they were good, old friends. “Everyone welcome the students of Durmstrang!”

They could not have looked more different than the students from Beauxbatons.

While the witches and wizards from France wore uniforms that were light, both in color and fabric, the Durmstrang students wore thick, heavy cloaks that were all black and red. There were less of them, too, maybe eight all together… and, strangely enough, they were all wizards.

The biggest difference, however, was how the way in which they entered. Unlike the Beauxbatons students, in which no single witch or wizard stuck out very much, this group had one student who instantly drew the eye.

He was tall, blonde, and devastatingly handsome.

He stood in the center of the lot, and as they walked into the Hall, the others almost appeared to be flanking him on either side. The students all wore heavy capes, but he wore one with a tall collar made of black velvet. They all wore boots, but this young wizard wore boots that went up to his knees, covered in silver buckles with thick, black heels that probably made him stand an inch taller than he already did. His ears were covered in silver piercings, his hair was artfully disheveled—not messy in the sense that Harry’s was, as though a rooster had permanently tried to make its home there—but in an effortless, purposeful way.

And his eyes—his eyes were a piercing blue, made even more striking by the fact that they were lined with something dark and smoky, like charcoal.

He was smiling. It wasn’t friendly.

A few of the other boys from Durmstrang were clearly trying to emulate this look—a few had a number of piercings and tousled hair; a couple wore tall-ish boots or raised collars—but none did it as grandly as the blonde in the center, and none of them looked so regal.

It was obvious that this wizard was the leader. The rest of the boys walked a few paces behind him, and occasionally cast him speculative looks, like they were waiting to see what he may do.

The blonde kept his eyes forward. Dippet didn’t have to instruct them to find a place to sit, as he led the group towards the front of the hall without hesitation.

“Whoa,” Ron murmured under his breath, and Harry could tell that he was not the only one staring with raised brows. Even Hermione looked awestruck.

The Durmstrang students hovered for a moment at the Slytherin table. There was no discussion happening between them like there had been with those from Beauxbatons; evidently, the decision lied solely with their imposing leader.

The blonde looked at the Slytherins not as though he found their cold front intimidating, but amusing. His smoky eyes gleamed. Harry strained his neck to look, but from where he was seated, he couldn’t tell who the Durmstrang boy was looking at.

He wondered if it was Riddle.

They moved past the Slytherins.

There was a moment of deliberation as the blonde’s eyes flashed from the inquisitive Ravenclaws to the enthusiastic Gryffindors. When they landed on the scarlet table, his smile widened.

It was settled. The Durmstrang boy led his throng of fellow students towards the Gryffindors, where Harry could see the upper classmen—most enthusiastically, Fred and George—grinning victoriously to have acquired the Scandinavian students. They took a seat, and were instantly greeted with vigor.

The boy with the blonde hair and many piercings glanced quickly down the table, and Harry caught his eye for the briefest of moments. Harry wondered if it was just him, or if everyone who made eye contact with this boy went breathless for a second.

If Tom Riddle carried himself like a prince, Harry thought, with his fake, charming smiles and graceful movements, then this wizard, whoever he was, carried himself like a king.