Breath of the Wild Has Actual Logic???

Gameplay tips and info but no story spoilers.

I’ve been playing games since I was a little girl and I’ve played a fair number of open world games. But one thing that always keeps surprising me in Breath of the Wild is the physics and chemistry.

Like…I’m used to “oh there’s a wall so there must be a door or a Specific Place to climb over” or characters who can’t get over knee high fences because of invisible walls. But here its “no just climb any part of the wall and keep going.”

I’m used to weather that looks pretty and makes for great screenshots. But in BotW it actually affects your gameplay. Rain makes rocks slippery and harder to climb. Lightning will strike you if you wear too much metal during a storm. Walking through snow actually hurts if you aren’t wearing good clothing or have a meal buff.

Arrows arc and drop off when you fire them. Square bombs fly differently then round ones. If you drop your weapon enemies will pick it up and use it. Horses can be tamed but will ignore your commands if you don’t feed and reward them. You can cut down trees for firewood or use them as bridges. Fire not only spreads realistically but will get blown in the direction of the wind.

There are so many small details and great touches its an amazing game and a refreshing new open world to explore.

I think an important philosophical point that we all have to consider, is that altruism as a concept is pretty rubbish. Altruism is the idea that you should do things that help other people and not feel good about it. Like you should just do it “because”, and like you should just do it “because” but the idea that you shouldn’t feel good about being nice is rubbish and you know, it’s one of things that puts too much pressure on people’s metal health. If you do nice things for your friends, if you do nice things for your family, if you’re a friendly person out and about in the public, if you do something to help out charities, then you should feel happy and proud of that. ‘Cause people generally in society, we are way to harsh on ourselves, people are really hostile to each other, people are always trying to bring each other down and find anything to be whatever. So if you, even if it’s holding a door open for somebody, you should just take a moment to think “and you know what? I like that I was nice to another person.” So don’t let anybody say “don’t feel good about that bake sale that you did for whatever reason”.

@danielhowell​ during his live show on the 6th of June 2017

Quotes from Dan (54/?)

Sometimes Dan manages to voice the thoughts inside of my head much more eloquently that I’d be able to do if speaking out loud.

evergloriousoverlord  asked:

What are, or should be, the aesthetic differences between the armors of the different kingdoms, in your opinion?

Well, when it comes to aesthetic differences, there are two things to look at. The first and most obvious would be what designs would be used, but there’s also the question of what techniques are they using to ornament their arms and armor. We already know that Dorne paints shields, as Dunk tells us in The Hedge Knight. Depending on the skills of the craftsmen and the materials available in each region, we can see what techniques they would use.

A note about these pictures, these are from different eras during armor development, so they are used as conceptual pieces. Much of these are late medieval period, which might be just a touch beyond where Westeros is at the moment.

The North - I’d imagine that the North would be a place of very few frills. Catelyn mentions that Northmen like Ser Rodrik disliking frills. However, we do know that Rickard Stark’s armor was finely designed, as Jaime describes us during his recollection of Aerys burning him and talking specifically about the melting of the precious metals. I’d imagine that a lot of Northern ornamentation would be metal or fur. I could see the armor itself decorated with gold on the rivets and inlaid with any house crests. Here’s a nice example of a decorated rivet on a Scottish targe:

The Riverlands - Well, the Riverlands are a large area and you’d expect regional diversity between the different areas of the Riverlands. So, of course, you’d see more Westerlander-influences in places like Pinkmaiden, whereas places closer to the Bloody Gate might see more Valemen styles. However, I’d look for probably something closer to the styles of Bavaria for the Riverlander armor, with a nice patterned texture as you see here to evoke gently cresting waves.

The Iron Islands - While the culture itself would probably mock painted lords in their fineries as weak, buying fine ornaments with the gold price, the Iron Islands has too much metal and enough sensibility to understand symbolism that their armor would also be decorated. I’d imagine that Iron Islands armor would, rather than use precious metals, would instead use embossing techniques to put designs into the metal itself. This is a bit fancier than I’d expect the ironborn to use, but there would definitely be these sort of embossing on the nicer pieces of Ironborn armor, though most ironborn raiders would probably use lighter armor.

The Vale - The austere, highly rigid culture of the Vale would almost certainly be reflected in their armor. I’d imagine the armor would be ornamented rather simply, mostly with house crests and wings, while the rest of the armor would be gleaming white, perhaps silvered in places. Given the knight’s spend a good deal of time going against the mountain clansmen, developing a solid harness and a good suit of cased steel plate would be a high priority for the Vale to make themselves relatively invulnerable against the poorly-armed and poorly-armored clansmen. I’d imagine the Milanese style would suit the Vale, and here’s what it looks like:

The Westerlands - Almost certainly, Westerlander smiths would be considered the pinnacle of Westerosi metalcraft, since their region is rich in metal both functional and decorative. This is the easiest kingdom to determine decorations, since their vast mineral wealth would lead to gilding and silvering their armor, decorating them with gold and silver. This would probably be done through mercury-gildening, which is a durable process meant for things like armor. For large areas, gold foil would be adhered with mercury, while smaller, fine areas would use a melted gold-and-mercury paste in a 1-to-8 ratio, which would be painted on with a brush. The gold was typically applied over a layer of copper for better adherence, so it’s steel-copper-gold. Once this was applied, the piece was basically ‘cooked’ in an oven to vaporize the mercury and voila, finely gilded armor. For an elaborate piece, you can see here for the armor of the 3rd Earl Cumberland, George Clifford, which might be used for someone like Jaime if you add a couple lions:

The Reach - Given the high importance of mounted combat, the most distinguishing feature of Reachmen armor would be a very flexible skirt for use in horseriding (this would obviously be important in all kingdoms, of course), and of course, fine ornamentation. I’d imagine Reachmen would have rather ornate engravings on their helmets and armor, with fine embellishments, crests, and gildings, something that looks like this:

As for the rest of their armor, I’d say they probably would take after the Southern French style, again, finely detailed and engraved. Reachmen would probably also have richly decorated cloth to decorate their scabbards and the finest woven surcoats to showcase their wealth

The Stormlands - I’d imagine that the Stormlanders would invest in fine quality armor, to better resist Reachmen incursion. They would probably use coloring to color their armor. The color of armor depended on when the armor was removed from the flame (as in, what temperature it was), with the most desirable being a deep, rich blue, hence why it was called “bluing” the armor. The Stormlanders would probably have richly designed and ornamented armor as befits their warrior culture, and it would probably look like something in the German style, so like this:

Dorne - Fortunately, half the work is already done with Dorne. We’ve seen that Dorne prefers to use painting rather than metal coloration and stains. We also know that they wear robes over their armor to help with the heat, which helps give us a very distinct image that reminds me a little bit of Turkish janissaries:

The Dornishmen would probably decorate their robes and silks finely for ornamentation rather than their armor; it’s easier, more visible, and less resource-intensive. For their finest spears, they probably inlay their hafts with bone, horn, and tortoise shells for poorer houses, and mother-of-pearl and ivory imported from Essos for the richer houses.

Thanks for the question, Overlord.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

Merry Christmas, @omghoechlinplease!

It’s a quiet day– the best kind of day as far as Derek’s concerned. He’s settled on the couch, knee deep in the first half of next week’s required reading. His face is just barely out of range of a ray of sunlight that’s been steadily creeping across his living room floor towards him. In about twenty minutes that’ll become a problem, but for now?


The doorbell rings– probably the biography of Abraham Lincoln he ordered off Amazon. With a lazy stretch, Derek drops his book on the end table and gets up to answer the door–

–and the world spins–

–and he finds himself standing in a grimy, poorly-lit warehouse, staring down the barrels of at least six automatic rifles.

“Uh,” he croaks, hands twitching upwards on reflex, when someone captures his wrist in a vice grip and yanks. A rough voice shouts get down, dumbass! and he follows obediently, more out of shock than anything else. He folds his legs under him and throws himself to the ground behind some waist-high metal container, biting back a curse when he hits concrete elbow-first.

Keep reading

WinterIron AU, in which Bucky hears Tony’s voice in his head. Inspired by a prompt from @writemesomewords

-adjust the parameters, let’s say, what, two point five percent? Or not, no. No, no, no, absolutely not. JARVIS, recalculate the maximum weight the metal could…yeah, just like that… Possibly have to exchange the caliumcarbonate-

A voice, talking way too fast on not enough breath, is the first thing the Asset becomes aware of.

It’s familiar, the voice. The Asset can not identify its source nor its purpose. The voice does not share relevant information nor does it provide assistance during his missions. It’s just there, a quiet murmur in the Asset’s ears. An endless conversation that does not require the Asset to participate.

The voice is with the Asset. Always. The Asset does not know where it comes from or if it’s always been there. The Asset does not know the voice’s purpose but it does not hinder the Asset’s efficiency as long as the Asset does not allow itself to be distracted, so the Asset does not question it.

The voice keeps talking.


The Asset lies motionless, pressed to the ground, carefully outside the view of the scheduled guards. The mission requires stealth and patience and an impossible shot, things the Asset is used to provide.

The Asset adjusts the scope on the sniper riffle. Slows its breathing in concentration. Listens to the soft hum of conversation in its ears.

-what do you think you’re- No. No, DUM-E, lift the plate, not find the lift! Will you stop-

Pulls the trigger. Hits.


The Asset- He is confused.

His mission is wrong and he’s not sure why. The blonde he’s been hunting is strange is familiar has started hunting him and that’s never happened before. The Asset doesn’t know what to do, finish the mission, who is this Bucky, why does he look at me like that?

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Being an obnoxious idiot must make it hard for the little bit of common sense you’ve got left to penetrate that thick skull of yours-

The Asset He runs. The voice keeps talking.


The mission’s man’s name is Steve Rogers. His name is Bucky Barnes.

The As He is Bucky Barnes.

He knows that now. But he doesn’t remember what that means, doesn’t remember what it means to be Bucky Barnes, so he keeps running. Keeps listening.

-what do you mean, it’s almost like I purposefully provoked him? There was no ‘almost’ about it! I’m not gonna apologise, did you even hear what- I’m not being unreasonable!

There’s always something to listen to.


He Bucky keeps running. Rogers Steve keeps following.

He Bucky remembers. Something. Sometimes.

Remembers HYDRA. Remembers missions. Remembers faces. Remembers death.

-order pizza, you know what I like-

He Bucky keeps running. Rogers Steve keeps following.

He Bucky dreams. Dreams of tears and begging and crying. Dreams of a trigger he always pulls. Dreams of missions and success and the taste of blood on his tongue.

The nights are too long, always sometimes. The memories hurt and shock and don’t change anything at all. They terrify him because they’re new and old at the same time, things he only just remembers yet somehow knew all along.

-is only my forth coffee today, honest, I swear, why are you looking at me like that?

He Bucky keeps running. Rogers Steve keeps following. 

The voice keeps talking.

He Bucky wonders if it’s always been like this. He doesn’t know though, doesn’t remember.

So he Bucky runs. He Bucky listens.

The voice keeps talking.


Steve—Stevie, small, frail, sick—finds him eventually.

Bucky—protect, save, hold—lets himself be found.

-Hammer technology, it doesn’t have to do anything! That it exists is an inexcusable offence on its own and you can quote me on that!

Steve isn’t the same anymore and it’s both, good and bad, because Bucky isn’t the same either. It’s scary and worrisome and just plain wrong. Feels like he’s falling sometimes, the ground beneath his feet crumbling, just when he thinks he’s finally regained his footing.

The voice keeps talking.


Bucky is getting better, he knows he is. He hasn’t tried to kill Steve in almost two months, hasn’t lost his composure in public in weeks. Bucky’s getting better, even Sam says so.

Of course he doesn’t know about the voice in Bucky’s head, the one that’s remained unchanged even after all of HYDRA’s programs have been erased. Bucky has no plans to inform Sam of its existence, hasn’t even dared to ask Steve about it, the only person alive who could tell him for sure whether this voice is a result from his years in HYDRA’s merciless hands or not.

Because deep down Bucky knows the answer, knows the truth and he doesn’t can’t allow himself to care. Not when it might mean losing the voice.

I miss it. I miss them. But that doesn’t really change anything, does it?

The voice keeps talking.

Bucky keeps listening.


It’s quiet.

The tower is tall, with too much metal and too many windows, cold and impersonal in a way Bucky has come to associate with modern architecture, but he had been fine. 

Steve has been sure that he could do this. Sam hasn’t stopped insisting he was ready for the past month now and frankly Bucky has been willing to go along with whatever crackpot scheme the other man could think of, if only it would shut him the fuck up.

Bucky still doesn’t understand why Steve beamed when he said as much earlier this day. Not that it matters anymore because even as the elevator doors open Bucky knows he was wrong. They were wrong.

It’s quiet.

Bucky didn’t know that he hates silence, despises it, loathes it. He’s never had the chance to find out, until now.

“-can be somewhat, well, abrasive and even crass at times but he’s a good man, Buck, even though he tries his hardest to convince people otherwise-”

Steve is still talking but Bucky isn’t listening anymore, can barely remember how to breathe when his chest feels so tight and his hands are cold, so cold and-

It’s quiet. 

The voice is gone.

“Woah, let the poor guy get through the door before you hand him my psych eval, will you, Cap?”

An amused sharp voice speaks interrupts Steve’s ramblings and Bucky’s head snaps around so fast he can feel the pull in his muscles, not that he cares. Not when he recognises that voice, gets to hear it again after fifty-two seconds an eternity of agonising silence.

Bucky is staring at the other male, he knows, but he can’t bear looking away from warm, brown eyes that are familiar in a way even Steve’s haven’t been in far too long.

“So, you’re the second part of the two for one special deal on super soldiers, huh?” the stranger the voice Tony Stark says as he crosses the distance between them. He spreads his hands, a wide, mocking smirk painted on his lips that reeks of challenge and antagonism and settles something in Bucky’s chest he hasn’t noticed had been knocked loose until now.

And for the first time since he fell from a train almost seventy years ago, the Asset, He, Bucky breathes.

There is no room for silence around Tony Stark.

zalemoonshadow  asked: would you draw a robot?i mean how would you make it look metalic?

Well, I haven’t studied metal too much, but I do have a few robot characters, so I hope this’ll help!

First I color the lines, so each piece sort of sticks out, but also blends together as whole objects.

Then I play with the lighting a lot. Typically, metal’s reflective, so showing how the metal interacts with the environment’s lighting is a good way of giving it properties. 

That’s essentially all I do for my robots, though I know there’s a lot more I could study and improve on, especially with metal. Hope that helps!

Hold my hand, you’ll be alright.

For Week 1 of @rebelcaptainprompts “a hand to hold”

Been kinda busy this weekend and into this week but really wanted to hammer something out for the inaugural prompt :D

There had been no time for comfort, not that he’d needed it. How they’d made it back to the ship, he wasn’t quite sure. He asked her, or thought he’d asked her, but his tongue felt heavy and dry — swallowing the words before he had the chance.

No words escaped her lips other than “bacta” and “hold still”. Her jaw a hard line, fingers deft as she applied pressure at his side. He winced and she sighed, barking another order over her shoulder.

She wouldn’t look at him, or maybe, he couldn’t look at her — the black edging in and out of his vision. He could hear Kaytoo, calm and controlled, responding to her commands.

Her commands. Things must have been bad.

“Hey,” he croaked and licked his lips, the tang of copper slowly coating his mouth. She stared down his side, tongue edging through her parted lips, ignoring him.

“Any more?” She chose as a response as Kaytoo slipped her another patch.

He watched as the crease of her brow hardened, at how distant her eyes had become. His own were probably doing the same, struggling to lock eyes with hers, but she’s looking through him, past him, as if he doesn’t exist —- because maybe she doesn’t want to see it, see him.

It was a face he knew all too well.

She pulled her hand from his side, teetering on the haunches of her heels. She wiped the blood from her hands, shouting another order to Kaytoo he can’t understand. The ship roared to life, the awful clattering of metal too much for his mind to fight past, and he let his eyes slip closed, if only for a moment.

There was a hand in his, and his mind registered it was Jyn’s, because under no circumstance would Kaytoo ever hold his hand, not unless he’d asked. It was warm and slick with blood, gripping it tight as he fought to open his eyes.

Too heavy, he thought.

Her mouth wandered his cheek, the warm puff of heat there a respite from the rest of his frozen limbs. She’s saying something, or trying to, the air moving and parting as if words are coming but he can’t quite hear them. Perhaps because she doesn’t quite know what to say, how to comfort him. Because maybe she can’t speak what she wants to tell him —- “you’ll be alright, it’s going to be alright” —- because right now, maybe she’s not quite sure how true that is.

He feels her weight shift, their hands unclasped briefly before she’s curled at his side, tucked against his shoulder. She seeks out his hand, and he threads his with hers, wishing he could thank her, comfort her in some way, do more than simply squeeze her hand in reply.

But when she exhaled, let go of every last bit of breath she’d held in relief, maybe it had been enough.

As he tightened his hold around each finger, he felt her lips smile against his shoulder, and he was certain it had been enough.

The White Princess Live Blog - Ep. 5

I had a lot of feelings about this week’s episode.  Mainly that the episode was utter horse crap.  But, I wrote 6 pages of live notes while watching.  There was a tightfisted sprinkling of decent scenes, but for the most part this episode felt like we were trudging over old ground and gaining nothing plot-wise.  Make sure to click the “read more”

Just want to say, if i hadn’t known there was a 5 year time jump in this episode i think i would have been confused for the first 15 minutes of the episode, since it isn’t explicitly stated in the episode that there has been a skipping forward.

Sooooo dramatic with the backlighting.  Who could this *majestic* figure in silhouette be?


I will never get over how easy it is for these two women to plot.  It just seems so unbelievable.  

Keep reading

FFXV Castlevania Vampire Thing

Well. Here it is. All 5600 or so words of it. I used a lot of dialogue from the last episode of Castlevania, so if you haven’t seen it, maybe watch that first? 

Ignis: a couple of centuries old. Went into a healing slumber when Regis went into a rage after Iedolas tried to kill his son and succeeded in killing the queen, Aulea. Regis disappeared, whereabouts unknown. Aulea loved Ignis like a son, and encouraged him to teach Noctis and take care of him. In Regis’ absence, Iedolas has begun to ravage the land, using his human-vampire hybrids (dhampir) as cannon-fodder. Ignis is woken before he is completely healed, his face scarred, his eyes weak, by Gladio and Crowe, a hunter and a speaker. Ignis moves and speaks with impeccable elegance and grace (think Rai (Noblesse), or even Kaname Kuran (Vampire Knight) despite his injuries.

Gladio: comes from a long line of vampire and monster hunters. His father tried to strike up a peace with Regis, and was murdered by the church for it, thus excommunicating his family. He likes to drink, and Crowe occasionally has to scrape him up off the floor after one too many whiskies and bar fights gone wrong. He drinks because he’s in a lot of pain, mentally, and there’s a void he can’t seem to fill inside himself. Crowe sees this, and knows its partly because of the anger and guilt he feels after the church burned his mother and father at the stake for trying to learn more about science from the vampires so she could heal and make the world a better place.

Iris: is also a hunter, but Gladio is terrified something will happen to her, so he encourages her to stay in Lestallum where there are fewer dhampir thanks to the bright lights. She still does hunts in the surrounding area, and she’s totally badass.

Noctis: son of Regis, and grudging ally of Gladio, though he mostly keeps to himself in the castle of his father. He’s very lonely without Ignis, who he sees as the brother he never had, and spends a lot of his time asleep in his coffin. Doesn’t eat properly without Ignis there to ensure he feeds regularly.

Prompto: dhampir who was snuck out of Iedolas’ incubation facilities and raised by a very low ranking vampire couple. Spent a lot of time on his own, learning about his body, what it can do and what it needs that’s different from vampires, figuring stuff out on his own. Dhampir are pack/coven orientated vampires and he is touch starved and isolated. Tries to remain cheerful despite everything.

“Shit, Gladio,” Crowe whistled, leaning back against a column, breathing hard. “The hell was that?”

Gladio cast his amber eyes over the fallen creature in front of him and drew his sword from its ruined eyeball. With a gut-twisting squish, it pulled free. “Cyclops,” he growled. “Turns you to stone, and feeds on your terror while you’re encased inside.” He wiped his blade on the tattered cloak of a dead Speaker not far away and added, “Still think your messiah is down here?”

“Something has to be,” she said, pushing her lean body away from the column and stalking off through the hazy blue lights and shadows. “They wouldn’t leave something like that down here for no reason…”

Gladio narrowed his eyes. “Crowe, you can’t be serious. I know you Speakers have long memories, but, fuck, this is suicide.”

“I thought you said you didn’t care about dying?” she called archly, now consumed by the deepest shadows of the chamber.

With another growl, he jogged after her. “I don’t, but I’m not gonna just throw my life away. If I die, I wanna die killing something worthwhile, not falling through crumbling cracks in the undercity and breaking my neck!”

He heard her shrug in the darkness. “Any chance you could cast a light spell or something?” he grouched.

“You want a fuckton of dhampir to come swarming out of the woodwork?” she asked, voice dripping with acid sarcasm.

“At least I’d see em coming,” he grumbled. “There won’t be any this far inside Lucis. Even Iedolas hasn’t gotten that bold yet.”

Crowe had just summoned a ball of light between her fingers when the world tilted with a sickening rumble, and the floor beneath their feet caved. Gladio’s back collided with a girder and he ricocheted off it, landing face down on a huge, slowly revolving wheel. Winded and dazed, he lay there a moment, trying to force his ribcage to re-inflate. Wheezing, he called, “Crowe? You ok? Where are you?”

With a rush of air, she shot up to the gear and landed next to him. “No time for a nap, Gladio,” she grinned. She was dirty and a cut was bleeding sluggishly on her forehead, but she looked alright. “I don’t fancy living the rest of my life as a hamster on this wheel,” she said, soles of her boots slipping a little as it tipped inexorably downwards. “You got any bright ideas, hunter?”

Unhooking his long whip, he flailed it, feeling it catch around a girder a little way off. Giving it a hard tug to check that rust hadn’t eaten through the metal, he jerked his chin at it, and she understood. Crowe was strong for a Speaker, not your average scholar, and, one hand at a time, she swung over the bottomless precipice. Gladio’s weight, however, swinging over the void once she was safely on the other side, was too much for the rotting metal, and it crumbled the moment he landed on the girder below.

“Oh for God’s sake,” he sighed as the whole structure caved amid a clanging and ringing loud enough to wake the most ancient of vampires from their eternal slumber.

It was a miracle that they survived the fall and didn’t get crushed, let alone were able to stagger to their feet after the debris had finished thundering to the ground around them. Blinking, coughing in the billowing dust, the Speaker and the hunter exchanged a look and then Gladio sighed. “Come on.”

The area they had broken through into was completely different from the dripping, corroding gears and wheels of mechanica above them. A red carpet threaded with gold lined the floor, though it was damp and now covered in assorted crap from the undercity above, and the walls were smooth-faced stone, even plastered in places. Mysterious, ever-burning lamps illuminated the length of the chamber, and, when their eyes landed on the contraption at the far end, their lips fell open in a synchronised duet.

“Is that…?” Crowe breathed.

Gladio stared. An enormous tank of blood, just over half full, with another completely full beside it, fed into what was unmistakably a coffin, stone, trimmed with gold, simple and yet exquisitely made. A huge glass bell maintained optimum air pressure, and the whole thing sat on a dais at the far end. “It’s a noble’s coffin. Looks like they weren’t planning on waking for a while though. Look at all that blood…”

Crowe shivered.

Gladio narrowed his eyes and strode over to the coffin, intending to get a closer look at the intricate gold-work which threaded over the lid, perhaps finding a clue to who might be inside before he staked them. With a click and a dip in pressure, Gladio froze, mid step. A pressure plate. He had triggered a pressure plate with his big old clumsy boot.

Crowe shot him a look.

“I didn’t do that,” he deadpanned, already readying himself for a fight.

With a hiss of hydraulics, the coffin lid shifted, and then slid clean off, the boom when it hit the floor resonating in Gladio’s ear drums as much as off the rest of the marble work in the chamber.

Horrifyingly slowly, a figure began to rise from within. Emaciated, skin pale as the stone around him, chest bare and horribly scarred, ashen hair flowing long down his back, the vampire hovered, suspended like a corpse on a gibbet before them. When he had emerged, his arms had been crossed in the vampire’s typical position of repose, but one now fell away into a mockery of a bow, his head flopping forward, face covered by shadow and loose-falling hair.

He gleamed in the half light of the strange torches, and Gladio’s eyes were wide. He was beautiful. “Why are you here?” the creature demanded, his voice low, hoarse with long disuse, but his accent was old and refined as a leather bound book of poetry. He did not look up.

“The story,” Crowe whispered, unable to help herself. “The messiah sleeps under Insomnia… The man who will save us from Iedolas.”

The vampire twitched at that, looking almost like he was mustering the strength for a derisive laugh, but somehow couldn’t quite manage it. “And you?” he asked, turning to Gladio, tone sour as old wine. “Are you in search of a mythical saviour?”

“I fell down a hole,” Gladio smirked, his confidence returning the longer he looked at the weakened, injured vampire. Though he wished he’d raise his head so he could see his face behind all that shadow and hair.

“Iedolas is abroad in the land,” Crow interrupted, her tone rich with the urgency of someone truly desperate. “He has an army of monsters. He’s determined to wipe out all human life wherever he finds it.”

The vampire hissed, fist clenching at the news. That made Gladio wonder. He turned to Gladio and asked, “Is that what you believe?” fangs flashing silver in the low light behind the curtain of hair.

“That Iedolas has released his horde in Lucis? That’s fact. There’s no “belief” involved.” His tone was sharp, angry, and brutal as a broadsword. “But that’s not what you’re asking.”


Gladio glared up at the vampire, still hanging there in space, and sneered, “You’re asking if I believe you’re some sleeping messiah who’ll save us, and no, I don’t.”

“Amicitia,” Crowe snapped. She knew he was baiting the vampire.

“I know what you are,” he snarled at the half-naked vampire.

The creature’s lips curled into a soft smile, dangerous as a phial of poison. “And what am I?” he asked in a silk-smooth voice.

“You’re a vampire,” Gladio spat.

And then he raised his face slowly to the light.

Crowe gasped and took half a step back, and even Gladio faltered. Vampires were beautiful. All of them, in their own, supernatural way, but this one was scarred, damaged, and the wounds on his face still looked raw, though the scar tissue was old.

A huge, ragged scar covered his left eye, like the flesh had been ripped away and was still growing over, another slashed the bridge of his nose, while a third and forth bisected his lips and right eyebrow. His eyes though, instead of the bright, burning lights he expected in the faces of vampires, they were misty, as though veiled by cataracts, or damaged long ago in some act of horrifying brutality. With his face, which still hid the framework of beauty behind the injuries, tilted upwards, he smiled dangerously, not looking directly at them, fangs flashing.

Could he even see? “So, I have to ask myself,” Gladio went on, brows set, eyes hard, “Have we come down here to wake up the man who’ll kill Iedolas, or did we come here to wake something just as bad?”

“You call me as bad as him?” he asked, gently lowering himself towards the floor, head proud, arms hanging with a tense readiness by his sides, his chest bare, showing more scars as he approached.

“I’ll call you anything you like if you’re gonna show me your teeth,” Gladio said sarcastically, lip curling.

His feet didn’t touch the red carpet as he hung in the air above it, but he opened his fingers, as though summoning a blade. Gladio readied himself, but the vampire just kept talking. “She called you Amicitia. House of Amicitia?”

“Gladiolus Amicitia,” he said, tone heavy as a two-handed axe. “Last son of the House of Amicitia.”

“The Amicitias fought creatures of the night, did they not? For generations,” he asked quickly, the hard edge to his words making Gladio’s skin crawl.

Gladio and Crowe exchanged wary looks. “Say what you mean,” Gladio said as he strode towards him, patience wearing thin as the rug beneath his feet.

“Amicitias killed vampires,” their mystery creature of the night said, ear tracking Gladio as he moved, though he didn’t turn his eyes to him. Gladio decided he definitely couldn’t see, or at least, it was too difficult to make them out with the contrast of bright lights and deep shadows.

“Until the good people decided they didn’t want us around,” Gladio said bitterly. “And now Iedolas is carrying out an execution order on the human race.”

“Do you care, Amicitia?” the vampire asked, turning slightly as Gladio wheeled slowly around him.

Gladio stopped, footsteps halting in their strange, courtly dance, while the vampire hung there like a spectre. His head dropped and he sighed. “Honestly, I didn’t, no. But now…” he raised his head and glared fiercely at the vampire. “Yes, it’s time to stop it.”

Crowe beamed at him but the vampire wasn’t done. “Do you think you can?” he asked. His voice was deep, but something about it drew Gladio a step closer to him. He was dangerous, deadly as a snake, but…

Gladio growled at himself for letting the creature pull him in the way they all did. “What I think… is I’m going to have to kill you,” he said, hand resting on his consecrated whip.

“Amicitia, no!” Crowe cried, hands going wide with astonishment. “He’s the one we’ve been waiting for!”

“No, he’s not,” Gladio scoffed. “He’s a vampire. And he’s not been waiting here for hundreds of years, have you?” he asked, eyeing the half full vat of blood.

“I don’t like your tone, Amicitia,” he said, voice dropping in pitch, smooth and deadly as silk over steel.

“This place is old, but it’s not been abandoned,” Gladio went on. “It’s alive and working. So go on, vampire, tell her exactly how long you’ve been waiting down here.”

The vampire’s eyes may have been dead, but his chiselled face was expressive enough. “What is the year of your Lord?” he asked her. On hearing the answer, he continued. “Perhaps a year then.”

“There,” Gladio said, gesturing grandly. “And on top of that, what kind of messiah creates mechanical death traps to buy himself an uninterrupted nap in a stone coffin?”

“My defences were not for you,” he fired quickly.

“You could have told your defences that,” Gladio barked.

His rapid retort seemed to draw an impromptu smile from the vampire, but he continued to speak in his quick, dry voice. “They are machines, nothing more. They were not intended to protect me from you.” His tone grew even harder, honed to a point as he snapped, “I asked you a question – do you care?”

“I care about doing my family’s work. I care about saving human lives.” He paused, eying him up. “Am I going to have to kill you?”

A light burned strangely in his face, those veiled eyes laughing, mocking, intrigued. “Do you think you can?” the vampire asked, with obvious interest in his answer. “If you’re really an Amicitia, and not some runt running around with the family crest, you might be able to.” His finger twitched and a pair of daggers which had been resting idly on a nearby chair rattled. “Even like this, I’ll still be a match for you though.” The daggers whirled through the air, sliding into his grip in a flash. His stance seemed relaxed, but he was ready, coiled, waiting. “Let’s find out.”

“Amicitia, you can’t do this!” Crowe called.

“Tell it to your floating vampire Jesus here,” Gladio snarled, uncoiling the whip at his belt.

“You’ve got nothing but insults, have you?” the vampire laughed. “A tired little –”

The crack from Gladio’s whip caught him right across his scarred chest, sending him flying backwards. He broke the fall and skidded, taking a moment to recover. He turned his face up, hissing, canines deadly as the daggers in his hands.

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lilkitsunechan  asked:

ElGangs reaction to falling off Hope Bridge in PvP

Elsword: “NOOB!  Unfair!  Rematch!”

Aisha: “Teleport is a beautiful, wonderful thing.”

Rena: “The water here is so polluted with demon junk…”

Raven: “You guys know I can’t swim, right?  Yeah, there’s too much metal in my body.  HELP.”

Eve: “Moby. Remy.  Lift me up and begin revenge.”


Ara: “Wait, can’t I just run up?  No?  Noooooo!”

Elesis: “Eh.  I’ll kill them when I get back up!  Wait- nope, they caught me.  ====.”

Add: “Ha!  You plebians seem to have forgotten that I can fly!  Wait, I can’t go high enough to get back up?”

Lu: “Ugh, Ciel!  Do something!”

Ciel: “What the hell does she expect me to do….?”

Rose: “Ugh.  How did I fall off?  All I was doing was spamming X….”

Ain: “I’m going to float down for… reasons.”

anonymous asked:

you love being warm as you sleep, but you always rotate your pillow to the cold side. When you finally start sharing a bed with Bucky, you cling to his metal arm in your sleep, your cheek always pressed on some part of it. Periodically you shift when you have warmed the metal too much. You often seek out his arm if he's not there. Outwardly Bucky likes to make fun of you for it but if you asked him he'd tell you it makes him feel better about it, less or a monster because you're not scared.

yes yes yes yes love this 

Fluffy Friday™

White Widow - Part 8

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9 (Smut)| PART 10 (Final)

Character Pairing: Bucky x Reader
Summary: When the reader loses her fiance to Hydra, she is sent to the Avengers compound for her protection. Forced to share the guest house with the famous assassin, the Winter Soldier, she must learn to cope with her loss and her new roommate. All this, while trying to solve the mystery of why Hydra is now hunting her.

A/N: Descriptions of wounds and injuries. I also finished this last night and it’s looking like it will be 10 parts.

Originally posted by illustrations-1988

I watched as Bucky took down all the Hydra agents springing forward. They didn’t even have a fighting chance. Beneath his war paint, rage burned into his deep blue eyes. He showed no mercy; shooting, stabbing, and punching every agent who dared throw themself in his path.

I cried out again as another shock wave hit me. I pressed my eyes shut, trying to ride out the wave of pain.

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It’s a date

Originally posted by hipsta-please-harry

REQUEST: Hi can you please write an harry imagine when we are doing a movie together (we are not love interest) and off set I don’t talk to anyone and I just keep to my self. And harry has a BIG crush on me and tries to get me to open up 

Sliiightly different from the request but not too far off

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