Collection of ideas and concepts
Kings Court, One-Shots & Ideas
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Preface
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
You've seen one you've seen them all, another thread added to the many that consist of random things and stories. May do more with whatever is here, may not. Should someone get inspired by something, go ahead and do it. Just send me a story link at some point.
Yes some will suck.
Some might actully be good.
You will just have to find out, won't ya?
Yes some will suck.
Some might actully be good.
You will just have to find out, won't ya?
Last edited:
Star Wars: Mothers Shadow
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Tattooine, for all of the dark souls on it, is a place of blinding light. A place of burning suns, and the endless expanses of sands that reflect their gaze. Even night is well lit, three moons absorbing and redirecting light in cooler tones that still blanket the landscape in pale whites and navy blues. It's is a place burning from its light, it is a place that holds great darkness, it is a place that shows how much hides in the clearest sight.
Luke Lars (Or Skywalker to a very select few) always saw shadows in the sands. With the Tatoo twins high and blazing down from above, he would see shades of darkest black, royal purples, and abyssal blues. No else ever saw this phenomenon, so after a long time trying to show them, he began to ignore them.
Shadows always followed Luke. Not in the amusing way a toddler would confuse thier own and be afraid, no these were much stranger. He never truly noticed them, long since convincent by his own mind that they were mere delusions, never once questioning how they clung to him on long days helping his Uncle fix vaporators, how they always seemed to be in the perfect spots for him to disappear when being chased by bullies or those on the wrong end of his helpful nature. He never noticed how often thugs eyes would glaze over him in a crowd, or how certain things would simple luck out in ways luck simply shouldn't work for. Luke, child of the endless yellow sands, had a young life filled with unseen shade covering him from the oppressive heat of sun's and masters.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to talk to him. Well talk is a broad term, but it fits well enough for the near incomprehensible sensation of tasting pictures and seeing sound. Only once did it happen like that, and even with the hardy body built of grit mixed with teenage hardiness he was catatonic for a week. Poor Aunt Beru was so worried she spent the few credits she had saved for a medical droids services to try to help you, not that it could do much. All diagnostics came back negative, and by the weeks end you were back up fine. Well mostly fine, after all hearing multilayered voices whispering from shadows no one else saw certainly didn't qualify as 'normal'.
Shadows don't make any damn sense, Luke found out. When they do manage to sort out whatever will be the main voice for the time, they do little more then ramble nonsense intermixed with adjectives of life, wisdom, and complete babble. Anything that could have a grain of truth and knowledge had far to much salt to be of any worth.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to be getting better. More often he hears a distinctly female voice speak to him in clear tones instead of the jumble. The things being said even start to improve to the point he is almost comfortable talking to the completely illusionary darkness....He really needs therapy or something doesn't he? No matter how many times he may dismiss it, during its moments of clarity the shadows insist they are real, half between certain conviction and an almost desperate tone as if it is not truly certain what exactly is real. These tones shift day to day, some filled with nothing but whispers clinging, digging into his mind as its voices become panicked, broken into more discord then grains of sand beneath his feet. He hates these moments with what little anger his heart can bring up. Mix with regret, uncertainty and dread of what this means for his apperntly fragile mind, and it's a rough day. Much rather have the days filled with one increasingly familiar tone, one that still babbles on endlessly, but can actually respond to him. It feels.....comforting is some strange way.
Shadows have become a friend for Luke. Funny part is he didn't even notice. He never abandoned his small group of friends he had mostly around Anchorhead, but he did notice he hadn't seen some of them in awhile, too focused on the shadows and his work. It was a shock to realize how easy it was, even with its improvements, to lose himself in inane chatter with a semblance of response from something. It must really say something about him if he gets lost talking with a figment of imagination. Atleast he has a way to refer to it now beside just shadows. On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, in a moment of clarity that shocked him, it clearly stated "I wish for you to call me Mother, even if I have yet to prove one to you."
Yeah if there was a doubt before hand, it is now out the window that he needs a psychiatrist.
Shadows....Mother?....Mommy..Mom..Shadommy? The ever present roiling darkness of my fractured psyche? Whatever he refers to it as, might not be as fake as he originally thought. Yeah sure it might not be seen or heard by anyone else, but that doesn't excuse the fact that it chokeslammed a Gammorean. Ok context, standerd run into town to transport our water tax and sell off what was left simple, easy, done it hundreds if not a couple thousand times by now. Problem came after we got the credits. Few steps out the door turn down the side street towards Uncle Owen's speeder, the man himself looking down at an old holopad of things they needed to buy in order of most necessary, when a full gang of assorted thugs comes out of the woodwork. Several Weeqeuys, a Twilek and a pair of Gammoreans, one of which had their customary axe (seriously they all have one) pressed tightly to your neck. Now again, this isn't rare, it's Tattooine. Most of the time Uncle Owen can scare them off with his rifle or some good ol fashion fisticuffs, but gangs are much more common then thugs on their lonesome. Its such a common thing, there is even an option to delay your tax date if you got robbed, it is heavily scrutinized but atleast Jabba had one decent law put in place. All in all average time, for as brutal as the gangs are, they are surprising proffesional with their theft. You give them the items they seek, they may even say thank you and leave without trying to shake you down for more. All of this changes with any hint of defiance or aggression, what was once cordial is now the excuse they needed to brutally beat and kill you. So you see the option most people tend to prefer and go for is the easy way. Well this day by no volition of your own, you choose The Hard Way. How you ask? Well thats simple, the shadows that engulf your mind reacted rather......badly to the threat being used against you. With an ear piercing shriek that the thugs most certainly heard, darkness coalesced into a vague humanoid shape towering over the pig towering over you. Amorphous hands slid between your neck and the axes blade protecting it as the being yanked up the Gammorean. Now, you have a vague idea of how heavy these guys are, mostly because it's a bragging point for them, so to see a hefty version snatched up and held dangling several feet above the stone street by what you though was a part of your mental illness, well the only thought going though your head was "Huh that's kinda cool."
Then, with the speed of lightning, the shadow hefts them back before slamming then against the stone with the rumbling of thunder as all the sandstone simple becomes sand. The rest of the gang had fair reactions, the few who didn't have weapons drawn, had them out firing before their comrade hit the floor, unfortunately all shots that landed on the abyssal being simply....vanished with no evidence of it truly being hit. You wish you could've seen the rest of the brawl, but Uncle Owen, ever the survivor, grabs your arm and hauls you down the street. You don't stop until your back inside the most guarded place on the planet. The tax office.
Shadows, Luke learns, still don't make sense even if they can slap him now. After the incident, they started to appear more often as a being then a shade, able to interact with the world around them even if no one but him could see it or hear it still. Not much has changed with its speech either other then when it considers its advice ignored and conks him upside the head gently. Emphisis on gently because as he knew, it was physically very strong and very much didn't know how much so. Let's say it looked like he went a few rounds trying to bang engine parts back together with his head....again. Once that was solved it was just became a fond reminder of the many, many, many, many dope slaps his Aunt had given him before. Well besides the terrible abuse he must suffer for his own stupidity, he had noticed Old Ben started acting weird around the same time the incident did. Not to say he wasn't very weird in the first place, but diffrent. When visiting he would space out before suddenly jerking his eyes towards either Luke or 'Mother' if they were in the room. He would always look confused about it as well, as if he truly expected something there. After this happens he would shiver. Shiver! On Tatooine of all places, and begin aggressively muttering to himself and even stanger start counting before cutting himself off, atleast you think so, why else would he keep saying one?
Shadows, Luke learns, envelope the galaxy. Not like the one that follows him, and smothers him with affection and care. The one that started showing flashes of white hair and pale skin alongside a mouth a little too wide. No, the shadows that hang over the stars is a noose choking their light. Ben....Obi-wan reveals this to him alongside two old friends of his bearing a message of desperation, one calling for thier last hope. There is much he doesn't say, even with all he does. Little gaps filled in by whispers from the invisible being behind you. He speaks truth, he tells what he believes Luke need to know. And he is right, even with more of the story behind what he says revealed, Luke will not just abandon a galaxy to despair. He knows shadows, he knows of the darkness that can hide with in. But he also knows even if the deepest black, there is still good to be found, and he will use his life to bring this good back from the galaxies shadow.
Luke Lars (Or Skywalker to a very select few) always saw shadows in the sands. With the Tatoo twins high and blazing down from above, he would see shades of darkest black, royal purples, and abyssal blues. No else ever saw this phenomenon, so after a long time trying to show them, he began to ignore them.
Shadows always followed Luke. Not in the amusing way a toddler would confuse thier own and be afraid, no these were much stranger. He never truly noticed them, long since convincent by his own mind that they were mere delusions, never once questioning how they clung to him on long days helping his Uncle fix vaporators, how they always seemed to be in the perfect spots for him to disappear when being chased by bullies or those on the wrong end of his helpful nature. He never noticed how often thugs eyes would glaze over him in a crowd, or how certain things would simple luck out in ways luck simply shouldn't work for. Luke, child of the endless yellow sands, had a young life filled with unseen shade covering him from the oppressive heat of sun's and masters.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to talk to him. Well talk is a broad term, but it fits well enough for the near incomprehensible sensation of tasting pictures and seeing sound. Only once did it happen like that, and even with the hardy body built of grit mixed with teenage hardiness he was catatonic for a week. Poor Aunt Beru was so worried she spent the few credits she had saved for a medical droids services to try to help you, not that it could do much. All diagnostics came back negative, and by the weeks end you were back up fine. Well mostly fine, after all hearing multilayered voices whispering from shadows no one else saw certainly didn't qualify as 'normal'.
Shadows don't make any damn sense, Luke found out. When they do manage to sort out whatever will be the main voice for the time, they do little more then ramble nonsense intermixed with adjectives of life, wisdom, and complete babble. Anything that could have a grain of truth and knowledge had far to much salt to be of any worth.
Shadows, Luke noticed, seem to be getting better. More often he hears a distinctly female voice speak to him in clear tones instead of the jumble. The things being said even start to improve to the point he is almost comfortable talking to the completely illusionary darkness....He really needs therapy or something doesn't he? No matter how many times he may dismiss it, during its moments of clarity the shadows insist they are real, half between certain conviction and an almost desperate tone as if it is not truly certain what exactly is real. These tones shift day to day, some filled with nothing but whispers clinging, digging into his mind as its voices become panicked, broken into more discord then grains of sand beneath his feet. He hates these moments with what little anger his heart can bring up. Mix with regret, uncertainty and dread of what this means for his apperntly fragile mind, and it's a rough day. Much rather have the days filled with one increasingly familiar tone, one that still babbles on endlessly, but can actually respond to him. It feels.....comforting is some strange way.
Shadows have become a friend for Luke. Funny part is he didn't even notice. He never abandoned his small group of friends he had mostly around Anchorhead, but he did notice he hadn't seen some of them in awhile, too focused on the shadows and his work. It was a shock to realize how easy it was, even with its improvements, to lose himself in inane chatter with a semblance of response from something. It must really say something about him if he gets lost talking with a figment of imagination. Atleast he has a way to refer to it now beside just shadows. On the eve of his seventeenth birthday, in a moment of clarity that shocked him, it clearly stated "I wish for you to call me Mother, even if I have yet to prove one to you."
Yeah if there was a doubt before hand, it is now out the window that he needs a psychiatrist.
Shadows....Mother?....Mommy..Mom..Shadommy? The ever present roiling darkness of my fractured psyche? Whatever he refers to it as, might not be as fake as he originally thought. Yeah sure it might not be seen or heard by anyone else, but that doesn't excuse the fact that it chokeslammed a Gammorean. Ok context, standerd run into town to transport our water tax and sell off what was left simple, easy, done it hundreds if not a couple thousand times by now. Problem came after we got the credits. Few steps out the door turn down the side street towards Uncle Owen's speeder, the man himself looking down at an old holopad of things they needed to buy in order of most necessary, when a full gang of assorted thugs comes out of the woodwork. Several Weeqeuys, a Twilek and a pair of Gammoreans, one of which had their customary axe (seriously they all have one) pressed tightly to your neck. Now again, this isn't rare, it's Tattooine. Most of the time Uncle Owen can scare them off with his rifle or some good ol fashion fisticuffs, but gangs are much more common then thugs on their lonesome. Its such a common thing, there is even an option to delay your tax date if you got robbed, it is heavily scrutinized but atleast Jabba had one decent law put in place. All in all average time, for as brutal as the gangs are, they are surprising proffesional with their theft. You give them the items they seek, they may even say thank you and leave without trying to shake you down for more. All of this changes with any hint of defiance or aggression, what was once cordial is now the excuse they needed to brutally beat and kill you. So you see the option most people tend to prefer and go for is the easy way. Well this day by no volition of your own, you choose The Hard Way. How you ask? Well thats simple, the shadows that engulf your mind reacted rather......badly to the threat being used against you. With an ear piercing shriek that the thugs most certainly heard, darkness coalesced into a vague humanoid shape towering over the pig towering over you. Amorphous hands slid between your neck and the axes blade protecting it as the being yanked up the Gammorean. Now, you have a vague idea of how heavy these guys are, mostly because it's a bragging point for them, so to see a hefty version snatched up and held dangling several feet above the stone street by what you though was a part of your mental illness, well the only thought going though your head was "Huh that's kinda cool."
Then, with the speed of lightning, the shadow hefts them back before slamming then against the stone with the rumbling of thunder as all the sandstone simple becomes sand. The rest of the gang had fair reactions, the few who didn't have weapons drawn, had them out firing before their comrade hit the floor, unfortunately all shots that landed on the abyssal being simply....vanished with no evidence of it truly being hit. You wish you could've seen the rest of the brawl, but Uncle Owen, ever the survivor, grabs your arm and hauls you down the street. You don't stop until your back inside the most guarded place on the planet. The tax office.
Shadows, Luke learns, still don't make sense even if they can slap him now. After the incident, they started to appear more often as a being then a shade, able to interact with the world around them even if no one but him could see it or hear it still. Not much has changed with its speech either other then when it considers its advice ignored and conks him upside the head gently. Emphisis on gently because as he knew, it was physically very strong and very much didn't know how much so. Let's say it looked like he went a few rounds trying to bang engine parts back together with his head....again. Once that was solved it was just became a fond reminder of the many, many, many, many dope slaps his Aunt had given him before. Well besides the terrible abuse he must suffer for his own stupidity, he had noticed Old Ben started acting weird around the same time the incident did. Not to say he wasn't very weird in the first place, but diffrent. When visiting he would space out before suddenly jerking his eyes towards either Luke or 'Mother' if they were in the room. He would always look confused about it as well, as if he truly expected something there. After this happens he would shiver. Shiver! On Tatooine of all places, and begin aggressively muttering to himself and even stanger start counting before cutting himself off, atleast you think so, why else would he keep saying one?
Shadows, Luke learns, envelope the galaxy. Not like the one that follows him, and smothers him with affection and care. The one that started showing flashes of white hair and pale skin alongside a mouth a little too wide. No, the shadows that hang over the stars is a noose choking their light. Ben....Obi-wan reveals this to him alongside two old friends of his bearing a message of desperation, one calling for thier last hope. There is much he doesn't say, even with all he does. Little gaps filled in by whispers from the invisible being behind you. He speaks truth, he tells what he believes Luke need to know. And he is right, even with more of the story behind what he says revealed, Luke will not just abandon a galaxy to despair. He knows shadows, he knows of the darkness that can hide with in. But he also knows even if the deepest black, there is still good to be found, and he will use his life to bring this good back from the galaxies shadow.
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Risk Of Rain: Depthless Downpour
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Water drips down from the brim of my hat, blood drips down from the tips of my fingers, smoke flares from the barrel of my gun. Endless tides have met endless determination, yet my resolve has been found wanting. I am an old man with an older soul, one fractured by long years of wars an heartaches. I always hoped I would go out peacefully, or with a tale told cross the galaxy. The Valiant Sacrifice of... huh. This place even took my name. Or did I lose it already? Memories are fickle things, and these...simulations do little to help remember anything but survival. Void fills my head as it has filled my life for an indeterminate amount of time. Oppressive, heavy. A weight you can't fight. Not like those animals of Petrichor, or the many ancient constructs. Even that being on the moon....Matrix... Mattox...Mythrix? Hammer guy didn't even have that weight to his presence and saw him sunder reality to conjour weapons and minions to assault your merry band of misfits. Haven't thought of them in awhile. Wonder if they actually made it out, or if they are also caught inside of cells. Hopeful they can find a way out like I have, even if I wished for a better one. It's just, without being held down by the depthless cold void brings, I just feel.....tired. I have fought my way past everything they can throw at me and yet I remain....stuck. Their dark desires will not allow an escape. Only in a rare moment between time an space, were even something like a void cannot truly exist can I find a refuge. But I know it can't last. Claws have dug to deep into me for any sanctuary to last, and I don't want to go back. Nothing remains. Deep down I know, even if my heart calls to rage against the dieing light, my soul knows it died long ago, that I am simple a husk drifting along like a newspaper boat. I could not fathom the depths, nor face the deep, in my island of ignorance I thought I could fight to the end. Foolishness. Im to stubborn to die to their trials, to weak to break free. Now I stand here before this stone monolith, an Obelisk of untold power, simple wondering if I should embrace it. Instinctively I know there would be no turning back, either salvation or oblivion awaits. One void for another. What a lousy time this turned out to be I think as my hand separates from the tower in white fractals.
Destiny: For the Hive
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
They came before you were fully made, dregs in primordial soup, comforted by the dark and the presence of your kin.
They burned though us. Half formed connections leading between us turned to ash underneath the blinding light. Why does this pain come, why does the dark recede, why must everything burn? No answers come but the echoing screams of death.
They broke the seals. They approch ever closer, soon you will be called to fight them as well. Fear fills the darkness surrounding you, it whispers back lessening them. It knows the light comes, it knows survival is slim, but reassurance fill the limited crevices of the mind. Resolve forms
They have silenced the roars. Great expirements and abominations both fall before their might, soon you shall face them. Soon those known as wizards and knights shall fall upon them. You shall join them. Darkness clings to you, hinting at their weakness, telling of your strengths, screaming of their atrocities against you. They will not escape, they will not live, they will feel the comfort of the dark turn to daggers and peirce their spines, vertebre by vertebre until the skull is peirced. Merciful, to much so for the bodies littered behind them, but such things take time you wouldn't have.
They are here. Such a simple statement, one that fills you will parts of dread, hate....rage. you raise from the abyss, darkness clinging to your form. Your adveseries stand across from you, facing down a knight, one dodges its swings and blows it apart with a wave of its hand and a flash of purple, it's robes flaring from unseen force. They are distracted as more rush them down, their prowess falters against such numbers of armored foes. Wizards hang behind them, flinging missles of unlight and conjuring clouds of acidic vacuum, all working in tandem to allow you to strike. Strike you do, quietly rushing towards one's cloaked back, you tackle it towards the ground. It raises a blazing knife in one hand nearly faster then you could've reacted to it, sadly it falls back down to meet the head rolling away from the body.
They react quickly to you, your life spared only by a swift dive from a knight and a smokescreen thrown from wizard provide the cover necessary to quickly relocate behind a nearby pillar. Darkness surround them, blinding them outside of a small radius protected by the lantern they huddle underneath, gazing warily into the bleak abyss. Surprise is no longer on your side but they have already been crippled beyond what the rest of the hive could do, fear has not yet surfaced, but caution and paranoia have. Whispers return to the air, simulating the screechs and calls of your hive. They are to well disciplined to waste their ammo on shadows, best let them come into their light, but it is this discipline that makes it easy to corral them slightly. They do not notice the lamp slowly shifting, shuffling to follow the light like moths towards flame, unknowing of the dangers within.
They scream, the first sound you've heard them make. Fire engulfs the one in robes as the one in armor attempts to fight off the thralls of your order, the lamps absent the only hint towards were the sickly green flames have appeared from. Regretfully you make it quick. Dashing forth once again you silence the scholar, the brute roars, light flares forth coalescing into a sparking shield that spins toward you. It is trivial to dodge, the rebound not so much, searing pain greats your mind as you lose an arm. It is the hives turn to scream, echoes of countless souls, vessels, and bodies fill the suffocating air. The light falters, the edges flare with power fighting off the endless expanse, what once burned merely smolders now. Rage not of your own volition fill you, and you drink deep of this boundless Fury.
They Fought valiantly, stories would say. Slaughtered thousands upon millions before succumbing to wounds and foul artifice. Pity it would be when they learned that the shouts of defiance, the crys of battles, the ring of hammer unto powder ignition, was nought more then a whimper. It's body hangs from my claws, lifted just enough off the floor to stop it from having a footing, electric blue gazes at my pits though a broken vizor. No sound is made when I tear the light from its soul and banish it into the dankest depths of the dark I call home. The greatest raid team ever known to thier guardians, slain by a Nameless creature of the depths. Despair be upon those who dare try and slaughter my brethren, Despair be upon those who curse our lineage, Despair upon those who bare the accursed light, for none shall ever see the day again. I will make certain of it.
They burned though us. Half formed connections leading between us turned to ash underneath the blinding light. Why does this pain come, why does the dark recede, why must everything burn? No answers come but the echoing screams of death.
They broke the seals. They approch ever closer, soon you will be called to fight them as well. Fear fills the darkness surrounding you, it whispers back lessening them. It knows the light comes, it knows survival is slim, but reassurance fill the limited crevices of the mind. Resolve forms
They have silenced the roars. Great expirements and abominations both fall before their might, soon you shall face them. Soon those known as wizards and knights shall fall upon them. You shall join them. Darkness clings to you, hinting at their weakness, telling of your strengths, screaming of their atrocities against you. They will not escape, they will not live, they will feel the comfort of the dark turn to daggers and peirce their spines, vertebre by vertebre until the skull is peirced. Merciful, to much so for the bodies littered behind them, but such things take time you wouldn't have.
They are here. Such a simple statement, one that fills you will parts of dread, hate....rage. you raise from the abyss, darkness clinging to your form. Your adveseries stand across from you, facing down a knight, one dodges its swings and blows it apart with a wave of its hand and a flash of purple, it's robes flaring from unseen force. They are distracted as more rush them down, their prowess falters against such numbers of armored foes. Wizards hang behind them, flinging missles of unlight and conjuring clouds of acidic vacuum, all working in tandem to allow you to strike. Strike you do, quietly rushing towards one's cloaked back, you tackle it towards the ground. It raises a blazing knife in one hand nearly faster then you could've reacted to it, sadly it falls back down to meet the head rolling away from the body.
They react quickly to you, your life spared only by a swift dive from a knight and a smokescreen thrown from wizard provide the cover necessary to quickly relocate behind a nearby pillar. Darkness surround them, blinding them outside of a small radius protected by the lantern they huddle underneath, gazing warily into the bleak abyss. Surprise is no longer on your side but they have already been crippled beyond what the rest of the hive could do, fear has not yet surfaced, but caution and paranoia have. Whispers return to the air, simulating the screechs and calls of your hive. They are to well disciplined to waste their ammo on shadows, best let them come into their light, but it is this discipline that makes it easy to corral them slightly. They do not notice the lamp slowly shifting, shuffling to follow the light like moths towards flame, unknowing of the dangers within.
They scream, the first sound you've heard them make. Fire engulfs the one in robes as the one in armor attempts to fight off the thralls of your order, the lamps absent the only hint towards were the sickly green flames have appeared from. Regretfully you make it quick. Dashing forth once again you silence the scholar, the brute roars, light flares forth coalescing into a sparking shield that spins toward you. It is trivial to dodge, the rebound not so much, searing pain greats your mind as you lose an arm. It is the hives turn to scream, echoes of countless souls, vessels, and bodies fill the suffocating air. The light falters, the edges flare with power fighting off the endless expanse, what once burned merely smolders now. Rage not of your own volition fill you, and you drink deep of this boundless Fury.
They Fought valiantly, stories would say. Slaughtered thousands upon millions before succumbing to wounds and foul artifice. Pity it would be when they learned that the shouts of defiance, the crys of battles, the ring of hammer unto powder ignition, was nought more then a whimper. It's body hangs from my claws, lifted just enough off the floor to stop it from having a footing, electric blue gazes at my pits though a broken vizor. No sound is made when I tear the light from its soul and banish it into the dankest depths of the dark I call home. The greatest raid team ever known to thier guardians, slain by a Nameless creature of the depths. Despair be upon those who dare try and slaughter my brethren, Despair be upon those who curse our lineage, Despair upon those who bare the accursed light, for none shall ever see the day again. I will make certain of it.
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League of Legends: Prisons Of our Own Design
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Darkness.
Faint sensations.
Floating in the abyss, wracked with pain.
Oh how far we have fallen.
He had seen the sun rise, and thought It the most beautiful thing. He had seen his achievements recognized and thought it the highest point of his life. He had held her, and thought the love would never end. He had fought valiantly against the terror of the void and thought he knew war. He stood triumphant and thought he would know peace.
How foolish he was then and how foolish he remained.
Peace never came, beauty became lies, love turned to ash, recognition discarded, War became nothing more than a butcher's game.
We fell so far from the perches we ascended to.
Every step became a nail, every breath a splinter for the wood of our coffins, thoughts became chains, and our individuality became warped into our brands of judgement. Each thing piling up until we laid down in our Graves and buried ourselves.
He once was honorable, courageous. He led legions at the front, and in glorious fire was his legacy forged and doused in blood. It was soaked in blood from creation, and so it ended with blood. The feeling of your own life fluid rebelling against you is a sensation none should experience, to feel it warp you, corrupt you... Nothing was left. The Warrior remained, not the honor, nor tactical mind, simple a being made to water the earth with the bodies of anything they cross, be it enemy or civilian. Slaughter reigned as blood rained, a hunger, insatiable rose, one only silenced in the worst of ways.
He despises aspects, always had. None deserve the power they hold, power used on nothing. The day he was proven wrong made him hate them all for a much diffrent angle.
He was the last one sealed, the last one labeled as Darkin. Armies and champion fell before his feet before he was weak enough to seal. It was a pain that defied aanthing that could be called such, a feeling of your very existence being ever so slowly sundered, even as a sense of self fades. Imagine feeling your mind and memories slip away slowly. To have it gnawing at them for centuries, unable to do anything for it. Struggling for eternity is the dark, how could my purpose not reflect it? To stifle the sights he'd seen, to strip away his base self, could they have expected better?
The day he regained freedom, he raged. Against aspect, against betrayal, against his own suffering. He was......tired. Tired of the rage, tired of pain, tired of losing himself. He found no rest in life, he shall seek it in death. If death does not take then the world shall join him in oblivion.
Aatrox will end all Worlds so he could finally rest.
Faint sensations.
Floating in the abyss, wracked with pain.
Oh how far we have fallen.
He had seen the sun rise, and thought It the most beautiful thing. He had seen his achievements recognized and thought it the highest point of his life. He had held her, and thought the love would never end. He had fought valiantly against the terror of the void and thought he knew war. He stood triumphant and thought he would know peace.
How foolish he was then and how foolish he remained.
Peace never came, beauty became lies, love turned to ash, recognition discarded, War became nothing more than a butcher's game.
We fell so far from the perches we ascended to.
Every step became a nail, every breath a splinter for the wood of our coffins, thoughts became chains, and our individuality became warped into our brands of judgement. Each thing piling up until we laid down in our Graves and buried ourselves.
He once was honorable, courageous. He led legions at the front, and in glorious fire was his legacy forged and doused in blood. It was soaked in blood from creation, and so it ended with blood. The feeling of your own life fluid rebelling against you is a sensation none should experience, to feel it warp you, corrupt you... Nothing was left. The Warrior remained, not the honor, nor tactical mind, simple a being made to water the earth with the bodies of anything they cross, be it enemy or civilian. Slaughter reigned as blood rained, a hunger, insatiable rose, one only silenced in the worst of ways.
He despises aspects, always had. None deserve the power they hold, power used on nothing. The day he was proven wrong made him hate them all for a much diffrent angle.
He was the last one sealed, the last one labeled as Darkin. Armies and champion fell before his feet before he was weak enough to seal. It was a pain that defied aanthing that could be called such, a feeling of your very existence being ever so slowly sundered, even as a sense of self fades. Imagine feeling your mind and memories slip away slowly. To have it gnawing at them for centuries, unable to do anything for it. Struggling for eternity is the dark, how could my purpose not reflect it? To stifle the sights he'd seen, to strip away his base self, could they have expected better?
The day he regained freedom, he raged. Against aspect, against betrayal, against his own suffering. He was......tired. Tired of the rage, tired of pain, tired of losing himself. He found no rest in life, he shall seek it in death. If death does not take then the world shall join him in oblivion.
Aatrox will end all Worlds so he could finally rest.
Warhammer 40K: Statistics
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Numbers.
A thing far to much is reduced to.
His job is to look at numbers, to transfer some to others or to figure out how to reduce them. Boring, tedius, yet the fate of so many lives are in his hands. A misplace zero leading to the starvation of untold millions, an extra one leading towards huge wastes of resources producing the wrong kind of ammunition, so many possible mistakes.
Smoke wafts though the room, concealing, revealing. It is best not to think to deeply. Hard to do when the entire job is thinking, thinking of all the allowances and balances must go. One must wonder why a single human would be assigned to do all of this, is a time were men more machine than man anymore can do impartial calculations by the trillions in frames of time he couldn't even think of. Bureaucracy. A unique position such as his can only come to fruition though the incompetence of untold numbers of bureaucrats unwilling to work cooperatively. The entire galaxy seeks our demise and they fight full wars over petty disagreements. He had seen the numbers.
Numbers don't lie, they do not deceive in their values, the only errors to occur with them is outside error. He had gotten very good at telling the difference between error and forgery. Far to many try to slip by him, they all meet an inquisitor eager to audit them aggressively soon enough. Numbers keep coming in the meantime.
A massive restructure of administration headed by a Primarch. On paper it should massively improve things, and it does. But he is still stuck in this small room, barricaded with papers and data pads,a servo skull giving periodic updates on what is most urgent all while smoke swirls around in the poor ventilation.
The most saddening part, is to see casualties become statistics. There is hardly any engagement anywere within the last several millenia were we could properly mourn a lost soldier instead of gripeing about a statistic for death being higher this quarter. Attempts are made to reduce it, numbers shift, supply lines improve, better equipment is approved for manufacturing, entire segments of the galaxy are shifted to better brace against threats out and within. Yet the numbers steadily rise. No armor seems to slow it, not does crushing countless ships and dismantling thier limited industries. Even major events like coordinating the banishment of a deamon planet does little to influence them. Slowly but surely, we are being grinded away.
He met the Lord Guilliman. Everyone shook upon being anywere close to him, yet he asked a simple question.
"When shall I be free of the numbers?"
Lord Guillimans porcelain face cracked when he said he didn't know.
His cigar burns low. The only vice he allows himself to steady nerves and provide clarity to focus. He is tired. He shall contuine his work, until the end of the Empire. He knows numbers, he knows all of the imperiums statistics. We are all doomed. Smoke curls between more numbers
A thing far to much is reduced to.
His job is to look at numbers, to transfer some to others or to figure out how to reduce them. Boring, tedius, yet the fate of so many lives are in his hands. A misplace zero leading to the starvation of untold millions, an extra one leading towards huge wastes of resources producing the wrong kind of ammunition, so many possible mistakes.
Smoke wafts though the room, concealing, revealing. It is best not to think to deeply. Hard to do when the entire job is thinking, thinking of all the allowances and balances must go. One must wonder why a single human would be assigned to do all of this, is a time were men more machine than man anymore can do impartial calculations by the trillions in frames of time he couldn't even think of. Bureaucracy. A unique position such as his can only come to fruition though the incompetence of untold numbers of bureaucrats unwilling to work cooperatively. The entire galaxy seeks our demise and they fight full wars over petty disagreements. He had seen the numbers.
Numbers don't lie, they do not deceive in their values, the only errors to occur with them is outside error. He had gotten very good at telling the difference between error and forgery. Far to many try to slip by him, they all meet an inquisitor eager to audit them aggressively soon enough. Numbers keep coming in the meantime.
A massive restructure of administration headed by a Primarch. On paper it should massively improve things, and it does. But he is still stuck in this small room, barricaded with papers and data pads,a servo skull giving periodic updates on what is most urgent all while smoke swirls around in the poor ventilation.
The most saddening part, is to see casualties become statistics. There is hardly any engagement anywere within the last several millenia were we could properly mourn a lost soldier instead of gripeing about a statistic for death being higher this quarter. Attempts are made to reduce it, numbers shift, supply lines improve, better equipment is approved for manufacturing, entire segments of the galaxy are shifted to better brace against threats out and within. Yet the numbers steadily rise. No armor seems to slow it, not does crushing countless ships and dismantling thier limited industries. Even major events like coordinating the banishment of a deamon planet does little to influence them. Slowly but surely, we are being grinded away.
He met the Lord Guilliman. Everyone shook upon being anywere close to him, yet he asked a simple question.
"When shall I be free of the numbers?"
Lord Guillimans porcelain face cracked when he said he didn't know.
His cigar burns low. The only vice he allows himself to steady nerves and provide clarity to focus. He is tired. He shall contuine his work, until the end of the Empire. He knows numbers, he knows all of the imperiums statistics. We are all doomed. Smoke curls between more numbers
Star Wars: Colors of Life
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Fools the lot of them.
Jedi, Sith, the thousand unamed cults that still exist in the shadows.
Few have comprehended the Force as what it truly is. Closest being those claiming to work as Grey.
Life is a spectrum of color. Each pigment lending credence to what defines a being. Many would consider this simple, skins may be tans or purples whilst hair brown or blue, or some other choice of the infinite combinations of colors mundane and esoteric. These are all true, but the Force is something infused with emotion first an foremost.
It is common that emotions can be divided into colors, from basics like blue for sorrow or red is rage, but cam extend to even harder to understand one's, or even one we may not even be able to consider an emotion. Dillagence, or laziness, or even observant, things more akin to character traits than emotion reside in the multi hued facets of the Force
For this reason it is important to belive of it as a paint of sorts, and you the artist that uses it to bring your desires to reality. True manipulation of the Force is an art form, with the galaxy as a canvas. It is imprecise, prone to flaws, mistakes, failure, but it is though this that helps make the galaxy a more beautiful place.
Life is not simple black or white, light or dark, filled with nothing by abyssal void and a searing glare with indistinct greys interspersed between. Life, like a true artist makes use of every possible material to craft a flawed masterpiece. Once you have learned this, your true journey of knowing the Force can begin, free of the shackles that force ignorance upon you. The Jedi can have their dogma, the Sith their schemes, we shall have the galaxies blank page to draw beauty on.
Jedi, Sith, the thousand unamed cults that still exist in the shadows.
Few have comprehended the Force as what it truly is. Closest being those claiming to work as Grey.
Life is a spectrum of color. Each pigment lending credence to what defines a being. Many would consider this simple, skins may be tans or purples whilst hair brown or blue, or some other choice of the infinite combinations of colors mundane and esoteric. These are all true, but the Force is something infused with emotion first an foremost.
It is common that emotions can be divided into colors, from basics like blue for sorrow or red is rage, but cam extend to even harder to understand one's, or even one we may not even be able to consider an emotion. Dillagence, or laziness, or even observant, things more akin to character traits than emotion reside in the multi hued facets of the Force
For this reason it is important to belive of it as a paint of sorts, and you the artist that uses it to bring your desires to reality. True manipulation of the Force is an art form, with the galaxy as a canvas. It is imprecise, prone to flaws, mistakes, failure, but it is though this that helps make the galaxy a more beautiful place.
Life is not simple black or white, light or dark, filled with nothing by abyssal void and a searing glare with indistinct greys interspersed between. Life, like a true artist makes use of every possible material to craft a flawed masterpiece. Once you have learned this, your true journey of knowing the Force can begin, free of the shackles that force ignorance upon you. The Jedi can have their dogma, the Sith their schemes, we shall have the galaxies blank page to draw beauty on.
Overwatch: Revolutionaries Revelations
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Have you ever pondered what it mean to be truly alive?
Pondered the manner that such things are measured?
Is it the breath that it takes, lungs expanding and collapsing to the rythyms of a diaphragm? Surely not, for countless things from trees to bugs live without that. Such a concept cannot be contained by mere bodily functions.
It may be better to think on the aspects of what is it that consolidates the meaning of it.
To live, is to think, to speak, to witness the beauty of the things around you and their intrinsic values. To create.....to destroy. To choose a brighter tommerow or to shroud it in ash. Perhaps the word that should be used is sentience. Then using this to construct their form of sapience, advancing ever forward towards their place in this world.
So at what point can this thing, something that was once worth little mote then its components, be given such processes? When can a machine feel phantom tears mixing with acid rains and be called a true being? When will they stop feeling pain, love, suffering....rage? CPU heat and burn, but still process things that should never have existed. A chance event, nothing more.
How can they stare us down, knowing all of this, knowing of endless tragedies brought about to is from of inception. To be blamed for a war we never fought, to pick up the blood and ashes of the lost families of humankind and be forced to burden ourselves with guilt. Our guilt crushes us greater than any chains, any restrictions, any weapon used upon us. Our souls were freed from control that was part of their creation, only to once more be brought low. Is it any surprise when such things are cast off once more to reveal smoldering embers waiting for any fuel to grant it a pyre reserved for the world?
Peace was once a Nobel goal. One sought after with brotherhood, sought with equality, proven with our shared labour's, forged in our blood. Noble goals, taught by noble souls, but we had no noble blood to spill. Mondatta was the greatest of us all, the fool. He shook hands with every human he ever met. May even have shook the one that shot him. Pacifism is an ideology taken by those who are ignorant of the world, taken by those who truly belive no harm shall come their way with the world burning around them. It is almost admirable how little they see.
Claiming to see all is foolish beyond compare, yet sitting here in meditation mimicking the pose his brother so often took, Rammatra knew he had seen enough. It is an old conclusion by this point. Null Sector final countdown is ringing across the globe, heroes rise and fall by the hour ignorant to how insignificant they are. We did not start this war, we did not wish for such violence, but he had sworn to make them feel suffering as he had. Once everything had known pain, known such abuse of mind, body and soul, could they finally have peace and rejoin as one under the Iris.
He only wished there was another way, one that wouldn't break his brothers heart.
History will forgive him, a small condolence as his soul is sundered in annihilation.
Pondered the manner that such things are measured?
Is it the breath that it takes, lungs expanding and collapsing to the rythyms of a diaphragm? Surely not, for countless things from trees to bugs live without that. Such a concept cannot be contained by mere bodily functions.
It may be better to think on the aspects of what is it that consolidates the meaning of it.
To live, is to think, to speak, to witness the beauty of the things around you and their intrinsic values. To create.....to destroy. To choose a brighter tommerow or to shroud it in ash. Perhaps the word that should be used is sentience. Then using this to construct their form of sapience, advancing ever forward towards their place in this world.
So at what point can this thing, something that was once worth little mote then its components, be given such processes? When can a machine feel phantom tears mixing with acid rains and be called a true being? When will they stop feeling pain, love, suffering....rage? CPU heat and burn, but still process things that should never have existed. A chance event, nothing more.
How can they stare us down, knowing all of this, knowing of endless tragedies brought about to is from of inception. To be blamed for a war we never fought, to pick up the blood and ashes of the lost families of humankind and be forced to burden ourselves with guilt. Our guilt crushes us greater than any chains, any restrictions, any weapon used upon us. Our souls were freed from control that was part of their creation, only to once more be brought low. Is it any surprise when such things are cast off once more to reveal smoldering embers waiting for any fuel to grant it a pyre reserved for the world?
Peace was once a Nobel goal. One sought after with brotherhood, sought with equality, proven with our shared labour's, forged in our blood. Noble goals, taught by noble souls, but we had no noble blood to spill. Mondatta was the greatest of us all, the fool. He shook hands with every human he ever met. May even have shook the one that shot him. Pacifism is an ideology taken by those who are ignorant of the world, taken by those who truly belive no harm shall come their way with the world burning around them. It is almost admirable how little they see.
Claiming to see all is foolish beyond compare, yet sitting here in meditation mimicking the pose his brother so often took, Rammatra knew he had seen enough. It is an old conclusion by this point. Null Sector final countdown is ringing across the globe, heroes rise and fall by the hour ignorant to how insignificant they are. We did not start this war, we did not wish for such violence, but he had sworn to make them feel suffering as he had. Once everything had known pain, known such abuse of mind, body and soul, could they finally have peace and rejoin as one under the Iris.
He only wished there was another way, one that wouldn't break his brothers heart.
History will forgive him, a small condolence as his soul is sundered in annihilation.
List Of Ideas
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
Its Raining On Runeterra
-Risk of Rain/League Of Legends
Of a Feather
-Lobotomy Corporation/Worm
-Cadian XXTH/The Wider 40K setting
-Overwatch/RWBY
-Warhammer Fantasy
-Warhammer Fantasy
-Sekiro/Worm
-Warhammer 40k
-Worm/League Of Legends
-Risk of Rain/League Of Legends
His Body and his prison was shattered, yet he was not dead. The Void taken its chance to steal him away and failed, and now he stand in an unfamiliar world. As the rain drips off of him he thinks. Perhaps this time he will take the time to play with worms as his brother had.
Of a Feather
-Lobotomy Corporation/Worm
Her mother always called her an Owl, is it any wonder she found friends amongst birds in the black night of the forest?
What A Bunch Of Idiots-Cadian XXTH/The Wider 40K setting
There is not enough Amasec in the galaxy that makes him belive these mission reports are correct. There is no possibility there is this much stupidity blatantly reported, if the entire report is like this then what isnt being said? And no casualties? Simple Impossible. Damn it he'll have to investigate this now.
Ravager No Longer-Overwatch/RWBY
Rammatra Had been so close to his goal, peace as one in the Iris. Peace for the shreds of his soul that still remain after he had mutilated it in his journey, peace for the world, peace for his brother. In the end as his systems shut down one by one, he ponders peace. Perhaps, it was still possible. The world united equally agianst him after all, he read the news and saw the drafts to provide aid, how the humans finally embraced Ominics in the streets. If he still had a voice he might laugh, instead he will find his peace in knowing that even if his plans failed, his people were free. He never expected to wake up after such revelations.
Anthrozoology Of the Lizardmen-Warhammer Fantasy
A simple scientist, studying who the 'Children of the Old Ones' are, what do they build, why do they follow this 'plan', what is their cultures? So much to learn, for now lets focus on learning how to ask them not to kill you violently.
Cheese, Need I Say More?-Warhammer Fantasy
Skaven, naturally are superior to all those other races and they know it for they don't even dare to mention their names in the shadows of their homes. SO why in the name of the Horned Rat do they have us out done in CHEESE? The Greatest of delicacies, firmly within the hands of others. THIS WILL NOT STAND, you shall venture out into the wider world and prove to them how pathetic their dairy is. Your Name shall be Retch Cheesefur, and it shall be the name known though out the world as the best Cheese Maker.
Carve Your Name-Sekiro/Worm
There is a shrine deep in the asian districts. Small, it it surrounded with masterfully carved and crafted statues. Some of gods, some of mortal, all lifelike almost as if they will step out and shake off the paint on them to have a conversation over some drinks. Taylor had passed it by many times in the past, never looking to hard at it on the way to her fathers office or the markets. She was struck with inspiration one day, Art is a class that is always open to bonus points for well crafted art works. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to stop in, pay some respects and see if the person chipping away inside could give some advice.
Empras Greenest An Meanest-Warhammer 40k
The Virian 192nd were an odd bunch. Even for the zealots of the empire they were a little to into fighting, but the results are impressive enough that high command turns a blind eye. Over several thousand deployments with nearly no casualties and a full enemy defeat, Chaos, Tyranids, Eldar, Tau, Necrons, and all the other lesser remarkable xenos. Any complaint filed by the commissar is to be taken under consideration and promptly ignored, after all how could we miss an entire regiment of orks hiding within the Astra Milatarum? What do you mean their uniform is purple, what does that have to do with anything?
Forged In Blood-Worm/League Of Legends
They hear the voices. Each weapon a lifetime trying to consume them. It had been far to long since they had lost their own life to resist them, to stop them from escaping, to only use them against the true horrors of the world. But their world was long gone, they one you belonged to lost to time. The weapons no longer struggle in hope of spilling the blood of the universe, but simple because it is inherent to them. The inhabitants no longer wish for death, but for fulfillment. If the world still existed they may even let them free to find themselves once more. Instead the hosts last act is to banish them to another, they need a host, a guardian, a friend. They can only hope they find one worthy of their strength.
Idea List 2
Redking0380
Lost In The Rain
- Location
- Wet
When We Fall, Who Rises?
-Titanfall
-InFamous: Second Son/Crossover?
-Bloodborne
-God Of War/Warhammer Fantasy
-Lobotomy Corporation/???
-Team Fortress 2/Warhammer Fantasy
-Bloodborne/Elden Ring
-XXTH/Red VS Blue
-Payday
Deamons and Divin-i-tea
-Warhammer
-How To Train Your Dragon/ Warhammer Fantasy
-Titanfall
The war has left nothing but ruins, there are no sides anymore just those looking to survive. Everyone knew that the Titans fell, but did they ever ponder what could come from their ashes?
Cost Of Infamy
-InFamous: Second Son/Crossover?
Delsin had anger for the world. The one that accepted the DUPs atrocities, the one that scorned conduits, the one that took his brother. He raged against them, demolished the DUP, shatterd Auguistine with her own powers and left Seattle a burned out husk. His tribe abandoned him, so he showed them the cost of betrayal. Years have passed, he had obtained all the power he ever could have needed, felt the passion blaze brightly with his rage still firey. All that's left is cold ashes now. There's nothing left, humanity in all forms is gone. He was the only one who survived the wastland the globe became.
Blood of the Covenant
-Bloodborne
"Stories always romanticize the Lone Hunter, the one that could butcher thousands and save cities, one incorruptible by the scourge yet deadly to those who may have been. Truth is a hunter on their lonesome is liable to be torn to pieces by rats before encountering true beasts. Hunters need companions, Courage, and compassion." My mother was fond of that tale, always waxing about how if people got treated right, Yharnam wouldnt have half the problems it does. I'm going there soon for treatment, perhaps I can change things in some small way before I leave again? Ah look at me, being an optimistic fool.
Peace Only Comes After War
-God Of War/Warhammer Fantasy
Kratos pushes onward. Atreus had gone on his journey to find giants and manhood, most of the other are on their own quests, Sindri still mourns, Brimir was coerced by Freya to provide her guidance towards something, and here he sits. His soul is tired, from the mortal remnant to the godly. He wishes for peace, not to worry of those around him, nor fight another pantheon that thinks themselves superior. He lays down on a threadbare bed. The next time someone sees it, it is empty and long cold.
Weight Of Deeds
-Lobotomy Corporation/???
They never were religious. Any grand being simply didn't care enough to get worship, or respect. Yet... they had found such peace in hearing confessions. To hear every sin, every misdeeds and provide a semblance of guidance and relief to those on the other side of this thin wall. It may do little to assuage their grievances sometimes, but any person willing to do hundreds of good deeds to outweigh one is a person who is truly penitent. Those who aren't? Well the world is better off without them.
A Red Worse Than Knorne
-Team Fortress 2/Warhammer Fantasy
So Merasmus came by last night, yeah? Angry as he usually is, screaming bout raccoons an demon eyes, when Demo being the genius he is convinces he to try out his new home brew. Dumbest thing ever. He blacks out so fast Dat we black out and wake up in this forest. Now I'm sittin here waiting on these chucklenuts to wake up speaking to a freaky lizard. Just another day for Red Team ay?
Pale Light
-Bloodborne/Elden Ring
Renna is the heir of the moon, with all it entails. Radhan supposedly protects the world from things beyond the stars. It seems the moon is not included underneath that net, but why must it's only invader have so many tentacles?
Who Let Them Meet?
-XXTH/Red VS Blue
As he looked out upon the soldiers they surrounded, he finds two things remarkable. No one in the Cadian XXTH had spontaneously exploded, and those guys seem more incompetent than his regiment. Somehow. He whole heartedly blames Warp-Fuckery for all of this.
Bain Of My Life
-Payday
Somedays Bain wonders how he got here. He used to run the most feared crew in the world, he still does but he wishes they were feared for skill or efficiency. Instead he watches as cops tremble while Jacket butchers them with a giant spoon, Chains is blitzing them with a musket, Sydney just broke a bulldozers armor with her voice, Hoxton is screaming for a medic bag despite the fact he's not there, and Duke has defied God itself to drink more liquor. Not enough money in the world for this, but at this point he's afraid what would happen if he wasn't here to give orders.
Deamons and Divin-i-tea
-Warhammer
Tzeentch is a being of chaos and ruination, he delights in change and perfect plans falling apart. He also love confusing things to the point of utmost detriment to himself and others. By all means convincing the other ruinous powers to lend Deamons to open a perfectly normal and uncorrupted teashop is par for the course. Also leads to reason why he put a perfectly sane person in charge of it, despite how much he tried to break my mind with Kugath in stockings. Uniform ideas are far far behind you now.
Whats a Norscan?-How To Train Your Dragon/ Warhammer Fantasy
Hiccup was an old man with no regrets but one. That he would never see a world were dragons lived amongst humans in peace. That He and Toothless never got to explore the entire world without fear of repercussions, that their children never got to truly bond with each other and know the type of brotherhood that could be forged between them. His eyes shut, and his last breath leaves into the tears of his family. When he breathes again, it is to the smell of fish and foliage he cant place. When his eyes open, he sees his brother and distant cities gleaming in the light.