so. like. the au where they oneshotted all those ‘death knights” and charged past to Vecna, and then halfway through the fight, three black-armored figures troop through the doorway – can’t you just hear the cast all, “shit, more knights?” “Wait the ones on the stairs?” “Didn’t we kill these guys already?” “It’s Vecna. They’re probably undead. Pike, can you-”
And Vecna (Matt) just smiles, gestures, and the armored figures pull off their helmets. The first, shortest, a gnome with a pert nose and three dagger cuts in her armor, the third a slice through her throat that’s still bleeding sluggishly. (Sam, Scanlan, gasps; Liam looks queasy.) The second, a young human woman with dark hair with one white streak through it, two arrows through her chest and sharp grey eyes clouded over. (Laura’s face buried in her twin’s chest. Everyone shouting.) The last, a tall man still marked by the axe-gash across his chest, dark-haired and dark skin turned grey with death…
Vecna, smiling upon seeing them all in distress: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d like to see your loved ones one last time before you join them in death.
I’m sad to say that tonight on the RT Podcast, Burnie mentioned that Joe the Cat died at the age of 12. No dates when or how he died, but let’s be respectful and cherish his memory. Please don’t spam Burnie or Ashley about it, they will talk more on their own.
Films, fiction, can
encompass a whole global vision on a particular subject with any story,
whatever it is. You can play the story in whatever country with whatever
language in whatever style you want to tell the story in.
what she means: i can’t stop thinking about the scene in Black Panther where Erik takes the heart-shaped herb and is transported to the ancestral plane, but his father’s tortured and unresolved relationship with his homeland means he’s residing in a kind of purgatory trapped in Oakland with glimmers of the Wakandan spiritual plane seen outside the windows just beyond reach. N’Jobu sees his grown son, so scarred and angry beyond help, and wonders aloud the same doubt in the heart of every diasporic parent whether he ruined his child’s life by raising him in this foreign land, making him someone who belongs nowhere, someone who has lost his true identity and its accompanying possibility of wholeness. “maybe it’s your homeland that’s lost,” erik argues, tears filling his eyes even though not even his father’s death had made him cry. His father does not reply, and Erik wakes up screaming, still lacking the answers and connection that T’Challa was able to get from his own father.
Pass Through Fire 