HAND OF FATE

"To you, a story is reality. To me, they are words. Your reality is my fiction- A story. The way you perceive a shape, a square on a piece of paper. You see all sides, all angles, the only face it has on full display." It leans forward onto the table, standing the spoon straight up upon the table, balanced between the surface and the tip of its lithe blackened finger.

"I choose not to believe that you are ignorant to the fact, that as you look upon that square, and see all that it could ever consider reality, and every fact of its true nature-- That so too are there beings above, and above, and above, and above, that look upon the shape of you and see every dark little secret, thought. Past, present, future. The linear space of who you could be."

It could be likened to a child, staring in upon the ants in the farm as they tunneled in and out of their little burrows, living their ignorant little lives as the infinitesimally small shapes that trudged about, living, dying, and growing fat. All without ever thinking they could look out the plastic wall to the things that looked in at them, without even the scope or imagination to consider the grandness of those beings so unfathomably large.

"My words. What good are the words of a liar, doctor? Least of all, the source of all whispered un-truths."

It is, on its face, a horrifying thing to consider. To think of one's life as nothing but figments of one's imagination, a story to be told, a prose written. His thoughts, his words, his very existence and soul, at the whims of a storyteller that eluded his vision.

What was he, then, the sum of his memories, flesh and blood; or mere words written on a page, conceptualized in one's mind's eye? Did he think it, or was it transcribed?

Barry Allen runs fast enough to shatter the dimensional barriers and meets the hero of his favorite comic book, a flip of a page, and he finds himself calling that very man his friend. Fiction, became reality, became fiction? What was this but another step?

Fingers tap along the wooden surface as he puts his cup down, Its words mulled over in his mind. A realization that would break many a man, had broken many a man. How many Kent Nelsons did It count among Its Prophets? How many more would there be?

Not him. Not today. Not in this story.

"The greatest lies are that which hold truth within them, however small, however large. You know that as well as I." A smile plays upon his lips, sad, perhaps, resigned, accepting. "I think I like my stories, with its imperfections and false endings, in all its shapes and variations. After all, without stories, life has no meaning."

#;ooc.#its just x men 2 deathstrike's death under the cut but ya kno #like do you ever think about how kent just Pretends to be human sometimes. bc he has given himself over to fate so many times like #at what point are you just. no longer flesh and blood lmao

I do like the simplicity of just putting it on like a helmet but if I'm being honest Kent can just become Fate at the drop of a hat

And since his body has been reconstructed countless times, he can just transform however he wishes. And sometimes its Fucked Up.

Eyes are dark without soul as they fixate upon present company, matte and sojourn without any sort of reality burdened within them. Warm light soaked the pair, and the thin digits hold so tenderly upon the end of its own spoon. So softly grinding the curve of its tip against the wooden surface. Perhaps, by some measure, this shape had lived a life all its own. Perhaps, all of them had. Life, death, eternity. What was a life? Was it merely but the soul a man carried? Was it their experience weathered by the not even a century of existence?

"You lack perspective, doctor." To think that all this time spent being inhabited by a higher creature would give someone some sort of lateral vision. "Time, space, reality. They are all constructs of that. Perspective. I have led an infinite number of lives as a mortal, all genuine, all real. Mundane. So simple for me as reading a book, but all nothing more than a fleeting flight of fantasy. Could you ever be so tempted, doctor, to read the same page of the same story over and over, ad nauseam until all light dimmed and you could no longer see the words?"

If he were a younger man, if he were a lesser man, he thinks this sight would be enough to render him mad. To stare at an aspect of that which was many, its eyes, a window into infinity. But he had seen much, and done much, and lost much. So now? Now it was naught but another day.

"I suppose it depends on the story." He was not ignorant to the multiversity of his, or indeed both of their, existence. The Helm was a prism in which his very self broke into endless, countless, lifetimes. He could cast his mind, if he so wished, see through his other selves-- Contact. Lose himself in his vestments, completely and utterly. An ant, daring to touch the Sun.

Yet he wishes not. Willful ignorance, perhaps, to focus on the many was to lose sight of the one.

"But-- Perspective, as you said. I am rather interested in yours." He reaches for his cup, then, a gentle sip, savored. "I don't mean the hordes of horrors, or the madness, or the crazed ramblings of those who had the misfortune of beholding a shadow, of a shadow, of a shadow of your true countenance. But-- Your words. Honest. It is an opportunity afforded so rarely, no?" He might as well be a child asking for an explanation on the nature of metaphysics, perhaps, but his curiosity is no less enthusiastic.

#my dinner with nyandre #stalkingthestars

browsethestacks

Doctor Fate

Art by Dan Schkade

#sensational

@stalkingthestars

"Does it ever tempt you?" The gold flecked silver spoon clicks against the porcelain as he gently swirls the brownish amber liquid, a keen gaze thrown over his most peculiar brunch companion. "To believe, to give into your own lie? To embrace the illusion of mortality? To become an ant, so to speak." A remarkably naive suggestion, he knows, yet he cannot ignore the thought exercise. Trying to know the unknowable, humans were ever so fond of the act.

And he was, after all, only human.

hunksover40

Daniel Craig stunned in a perfectly tailored LOEWE suit at the Venice Film Festival, showcasing a fresh, relaxed style with straight-leg pants and a not-too-short jacket. Truly newsworthy elegance.

mobius-m-mobius

DANIEL CRAIG and RACHEL WEISZ attend the 81st Venice International Film Festival (Sept 3, 2024)

thedanielcraigfixation

#jesus christ

marveldaily

Moon Knight Summon the Suit | 1.02

#there are vibes here. I will not elaborate.

why-i-love-comics

Batman/Superman: World's Finest #29 - "Impossible IV" (2024)

written by Mark Waid art by Dan Mora & Tamra Bonvillain

#dAN MORA FATE DAN MORA FATE--#; file: dr. fate.

"And for what purpose would I wish for more?" The blackened rotten features shift, molded so easily as though they were clay. The lives of mortals little more than playthings in the eyes of such grand council. Freshly blue eyes narrow deeply, tired worn features twisting into a mocking grin.

"I already have--"

Shifting once more, the pale masculine features of Kent Nelson shift into those likened more to the sort that had dawned a helm in the name of chaos.

"One of each." Just as the darkness does in the setting sun, the presence of this creature feeds. Grows. Stretching its black shadow across all of creation so mockingly, as with a flourish, it bows amused. Neck twisting with several wicked snaps as it cants the head of the borrowed flesh. But when the gilded shape says in its so vibrant tones one of many a names whispered in referral to this otherworldly being, it cannot help but laugh.

"Oh how Nabu fills you with such brazen confidence, paragon of the balance. You should be careful uttering such names aloud. Lest you wish to draw forth the eye of more than a single avatar, Doctor." Parasites, though, it hears the idle narrative speak. It could hardly be considered fair, when they were there first. When their world only existed because Azathoth dreamed. And how many versions of Kent had been made to see that when they signed their names away into the Book of Azathoth?

"Tell me, does tasting the cunt of another man's wife thrill you then, Doctor Fate? Or does it offer comfort to know he does not exist anymore?"

There it was, the folly of multiversity. Every decision he made, every decision he denied, there were worlds that did the very opposite. Disheartening, in some respects, yet not enough to break his spirit. No need to shed tears for worlds that were long forgotten.

As the Black Pharaoh's form grows, so does his. Ever resolute, this monument of Fate. The Colossus of Rhodes, glowing defiant in the face of the utter dark. " You honor me with your presence and counsel, yet repulse me all the same." The Creature had a point, he should take care when poking at the Void, lest it grasp his arm and consume him whole.

A fate many a Kent suffered, it would seem.

Perhaps they were nothing but playthings in a vast tapestry woven by creatures beyond comprehension. Perhaps it was all preordained by a wise man up on a hill, glowing incandescent. Perhaps all that they were, the stars and the galaxies and the trillion, trillion lives within them, were merely inside an ornament around a feline's neck.

Who was to say the true author behind the story of their lives?

Suppose that depended on the story one wished to tell.

" What interest would you have in the affairs of men, Set? For you, we are nothing but disgusting ants, why waste your precious time with such petty jabs?"

mysticdetails

A mind that once found itself elsewhere, drifting amidst the shimmering lights of the inconceivable realm of the abstract between universes sets itself so happily living in this moment. Cupping his face with her delicate touch, drinking his presence in with all of that love and affection she had long craved in the absence between them. "The JSA dressed to the nines lining the aisle. You'll have to throw the bouquet pretty hard. Otherwise Carter might catch it too quickly."

They moor themselves on each other's shores a single fixed point amidst a sea that churned endlessly, infinitely. For this second of this moment, there is nothing but them. The worries of yesteryear, the worries of tomorrow, the multitude of universes behind the Tower's doors a half-forgotten dream. Nothing mattered more than her.

" Hm, I don't know if Carter's big on marriage, I think a part of him enjoys the complexity of his relationship with his other half a bit too much." A smile, the mental image of the JSA dressed 'properly' for a change amusing him to no end. " With our luck, I worry the ceremony would be interrupted with some form of world-ending threat, or another."

#mysticdetails

Flesh of beloved wife stretches back as it decays to not but a harden crust. Eyeless features distort, a creature of too many frames moving in a world of so few. An animated shell of a Harryhausen masterpiece turned visage in the flesh. "T'is not the duty of mankind to look down upon every anthill on which they trample. When soldiers march on to war, do they so care for the vermin they kill for scraps as you do the humans beneath?"

It's shape is, inconclusive. Misshapen form of six dimensions of being, stuffed haphazardly into the unfulfilling three dimensional bag. It is wrong, to look at. Incorrect to the eyes, maddening to the brain. Had Kent not changed so bravely into his altered state, his mind surely would not be able to perceive as he does now. "I appear in many forms in many times. Take many names and may even lead whole lives, all in service of the grand gospel. The beautiful song."

When the creature speaks, its voice is a howling hatred, a sound as irrevocably terrible as the rest of it. When it breathes, it is the song of Azathoth's glory, the braying flute of madness that lulls the Idiot God to comforted sleep. Languid shape of unearthly darkness moves so fluidly. Dragging long spindly fingers, like bony spider's legs, tap so venerating of the gilded surface, tapping across the shape of order, before withdrawing.

"I am of impossible shape, Aku-Shin, Nephren-Ka, Set, Quetzalcoatl. I am the Black Pharaoh, Messenger of the Outer Gods, the Stalker Among the Stars. I have below me a million favored ones. Of which 'High Priest' do you speak?

There were some things mortal eyes were simply not made to see. This universe, in its endless beauty, in its endless complexity, was merely one facet of the great mystery that was creation. His role as Fate allowed him to behold many wonders, to walk across places where no man had ever walked before.

But there were realms even beyond his reach.

He heard the whispers, read the stories, the myths, the nightmares, al-Hazrad's mad scribblings. Creatures within the Void, beyond the Void. Ever hungry, ever maddening. If one beheld creation as a celestial body, then they were the parasites, seeping into the host body from without. The Outer Gods, the Many-Angled Ones, Elder Myths from Before Time.

And here was a lone man, face to face with one of their most illustrious.

Nabu strengthens his grip around him, a protective shroud, wrapping ever tighter. A resolute monolith, firm and unchanging, in the face of that which defied explanation.

" The one whose fate closely mirrors mine own, yet differs so tragically." The elephant in his room, He who Inza did her best to actively avoid mentioning. He had done his research. " If you seek another Kent Nelson to add to your choir, I am afraid I must disappoint you, Nyarlathotep."