#hyrda

[coolcomicbookcovers]

[sandfordpolice]

can i request an hydra ( greek mythology ) kin flag? ^_^

HYDRA KIN (GREEK MYTHOLOGY)

-> When someone’s kintype is Hydra from the stories of Greek Mythology.

flag 1 id: a rectangular flag with 7 horizontal stripes. the first 3 stripes go from a dark green to lighter green gradient, the middle stripe is white, and the last 3 stripes go from light brown to a darker brown gradient. in the middle of the flag is a white circle, which has a black fictionkin symbol in the centre. /end id

flag 2 id: a rectangular flag with 7 horizontal stripes. the first 3 stripes go from a dark green to lighter green gradient, the middle stripe is white, and the last 3 stripes go from light brown to a darker brown gradient. in the middle of the flag is a white circle, which has a black otherkin symbol in the centre. /end id

[PT: ALREADY COINED? SEE AS AN ALT FLAG!]

[honeysuckletook]

New terrifying version of a hydra. Today is a good day and you are a horrible hydra goose....so new goose trick!

@inexplicifics

[sourisdedog]

Monarca

doing a lot of warm ups so i can draw :3

Posted using PostyBirb

[radicalgator]

misc recent art for my side project @battleofaeons

[adelicateculturecell]

cc: "The little moving domes are a ciliate called kerona pediculus. That's "kerona," with a k-e, not "corona" like the beer...or the virus. These are much cuter, especially as they climb up and down these stalks like it's their own personal jungle gym. It's not exactly a jungle gyn open for the public. Just ask this nauplius. Oh wait, you can't Because those stalks are the tentacles of a hydra, and getting close to them was the last mistake this nauplius ever made."

Journey to the Microcosmos- The Beautiful, Brutal Tentacles of Hydra

Images Originally Captured by Jam's Germs

Quote Voiced by Deboki Chakravarti

[the-anxiety-ridden-writer]

knives on my body, blood on my hands

Chapter One: The House At The End of The Street, The Cabin Buried in the Woods

THE CLOCK HAS BARELY TICKED PAST NINE O’CLOCK when the last light flickers off. Ink black shadows swell in the thin backstreets whilst gray storm clouds obscure any light coming from the shining moon.

The old town plunges into darkness and hidden within it, a little girl revels in it. Tilts her head back and let’s the beginnings of the storm wash over her, as if the rain water that begins to seep into her very being can wash away the red that has stained her soul.

(It can’t, the blood on her hands will transcend lifetimes)

A bright clash of lightning brings her out of her thoughts. She melts into the shadows and continues on her way, making her way down the street with eerie silent footsteps.

Perhaps a lesser man would have stumbled down the street, unable to walk the burrard street without tripping over himself. But the little girl moves with a silent grace in her step, weaving around the bumps and cracks even when she can barely see the boots on her feet.

The training of her handlers, years spent in the Hydra and The Red Room overcoming her. She could walk the streets - could walk a path around the world and still carry the deadly grace and efficiency that they had beaten into given her.

Besides, the little girl was just The Asset to her handlers, Hydra’s own personal Angel Smerti. She was no man, much less one of low value.

The house at the end of the street is quiet when she enters it. The screams of the lightning hide the soft whine of the window when she opens it and the creak of the wooden floorboards when she lands on them.

The Asset squints her eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness and trail over the bookshelf lined walls. She stepped towards the oak desk, lifting one of the files scattered on the surface. She let her eyes scan the pages within before setting it down, letting the words winter soldier, car crash, two victims and serum mull over in her head before filtering it away for later, a loud clatter pulling her attention to the doorway.

A poison slick dagger is already soaring through the air and embedding itself in the figure before she can fully get a good look at them. The figure - a frail, old man with thinning white hair - stumbles back from the force of the knife, dark eyes widening in fear as the Asset stalks over to him.

She gives him quick once over, letting her eyes roam over the man as his muscles begin to tense up until he can’t move at all, until he is nothing but a mere puppet that the Asset can pull all the strings of. A puppet that the Asset can cut all the strings off of.

She carefully ignores how those last thoughts bring a small sense of dread and horror that pools in her stomach. Turn her head to the voice telling her ‘what’s one more body to add to the pile?’ And the voice asking her ‘just how monstrous have you become?’

(too much, far too much for someone her age)

The man finds his voice, previously lost in a sea of gasps and whimpers, “Please.” he begs, eyes wide, a wrinkled hand pressed to the dagger buried within his stomach.

“Please don’t ki-“ the Asset cuts him off, yanking the dagger out and shoving it into his throat. It doesn’t take long for the old man to leave these mortal planes, drifting off to be judged by an otherworldly being that can distinguish a saint and a sinner and never the between. To the otherworldly being that thinks he has any right to judge the actions of a human being trying to survive.

No, Death has never discriminated between the saints and the sinners.

‘And neither shall I’ the Asset thinks, ripping her dagger from his throat to slip back into the many holsters that cover her clothing.

She lugs the old man into the study, manhandling his body into the smooth leather chair, resting his head upon the oak desk, staining the folders with his blood. She stepped back, observing her work with a critical eye. It almost looked like the poor man had fallen asleep at his desk, if you - you know - ignore the blood.

The Asset eyed the scented candles perched atop one of the bookshelves, promptly labeled Cinnamon Sugar! Warm Spring Sunshine! and Peach! The Asset raised an eyebrow, an idea coming to mind.

An idea that would end in the echoing cries of firetruck sirens throughout the quaint street, the horrified muttering of neighbors and the ashes of an old man's study.

•☽○☾•

IT’S DAWN by the time the Asset makes her way back to where her handler—a sleazy, middle aged man that she hadn’t taken the time to remember his name—is currently based.

The sky is a disarray of colors, the sun spilling a cup of bright yellows and exotic oranges over the previously dark canvas. The Asset finds herself staring up at it, and feels a deep longing begin to stir. For the sky ran everywhere. It ran through the deepest of forests and the driest of deserts and over the endless waves of the ocean. The sky ran everywhere, demanding to be seen and heard and free and the Asset found herself envying it.

Truth be told, there used to be a fire in the Assets soul, before she was called Asset and went by the name that had been sewn into a velvet blanket by a woman that may have cared. It would burn through her veins, close to her heart and on days when her trainers would be harder on her than the rest for her heritage or when one of the girls - a pretty blond who went by Rowena - would make a cruel remark about the shape of her eyes, she’d let the fire consume her, let it burn through her and come out of her mouth, searing into them, until Rowena wept ugly tears into her hands and the trainers unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks before demanding an apology. The Asset can’t remember if the girl with her name sewn into a blanket had ever apologized, had never wanted to dwell too much on those memories.

(she hadn’t, the girl took all the pain and torture with her head held high. she refused to apologize for the fire in her soul. )

The Asset shook those thoughts away as the cabin her handler—Ivan Vanko—had holed himself up in came into sight. Just the sight of it, and the thought of facing Ivan had her straightening her posture, wiping any sign of weariness and schooling her face until there were no cracks in her porcelain mask, nothing for Ivan to dig into to expose all her thoughts.

There’s no noise when she enters, the door shutting silently behind her. She tenses, tilting her head to the side before pulling out one of her knives. Moving down the hall, she keeps her senses sharp, With no idea who she’s up against, she waits, muscles wound tight and her mouth a hard line, eyes darting around the slim hallway walls. She doesn’t have to wait long.

A hand thrusts out of the first doorway to her right, a strong pull has her flying through the air and losing the grip on her knife. Pain erupted in her shoulder but she didn't give it the time of day. Instead she rolls to her feet, springing up and throwing every ounce of her strength into the flying kick that sends her assailant slamming into the wall with a yell of pain.

The Asset lets herself breathe, if only for a second. Her eyes assess her assailant — a well dressed man with balding hair — cataloging every weakness she can find, from the way he favors his right side to the fading bruise on his right temple, while he lay recovering.

This time, when he lunged for her, she is ready.

She side steps his attack, digging her knee into his injured side, and sends a sharp elbow into his already bruised face. A loud crack echoes in the room, and when he stumbles back, a scream of pain that can only come from deep within himself, a small twisted part of her is pleased to see his nose is far from the correct position.

Adrenaline thumps through herself, a synchronized sympathy that plays in tempo with her heart. When both he and his little friend that had been waiting, watching in the shadows of the room lunge at her, she already knows who the victor of this battle will be.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where their dance begins. Or rather, her dance begins.

She dodges his friend's attack, turning and arching her leg in the air, slamming it into assailant number two — a short woman who was barely taller than The Asset — side. It leaves her stumbling back, groaning as she falls like a corpse into the glass table in the center of the room.

The Asset grunts as strong arms encircle her, lifting her up, up, up. She grunts, moving her arm up and once again digging her elbow in his face. It connects with his eye this time, the action leaving him stumbling back, clutching his hand to his eye. The Asset doesn’t give him time to recover, doesn’t have enough sympathy, enough empathy, enough mercy in the body that has been crafted with the fists and guns and needles of the men and women who have used her, trained her, killed her.

It’s why the dagger slips so easily out of its concealed holster and into the man's chest. A cry of agony is silenced with the arc of her leg, her foot connecting with his Adam's apple. He toppled over, hands held to his chest as if he can relieve the pain that she has brought to his body.

She stared him down, the soft creak of wood under her foot echoed like screams around the room. She plants one foot on his chest, pressing down as she pulls the dagger from his chest, baring her teeth behind her ninja-esque mask as he screams.

She leaves the man there, bleeding, beaten, broken and goes to find her handler.

AN: I don’t know what this is, but it’s dumb. I’m also dumb tho and I’m thinking of adding on.

Special thanks to @unmaskedagain , @nightlychaotic and @nobodyfamousposts for introducing me to maribat. I love all of your maribat posts.

Tag list: @avengerthewarrior , @nightlychaotic

[renova-writes]

the silver shadow. part 1

summary: You find yourself hanging on to a mysterious train. 

word count: 1,066

warnings : dark past, murder

tags : @daisy116​

masterlist

What’s On That Train?

"Shit," you muttered to yourself as you threw your body where no one would be able to spot you.

You were on the end of a train, speeding down its tracks in the middle of rural New England. You hung on for dear life as the train bumped and jolted along its route, desperate to keep on the narrow ledge that separated you from your end. As your life flashed before your eyes, you struggled to remember why you had decided to jump on in the first place.

Something is on this train… Something that can help me remember who I am…

"There it is," a guard hollered to his buddy, "There's what I saw."

You heard the door at the back of the car open and a gunpoint in your direction. Shots fired as he tried to figure out where you had gone. You grabbed the wrist and yanked. Hard. The man wasn't expecting that, and he flew off the train and landed on the track. You barely got a good look at him as the train continued on its path, unaware of the man that was no longer on it.

He was dead. Probably fell on his back and blew out his ribs. Or landed on his head and got a deadly jolt.

I wonder if he had a family… No… I can't think about that… Focus… Something's on this train…

The next guy was going to be a little more complicated. She had just seen her buddy get thrown off a train and was probably ready for the worst. You quickly pulled my gun out. You had nicknamed it 'Gold' to mirror your alias, The Silver Shadow. You spun your upper body inside the train, and two shots later, you didn't have anyone else to worry about.

Even though you had been killing and fighting your entire life, you always felt just a little remorse for your victims. Just a little. In the business of lying and killing, having a heart was a dangerous game. But having a heart is what kept your humanity. It's what allowed you to experience emotions other than cold and broken, which you saw in the other agents.

You didn't know if the rest of the train had been alerted to your presence yet. The car you were in was empty other than a few cargo containers. They probably had weapons in them, which ordinarily would have interested you. Except that they weren’t what you were searching for. What you wanted… Well. It felt more... human.

As you moved to the front of the car and prepared to go to the next one, your senses started to act up. Deep down, you knew this was a bad idea, but you needed to know what was on this train that had gotten you so curious. You made a mental check of where your weapons were; knives up your sleeves and on your belt, tranquilizer darts on your wrist, a gun on each of your hips and one in your hand, sniper rifle on your back, as well as a variety of lethal substances in the supply belt around your waist.

You took a deep breath and opened the door. The next car appeared to be exactly like the one before it—only a few cargo boxes. You were about to breathe a sigh of relief when you saw a red dot on the floor next to your foot.

You knew what was coming next.

You had to get out of there.

Shit, shit, shit, what was I thinking... They can't take me in… They probably have a kill order on me… I gotta get out… NOW

They smashed through the windows since they were bulletproof. At least you had figured. After that you guessed that you had about five seconds to get out of there before you would be killed or taken into custody.

But luckily, you had a trick up your sleeve. It was an old magician's trick. A little elementary, you weren't afraid to admit. But it would work. You had used it countless other times to get out of similar sticky situations.

You pulled the vial out of your belt and smashed it on the ground. Black powder filled the air. No one could see anything.

"What the fuck” "Don't let her escape" "Keep her in here," the soldiers who had come in cried.

Well, well, well, my reputation precedes me...

In the madness of the black powder, you had gotten your Lazer, bought fresh off the Wakandan black market, and used it to cut a hole in the bottom of the train. The center fell through, and you were able to crawl through it. Less than a meter separated you from the tracks, and the train hadn't slowed down.

Hanging from the pipes under the train, you realized that you were going to be okay. That you would survive this. You would probably have to disappear again, but you were used to that.

You braced for impact and let yourself drop. Pain shot through your torso as you hit the ground. You laid there until the train had become no more than the size of a toy from your perspective, and you were sure that you wouldn't be spotted.

Slowly, you peeled yourself from the ground. Your heart hammered through your chest but began to slow as you realized that the encounter was over. You were not dead. You had not been captured. You would be fine.

You stood up and surveyed your surroundings. The train had carried you from a wooded thicket in rural Massachusetts to another forest, but probably at least two hundred miles away. Instead of maple and hemlock trees thickly knitted into a soft blanket with peeps of blue sky, this area was dark. The tall, thick trees blocked out most of the sun, leaving the undergrowth to consist of nothing more than soft moss and dead branches. What little glimpses of the sky you could get were nothing more than dark gray clouds.

You were no longer sweating. Instead, you began to shiver and wished your suit had come with a portable heater or at the very least, a thicker jacket.

At least I'm alive… but what was on that train! Why did I feel so strongly towards it even if I had no clue what it was? WHY?!