My Own Little Corner of the Internet

Some Branch and Blitz banter (Blitz is an OC—Branch’s band’s manager and lifelong friend. He’s now Robyn’s manager as well with a budding friendship as well, obviously) view my dual Eevie drawing for information on Branch’s storm. It’s explained in detail there. https://www.tumblr.com/starlathehedgehog/797239475266781184/left-is-her-introduction-appearance-right-is-her

Left is her introduction appearance, right is her current look [different outfits regularly] after a one month time jump in my AU. Below is some info on her. This AU is unpublished but something I’ve been working on for months:

Eevie is a half-Pop, half-Rock troll whose very being is defined by the volatile mix of her heritage. Her emotions manifest as elemental power—anger erupts in fire and heat, fear unleashes tremors and wind, and calm settles into subtle light and resonance. She lives in extremes, and that intensity makes her both dangerous and unforgettable. Her voice mirrors this same duality: gritty and raw yet resonant and bright, soaring with unrestrained power in her highs and falling into vulnerable, aching depth in her lows. Every note she sings carries the sense of someone who embodies both destruction and harmony, light and shadow.

What sets her apart is the way she resonates with Branch’s storm. It doesn’t just ease in her presence—it recognizes her as kin, pulled to her in a way that feels both inevitable and consuming. With her, connection isn’t about balance or stillness but about fire meeting lightning, an unleashing of energy that is as intoxicating as it is terrifying. When their bond flared, the storm made its choice without hesitation. It crowned her not with one piece of him, but with all of him—every role, every crown, every weight it had ever carried elsewhere.

That moment transformed everything. Eevie became his Only: the singular force he could not live without, the one his storm bends toward with total certainty. For her, it means she never has to wonder where she stands—she will never be fractured, never diminished, never forced into shadow. For him, it means terrifying clarity—that he could survive the loss of anyone else, but never her. Eevie is the wildfire that embodies his storm’s final answer, the crown that reshaped his bonds into something singular and absolute.

***

Yes I’m aware Branch’s ‘storm’ may not make sense. That explanation is below:

Core Definition

Branch’s storm is the living force of his survival instinct, trauma, and heart all tangled together. It isn’t just emotion, and it isn’t just instinct. It’s the embodiment of everything he’s carried to stay alive—fear, vigilance, hunger to protect, refusal to trust too easily, and the raw ache of every wound he’s endured.

It’s not a metaphor to him. He experiences it as if it’s a real, tangible current inside him—pulling, pressing, raging, quieting. A force that can both protect him and punish him.

Functions of the Storm

1. Protection:

The storm sharpens him, heightens instincts, and reacts before he consciously does. It’s what makes him fast, prepared, and nearly impossible to catch off-guard.

2. Punishment:

If Branch ignores it—if he resists what it’s telling him—the storm turns on him. It crushes him with pressure, panic, or pain until he gives in. This is why he struggles when he wants something gentle but his storm screams it’s unsafe.

3. Connection:

Through bonds, his storm doesn’t just sit in him. It reaches. It spills into the tether, making his bondmates feel what he feels—like static humming under their skin, air too heavy to ignore, warmth when it settles. The storm makes him impossible to fully hide from those tied to him.

4. Crowning:

His storm doesn’t just react—it chooses. It crowns anchors, sparks, calm points, pulses, or (as with Eevie) his only. This crowning isn’t conscious. It’s instinct, absolute and unalterable. What the storm crowns, Branch cannot deny.

What It Feels Like

• To Branch: Constant. Sometimes low, rumbling background noise; other times crashing, consuming, unbearable. On rare occasions, hushed—a silence so foreign it feels like a miracle.

• To Others: Palpable. Even unbonded trolls can feel it as atmosphere: sharp, charged, heavy, warning. For bondmates, it’s intimate—like the storm is pressing against their bones and breath, pulling them into his state whether they want it or not.

***

**For context this is a council meeting**

Branch didn’t waste time. He stood at the front of the chamber, map still spread across the long table. He rolled his shoulders once, a subtle shake of tension, then planted both hands on the map, speaking with the firm edge of a commander who’d lived his life for survival.

“First thing,” he said, voice low but carrying across the chamber, “the perimeter is no longer a line. It’s going to be layered. Multiple rings. If they breach one, they won’t even realize they’re inside until the next closes on them. That hesitation—that second of panic—is ours to exploit.”

He drew three concentric lines around the outline of the village. The outermost, the furthest ring in the dense woods, he marked in red. “Ryn, this is you. Outer sweep—spike pits, tripwires, snares. Shallow enough to blend under the brush, deep enough to break a leg if they don’t die outright. You’re not alone—two scouts will rotate with you every three days. No one should be running those woods alone anymore.”

He tapped the middle ring in blue, closer to the village but still hidden in natural terrain. “Ember, this layer’s yours. Pressure-triggered nets, weighted pulls. Smoke bombs rigged to drop if tampered with. They’ll panic when they’re caught—panic makes them loud. And when they’re loud, we’ll know exactly where they are.”

Finally, he marked the innermost line in black. His eyes flicked to Poppy, then back to the council. “This is mine. The last line. Caltrops, collapsible trenches, and fortified tripwire mechanisms. Anyone who makes it this far doesn’t get a chance to regroup. They’ll be slowed, surrounded, and executed before they can take another step.”

He leaned back slightly, scanning every council member, the quiet hum of his storm thrumming under his skin. “We’re not just putting barriers in their way. We’re building a cage that closes tighter the deeper they get. They’ll think they’re advancing. In reality, they’ll already be dead.”

He picked up a charcoal stick and drew a rough diagram of how each layer overlapped, how natural terrain—streams, gullies, fallen trees—could be repurposed as choke points. “Depth means time. Every step they take will cost them blood, noise, and numbers. If they want to test our defenses again, they’ll pay with their lives.”