#parallel lives

I literally can't stop making these fading comics

The first one

Also this was inspired by a bit of writing that @aussie-bookworm wrote about the 1850's Mercs!

Sniper and Scout find Nick Bundy's old journal, and Sniper reads the events of the old sniper's life as the same thing happens to him. Parallel lives trope 👍

Remember the AHTP Episode when he said this:

"I would love to live in a little house in the middle of nowhere... I am going to...probably Europe, Italy somewhere, just disappear."

Armie Hammer on his podcast

Parallel Lives

Neither Urza nor Mishra would admit it, but it was their similarities, rather than their differences, that drove their obsessive rivalry.

- He owned a very special copy of the poem, annotated by his tutor Aristotle himself. He guarded the manuscript in a small, precious chest that once belonged to Darius of Persia, and slept with it - and his dagger - under his pillow every night

- When he was a young boy, one of his tutors liked to call himself 'Phoenix' (the name of young Achilles' mentor) and Alexander's father Phillip 'Peleus', while little Alex was obviously Achilles himself (he was literally obsessed with the guy, since he also believed to be his descendant from his mother's side)

- Speaking of which, Alexander visited and paid homage to said hero's tomb in the region of Troy with games and stuff, honoring his "blessed fate" since he had had "such a trusted companion [aka Patroclus] in life and a noble herald [aka Homer] in death." (some other sources say that Hephaestion was with him as they paid homage to the tombs of Patroclus and Achilles respectively. Plus the way Alex's grief after Hephaestion's death mirrors perfectly that of his fav hero would deserve its own post)

I mean “Hell is a teenage girl” in the “Across three different lives, I’m raised as a young lady and got saddled with the responsibility of carrying hundreds of lives on my back because of some ancient power I carry, making me prime central for weaponization” way.

But my hands have memory my eyes do not.

I don't remember, in detail, what my husband looked like. But I know exactly how it felt to run my hands through his short, soft hair - stroke my thumb across his cheek - the hard planes of his teeth, under my fingertips. I remember the sensation of fresh bedsheets in a bedroom with windows trapping the cold of night in glass panes, a cool defence against the blistering, rising sun. I remember the way that darkness felt, waking next to him.

I remember what it felt like, distinctly, to walk with hooves on tiled bathroom floors, slipping on porcelain on the bathtub, his skin slick with water. I remember the coarse wood of the kitchen table, before we replaced it. I remember the scent of changing seasons. Crisp. Full. Sweltering.

I remember the feel of my best friend's hair, too. Long, and thin, and fine. The callouses that grew on her hands that I didn't notice before they started itching, in a good way, when she held mine.

I remember my steed, his thick skin unmoving, his flank rising and falling beneath my palm, the dust and grime gathering in the creases and crevices of my skin. I don't remember, truly, what he looked like.

I remember what it felt like, to look at him. To have him look at me. I remember his powerful muscles rippling beneath me as we rode, the sensation of his mane, like seaweed, gathering around my hands - I remember the feel of wearing an ill-fitting hat, and a well-fitting hat, shifting with each bounce of his steps.

I remember the sound of a herd. The sensation of it. The welcome chaos, the way they would listen.

I remember love.