don-svellatrix

[don-svellatrix]

I wonder if someone squirting on my tits, or 5 cream pies back to back would fix this incessant feeling of malaise.

Who knows?

[don-svellatrix]

To all patrons signing up for the "swallow, don't spit" service-

The bare minimum requirement to be carrying no human diseases in a state currently that renders you infectious to other humans or cross species, is the bare minimum requirement.

Understand, that if you our talents are not only more than able to refuse or postpone gold deck services- regardless of active VIP status.

But that mockery is a reasonable and protected response for not drinking water.

To finish these announcements, I would like to additionally remind all patrons to refrain from over exciting Reality-7223-7p hell hounds. They may be humanoid in form, but they are only domesticated, and their more violent instincts can still be triggered under specific circumstances. And you will not be compensated by the House for loss of life or limb upon such a scenario.

Thank you, that is all.

[don-svellatrix]

"This fic was ai generated—" Cool, so lemme block you real quick

[don-svellatrix]

There is a testy weariness in her tone that outstrips her age.

"The judge told you last week, the radius is fifteen miles."

He shook his head, he'd hoped that the mind virus hadn't progressed this far yet. Alas, she may already be too far gone to him.

"Sweetheart, you must cease this foolishness, please."

She strode forward. He backpedaled.

"[REDACTED]-" She drew her blade. "I-I beseech you, come home! you don't have to do this anymore; we have doctors who can reverse the damage!"

"You are trespassing on my private property, and I am fearing for my life and continued enjoyment of my home. I am exercising my right to remove you from the premises, with any amount of force I deem necessary to-" She spoke with a monotonously flat, practiced, tone, exhausted. Her gaze seemed to fly through him even, as if fixated on a simpler world; like the one that lay beyond folding the laundry each week.

It was worse than he feared, he had hoped

The room was getting smaller somehow, or she was growing in size with every sharp crack of her heel; as if the floor itself was propelling her forward with a demented applause. Her blade now certainly seemed to fill most of the room from his view- even as he watched its edge bisect a mote of dust hanging in sunbeam while she brought its edge level.

"P-please-! You can just be a feminine boy, the doctors-"

More footsteps from behind him, and the shouting of irritable men. The guards he'd slipped by were catching up to him, and suddenly the film on his mask felt too stiff. He was warm, all over, suddenly; his clammy, his skin too taut beneath his ill fitting disguise.

"Th-they can fix yo-!"

His daughter was stolen by the Fae. Two decades of fruitless searching later, his time for vengeance has come. He kicks in the door to the Queen’s throne room as she flies to her feet, grabbing the hilt of her sword before recognition flashes across her face. “Dad… what are you doing here?”

[don-svellatrix]

Movies are getting longer and TV seasons keep getting shorter, and it's muddying what I love about each medium.

A good movie is a short story--sometimes self-contained, sometimes part of a series, but still a single serving that I can enjoy in one sitting.

A television show is a novel, building over time, allowing me to pace myself chapter-by-chapter or race through each installment as I choose.

It sucks when I watch a movie that feels like it wants to be a long-form TV show, and WOULD be if it weren't for budget limitations and executive meddling. It also sucks when you can tell a movie/movie series was TRYING to be a simple short story, but is getting arbitrarily extended by the studio in order to Make More Money.

I hate it when I watch a TV show that SO CLEARLY wants to lavish attention on all its characters and settings, but is being crammed into movie pacing because the artists are scared they won't get another season and the network only gave them ten episodes to tell a story that deserves three times that.

I wish artists could make the art they want, in the medium they want, without getting constantly fucked over by capitalism. I really, really do.

[don-svellatrix]

a faded and angry book.

The Church and sorcerers guild, concerned about the threat this upstart might pose to their authority, combined their efforts to fund a campaign to put an end to her.

Many of their forces were decimated by her alone, but the combined forces of the church and sorcerers managed to defeat her. Incapable of killing such a powerful shadow sorcerer, they opted for an alternative.

With the strength of a twisted elder god from before the age of stars, they forced the woman's spirit from her body, then cremated it before she could return. Immediately afterwords her ashes were infused with ink and used to write her remains into a curse that would seal her spirit into the book's pages.

For millennia she remained there, driven mad by the power of the elder god used to hold her there, her mind in pieces. Eventually she managed to draw her mind back together again, and by learning how to twist fractions of the elder god's power to her will, began rewriting the ink holding her within her prison.

And then, after aeons, a vengeful spirit rose from an ancient book. Threats endlessly whispered into nothing, finally reclaimed their form.

It has been difficult for me to maintain clear sight of her for longer than a moment, clever thing. But I don't begrudge her caution. I'll simply watch and be patient.

[don-svellatrix]

this is so mean but sometimes i see published writing and suddenly no longer feel insecure about my own writing ability. like well okay that got published so im guessing i dont have much to worry about

[don-svellatrix]

Lamento encarnado, by Emil Melmoth, 2022

[don-svellatrix]

"Hm?"

The lengvi's brow furrowed with frustrated fascination as she pushed her glasses back up her long nose, made crooked in her youth from tussles with classmates, to get a better look at the glowing swirl of symbols around the steadily expanding doorframe.

"Spatial manipulation alone is exceedingly difficult magic on it's own, much less as a single mage without supports. But to twist matter without distorting the integrity of the material, and isolate the area of disturbance so finely as well, is... It's unheard of."

The lengvi's tone hid none of her amazement, save for the confusion that such technical speak could bring to any space outside a classroom... As the bewildered expression of the poor woman being questioned conveyed.

The lengvi's brow then unfurrowed as she cleared her throat. "How did you come by this magic, who is your master?"

"Oh, I just picked it up from work," she said cheerfully, and beckoned the lamia to slither through the magically widened doorway. Then, let free a soft exhale and dropped her arms as they passed through.

The stream of gleaming symbols from her hand gradually puttered out in turn; as they did the wood around the frame shrank, though did not move, and floor slid back into place without disturbing the dust on its threshold.

"Work?" The lengvi murmured, enraptured to the point of distraction again by the feat of control her comrade displayed. "I thought you were den mother of the pub over yonder by day?"

"Aye! I handle our patrons who're more gifted than can be handled comfortably by most." She rested her hands on her hips over her sword belt, and smiled proudly.

A long moment passed between the two women while the lengvi worked the implication of the taller woman's words out through decades of heavily abstracted magical study.

Then suddenly, it clicked.

"Wait, that's how you fucked that dragon?"

[don-svellatrix]

i think some of you dont like narratives or stories or characters i think you just like fanfiction tropes

[don-svellatrix]

Imagine you’re a boy who was raised in oldtown, the religious capital of the world. You follow the religion that you were brought into, a religion that watched idly as you were a child brought into prostitution. Somehow you end up in a lord’s dungeon in a city far away, and all you have are the satin robes you wear, so your captors call you satin. you keep believing in your gods, up until you’re at battle where you must fight or the world will end and maybe it’ll end for you anyways.

but then somehow, someway you make it through, alive, and see something ancient in your lord commander’s eyes. He’s fabled and infamous, he has an ancient creature at his side you didn’t know still existed and a raven calls his name like prophecy- and he’s also kind, and sees something in you that you weren’t sure you had.

you forswear your oath to him in sight of the old gods.

[don-svellatrix]

All pages completed 5 days ahead of schedule! 🎉🎊🪭 Lots of time for proofreading!

[don-svellatrix]

[don-svellatrix]

My services need no thanks, citizen. I'm just doing my due diligence

[don-svellatrix]

Funnily enough, this was not the start of my woes. No, those began when I was once a man; aged and weary of the world, but yet young. I had been carved by time into a fine specimen at least by then; tall, and solid like so many proud oaks, dependable. I imagine it is why they gave me charge of the double dutch bus, a hallowed and scared responsibility of our people. It was the logical, wise choice. And I pray to God every day to forgive me for not being ready.

I can still hear their shuffling feet

[don-svellatrix]

im starting to think you guys dont like it when stories make you feel things

[don-svellatrix]