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sacrednova · 2 months ago

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Through Statics | Simon "Ghost" Riley | Part 1.

Ghost!Simon, Fem!Reader. Read part 2 here. Summary: you moved into his house, but he wants to be alone, get the fuck off. (You won't) Warnings: Paranormal stuff, mentions of death, angst (not much).

This house is breathing.

Simon "Ghost" Riley had died. Yes, he did. At 36 years old, he was killed in his own home, surrounded by familiar walls that had witnessed countless memories and secrets. To the world, it seemed like a break-in gone wrong—"intruders" had silenced him in cold blood. But the truth was much darker. Ghost wasn’t just a soldier; he was a vault of dangerous knowledge. The higher-ups knew he had learned too much, and so they made sure he’d never share those secrets. He never stood a chance.

It was two years later when you moved into his old house, drawn to the strange vacancy that lingered around it. You needed a fresh start, something different, and this place, with its eerie quiet, called to you in a way you couldn’t explain. It was just an ordinary house, or so it seemed. But soon after settling in, little things began to feel off.

At first, it was just whispers on the wind, the kind that made you pause, thinking it might be your imagination. But the longer you stayed, the harder it was to ignore the creaks in the floorboards late at night, like someone pacing through the hallways. You found marks on the mirrors that you were sure weren’t there before, strange streaks as though a hand had touched them. Your breath would fog them up, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the smudges stayed.

Some nights, as you lay in bed, you swore you heard footsteps just outside your door. Heavy ones. You’d grab the nearest object, heart pounding, rush to check, and find nothing. But the dread never left, clinging to the air like a warning.

You began to wonder—was this house haunted? Had someone died here? The real estate agent had been vague when you asked about the previous owner. A soldier, they said, nothing more. But now, standing in the dimly lit hallway, the sense of presence grew stronger.

A sudden thud echoed from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Your heart raced as the reality dawned on you. Someone—or something—was still here.

But who?

And why hadn’t they left?

Static.

You had always known there was something different about you, a subtle ability you couldn’t quite name. Since you were a little girl, you saw things other people didn’t—shadows moving where they shouldn’t, whispers on the edge of your hearing. It wasn’t every day, but it happened often enough to feel like an unspoken truth you lived with. You never spoke about it to anyone, dismissing it as an overactive imagination. But here, in this house, everything was amplified. It was so much more.

The strange occurrences in the house kept escalating, each moment steeped in a feeling you couldn’t shake. The air seemed thicker, as if the walls themselves were holding secrets, waiting to be revealed. You'd wake up in the middle of the night, the silence almost too loud, filled with a heavy, suffocating energy.

The old radio on the kitchen counter had become particularly unsettling. It was an antique you’d brought from your previous home, something comforting about its nostalgic crackle and the feel of its worn buttons. But ever since you moved here, it had begun to act strangely, turning on by itself at odd hours, filling the room with a low hum of static.

At first, it was just white noise, faint and distant, but lately, the static seemed alive. There were nights when you would catch brief snippets, something resembling words hidden in the hiss. You would freeze, straining to hear, but the moment passed, leaving you wondering if you had imagined it.

Until one evening, it wasn’t your imagination anymore.

The house was still as you sat in the living room, flipping through a book but not really reading. The static from the radio hummed softly in the background. You’d grown used to it, a kind of eerie white noise that had almost become a companion. But this time, something changed. The static grew louder, sharper, as if the frequency was being tampered with. The low hum twisted into something darker, more intense.

And then, in the midst of the crackling, you heard it.

“G-get… out…”

The words were faint, broken, but unmistakable. Your blood ran cold. The radio, which had been nothing but an old, harmless relic, suddenly felt like a gateway to something far more sinister.

You walked to the kitchen and stared at it, your heart pounding in your chest, waiting to see if the voice would return.

But the radio only hissed softly, as if mocking your fear.

You leaned closer, hands trembling slightly, and switched it off. The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with an unspeakable tension. You weren’t alone in this house—something was here with you. And it wanted you out.

But you weren’t going anywhere.

You had always known you were different, and now, more than ever, you were beginning to understand why. This house had awoken something inside you, something that had been dormant for years. You could feel it, a deep connection to whatever lingered here, as if the house itself was calling to you.

But why? And what would happen if you didn’t leave?

Name?

Curiosity killed the cat. But there you were, fingers gliding across your laptop keyboard, eyes glued to the screen as you dug deeper into the history of the house. You had to know who had lived here before you, who had left this lingering presence behind. The nights were becoming unbearable—the footsteps, the whispers, the strange static that always seemed to carry a warning. There was a name tied to this place, a name no one had been willing to share with you.

Until tonight.

Finally, after hours of sifting through obscure articles and forgotten news reports, you found it. Simon "Ghost" Riley. A decorated soldier, a man with a past shrouded in mystery and violence. The more you read, the darker the story became. His death had been officially ruled a home invasion, but there were whispers of conspiracy, something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface. They said he had died here, in this very house. And now, so much about the strange occurrences began to make sense.

You swallowed, the weight of the name hanging in the air. Almost unconsciously, you said it out loud for the first time, as if testing its power.

“Simon Riley.”

The moment the words left your lips, the house reacted violently.

The radio in the corner—off, you were certain—suddenly roared to life, filling the room with deafening static. It was louder than ever before, like a thousand angry voices hissing at you all at once. You jumped, your heart slamming against your chest as the static grew aggressive, the air buzzing with an overwhelming pressure.

And then, the night itself seemed to close in on you. The room felt darker, heavier, as though an unseen force was pushing down on you from all sides. The shadows stretched longer, crawling up the walls like living things. The atmosphere was suffocating, thick with something you couldn't name.

You stumbled back toward your bed, seeking the safety of its familiar comfort. But as you sat down, trying to steady your shaking hands, the mattress shifted beneath you. Not just a subtle movement—pulled, as though something beneath the bed was trying to drag it away from the wall. The fabric creaked, and you froze, gripping the edge of the bed as your mind raced.

This was too much.

“Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking. But the room didn’t listen. The radio’s static pulsed, growing louder, angrier. The mattress pulled again, more forcefully this time, as though some invisible hand was determined to make you feel its presence.

You were no stranger to strange things, but this—this was unlike anything you’d ever felt. The air itself seemed to press against your skin, cold and oppressive, as if the very house was closing in on you, threatening to swallow you whole.

Desperate, you scrambled to turn off the radio, your fingers fumbling with the knob. But no matter how much you twisted it, the static only grew louder, the relentless sound clawing at your nerves.

“Get out…”

The words were buried deep in the static, but they were there. Clearer now. More urgent.

Your breath came in shallow gasps as you backed away from the radio, your mind screaming for you to leave. But even as terror gripped you, something held you in place. A force stronger than fear. A need to know.

Simon Riley’s name hung in the air like a curse, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had awakened something when you said it. Something that had been waiting for you.

But whatever it was… it wasn’t finished with you yet.

His house.

Leaving wasn’t an option. Not after everything. This house—it was yours now. You had spent your savings, invested so much into making it your new beginning. You couldn’t just walk away because of a few unsettling events, even if they were enough to make your skin crawl. The fear gnawed at you, sure, but so did the defiance. The thought of running away felt too much like giving in to something unknown. And you hated the unknown.

So, you stayed.

And with every passing day, the strange occurrences continued. The static, the footsteps, the feeling of being watched—they persisted like a weight pressing down on you, but you weren’t going to let it win. You couldn’t keep ignoring it, though. Not anymore. The air in the house felt alive, heavy with something unsaid, and you had a hunch that if you wanted answers, you were going to have to start speaking to it.

Speaking to him.

At first, you felt ridiculous. You would walk through the house, muttering to the empty air like a madwoman. Little things, just to see if anything would respond. “Hello?” you’d ask as you brewed your morning coffee. “What do you want?” you’d say while folding laundry. And always, there was silence.

But the more you talked, the less foolish you felt. You sensed something listening, even if it didn’t answer right away. The static on the radio would flicker occasionally, faint noises that almost felt like a reply, though never enough to be sure.

The strange weight on your chest every night didn’t go away. The house was filled with tension, an unspoken presence, but you kept at it. Maybe it was the madness of it all, or maybe you were just too stubborn to give up. Either way, you couldn’t stop.

Then one night, everything changed.

You were lying in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. The radio, which you’d learned to avoid turning on, sat on the nightstand like a silent sentinel, you didn't know why you kept it close to you, but you did. The room was dark, the air thick with that familiar, uneasy heaviness. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to ignore the sounds, the pressure.

But then, a loud burst of static filled the room.

You shot up, heart racing. The radio had turned on by itself again, its glow casting eerie shadows across the walls. The static wasn’t just random noise this time—it was deliberate, alive with a force you couldn’t explain. And then, through the crackling, you heard a voice.

“Just… want… be alo-… ne.”

The words were fragmented, broken by the static, but they were unmistakable. Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t the usual hiss or whisper. This was different. This was him.

“Simon?” you whispered, feeling a mix of terror and curiosity flood through you. The radio hissed again, the words struggling to break through.

“…Want… be… alone…”

You swallowed, your skin prickling with the weight of his presence. It was him—Ghost. Simon Riley. After all the silence, after all the waiting, he was finally speaking to you. No more "Get out". But what was he saying? Did he want you to leave? Was that what he meant?

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m not leaving. I won’t.” The fear was still there, gnawing at you, but your resolve was stronger. This house was yours now. And he was a part of it, whether either of you liked it or not.

The radio crackled again, but no more words came. The heavy, oppressive air in the room seemed to tighten around you, as though his presence was everywhere, watching, listening. You could feel it—his loneliness, his pain. It was buried deep in the walls, in the very bones of the house.

He didn’t want company. He didn’t want anyone here.

But you weren’t leaving.

You settled back against the pillows, your heartbeat slowly returning to normal, though your mind was far from calm. The radio fell silent once more, but now you knew the truth.

Simon Riley didn’t want to be disturbed. But somehow, you had become part of his world, and leaving wasn’t an option. Not for you. Not for him.

This house wasn’t just haunted. It was his.

And you weren’t sure what would happen next, but you had no intention of running away.

Our house.

"This can be our house," you said one day, speaking to the empty room as if he were just another person. Another living person. It felt strange at first, surreal even, but the more you talked to him, the more it seemed to work. The oppressive atmosphere in the house shifted, just slightly. As if Simon—Ghost—was beginning to listen.

There was no denying it now. He was here, still tethered to this place, his presence as real as the walls that enclosed you. And for some reason, your words were getting through to him.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, it felt like nothing had changed, but then, at night, when the house was at its stillest and the air the heaviest, he began to speak again. It wasn’t much—just a few words here and there, but enough. Enough for you to start knowing his voice.

His voice was deep, rough, as though every syllable was dragged through gravel before it reached you. He didn’t speak often, and when he did, it was clear that he wasn’t thrilled by your presence. His attitude was hard to miss—he wasn’t a friendly ghost, not by a long shot. But he wasn’t entirely hostile either.

Mostly, he just wanted you to stop poking around.

“Quiet…” he would mutter, his voice carrying through the static of the radio, sending shivers down your spine. “Too… loud…”

Or, “Less light… turn it off…”

It was clear: Ghost had rules. And you, it seemed, had broken most of them without realizing it. He liked the darkness, the quiet. The less you moved, the less you explored, the better. He didn’t want your questions or your curiosity. He wanted silence, shadows, and solitude.

But you were anything but quiet.

"Sorry, but I'm not that kind of girl," you whispered back with a faint smile, knowing full well he could hear you. You could almost feel him sigh in exasperation, a hint of tension rising in the air, but nothing violent. Nothing dangerous.

Still, it fascinated you, learning these little details about him. You were starting to get a sense of his personality, his boundaries. He wasn’t angry, not really—he was just… annoyed. Irritated, perhaps, by the fact that you were disrupting the world he had created here, the isolation he craved. He didn’t like the way you insisted on keeping the lights on, the way you asked so many questions, always wanting to know more.

But what struck you most was how human he still felt. Beneath the brooding presence and clipped words, there was a man with preferences, with a personality. He had been something more than just a soldier, more than just a ghost haunting his past.

And oh, what a man.

“Less nosy…” he growled one night, his voice crackling through the radio after you’d spent the day researching more about him. You laughed, half amused, half unnerved.

“Can’t help it,” you said aloud, settling into bed. “I’m curious about you.”

The radio hummed, but there was no reply this time. You had the feeling he wasn’t one for compliments, for conversation, or even acknowledgment. He just wanted things his way, wanted you to stop being so intrusive.

But you weren’t going to stop. Not yet, at least. His irritation felt almost like a game now, and though he pushed back, he never pushed hard enough to scare you off.

“Fine, I’ll dim the lights,” you finally conceded one night, turning the lamp beside your bed to its lowest setting. The room bathed in soft shadows, the way he seemed to prefer it. “But I’m not going anywhere, Ghost. This house is ours now.”

The air shifted, a low, almost imperceptible hum vibrating through the walls. He didn’t speak, but you could feel him there, watching, listening.

For the first time, you felt a strange comfort in his presence. He didn’t want you here. But maybe, just maybe, he was starting to accept that you weren’t going anywhere.

And neither was he.

Safe.

The first time you felt him, it was like nothing you had ever experienced. You had gotten used to the whispers, the static, the odd shifts in the air—but actual contact? That was something you never expected. Yet, it happened.

It was late, the house settled into its familiar, unsettling quiet. The soft hum of the radio filled the room, faint enough to become background noise, but ever-present, like a heartbeat. You were drifting, teetering between wakefulness and sleep, your mind hazy when you felt it—a touch.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. A cool pressure, right on top of your head, like the faintest brush of fingers or a soft breeze pushing down. It wasn’t warm like a human touch, not alive, but it was there. Cold and delicate, it felt more like air than flesh, but the sensation was unmistakable.

Your eyes snapped open, heart racing, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Frozen. You lay still, trying to make sense of what just happened. Every muscle in your body tensed, waiting for something more, some confirmation that you hadn’t dreamed it.

But there it was again. That gentle, almost imperceptible pressure, lingering just a little longer this time, pressing against your scalp. The coldness of it seeped into your skin, sending shivers down your spine. And despite the fear curling inside you, there was something… fascinating about it.

Simon could touch you.

It wasn’t warm, wasn’t comforting in the way a human hand would be, but it was real. He was real. That simple touch, fleeting as it was, felt like a revelation. A connection—one you hadn’t expected to feel. He wasn’t just a voice on the radio, or a shadow in the corner. He was more than that, more than just a presence haunting these walls.

But the realization also scared you, a sudden wave of cold dread filling the room. If he could touch you, even in that small way, what else could he do? The thought made your stomach knot with fear. You weren’t sure you wanted to find out.

And then, in the quiet that followed, the static grew louder again. His voice, raspy and fragmented, pushed through the crackle of the radio.

“Forgot… lock the doors…”

His words, slow and deliberate, cut through the air like a warning. You felt a chill crawl down your arms, goosebumps rising on your skin. Instinctively, you glanced toward the door, your heart hammering in your chest. The lock. Had you forgotten? You couldn’t remember. Your thoughts blurred together in the fog of half-sleep.

Before you could move, his voice spoke again, softer this time, almost… amused.

“Careless…”

The word hung in the air, cold and sharp, like a scolding whisper.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You felt vulnerable, exposed, like the walls were watching you, like he was watching you. But it wasn’t anger or malice you sensed from him. No, it was something else—something almost… familiar. The same way someone might reprimand a child for leaving the lights on or forgetting to close the fridge. That cold touch on your head lingered like an afterthought, and the meaning behind his words began to settle in your mind.

Simon wasn’t threatening you. He was watching over you. In his own strange, spectral way, he was protecting you.

And that realization was more unnerving than anything else.

Your fingers trembled as you slid out of bed, your bare feet touching the cool floor. You padded toward the door, the sense of his presence heavy behind you. As you reached the handle, you hesitated for a second before turning it—locked. You had remembered after all.

Still, the point was clear. He was testing you. Or maybe he was just reminding you that, in this house, nothing went unnoticed. Not by him.

You crawled back into bed, heart still racing, thoughts spinning. The room was still thick with the weight of his presence, but now you couldn’t shake the feeling that this house, this connection with Simon—it was evolving. What started as fear was slowly becoming something else.

You pulled the blankets up around your shoulders, sinking back into the pillows, your mind buzzing with the strangeness of it all. You were still scared, yes. But you were also intrigued, curious about this man who haunted your life in more ways than one.

And as you closed your eyes, his voice echoed faintly in the static once more.

“… safe.”

Apparition.

One night, everything felt different.

The air was heavier than usual, the familiar static of the radio silent. No footsteps, no whispers, no cold touch on your skin. Simon—the presence you had grown oddly used to—was quiet. Unnervingly quiet. You couldn’t place it, but something felt off. The house felt emptier, darker, as though he had withdrawn into the shadows, leaving you to fend for yourself in his absence.

That night, you had the most terrifying nightmare.

In your dream, a group of men barged into your home. Faces hidden by shadows, their movements quick and violent. They didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak. The fear hit you like a tidal wave, paralyzing your body as they advanced. In the dream, you fought—screaming, kicking, anything to protect yourself—but it wasn’t enough. Cold hands grabbed you, yanked you from the bed, and the flash of a blade was the last thing you saw before the world went dark.

You awoke with a gasp, your heart pounding, your skin clammy with sweat. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you were still dreaming. The fear was too real, too sharp. But then you saw him.

Standing in the doorway, a figure so tall, so broad, you couldn’t mistake it for anything else. A shadow, dark and hulking, its outline barely distinguishable in the dim light of the room. But you knew. You knew it was him.

“Simon…?” you whispered, your voice trembling. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t shift. You couldn’t see his face, just the dark mass of his form, but somehow, you could feel his gaze locked on you. Watching.

He didn’t respond. You blinked, trying to shake the fog of fear clouding your mind. And in that single moment of hesitation, he was gone.

The doorway was empty.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you sat there, staring at the spot where he had been, your pulse still racing from the nightmare. The silence was deafening, the room thick with an unspoken tension. You knew it had been him, but why had he appeared like that? Why now, after so many nights of just whispers and static?

Hours passed, and you couldn’t sleep. Your mind raced with questions, your heart unsettled by his sudden, eerie appearance. You kept replaying the nightmare in your head—the men, the violence, the cold finality of it all. And yet, somehow, you didn’t feel that kind of fear when you saw him.

The radio hummed softly, breaking the silence, and his voice—low, rough—finally came through.

“Scared you… apologize…”

His voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. Sorry. The word lingered in the air, and for the first time, you realized something. He wasn’t a threat to you. Not in death, and probably not even in life. Whatever danger he carried with him, it wasn’t meant for you.

You took a deep breath, your fear settling into something more like curiosity. Slowly, you sat up, pulling the blanket around you. The shadows in the room no longer felt suffocating. You understood now—Simon had never meant to hurt you. He had just… forgotten, maybe. Forgotten what it was like to be with someone, to be close to anyone.

“He’s not here to harm me,” you whispered to yourself, the words feeling right.

But the question that had been burning in your mind for weeks finally broke free. You had to know.

“How did you die?”

The silence in the house deepened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then you heard them—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing from the hallway outside your room. They sent a shiver down your spine, not out of fear, but out of anticipation.

The steps stopped just outside the door, and then you heard it. His voice, low and hollow, filled with a pain so deep you could feel it in your chest.

“…Betrayal.”

That single word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold, leaving a chill in its wake. You closed your eyes, letting it sink in. Betrayal. That’s how he had died. Not in some random home invasion, not in some anonymous act of violence. Someone—someone—had betrayed him. And it cost him everything.

The weight of that word hung over you, making your heart ache for this man who had suffered so much, even after death. He wasn’t just a ghost haunting your home. He was a man with a story, with a past full of wounds that had never healed.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper. “Who betrayed you, Simon?”

The radio crackled, but no words followed. Only the soft hum of static, and the slow, steady sound of his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

He wasn’t ready to tell you everything. Not yet.

But now, you knew enough to understand—this house, this haunting, was about more than just restless spirits. It was about Simon Riley, and the scars that still bound him to this world. Scars of betrayal, of loss, of a life cut short in the most painful way.

And you weren’t going to leave. Not until you knew the full story.

You need to leave me.

You had to do it. You couldn’t just keep going on like this, with half-answers and fleeting glimpses of shadows in the night. No more whispers through the static or cold touches in the dark. If Simon was truly here, then you needed to really talk to him. And not just with casual questions thrown into the air. You needed something more direct.

So you set the stage.

Candles. It seemed cliché, maybe even ridiculous, but in your gut, you felt like it might help. You placed them carefully around the room, their soft flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. The whole room felt different, like the air was humming with anticipation. You were nervous—terrified, even—but you were determined to push past the fear.

The night fell, the house cloaked in its usual quiet, but you could sense it. The weight of his presence pressed down on the room, like he was watching, waiting. This time, though, you weren’t going to be passive. This time, you were going to make him appear.

You sat on the edge of the couch, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at the soft glow of the candles. You focused on the flame, on its steady flicker, trying to ground yourself in the moment.

"Simon," you whispered into the stillness, your voice steady, despite the anxiety gnawing at you. "I want to talk to you. Really talk."

The seconds dragged by, thick and heavy, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d made a mistake. If he wouldn’t come. Or worse—if he would, and this time, he wouldn’t be so forgiving.

But then, you felt it. The cold shift in the air, the subtle pressure that always preceded his presence. And there he was.

His tall figure emerged from the shadows, slow and deliberate, until he stood just at the edge of the room. He didn’t move like a living person, didn’t sway or shift with his steps. His movements were smooth, too smooth, like a ghost carried on the wind. He was tall, bigger than you remembered, and as he approached, your pulse quickened. He stopped right at the couch, standing above you, his presence overwhelming.

Then he sat.

Your breath hitched. The couch creaked under his weight, and he loomed there, his figure dark and imposing in the low light. You had to fight the urge to run, to hide under the covers like a scared child. Every instinct in your body screamed for you to flee, but you stayed. You had to.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. He just sat there, like some silent sentinel, watching you with that unseen gaze. The air was thick with tension, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

Finally, his voice came—low and rough, crackling through the static of the radio.

"You put some candles…" he said, his tone almost… amused. Like he was observing a quaint ritual, one that intrigued him more than it should have.

But it wasn’t his figure that spoke. The shadow on the couch didn’t move, didn’t react. It was still, perfectly still. Yet you could feel him there, could feel the weight of his attention, even though his voice came from the radio, distorted and distant as always.

And then you saw it—the mask.

In the dim light of the candles, the shadows shifted just enough for you to make it out. The mask that had haunted so many of your dreams, the one you’d seen glimpses of in military photos and war documentaries. It was iconic, a skull painted over the face, hollow eyes that stared out into nothingness.

You couldn’t see his face, not really. The darkness concealed him well. But that mask—its outline, its meaning—was unmistakable. He wasn’t just some nameless, faceless ghost. He was Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, and the man behind that mask was more than a simple spirit lost in the ether. He was something else. Something dangerous. Something broken.

But not to you. You knew that now.

"You’re really here," you whispered, more to yourself than to him. It wasn’t a question anymore. He had been there all along, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for you to get close enough to see him.

"Why do you stay?" you asked, your voice trembling despite yourself. "Why are you still here, Simon?"

The radio crackled, his voice rough and slow. "No… where else… to go."

Your heart ached at those words. He was trapped. Bound to this place, to this existence, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The weight of his loneliness pressed down on you, and for the first time, you realized just how deeply it affected him. The isolation, the silence. It was his prison.

"You have... somewhere to go, live... life, get out of here."

And through the noise of the static and your own heart, you knew that the reason he wanted you gone was because he believed, or knew, that you deserved a better place.

A better company, a real one.

|| Any suggestions for part two, or even new stories, are welcome! ||

|| Part two out now, read HERE ||

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letters-to-rosie · 29 days ago

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Rosie!!!! Ep 7 had me pointing at the screen like that Leo DiCaprio gif when Jinx lit the match to blow up the bar and during the sweet Timebomb moment on the roof!!! I was like JUST LIKE ROSIE SAID AAAAHHHHHHH even timebomb only being possible in an AU is in line with that i think. AND you are giving us the revolution plot the show didn't!!

lol timebomb and roofs name a more iconic duo

the funny thing about the parallel is that Jinx is doing this tearful goodbye to a place that's been a home to her for so long and was owned by two successive fathers whose deaths she had a hand in and feels responsible for. and revolution!Powder is like "Ekko pissed me off" lmao. not to trivialize her feelings, because it's certainly more than that, but she didn't come there to destroy it initially. it's this explosion of all this pain and anger that then is released when she and Ekko fight in the alley. it's so much less deliberate than Jinx in the show. it was interesting for me to watch too lol I was like heyyyyyy I wrote something vaguely like that

I do wish the show hadn't given us the feeling that timebomb was only possible in an AU, just because it also explicitly shows us that Jinx heals when she has people to care for. I think Isha's death is to suggest that she'll never be anyone's true protector, but it really shouldn't have to be that way. because Jinx keeps saving people all throughout the season. Ekko even says her inventions change the world. and there's so much work to do in rebuilding Zaun and making it its own thing that Jinx could be a big part of. work that Ekko himself is going to be doing. this is all to say that we should've gotten Firelight Jinx lol. we kinda did with the final teamup, but we didn't get to see it, and that's a shame. I think that would have been a very natural ending for her, to hide away and then live amongst the people who have become her people. but noooooo we can't have nice things lol

and that kinda segues into the business of the revolution. I did figure that the two sides of the city would have to team up to fight off Ambessa, though I couldn't have seen her alliance with Viktor coming (though it makes sense given Singed's lore, in a convoluted way). really not a fan of how at the end of the show most of the problems that were present at the beginning as far as class and inequality go are left intact. the only real difference is that Zaun has some leverage, but not much. but this does align with my critiques of the first season having some pretty neoliberal underpinnings. the second season just doubles down on that super hard in a frustrating way

for me, a big part of why I wanted to do the fic is because the show gave me a world in which it was really easy to talk about a lot of issues I'm very serious about, and because I could see Jinx/Powder turning into a leader, even if not in a conventional sense, through traits that were evident even before season 2's direction was revealed to us. it's kinda crazy how it's so easy to forget that Ambessa only had such an easy in because of the oppression Piltover had been perpetuating against its poorer half the whole time. it's a good example of how oppression is dangerous for the oppressor as well (very Pedagogy of the Oppressed-core of me but it's me lol)

this got long anyway hope you're doing well!! we should talk soon!

fic we're discussing is here if anyone wants it

#asks #rosie's writing desk #revolution-verse #arcane #arcane spoilers #arcane season 2 spoilers #timebomb #ekko #jinx

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imustbenuts · 3 months ago

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nuts reading trigun 4 - i sniffed out the spirit of leiji matsumoto and his galaxy express 999

so this is. a bit of a doozy and a little detour i took...

first off, i thought it was really interesting that chapter 4 is titled Bang!Bang! in EN but ポポ popo in jp. popo is basically pop pop, but also if pitched down, would sound more like 'poooh poooh'. very similar to what sound a steam locomotive makes,

but not quite. the 'correct' one would be ボbo, not ポ po.

like the sound effect here:

sfx: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOH

there's no good way to translate this, to be clear. nightow seems to really like pulling off these weird little japanese wordplay here and there. theres one instance with the escorts trying to sleep with vash, but thats a lot of effort to explain a pun and its not very interesting so. uh. sorry. (these posts take very long to write bc im poopoo)

so. its CH 4: PoPo. 4 =Death? this feels deliberate.

the next chapter is CH 5: 強襲 / Assault. EN title is very accurate here so yippee. but wait.

that. dark contrast and a presence of a vaguely steam locomotive. the framing of the train itself being this romantic machine that was built to send people on their journeys to parts unknown. the presence of 4 = Death.

theres something about the following panel. and i know exactly what it is despite having never read or watched it bc of just how influential this particular work is.

so i went sniffing.

Galaxy Express 999.

and. uhm. i found a thread and a rabbit hole that links back to TriStamp again.

Galaxy Express 999 first ran as a manga in 1977- 1981. Made by the late Leiji Matsumoto (25th Jan 1938 - 2023) who passed away last year.

the gist of this story. we follow a boy named Tetsuro in the super far off future, who wants to obtain a mechanical body so he never again feels the inconvenience of a flesh one. and to also fulfill his promise to his mother who was hunted down in front of him and turned into a trophy by mechanized hunters. he meets a mysterious blonde woman named Maetel who gives him a pass to ride on the Galaxy Express 999, promising him one at the end of the journey, but there seems to be a catch.

the same themes of a train in the darkness, its window the main lightsource, but in GE999 theres the added planets and stars. GE999 is full of promotional material and artwork like this, its iconic

the story is very philosophical and full of questions about death, living, and the worth of a human life. theres a constant theming of the train bringing its passengers to a place unknown, and how its a departure from the base in which they start the further they go. like a wanderer. (something something blank ticket wink wink.)

but anyway. Chapter 2: The Red Wind Of Mars is the interesting one.

i strongly recommend reading this chapter at least, but ill summarize the interesting bits.

the cast arrives on Mars, a Red Planet thats constantly being buffeted by a Sandstorm. its said that the planet is pretty much in a state of poverty and is barren due to people turning themselves into machine bodies and having no need to care for the environment and nurture it.

also an american saloon on this red desert planet wowee--

testurou later gets jumped by a couple who basically wants to steal his pass to the GE999, but once they realize the boy has not been mechanized at all, the couple lets tetsurou kill them. they are then left in the desert to be eventually covered up by the red sand. and then, the final page has this fucking thing:

"They say that the sound of Mars' red wind comes from the wailing of people resting under its sand. This vermilion wind will continue to lament for the fate of those who couldn't make their dreams come true... That's why they say this planet will stay red forever..."

....studio orange. listen.

STUDIO ORANGE. PLEASE

ON WHAT LEVEL ARE YOU GUYS EVEN COOKING. stop sending me on these rabbit hole runs i swear to god ill never finish trigunbookclub at this rate GGGGGGGGGAAAAAH

anyway the sandsteamer arc in the original trigun seems to be a homage to Galaxy Express 999 in a way, and Studio Orange understood the assignment.

#trigun #trigun stampede #trigunbookclub #FREE ME #trigun meta

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sockcanvas · 1 year ago

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|◁ 𝙋𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙎 𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙔 ▷|

⚘. oneshot [705 words]

⟣ ──┈⇢˚⋆ Pairing : JongGun x Goo

⟣ ──┈⇢˚⋆ c/w : implied romance | angst(?) | chapter 479-480

⟣ ──┈⇢˚⋆ a/n : Feeling cute.. might delete later LOL, legit writing at like 1-5am while i have work in 5 hours but i wanted to finish this lowkey. Not rlly proud of the concept of this story but im tired asf so whatever, i didn’t a lot of final drafting and just went with this on a whim of its rough draft🤮 this feels a bit too skippy and inconsistent. anyways this was (very)loosely inspired writing style by @/cosmichorrour who wrote “愛のある場所; river of light (that brings me to you)” literally please read it if you like satosugu, masterpiece of a fic🙏i think Gun looks cute with his little headphones, i put together a little playlist of what i think he's listening to while carving :]

snippet . ₊˚. “In our next life, press play for me, yeah? So I could find you by song.”

“What are you listening to?”

The cold kissed Gun’s body. Despite the breeze flicking his skin and the chill caressing his body– he idly sat on an abandoned creeky porch rusted with dust and dirt, a fine show of how unkempt it was. Compared to Gun's expensive and lavish taste, this was the complete opposite. The fresh soles of his shoes rested on the debrised floor positioned in the most comfortable way possible. Even distant snow was cleaner than the porch. Next to him, peers a nosy blonde, who tries to inch closer to hear the music droning out of the earphones.

“Something.” A vague and simple reply– most suited to Gun's quiet demeanor, a conversation stopper from how meek his response was. But this didn't stop the continued prodding,

“What song are you playing?” even when the music was turned two thirds the max volume, couldn’t tune him out. Undeterred by the approaching voice, Gun continues to carve deliberate strokes into the wooden piece, his hands moving in amateur unison, one hand holds the piece in a strong grasp and the other chisels curves and divots into the oak. “Don’t ignore me bastard!” The guitar rift dimmed, one speaker muff violently torn from its place on Gun’s left ear.

“What is it, Goo Kim?” Gun doesn't turn his head to look at the man dressed in expensive winter clothing. His patience was being tested enough– yet Goo was already starting to cut the thin thread of tolerance that barely weaved itself to prevent Gun from punching a hole through the loud blonde. “What is so important that you have to come here and disturb me.”

“I just wanted to know what you’re listening to!” A dramatic whine escapes his lips, the fog of his hot breath filters visibility into the frigid air. His hands extend, reaching to shake Gun– unmoved and set in place like a stone amidst a tundra. “Fucker, I know you heard me.” cursed Goo who continued adding strings of name-calling, accompanied with a rough punch to the shoulder.

“This song really sucks.”

“You’re still listening to it.” This time, Goo was pressed against him, shoulder to shoulder like a close embrace— ear jammed closely to Gun’s cheek, the expensive frames of his glasses barely kept a gap between them. Such indirect intimacy, but it wasn’t unusual for Goo to invade his personal space like so.

“I’m not.”

An exhausted sigh of defeat– It was futile to bicker back and forth like children, a pointless verbal skirmish that Goo engaged very often with him. Two things that made Goo bearable: talent and personality. Skill so exceptional that it left permanent scars on Gun– an enigmatic nature that gave an indescribable sense of familiarity to Gun– warm and colorful is that he would say.

“Is your taste in music this bland? How can you enjoy this?” Goo complained once again, yet still inched near Gun’s earphones. Goo seems to be enjoying himself, eyes half lidded and lips pressed into a thin line as if he was silently humming to the foreign lyrics.

“Abandon Charles Choi.” He expected this. The words hung just as cold as the air, “Come with me.” He knew he’d say that. An invitation that interrupted the building tension. A small glass thrusted itself slowly in front of Gun, liquid barely splashing out of the shot but quickly settled. Gun’s eyes fixated below, a distorted reflection stared back, such chilled uncertainty from himself– rejection was inevitable, the silence was enough to answer for him, but he humbles a reply.

They’ll kill each other next time. A promise, bounded by a shared drink.

“Gun.” He called from a short distance. Gun looked up, pausing his carving, porch creaking from the weight of his light movements. “In our next life, press play for me, yeah? So I could find you by song.” A somber request, futile and odd, followed by a closed eye grin. Gun’s hands, momentarily still– twitched at the appeal.

Gun nodded, lighter than the breeze that whispered between them, an unspoken response he could give Goo to his strange departure. As Goo’s figure disappears, his words carved deeper than the wood Gun’s been chiseling at for hours. Maybe in their next life, he could give it to him.

#gun park #goo kim #lookism #lookism fic #kim joongoo #park jonggun #park jonggun x kim joongoo #gun park x goo kim #Spotify

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blackjackkent · 6 months ago

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"Reithwin House of Healing," Rakha reads slowly off the plaque. "Presiding Surgeon: Malus Thorm."

She cocks her head to the side and seems to brighten very slightly from the brooding tension that has marked her for the last few days. "The Fist at Last Light. He was here. The note in his pocket mentioned this place."

Wyll nods. "Perhaps there'll be some sort of clue here," he says. "To unlock what he knows about the curse." It's a hopeful statement - and also one deliberately calculated to encourage Rakha. He's seen how miserable she is with the broken magic in the shadowlands.

"And the surgeon shared Ketheric's name," Minthara adds. Her eyes glint with sudden bright intensity. "Perhaps there will also be clues as to his immortality here."

"To judge by the others who have shared his name in this village," Lae'zel says sardonically, "I doubt this Malus, if he still lives, will provide anything but a fit target for a blade."

-----

The House of Healing was clearly a grand place once. The walls are lined with battered tilework in white and blue of fine make, as is the floor. The walls are mostly of stone, and have not soaked with the curse to the same degree as some of the wooden buildings outside. So the pain of the corrupted magic is a little lesser in this corner of the village - but any comfort this might bring to Rakha is offset by the fact that the smell of blood is overpowering.

"Stay with me, Rakha," Wyll murmurs. He knows that look on her face by now, all too well - the way her eyes dilate and her breath quickens. "A quick looks around and we'll go."

She nods wordlessly. A muscle works in her jaw. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

Whatever healing this place once did, it does not do it anymore. So many people have died here. She can almost hear the screams.

-----

A woman wearing a complicated headdress and torn, bloodstained clothing stops them at the door.

"Here to see the doctor?" she chirps. Her voice is high and thin and vague, as if reading from a rote script. "Are we poorly?" She leans forward. "Are we *desperately* poorly?"

A pause. Then she clicks her tongue. Her head is cocked as if her eyes, if they were visible, would be drifting over Rakha's left shoulder. "Not so well. But well enough to wait. Join the line, and you will be seen."

Rakha blinks. Line? There is definitely no one here except quite a few skeletons. And this woman... she's definitely dead herself, like those walking corpses at the distillery. Her visible skin is blue and stiff, mottled with veins, bruising, and strange carved scars. She sways unsteadily as she waits for Rakha's answer.

But she does speak of the doctor. The surgeon from the sign outside, presumably. Malus Thorm. Like Thisobald and Gerringothe, then, he is indeed still alive (or at least still here) despite this place having been desolate for a century.

Minthara may be right. Perhaps he knows something useful. And this nurse can take her to him - if the nurse deems her to be doing suitably "poorly."

Conveniently, she has been doing poorly this entire time.

"I'm sick as a dog," she says gravely. "Dark compulsions addle my mind."

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Wyll shoot her a sharp look. His hand rests gently against her forearm, gives it a quick squeeze, and withdraws.

The nurse's head jerks to one side. Then she fiddles with the empty air, as if scribbling in a book that does not exist. "Hrm. Hrm..." she mumbles vaguely. "Let me check. Let me check..." She peers blankly at Rakha again. "What is the primary symptom?"

Rakha thinks for a moment. "Everything," she finally mutters. "I lose control of myself... and kill without command..." She remembers the cat on the Moonrise balcony, how its flesh gave under her fingertips before she had even realized she was moving...

The woman's cold breath catches and a dreamy smile touches her lips. "A unique disease..." she murmurs. "One which has never passed through this institution before. The Surgeon will be *most* interested in you." She steps back, opening the path for Rakha deeper into the building. "Down to the theater! Be swift! Be saved!"

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #oh boy here we go :P #this place is so fucking creepy #bjk writes her own party banter

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beesmygod · 1 year ago

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BLOODBORNE LORE Q+A PART 6: the founding of pthumeru, the discovery by byrgenwerth, and the fishing hamlet

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

---

BLOCK #LONG POST/ TO NOT SEE THESE HUGE POSTS

shawn asked me a question about the mensis ritual and mergo and the process of trying to answer it in short became a catastrophic failure.

this is going to be a nightmare (hehehuhehehe) to try to explain in broad strokes to people who don't know bloodborne or even to people who do, but i'm going to do my best. anyone who tells you they know what happened or they have "solved" the mensis ritual is a liar. the timeline is muddy and deliberately vague, up to and including how long ago everything happened. i have educated guesswork but that's it.

i will post pure speculation in italics and important nouns in bold. i am peppering this with as many wiki links as possible to back up my claims. not gonna lie this looks like a fucking MAD magazine editor went to town on it or like the timecube website submitted a guest article.

but much like how you need to first make the universe in order to make an apple pie, we must first talk about the history of yharnam before we can talk about its newest resident, mergo.

---

untold eons ago, a race known as the pthumerians served the great ones as they slumbered. after becoming exposed to the deliberately vague notion of "the eldritch truth" (it is unclear if this is a specific phenomenon, like the secret to their longevity, or simply the knowledge of the great one's existence), they developed a unique and startling appearance: pallid skin, black eyes, and slacking jaws. i mean, they also lived underground so they look like underground creatures do. either way, they are distinctly inhuman humanoids.

this civilization became lost, but did not die; they continued to serve the "gods" underground, excavating tombs and chambers without rest. over time, they elected a leader, yharnam, pthumerian queen, who was given a ring imbued with special meaning by the great ones indicating her commitment to bearing a special child, a child of blood (the ramifications of this are not known). she still wears the ring today.

arguably, a civil war breaks out in pthumeru, (as evidenced by the armors left by what must have been early cainhurst knights, but i have not looked into this enough to be satisfied) that results in a schism that pushes some pthumerians to the surface, where they become the modern day royalty of cainhurst. the cainhurst royalty and the pthumerian royalty both aspire to have a child of blood and have knights that work explicitly to further this goal, putting them at odds with each other. today's cainhurst royalty maintains some of the "pthumerian look" but not to such an exaggerated degree, with the resemblance fading with each removed generation.

pictured above are the canonical cainhurst royalty and their descendants in order of relation from left to right: annalise, queen of the vilebloods (top left), lady maria (top middle), arianna, woman of pleasure (right; she is also the most distant descendant). the bottom image is concept art of lady maria during her boss fight with a more exaggerated look that did not make it into the game.

---

anyway: a bazillion years later or whatever. the cainhurst royals rule over a land that includes the victorian england-ish city of yharnam, named for the forgotten queen of pthumeru. the main appeal of yharnam is its proximity to a university of bold, weird research.

the school of byrgenwerth and its scholars were once an archeological and historical research center. however, during the course of their studies they discovered a vast labyrinth beneath the school where (if the first location they discovered was the same as ours this would be the pthumerian labyrinth) they encountered ancient humanoids, women with the ability to re-animate corpses, an perpetually burning dog who somehow still lives and, most intriguing of all, a creature that defied all understanding. further investigation revealed an unspecified "holy medium", ritual blood, which does not coagulate. this is the ritual blood found in old yharnam on the altar.

further investigation of the labyrinth was halted by the first encounter with a beast. here is a longer post about that encounter and my evidence that leads me to believe it occurred.

this is where things get really fuzzy as to which event happened first. im going to post this part without italics because all the events do happen. its just not clear in what order.

in order to combat these newfound beasts gehrman, a student of byrgenwerth (as he has dialogue where he refers to willem as "master"), took up self-styled arms (the first trick weapons) and became the first hunter. he was followed by a collection of self-styled mercenaries that would come to be known as "the old hunters". there is evidence of the old hunters having once been in the labyrinth as you can summon one to help you fight and the bell descriptions reveal that they were used by the first hunter after discovering them in the labyrinth.

the miraculous healing abilities of the old blood (the origins of which are not specified but i can show you my guesswork later lol) in the labyrinth became known to the students at byrgenwerth. the blood is used to combat the beasts by use of invigorating injections. blood is plentiful and works quickly to heal.

byrgenwerth also begins study and collection of the "phantasms" present (or were once present) in the labyrinth. the discovery of the augur of ebrietas, a slug that summons flailing tentacles of unknown origin, and the arcane properties of pearl slugs drives the school's continued plunges into the depths in spite of the danger posed. part of this research involved discovering the parasitic qualities of these creatures, which could inhabit eyes.

while continuing to investigate the ruins, byrgenwerth became aware of a fishing village where a washed up carcass of a monster was teeming with otherworldly parasites and a stillborn fetus. the parasites had caused the villagers to transform into fish-like monster people not dissimilar to the monster on the coast. the villagers seem alright with this change and actively cultivate millions of the parasites for daily use, such as especially potent lamp oil [1].

upon arrival to the village, the school and its hunters helped themselves to a little bit of genocide just for fun. villager's heads were treppaned open in the search for "eyes on the inside" (a visual metaphor for insight as well as a literal phenomenon) and the monstrous corpse was desecrated by the byrgenwerth researchers who took her child (as the villagers of the fishing hamlet chant) and one of the orphan's three umbilical cords, the one lined with eyes.

i know we find this in a weird place later. we'll get there.

but this wasn't just some pile of fish goo they were fucking with, it was the corpse of the great one, kos (or as some say, kosm). kos's wrath and retribution would come in due time. this event triggered the creation of the hunter's nightmare, a sort of eternal, bloody hell for hunters who participated in the massacre and those who become "blood drunk" where the must relive the event for all eternity. notable hunters trapped in the nightmare from the time of the old hunters include ludwig (not yet notable), laurence (looking awful but he had a busy couple of years before he wound up there), some named NPC hunters such as yamamura and gratia, and lady maria.

lady maria, gehrman's apprentice, could not tolerate her role in the fishing hamlet massacre and threw her beloved weapon into the fishing village well. she, with others, joined laurence when he split from byrgenwerth to found the healing church. its not explicit that the fishing village massacre was the reason for the split, as there were ideological differences (and family matters) brewing that also came to a head, but a one sided genocide seems like a matter that would cause a splinter between one faction that is ruthless in its methods and another that appears to be in the business of healing.

but thats a whole other post.

---

uhhh this took a very long time but once im done with this i will never have to type it ever again. the next one covers the healing church in its entirety and should end with the arrival of our hunter in yharnam as the city fully slides into chaos. thank you for reading. or not. its none of my business.

---

https://www.reddit.com/r/bloodborne/comments/3uq6wq/interesting_lamp_in_the_hamlet_spoilers_maybe/ which leads to this image: https://i.imgur.com/zVJbcJ2.jpg

#bloodborne #long post/#lore

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randomwriteronline · 11 months ago

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It was so warm and tender that he thought he might have died.

It was a fleeting thought, bursting from his chest with the rustle of a small bird's wings as it left him only a heart beating fast and gentle, and a splendid unknown with curious eyes looking up as it laid beneath him.

Could he have described it? Oh, he didn't know; he wasn't enough of an artistic soul to do such a thing justice with his words. If he was forced to wrack his brain about it, he would have said it was incomplete: like a sketch left unfinished, the vague shape of an anatomical structure made of sand abandoned at the cruel mercy of the rising tide, some new flavor of sublime.

But he didn't want to think, and all he could describe it as was handsome.

He leaned down upon it, basking in the heat and light and barely completed physicality. His hand brushed the cheek, pressure causing its infinite pieces to crumble before they returned to their rightful place.

So handsome, he muttered as he settled between the ever shifting legs. So handsome.

The marvelous being looked at him with the gleaming eyes of a puzzled child beholding a strange rite for the first time.

"What is this?" it asked.

"Oh, we've got names for it," he replied: "Some crass or mean or downright silly."

He sunk into the body of multitudes like one sinks in a warm, dense liquid, with a pleasant mellow resistance enveloping him wholly; his gorgeous partner gasped without a mouth, and its arms melted briefly as it was taken by surprise. He kissed its forehead kindly, feeling its fluid chest lurch slowly forward for an overwhelmed second before deflating so sweetly.

"If you like it, we can call it making love," he said with a smile.

The body beneath him raised to surround him.

"I do," his wonderful lover replied breathlessly, wrapping him within itself slowly, limbs rising to consume him, swallow him, with such magnificent tenderness, and on its yet to be drawn face bloomed something akin to watercolor blush beneath its shining eyes: "I do like it - I do like it very much."

He moved forward, sliding without opposition deeper within the gentle mound covering him, embracing him slowly.

It felt sweet, and good, and just like he'd imagined it, or almost; the strange non-existence of the body he pierced at such a deliberate pace felt welcoming despite the peculiarity, the fleeting sensation as it barely clasped around him like a spectre's shadow upon a wall - but after all, he could not expect the taking of a formless minor god to feel too similar to that of a creature of flesh and blood.

A blissful sigh grazed his face through a cloud of mild golden embers.

"I like it so, my friend," the wondrous beast whispered, its voice propagating through him in long waves: "I do like it - I truly do like it so, my friend, truly, truly..."

He was slow, so slow, so gentle, as he kept going, going, going, sinking further and further down in that barely held together shape that kept enveloping him with relaxed coils as if trying to turn him into another part of itself - here he was, inching slowly along its stomach, digging in its faux entrails to fill it up completely, kind and warm and loving, moving into its chest where a quiet thrumming spasmed rhythmically through the sand-like form while it curled around him, covering every single inch of him, leaving a sensation so indescribably good across his skin.

He leaned down to kiss where its mouth should have been and felt a pair of lips kiss back.

"I love it - I love it, I do," it breathed through him, overwhelmed by something too delightful to explain: "I do, I do, I do."

In a moment, he was swallowed up completely.

The splendid creature exhaled through his lungs, long and quiet, as they both unwound.

"I do," they both repeated longingly, bodies and minds muddled together imperfectly like too much syrup in too little water, distinct but not for long: "I do. I do."

His hand reached out.

Something akin to another palm caught it.

He held onto his marvelous lover for a long while, feeling it pulse over him slowly.

"How wonderful," it sighed through him, smitten.

He laughed quietly, just as lovestruck.

"How wonderful indeed." he whispered through it.

The dream kept going - longer than it should have, really; the shapeless body enveloping him held him down, close to the unknowable core of the gorgeous chimera in his grasp, until their thoughts began clearing from the humid mist overtaking them again, until their forms began to divide enough to be pulled apart from each other again, until he could see those magnificent eyes clearly again (half-lid and heavy and gleaming with the soft sheen of velvet, taking all the time in the world to return from their bliss), until he could feel the hand gently resting on his nape as something outside himself again, until the invisible mouth that met him halfway to a kiss was one with his own in a manner different from the inexplicable unity that had bound them again.

He felt a quiet sigh curl upon his cheeks, just for a moment, warm and tired. Then his sublime partner closed its wonderful eyes, breathing deeply, fast asleep - and Ackar woke up still groggy, with his body half aching from moving in ways it hadn't enjoyed in a long while now, as Mata Nui slumbered deeper still in his own rest, exhausted from making love.

#bionicle #mata nui #ackar #random writing #suggestive #local man mistakes passionate night with his friend Yaldabaoth the Demiurge for sexy dream (in his defense he was literally dreaming)#literally. just Some Guy going down on a false god extremely tenderly and not realizing This Is Happening For Real #one day hell realize and go ohhh my god wait. he lives in dreams. oh my god. OH my GOD i didnt even fucking ask for his CONSENT #(slams head on wall) (passes out) (visits mata nui) IM SORRY I DIDNT KNOW IT WAS *REAL* I THOUGHT I WAS JUST SLEEPING I SHOULD HAVE ASKED #mata nui forgives him bc tbf thats a pretty normal assumption for anyone whos not a minor god forcibly having 2 sleep within a mask to make #also welcome to yet another iteration of my fav trope for OG Form Mata Nui being a Vague Shape Possibly Made Of Light And/Or Sand #in this case coming to save me because i Cannot Write Sexy Details lest i Die Forever due to repulsion

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disco-elysium-via-polls · 7 months ago

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🎵 Bookstore

Looks like Guillaume le Million... that hair poster.

PLAISANCE - "Hello again, esteemed officer," she keeps reciting like a robot. "And welcome to Crime, Romance, and Biographies of Famous People."

3. "Plaisance, I have something to tell you... I've found the actual source of doom."

PLAISANCE - "What do you mean the *actual* source?" She clutches her pendant anxiously. "Are you talking about the... *Third Presence*?"

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - She remembers. Good.

"Yes, the Presence, the Entity, the malicious Energy -- however you may want to call it…"

"My investigation has led me to discover a two-millimetre entroponetic hole in reality. That's the source of doom -- both in the commercial area *and* in Martinaise."

PLAISANCE - "She Who Has Many Names..." she nods solemnly. "I imagine things must be rather bleak for you to return to me. Tell me, what have you found?"

"My investigation has led me to discover a two-millimetre entroponetic hole in reality. That's the source of doom -- both in the commercial area *and* in Martinaise."

PLAISANCE - "A... a what?"

"A tiny hole... in reality. It may be connected with pale, an origin point of sorts. It would explain why historically so many things have ended in failure here in Martinaise."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Ma'am -- what he's saying is true. We found an entroponetic anomaly in the Small Pinewood Church down the coast. I don't mean to be an alarmist -- and more research *is* needed -- but... it's not looking good."

PLAISANCE - "But... but... *that's* not in any of the ancient texts! How am I supposed to protect my bookstore from *that*?!"

"You can't protect it -- not against *pale*. Close up the shop and try to get as far away from this thing as possible."

"You can protect it with hope, by refusing to give up. That's what people have done in the past -- by building a church, a place of worship around this thing."

"You'll have to find your own answer. I've spent too long on this quest as it is."

PLAISANCE - "You're *right*, officer. I mustn't lose faith -- especially now that Annette is finally settling in at school and making friends." She looks at her daughter, quietly studying in the corner of the shop. "No, we can't just leave!"

"Besides, didn't I have some Seolite hope catchers around here somewhere...? I must find them; everything will be alright if I can just find them."

"Thank you for your help, in any case. You're welcome back here anytime."

Task complete: Inform Plaisance about the Source of Doom

+10 XP

3. "Farewell for now, book peddler!" [Leave.]

You know, since we're here, and we already have more money than we can possibly spend...

MOUNTAIN OF BOARD GAMES - A small mountain of colourful board game boxes. There are numerous types of games for all ages. A lot of shelf space seems to be taken up by Wirrâl-related merchandise.

4. "I want to buy the *Suzerainty* game."

PLAISANCE - "Wonderful choice, sir." She smiles at you. "A wholesome *family* game."

4. "I want to buy the *Wirrâl* game."

PLAISANCE - "If you say so." She gives you a curious glance. "But you better stay away from those immoral occult rituals."

4. [Leave.]

BOARD GAME "SUZERAINTY"

A civilization-building board game where you get to choose a nation and set off to colonise and exploit other cultures. A star-shaped note on the box proclaims the game now includes a completely new "Genocide" option.

>INTERACT

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - In your hands you hold a brand new copy of the game 'Suzerainty'. It's snugly wrapped in a skin of plastic...

The cover features a charming illustration depicting a mass of grinning labourers loading goods onto a ship while a richly dressed administrator oversees their work.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - The exact location and time period are left deliberately vague, but it's clearly meant to represent the economic relationship between the Revacholian Suzerainty and its many vassals.

Shake the box.

Remove the plastic wrap.

[Leave it perfect and undisturbed.]

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The box has a nice heft to it. You hear the rattle of individual wooden tokens and feel their weight shifting back and forth...

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - What treasures wait in store for you?

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - Even before you open it, you can tell that this will be a meaty game of grand strategy and complex player interactions.

2. Remove the plastic wrap.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The plastic wrap rips off as easily as a bodice in a tawdry historical romance.

Open the box.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - There's a hiss as the lid slides off. Inside you find a thick, full-colour rulebook and more than a dozen pouches of various wooden components.

PERCEPTION (SMELL) [Medium: Success] - Ahhh! Savour that new board game smell! A mix of wood, paper, and ink, all wrapped in the sweet must of cardboard.

Read the rulebook.

Examine the components.

"Hey, Kim, wanna play?"

[Put the game away.]

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - 'Welcome to Suzerainty: A game of economic strategy for the whole family!' The rulebook is sumptuously illustrated and thick as a Graadian novel.

'Economic strategy'? More like rapacious plunder and exploitation.

Keep reading.

+1 Communism

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The colourful illustrations depict cheerful workers picking apricots, hauling marble sculptures out of crumbling temples, and harvesting a strange, magenta-leafed plant. Everyone is smiling.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - You begin to suspect there may be a *political* agenda to this so-called 'family game'. Only one way to find out...

Keep reading.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - The instructions are opaque at first, and introduce many concepts you're not familiar with. Fortunately, there are many diagrams and examples throughout...

You soon figure out the basic conceit: Each player represents an administrator for the *Suzerain of Revachol*. Your objective is to increase the suzerain's wealth and renown by accumulating *victory points*.

How do you accumulate victory points?

Fuck the suzerain, what about *my* wealth and renown?

I've read enough. (Put the rulebook away.)

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - There is no path to wealth and renown but through the suzerain. As one of the suzerain's trusted administrators, your very function is the glorification of Revachol...

That's where the suzerain's vassals come in. The game features four vassal nations, each one home to an economically important resource...

Each turn the player collects resources from vassals where they've placed workers. They may then rearrange their workers, fulfil contracts for coin and bonuses, or build structures back in Revachol...

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] - As you leaf through the pages, your eye catches on a sidebar labelled 'ADVICE FOR BEGINNERS'.

Read the advice.

Ignore it. Just tell me how the winner is determined.

REACTION SPEED - "Remember, there are many paths to victory in *Suzerainty*, but successful players will find *one* strategy and commit to it wholeheartedly."

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success]- Boring, boring, BORING. Tear up this rulebook and commit some old-school atrocities!

How is the winner determined?

Isn't there any way to invade or commit atrocities or anything fun like that?

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - Suzerainty is a family game. The only 'atrocities' you'll be committing are against the social standing of your rival administrators, as you bring in ever more resources and power for the suzerain. Speaking of...

The actual scoring system appears infinitely complex, with a series of tables and appendices required to compute each player's final victory point total. You skip that part for now.

2. Examine the components.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - You open up a number of pouches containing wooden tokens. There are also several punchboards with other cardboard components that will need to be punched out before you can play.

Punch out the cardboard pieces, one by one.

Check out the wooden tokens.

Put the components away.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - Each cardboard token makes a satisfying *chhhk* as you pop it out. Soon a neat pile of cardboard coins and counters has accumulated before you.

KIM KITSURAGI - "What, you're not going to offer to let *me* punch any of them out?"

2. Check out the wooden tokens.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - In addition to the worker and building tokens used by each player, there are also several piles of colourful resource tokens, each representing one of the game's four principal resources...

From the Empire of Safre: orange apricot tokens. From Ile Marat (the ancestral name of Iilmaraa): gray marble block tokens. From the Semenine Islands: white sacks of sugar tokens. And from Supramundi and Saramiriza: magenta tokens for unprocessed cocaine leaves.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Oh, those are nice." The lieutenant picks up a sugar token and admires it.

3. Put the components away.

SUZERAINTY: THE BOARD GAME - You hold the open game box before you.

3. "Hey, Kim, wanna play?"

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant looks over the rulebook before he sees something that makes his eyes go wide...

"Holy shit, the average playing time for this game is one to six hours…"

"I'm not sure we can afford to set aside *that* kind of time for a *game*."

EMPATHY [Formidable: Success] - So he says, but his gaze lingers a moment longer on the rulebook than is strictly necessary. He could *make* time, if he really wanted to.

This unlocks a Suggestion check to convince Kim to play the game, but let's not get stuck into that now.

4. [Put the game away.]

BOARD GAME "WIRRÂL"

A high-pasternal *fantastique populaire* board game, illustrated with bucolic vistas and featuring odd-looking humanoid creatures. It's the 3rd edition mega-setting supplements module and can't be played without the main game.

>INTERACT

WIRRÂL - Large letters on the front form a title: "Wirrâl." The colourful box is illustrated with bucolic vistas. The cover art also features odd-looking humanoids, some short, some taller, some with pointy ears, others with ephemeral wings.

Examine the box.

Open the box.

Put it away.

WIRRÂL - Text underneath the title, in smaller typeface, reads: "Third Edition, Mega-Setting Supplements Module." The side panel adds: "A sword and sorcery adventure board game. With new maps and miniatures."

Shake the box.

Look at the back.

Enough inspecting.

WIRRÂL - Mysterious things rattle inside. What could they be? Dice? Plastic miniatures? A fantastical alternate world full of magic and wonder?

None of that witless Man from Hjelmdall fascist dross hidden behind faux-realistic allegory. Wirrâl is no cliché-ridden apologia for colonial violence. Wirrâl is pure *imagination*.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Yes, the Wirrâl setting is known for its complicated system of political alignments. But if you're not into that you can just hack your way through dungeons in search of loot. That's what most people do.

2. Look at the back.

WIRRÂL - A blurb on the back reads: "Tired of the tedium and toil of modern life? Escape to Wirrâl! Leave behind isolas and nations with their petty squabbles. Discard electricity, magnets, and boring technological widgets..."

"Succumb to a world of high-Pasternal fantastique, unleash your imagination and create an adventure of endless possibilities. Discover the terrible secret threatening Wirrâl -- can your band of adventurers save the world?"

Yes, we're ready to take on this challenge.

I'm not sure I can handle all this responsibility.

Definitely not, it sounds too dangerous.

WIRRÂL - Man up, this is about having structured fun! All you have to do is read an intricate rulebook, study an assortment of maps, unfold the illustrated gameboard, and start rolling dice.

In no time you could be romping through grasslands with low-level characters, hunted by iyskel riders… or battling unspeakable monsters in endless dungeons fraught with danger and despair, conjuring up forceful maegics to aid your quest.

DRAMA [Medium: Success] - Don't forget heated arguments escalating to physical confrontation with your friends.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] - And beer. Lots of beer.

DRAMA - And most importantly, never forget to rage-quit if the dice don't go your way!

2. Open the box.

WIRRÂL - You pry open the box. Inside you find a folded-up map, a small booklet, a 24-sided die, and a little plastic figurine.

Look at the map.

Look at the booklet.

Look at the die.

Look at the figurine.

Close the box.

WIRRÂL - A reprint of a crude hand-drawn map. The top left corner reads: 'Lands of Wirrâl.' The map features both small villages and mid-sized towns (with odd names), in addition to meadows, forests, hills, lakes and seas (also with odd names).

It doesn't seem to correspond with anything you've seen thus far. It's not a very helpful map.

2. Look at the booklet.

WIRRÂL - A quick guide to the maegical races of Wirrâl. Create your own hero choosing from any of these completely unique and fantastical backgrounds.

The options are, in order of importance: the welkin, the dweorgr, the humans, the faerie folk, and the pygmies.

Read about the welkin.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - The welkin -- tall, lithe and graceful, with long flowing hair and pointy ears. They're known for being powerful maegic users, but can also hold their own in a brawn-driven fight.

The welkin come with a variety of exciting sub-races: high welkin, forest welkin, lake welkin, and snow welkin. But if you're not feeling experimental -- a basic welkin will always do.

Read about the dweorgr.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - A grand race of industrious mountain people. They're short, stout and muscular, and enjoy digging for gold and other precious minerals. They're also well-versed in the art of combat, where they prefer to use axes and hammers.

The dweorgr also come in a few different sub-races: hill dweorgr, shield dweorgr, and dark dweorgr.

Read about the humans.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - They're just humans... what else is there to tell? They're average in all stats and jacks-of-all-trades.

Read about the faerie folk.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - A very small race of flying people, known for being mischievous, full of trickery. They often lure people into their maegical traps. There are no sub-races for the faeries.

Read about the pygmies.

Put the booklet away.

WIRRÂL - The least popular of the Wirrâl races, the pygmies are short, rotund and dim-witted. Pygmies live in small villages made of shoddy wooden dwellings. They spend most their days tilling the earth and smoking their pipes. There are no sub-races for the pygmies.

3. Look at the die.

WIRRÂL - It's made from some sort of wood and has been decorated with peculiar plant motifs.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - You don't know much about dice, but this one looks pretty damn fancy.

Level up!

4. Take the die.

Item gained: Standard Wirrâl Die

WIRRÂL - You place the die into your pocket. It's always good to have luck on your side.

3. Look at the figurine.

WIRRÂL - You see a man in ragged clothes wearing a lopsided hat and wielding some sort of a firearm.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Huh, interesting. A communard."

"A what?"

"What's so interesting about that?"

"That doesn't sound very Wirrâl-like."

KIM KITSURAGI - "A communard. One of the leftist revolutionaries in the Antecentennial Revolution."

2. "That doesn't sound very Wirrâl-like."

KIM KITSURAGI - "It is not. The communards are not a part of the game setting... I guess someone misplaced it during the packaging process."

"Does this mean we can't play?"

"Maybe someone should make a role-playing game set during the Revolution."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Hmm. Good luck finding people who'd want to play as communards."

4. Take the figurine.

WIRRÂL - You pick the figurine up by the base to meet your gaze. The little plastic man stares back at you, his face contorted into a disturbing shout. Then you pocket it.

Item gained: Figurine Set "Revolutionary"

3. Close the box.

STANDARD WIRRÂL DIE

This basic 24-sided role-playing die can be used to get results for several dice. It's made of East-Semenese Snakewood and embellished with plant motives. It reminds you of plain- and hill-welkins. NOTE! Look at the MAP tab in Journal to see which White Checks have opened.

This die is not actually useful to us at this point in the game.

FIGURINE SET "REVOLUTIONARY"

What a nice little figurine! A turn-of-the-century leftist revolutionary in ragged clothes. On his head lies a lopsided hat, seemingly an ushanka. In his hand he carries a little musket.

I guess we could also give this to Dolores Dei... if we ever figure out what that actually means.

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois #plaisance

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semper-legens · 23 days ago

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116. Husk, by Dave Zeltserman

Owned: No, library Page count: 230 My summary: Charlie Husk isn't human. He lives in an isolated compound in New Hampshire, only venturing out when he and his kin need fresh meat. So he rounds them up, and watches as his elders perform the slaughtering rituals, feeding his kin until the next delivery. But this time, it's different. By chance, he meets a young woman named Jill, just after her boyfriend dumps her at the side of the road. And it gets Charlie wondering if there is more to life than the clan and the meat after all… My rating: 2/5

Okay. So. We had a copy of this at work, and it sounded interesting enough for me to pick up. What can I say, I like books that are a little f-cked up, and cannibalism is something of a special interest of mine, though I usually only read about survival cannibalism. I decided to give this book a shot, even though there was something about it that was giving me pause. I can't even say what it was, really - a part of me was just hesitant looking at it, unsure if it would live up to its concept. And then I read it, and it didn't! What could have been an interesting story was hampered by a bland and uninteresting writing style, coupled with the narrative focusing on elements of the story that just weren't interesting enough, and not enough buildup to the main ideas. I did not like it, and in about a week's time I will likely have forgotten that it exists at all.

My main gripe with this book is that it's just not focusing on the right things. We're introduced to Charlie as he goes out to collect people for his clan to eat and bumps into Jill, but when he then decides on a whim to give up his life in the clan for Jill, there's no tension for it because we didn't see him in that life. All of the information about the clan is delivered to us as exposition, and in vague terms. Much is made of the clan's slaughtering rituals and how to properly prepare the meat, but we never see what that is - almost like the author is too squeamish to deliver on his premise. Charlie talks about the cravings he feels for meat, but he never describes himself feeling them, it's always just 'the cravings were bad that day' or something like that, almost as though they can be brushed off. And then there's logical inconsistencies. Charlie's the only one bringing meat to the clan, but it takes them weeks to go out and track him down? There's no tension from him abandoning the clan, because he just does it and there's no repercussions. He seems to have no qualms about abandoning his life and living among people he thought of as livestock, but that's not justified because we don't see why he does it, other than falling in love-at-first-sight with this woman he just met, which…I'm aro ace, so I know I can't really talk about this, but is that how it works? It doesn't feel earned, it doesn't feel natural. There's no buildup, no ground laid for this to happen. It just…does.

The writing style was another thing that was strange. It's written in this kind of stilted, formal tone that was honestly not bad or anything - the story is in the first person from Charlie's perspective, so the odd affect to the narration can be explained with that just being the way that he talks, something borne out in the dialogue. But the thing is that other characters talk like that too. It's most noticeable with Jill - she'll outright declare how much she loves and trusts Charlie in a way that seems stilted and clunky, like first-draft kind of dialogue. The style works for Charlie, but when everyone communicates like it, I'm left to wonder if it's not a deliberate stylistic choice and is more just the author's voice that happens to work for the character. Oh, and the other place the dialogue slips into dialect is with the absurdly stereotypical black cook Charlie meets, who tries to scam him out of $2k with the promise of fake legal papers, who speaks in AAVE. No dodgy implications there.

And like I alluded to earlier, through most of the book there's just no tension. Charlie wants to find a job but can't because he doesn't have a social security number, and then he gets one. Charlie wants to date Jill and she's down to date him too. Charlie needs to figure out how to stop his cravings, and then he arbitrarily murders someone in a 'frenzy' that comes on at the speed of plot convenience and gets a nice neat solution handed to him on a platter. At the end, the clan kidnaps Charlie back and takes Jill as meat! Oh no! Sike, it's Jill's bitchy friend Brittany, who Charlie happily murders and eats before he just leaves again, threatening his brothers not to follow, lies to Jill, happily ever after. Hooray. I don't care about Charlie. What he wants, he gets - he doesn't struggle, not even with these supposed cravings, and he's an unrepentant murderer who only sees Jill as being his equal, presumably because he wants to bang her. That's it. He happily kills Brittany and Ethan, Jill's terrible ex, because they get in his way. I think we're supposed to be on his side for that? But nah. Fuck him. He has no redeeming qualities and this book was just bad. Sorry.

Next, a swordsman hunts his prey.

#Husk #Dave Zeltserman #bookblr #book blog #book blogging #2

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haggishlyhagging · 11 months ago

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The evaluation of Mayo's work [Mother India] and its impact has been left to such scholars as the authors of Marriage: East and West, who write:

The dust finally settled. It was conceded that Katherine Mayo's facts, as facts, were substantially accurate. It was recognized that she had taken up a serious issue and drawn attention to it, which had helped in some measure to hasten much-needed reforms. But at the same time her book had done a grave injustice to India, in presenting a one-sided and distorted picture of an aspect of Indian life that could only be properly understood within the context of the entire culture [emphases mine].

Thus Mayo is put in her place. We find here the familiar use of the passive voice, which leaves unstated just who conceded, who recognized. We find also the familiar balancing act of scholars, which gives a show of "justice" to their treatment of the attacked author. The qualifying expression, "as facts," added to "facts," has the effect of managing to minimize the factual. Women who counter the patriarchal reality are often accused of "merely imagining," or being on the level of "mere polemic." Here we have "mere" facts. Then the authors graciously concede that Mayo hastened "much-needed reforms," which gives the impression that everything has now been taken care of, that the messy details have been tidied up. Then comes the peculiarly deceptive and unjust expression "grave injustice to India." Mayo was concerned about grave injustice to living beings, women. Injustice is done to individual living beings. One must ask how it is possible to do injustice to a social construct, for example, India, by exposing its atrocities. We might ask such re-searchers whether they would be inclined to accuse critics of the Nazi death camps of "injustice" to Germany, or whether they would describe writers exposing the history of slavery and racism in America as guilty of "injustice" to the United States. The Maces go on to accuse Mayo of distorting "an aspect of Indian life." But what is "Indian life"? Mayo is concerned not with defending this vague abstraction (presumably meaning customs, beliefs, social arrangements, et cetera), but with the lives of millions of women who happened to live in that part of patriarchy called "India."

The final absurdity in this scholarly obituary is the expression "properly understood within the context of the entire culture." It is Katherine Mayo who demonstrates an understanding of the cultural context, that is, the entire culture, refusing to reduce women to "an aspect." Her critics, twenty years after her death, attempted to absorb the realities she exposed into a "broad vision," which turns out to be a meaningless abstraction.

Feminist Searchers should be aware of this device, commonly repeated in the re-searchers' rituals. It involves intimidation by accusations of "one-sidedness," so that others will not listen to the discredited Searcher-Scholar who refused to follow the "right" rites. The device relies upon fears of criticizing "another culture," so that the feminist is open to accusations of imperialism, nationalism, racism, capitalism, or any other "-ism" that can pose as broader and more important than gynocidal patriarchy. Thus the just accuser becomes unjustly sentenced to erasure. Her life's meaning, as expressed in her life's work, is belittled, reversed, wiped out.

Feminist Seekers/Spinsters should search out and claim such sisters as Katherine Mayo. Her books are already rare and difficult to find. It is important that they do not become extinct. Spinsters must unsnarl phallocratic "scholarship" and also find our sister weavers/dis-coverers whose work is being maligned, belittled, erased, deliberately forgotten. We must learn to name our true sisters, and to save their work so that it may be continued rather than re-covered, re-searched, and re-done on the endless wheel of re-acting to the Atrocious Lie which is phallocracy. In this dis-covering and spinning we expand the dimensions of feminist time/space.

-Mary Daly, Gyn/Ecology

#mary daly #Katherine mayo #patriarchal scholarship #radical feminist analysis #female oppression #patriarchy #suttee

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tabswrites · 1 year ago

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The Birth of Eternity

Magic System Notes: Part 1

A/N: These posts are largely going to be used as a reference for those who ask about the magic system in Guardians of Eternity/Tomb of Light. I am deliberately keeping this as vague as possible to avoid spoilers, and some of the finer details might change!

ToL tag list: @writernopal @outpost51 (please ask to be +/-)

Also tagging @writingmaidenwarrior, this is Part 1 of my answer to your question! Do not feel like you have to read all of this, I can give you a summary :)

In order for me to explain the magic system in ToL, you need to know where magic came from. It started with a flash of light…

There once was a falling star that collided with Earth. This was the time before man, when the only living beings still lived in the sea. Upon impact, the meteor transformed the world around it, bringing to life strange plants and creatures familiar to the meteor, but foreign to its new world. The meteor’s physical form slowly eroded and crumbled, becoming one with the rocks and sediment, but below that grew a mass of pure, self-sustaining light. It could feel the ways that nature communicated–the roots of the trees, the intangible chemical signals passed back and forth. It learned to speak the language of the earth, and after thousands of years absorbing its knowledge, grew strong. Then, the first humans arrived.

The Light observed man, determined to uncover the secrets of the strange life forms that had evolved free of its influence. For hundreds of thousands of years, they were simple, singularly focused beings not worth its time–until civilizations began to form. Watching the humans struggle amongst themselves to create order and structure, the Light drew two conclusions.

Man was unpredictable and dangerous.

Man could always be swayed with the promise of something new.

As the world continued to evolve, the Light feared for its future. Man’s curious nature left it in a constant state of panic, as it was unsure how man would react were they to discover its power. They tore apart nature as they saw fit and the Light was unsure it would be spared from man’s wrath. It chose to reach out to them, learning to speak to them through sounds and images rather than chemical signals. It discovered that man, always reaching towards something new, was incomplete, sad and hollow–so it chose to make them whole by giving them their own light called an Aura. The Light transformed man into formidable beings with great power, allowing them to shape the world any way they wished. As more years passed, they realized the magic was there to stay, along with its source, and man chose to give it a name: Eternity.

Eternity had intended to share its Light as a peace offering, to begin a symbiotic relationship where the humans would protect it in exchange for power. It thought that by making them whole, they would no longer need to search so desperately for the next best thing. Unfortunately, during all that time spent observing mankind, Eternity was oblivious to man’s innate darkness and was blind to their greed. It chose to be more selective in choosing the recipients of its Light, forcing humans to face their darkness. If they remained pure and good in the presence of their worst memories and fears, they were deemed worthy and became Auras. Those whose souls were tainted and irredeemable were turned away.

With the human population rapidly growing, Eternity once more feared for its future. It sent its strongest creatures, the Ursus Ornata, to guide the worthy to the Light. Those who proved to have the strongest hearts were chosen to be its Sentinels, shielding it from man’s greed and helping it grow with the rest of the world. Eternity still feared the Auras would fall victim to the corruption around them and made a decision to create the Shadows–granting power to humans who walked between the light and the dark and remained incorruptible. The Sentinels would watch over Eternity, Eternity would watch over the Auras, and the Shadows watched both.

This was the natural order of things on earth, until a Rameau betrayed a Rothe and changed the world forever.

#wip: tomb of light #world building #magic system #guardians of eternity

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namethatghostling · 1 year ago

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Please tell us EVERYTHING about your dyke scarecrow au🎃🐦‍⬛

ghjk its not even rly like a full fledged au or anything i just resonate so heavily w the character and i was like. sure ok everyones making their own version of their fav rogues, why not me? so basically shes just like a mishmash of all my favorite interpretations and adaptations of the character with a heavy sprinkling of Gender

(also some vaguely paranormal spooky shit bc im so obsessed w scarecrows potential as like an actual horror character. in my version its left deliberately unclear if scarecrow the villain is %100 a persona made up by jon or if its a literal possessing force that has haunted her from childhood. make of it what u will.)

the whole origin story thing goes a little like this. jon crane (she/he/they/it), born johanna keeny, was raised by his fundie xtian grandma, mary keeny, in a farming town in georgia. from childhood she was kind of an oddball, and had a strange preoccupation with fear, loving ghost stories and occasionally menacing the crows that were common on the family land just to see them scatter.

they were always booksmart but also pretty socially inept. bullied at school and either ignored or brutally "disciplined" at home, she found consolation and comfort in books, everything from classic literature to dense scientific texts to trashy pulp horror. jon also struggled with (largely undiagnosed/untreated) chronic pain and, as a result, sleep issues. when she was able to sleep she often experienced sleep paralysis which manifested in nightmares and waking hallucinations of the scarecrow in the field outside the window speaking to her. its voice was wretched like nails scraping glass, but it spoke kindly to them, promising to protect them from the true nightmare that was yet to come. jon tried not to listen. she considered herself too sensible to believe in boogiemen. but as she got older things got worse, her body and mind continued to act against her, certain secrets regarding her sexuality came to light, followed by a confrontation with her granny after she began to threaten her with the promise of "exorcism"...

eventually, jon was left with no choice but to let the scarecrow handle things.

more assorted infodumping below the cut

after using the meager inheritance left by dear departed granny to pursue higher education in gotham, jon legally changed their name both in order to make it harder to track down their history and as a final spiteful gesture, taking the surname of the man grandma keeny had blamed for the corruption of her daughter.

legally she is still johanna and doesnt necessarily mind her given name but still vastly prefers jon. a very select few people are allowed to call her jonny, and NO ONE is allowed to call her joni/joanie any variant thereof.

their rise to villainy is still mostly the same since thats one thing that is generally p consistent in canon. professor of psychology, not well liked by students or staff, secretly working on a pet project involving testing the affects of fear on the human mind with some less than willing test subjects, yadda yadda yadda

scarecrow both is and isnt a separate entity from jon. jon, being scientifically minded, most of the time considers scarecrow to be the natural result of a traumatic childhood manifesting in a protector figure that gains control of their shared body during moments of intense stress or panic. this is true! in certain less rational moments however she believes it to be a completely foreign being, a literal demon that has plagued her family line for generations, like granny always said. this is also true! how can both of those things be factually correct? figure it out yourself!

scarecrow is always eager to wreak some havoc on anyone who gets in jon's way, but as for jon, he has refused to directly inflict violence on anyone since his grandmother. she was his first and last. jon's far from a pacifist, but hes also not bloodthirsty, and scarecrow begrudgingly respects his wishes. after all, its better if the test subjects stay alive as long as possible anyway.

jon has hypermobile eds. as a kid they used to freak out their classmates by messing around with their double joints and stretching out their skin. it became a lot less fun for them in adolescence when the background hum of joint pain suddenly teamed up with their growing pains, also made worse by grannys dislike of doctors delaying their diagnosis for years and their refusal to use mobility aids when they needed them out of fear of the bullying getting any worse. they finally gave in and started regularly using a cane in college but sometimes theyll still try to go without it. not great.

also related to the above, she has had kind of a fucked relationship with self medicating to deal with pain in the past. and in the present to a degree. also kind of a fucked relationship with pain in general.

probably autistic and definitely experiences some flavor of paranoid psychosis and ptsd but was never diagnosed with either because 1) they knew it would impact their ability to pursue their field of choice since they would always be considered "too close" when it came to matters of psychology and 2) theyre pretty sure theres nothing another doctor could tell them about themself that they dont already know and better.

masks like their life depends on it in public and pretty well most of the time. people for sure know theres something up with that crane guy but not enough to really give a shit most of the time. fucking hates stimming around other people. fucking HATES being treated as infantile or less capable.

one of the many benefits of becoming scarecrow, whether in terms of the villain persona or the being that is and isnt jon, is being able to be a lot more visibly bizarre without being treated like a child. instead people just treat it like a threat, which it prefers greatly.

vocal stim of quoting lines from favorite books, old nursery rhymes, and even the occasional half-remembered church song. jons grandmothers religion was largely a burden she dropped as soon as she could, but unfortunately they kinda went off with the southern gospel.

she had her first kiss with a girl from her class after sneaking away from a halloween party together. they got caught and after the news got out the girl hurriedly got back together with her ex boyfriend to protect herself from the inevitable backlash. scarecrow thinks she should have gone the way of dear old granny, but jon stubbornly disagrees to this day despite it all.

people generally think jon is older than he is. this used to bother him but now hes kind of into the whole weathered old butch vibe. certified queer elder moment.

still as much of a nerdass bookworm as she was as a kid. cried until she made herself sick the first time she read carrie. will take this to her grave.

of course theres more but once again this is fuckin long enough already.

#ask #argh i rly need a tag system for this one at least #just tagging #scarecrow #for now #abuse m #ask to tag

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