#(dont get me started on scroungers)

[rooksunday]

cannot articulate how much giving ID to vote makes me want to tear things apart with my teeth. is this rational, considering NI has been doing so for a generation? arguably no! but when (alleged) ~voter fraud reports numbered 1,462 in the uk in the past four years… for an electorate of approx 48,844,292 (elections 2021), of whom 14 individuals received a conviction or caution…

i just…

TEETH TEETH TEETH

[curious-menace]

Telltale riddler X reader

as promised

synopsis 

you are a meta human with healing/mending powers, mostly new to gotham and a little out of the loop. you usually work in a hospital but you've headed to the scrapyard after work to find some useful parts to repair and few side projects. that's when you find a most unusual box buried under the trash.

-------------

Scrounger they called you. Scavenger, trash rat people said. You didn't care, desperate times call for desperate measures.  Since waller came to town, Gothams villainous underclass could hardly scratch their ass without her knowing. You weren't a criminal, far from it. You were a meta human; a healer, a mender of broken things. Your powers could put anything back together: from bones and minds to fenders and fixtures . Heroes and villains alike came to you ; for aid, for repairs and occasionally, just for the attention. That’s what brought you back to the junkyard night after night. Things were becoming scarce, it was harder to find parts to fix things, even harder to find the supplies to fix people. You had some equipment, but right now you were barely keeping the lights on. So off to the gotham trash heap You went, slipping the gate guard some home made cake to keep his mouth closed while you picked through for something usable. Decent things could be repaired, repaired things could be sold. 

You were about to call it quits when you saw it. A Coffin, or at least you thought so . Hopefully it was just a storage pod, maybe with goodies in it. But this was Gotham and luck wasn't on your side: no one ever threw away anything good. Finding a dead body would put you out on the wrong side of midnight and you were in no mood to deal with the gcpd. You hated late nights.

It wouldn't have been so out of place in your day job, people tended to die in hospitals. But after hours? rummaging through a scrap heap for spare parts? now that was concerning. You nearly ignore it, make a mental note to call the cops and head on your merry way back home.  But You can't; the temptation of supplies is too great to ignore. Besides, even if it was a body, the thought of someone being thrown away like garbage is too much to handle. “Just a peak” You promised yourself, just to make sure it’s not a body. You can always come back tomorrow if it’s anything good.

It takes you a while to clear all the rubbish from the lid. It was buried under weeks if not months of trash and refuse. The thought of a person winding up like this made your stomach turn. You’d heard of people winding up in dumps before, but usually they were in pieces, maybe in a suitcase or a fridge. You’d never heard of a whole casket turning up in one.

not till now at least. 

Up close, it does look more like a fridge. It's cold to the touch too, colder than it should be in mid september. A thin layer of condensation is trickling out of the seams, a faint red battery light flickers every now and then. You stick your thumbs into the slim opening and pull. The lid doesn’t budge. Frustrated you stand back in your precarious foothold in the trash, cans and bottles rolling to the ground from under your feet. You could pull it down to ground level, have a better standing to pry it open. But disturbing the trash mountain could bury you and the box before you ever get a look inside. 

Running your hands along the edge, you look for a way in. There’s what looks like a turn dial on top, like on an old safe. Could it be that easy? You flipped up the handle and pressed your ear to the cold metal to listen for the gentle click of mechanical parts. You’re about to start turning when the box hisses, frigid air ruffles your hair and sends a shiver down your spine. The box begins to unfurl, spider like latches spread out snagging your jeans as they went. “Damn it!”  you swore, grabbing at your shin as a thin trickle of blood made its way down and into your boot. That was your last good pair of trousers too.  You lent against the edge of the box for balance to examine the cut. But when your hand brushed something soft, you froze in place. Mousey  brown hair tinged silver at the roots, a domino masked face fixed in place by rigor mortis.  

As you feared; A body.

You might have suspected as much, but it still wasn't a pleasant find. The man looked as though he was sleeping, only a few patches of bruising, a little decay and a thin layer of frost that covered his body suggested otherwise . Fans whirled, frost began to evaporate from his skin leaving it a sickly gray. But this poor soul wasn't the only horrifying thing about the coffin. All along the inner walls were deep gouges that could only have been made by him “god…” you murmured crouching down beside him. A quick glance at his bloodied hands confirmed the worst; whoever this was, they’d been alive when they’d been put inside. “poor thing.” you reach out to gently thumb a split just under his eye “who did this to you?” Between your thumb and his face there was a tiny, almost imperceptible blue spark.

Now. you would by no means call yourself an expert, but you weren't fumbling in the dark with your powers. You could fix a lot of wounds, most non fatal injuries. But you’d never brought someone back from the dead.

Especially not by accident.

When your hand made contact, the person jolted awake like they’d been hit by lightning. The man lurched to life, gasping like he hasn't breathed in weeks. Colour came flooding back to his face as he claws at the air for purchase.  He whips around frantically, face smeared with dry blood and green eyes faintly milky in colour “HOLY SHIT!” You yelled. Panicked he throws himself over the edge of the coffin, knocking you back in the process. Together you tumble down the rubbish pile landing in a heap at the bottom “ow.” you breathe, hoping the pain you feel is just a bruise forming and not cracked ribs. As the dust settles you heave yourself upright, looking around for the man “ shit.” you murmur watching him squirm away, obviously scared and confused out of his mind. He face-planted in the dirt  once more as he makes stuttering attempts to get to his feet, barely managing to crawl along the ground. He’s hyperventilating, head on a swivel as he tries to take in every angle at once “hey” you call, lifting yourself up “ are you hurt?!”  The man twists around on the spot to look at you, face a picture of terror “n-nuh!” he holds up a hand in defence as he tries to back away“st-stay awa-aw- its ok!” he has a shard of broken glass clutched in his hands, so tightly they’ve started to bleed. Or so you think, It's hard to tell with all the blood that is already staining his clothes. Despite all logic telling you to run for the hills, you crouched down to his level, hands out to show you meant no threat “ i'm not going to hurt you” you soothed staying very still.

As quickly  as he had sprung to life, he suddenly went motionless again. He sagged the rest of the way to the ground, whimpering like a kicked animal as he retracts his hands to his chest. He’s making noise, muttering incoherently, his eyes flickering left and right blindly and unseeing. He’s wide awake but nowhere near conscious. The lights are on but it seems like no one's home. 

Sighing deeply you roll your shoulders.

This was going to be a late night. 

-------------

its only part 1! please dont hate me, ill be working on the rest as soon as i post this.  also im a little bit sorry for torturing riddler like this. 

and im going to make it worse because im terrible >:)

[cowsparsley]

Hello! Fellow creative spoonie here. I've come across your blog, and I'd just like to ask how on earth you manage to draw everyday??? Also what do you do when you have to break your streak? Just cos when I tried to write everyday and ran out of spoons a week in, it totally destroyed me. Can you please... Tell me your secrets?

Oh god I don’t really have any secrets! I got sick when I was fourteen so I’ve had years of things slowly improving... 

As to how I manage to draw everyday, I gotta point out that I dont! In fact im taking a day off tomorrow! I’ve been drawing these comics since April and I’ve only really gotten my act together in lockdown. When I break my streak I try to do 5 or 6 panels a day and slowly catch up that way, or sometimes I hyperfocus and exhaust myself like today because honestly I’m an idiot. Alternatively sometimes I draw short two panel comics - luckily bad days are pretty boring.

I don’t really know what to recommend. I keep a very strict routine and otherwise have quite a shallow life. This is really the only thing I’ve got going on. (Which I wouldnt recommend! Go have a life!!!)

On top of that I’m sure our situations are very different. I don’t work (I’m a filthy scrounger) and we probably have different diagnoses. 

For me, I made myself sicker for years trying to go back to college after I dropped out, pushing myself too hard and making myself sicker. My folks thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I was a traumatised kid that managed to get away from a bad situation. I’ve only started to be able to manage my symptoms now that my brain isn’t drenched in stress hormones.

Routine is important to me, starting with the basics of sleeping and eating on time (which im pretty new to) and just generally taking care of yourself.

 Poor mental health and well being, even if youre not experiencing anything dramatic, can get in the way of managing symptoms. Unlearning ableism was a big thing for me and learning to be kind to my body. I recommend seeing a therapist if you have access to that.

Also gut health’s really important!!!!! I need to stop proselytising so I won’t go on but it genuinely helped me. And so did acupuncture!. (I heard people w/ my disease talk about acupuncture for ages and rolled my eyes but it turns out they were all on to something) 

Also honestly I’ve become addicted to each like and reblog... I’m not sure I’d still have the motivation if it wasn’t for all these people who like what I have to say. Im rly surprised that anyone likes my comics and am very excited for this to all go to my head lmao.

Also why do you want to write every day anyway? Just write when you feel up to it! You can’t measure yourself by the standards of abled people! Maybe try every other day or every week or whatever youre able to manage! Making art should be fun! I think if you exhaust yourself you’ll just become demotivated.

Also im really sry for rambling...... Like this was probably not the answer you were looking for but i dont have any secret wisdom sadly

[maniacalmachinist]

From the Ice and Ash (pt 1)

(First try at a story for a D&D character I’m developing, constructive criticism is welcome)

Short Story By

"Maniacal Machinist”

PROLOGUE:

“Born of Silver” . . . that is what they called us, enslaved by the humanoid races of Thalengar.  A nation which only knew hate and divided it's denizens, favoring the humans of all things.  It's been several centuries since the dragon's war ravaged the land, many paying the price in blood and scale, and for every dragon that fell, their remains empowered the armies of the humans.  Swords that pierced scale and burned muscle and bone, not even the red dragons would face such a weapon.  But we of the silver kin were a prize of rare fare among the humans . . . they knew we tend to abide by laws, and knew we'd not raise a claw against them.

I looked over at my mate, she had just lain a new clutch of 3 eggs. We had given our master a false premise, stating that with all the strain she's been under, only 2 would be viable . . . I remember getting thrashed by that miserable excuse, but I had no choice . . . we had a opportunity to save one of our number from this fate of servitude.  My mate caressed her eggs with a tired look, then turned her eyes to me, “Which one shall we send, my dearest?”  I could tell she was fighting back the pain of losing more to the slave trade, but we knew freedom for at least one was the best we could hope for.  I looked over the clutch, of them, one had a more faint aura of strength than the others.  I ran my claw over it, as if to say good bye to my own child.  She wrapped her arms around it, breathing her cold breath over it, then handed it to me and I did the same.  “I must go now . . . it's freedom awaits . . .”

“Do we give it a name?”

I shake my head, trying to fight my pain, “No . . . it is the tradition of those present to name the sired.  I have written the name of our line, but the rest will be up to the monks.”  I look around, awaiting a break in the patrols of the estate, my mate brushing her claws against the shell.  “Fair winds to you . . . our lost one.  May you know the life we could never have granted you.” Her words in draconic were somber and melodic, and I nodded back before taking cover in the night, “If I do not return, know that at least two of us died free this night.”

Thalengar : Keepers of Yaruspire (15 years later)

“Are you fucking kidding, Jamax . . . you do that, you're just dead . . . fucking dead!” Chamelia chuffed, agitated with the silver's general attitude in the main hall.

“What, you expect me to remain cooped up in here like some animal?”  He twirled his sword about, though in the clear of the hall itself, it was considered rude to practice weapons in areas not dedicated for training exercises.  “You guys haven't given me much to do beyond reading the same crap day in and day out . . . now how many different ways do you want me to memorize that same fucking script?”

Chamelia shook her head, a well aged Bronzekin, she harbored experience and despair behind her eyes, but it was her who helped deliver this upstart to the mountain temple.  “I should have left your parentless egg in the wilds . . . perhaps some scroungers would have done well with scrambled eggs that morning.”

Jamax lost concentration a moment, dropping the sword and nearly clipping a claw prematurely.  It was a rather devious insult to say the least, but he knew not to press it further with the aged warrior.  “Ok ok, fine . . . but still, I need something more to do than just . . . well, THIS” he waved his arm about the room, being the only source of noise, most of the monks and scribes knew to ignore the budding teen years of various humanoid species, and Jamax was no exception.”

Chameia chuffed again, though in more a low laughing tone.

Jamax growled, “Fuck you, what's so funny, hagscale?!”

He never saw her sudden movement, charging him, pinning his scaled hide to the floor, “Luckily for you I was reminiscing how I acted the same you are now, and how many other Liberated I had to help raise, just as you.  Don't think you're so special that you'll get treatment better than the others.  Everything we do here has a reason and method . . . you're not meant to understand it at this age, but you will thank us later.”  She shook her head, composing herself, running her claws over her head frills, her hazel eyes glaring at him, “Fucking hagscale?  Really, you think I haven't been called worse?  Seriously . . . ?”  She dragged him back up to his feet, but keeping him kneeling before her, “Don't ever doubt that you're here doing what you are doing for your own good.  Until then shut the hell up, and follow me hatchling.”  She smirked, and all Jamax could do was stay there dumbfounded for a moment before following his tutor.

They continued to the archives, Halls of the Past, as some of the more interesting locals called it.  There, in the center of the room, was one of the head monks of this section, Master Fengdral.  Where Chamelia was of the Bronzekin, Fendral was human, though with a skin tone of similar color, and hair, as the warm bloods called it, of almost pure black, with a few strands of silvery white coming through.  Fengdral opened his eyes hearing the newcomers, “Jamax, you would be wise to at least give Chamelia the benefit of the doubt from time to time . . . this place has been a haven for dragonkine and their sympathizers for centuries on end, please show some respect due, or at least heed some of the teachings of your ancestors.

Jamax sighed, trying to get his manners together, “I understand Master, but I feel trapped here . . . “  he chuffed in agitation, then was elbowed by Chamelia in short order thereafter, “But what is it you are wanting me to see?  I know you told me my sires are dead, but what is that supposed to mean now?”

Fengdral shifted, “Because today, you start your path . . . once you are outside the walls of this monastery, you are no longer in our protection.  There are creatures and people beyond who would sooner kill or enslave you as look at you . . . you show some skill, but like any youngster, you lack discipline and balance.  So, today you will commence in your Path of Visions . . . “  He gestured for the two of them to follow, Chamelia seeming a bit more light humored than usual.

Jamax raised a brow, flicking his tongue on instinct to detect anything afoul, “I was never told this . . . what the fu-” Chamelia popped the side of his neck, “Manners, hatchling.” she whispered in low Draconic.  Fengdral lightly chuckled hearing the two.  Passing a number of scribes, the arrived at the doorway to another room.  The Master opened the door, leading them in . . . and Jamax's eyes widened . . . therein, he saw shelves and glass displays of the remains of eggs . . . all draconic, or perhaps reptilian, to one degree or another.  The colors and textures of the shells and fragments were meticulous, as if they were frozen in time from when the occupant hatched.  “Each shell is a story, every crack a struggle, every cry a triumph, and every tear shed out of pain or joy.  The story we told you is but one we inferred, but your shell will tell you your story . . . how you proceed thereafter is your choice.”

Jamax looked nervous for the first time since he could remember . . . much was a blur of events, successes, and failures.  “Am I even ready for this?”

Fengdral, “You dont' have to do this now, young one . . . this is more to show you what's available.  Not all of the Dragonkine, or Lizardkine, come here because they have already decided their paths . . . some even come back for the sake of clarity in their past, as if some mistake is about to repeat in their lives.  WE give you the same offer . . . if you think some key to who you are lies within the vision, we will prepare when you are ready

Jamax looks at Chamelia, “Yes, I did this, though it was only a while back . . . that one day I coudln't come hunting with you, remember?” And he nodded with that.

“Did that make a difference in your situation?”

Chamelia shrugged, “It made clear a few things I had overlooked to be sure . . . but the rest was purely for personal reasons.”  She rubbed her arm, looking to the side as if remembering something . . .

Fengdral coughed, “In any case, your decision will be required, either way . . . now I will tell you, that we tend to put more focus on training once the Vision is completed . . . otherwise, you must wait another 5 years before we'll test you for your role in the Monastery.”

Chamelia chirped in, “We can always use more cooks and guards.”  Fengdral gave her a father's stern look, but she merely smiled like a spoiled daughter at him in return, the Master's face almost melting into a smile.

Fengdral cleared his throat, “But I digress . . . continue your duties for the day and sleep on it.  Tomorrow, you'll decide your path.” And with that, he escorted them out, Jamax left wondering what sort of story his shell would show him.  His duties were on less than par the rest of the day, his mind filled with questions and fear . . .

TO BE CONTINUED . . .