#It would also be interesting that to have shape must have a skeleton. As any construction with cement. Found this and clean it

[honehonn3honey]

A protection that becomes more creepy

Azul in my heart. You can see the original art here and read the monster list here @lustlovehart

[Alt under the cut]

My first concept, since my style could not simulate the texture of slime in its purest state

It is quite thick so water can not enter or wet. Only small puddles where you can accumulate

It is a monster and that, magic, but I can imagine that it can only reach a height by the pressure, it can come out expelled sometimes

[teaandchoux]

Not sure if this fandom still exists, but I found an old notebook from grade 5 that has the translations for these symbols in Artemis Fowl books. I originally thought they were for decorative purposes but it turned out that they weren't, so younger me had a ball decoding these.

For those interested, here are all the ones I've done:

Artemis Fowl and the Arctic Incident

One of the strangest creatures on the Earth, or more accurately below it, is the common stinkworm. Stinkworms can only survive below the Earth's crust and so have never been seen by humans. The stinkworm can grow to a length of fifteen centimetres and a diameter of up to eight centimetres. The bigger a stinkworm is, the more meat there is in its soft boned skeleton and the more valuable it is to a merchant. Stinkworms are big business in the fairy world and have been for thousands of years. They are very versatile creatures and can be boiled, fried, baked, or even eaten raw though this sushi approach can be difficult to swallow as the stink associated with the worms does not disappear until they are cooked. The current favourite way to eat the stinkworm is in a dish similar to bolognese substituting stinkworms spaghetti. Deep fried on a skewer is popular among the younger generation. What makes the stinkworm so delicious is its juices. When the worm is heated in a pan or oven it bastes itself in a delicious spicy juice which even the best chefs have failed to reproduce. This juice is in fact earwax from the hundreds of ears that cover each worm's body. Some more sensitive fairies cannot forget that they are eating earwax and do not enjoy eating stinkworms, but most are entranced by the flavour that they are quite prepared to ignore where it comes from. Goblins in particular love stink worms and are constantly inventing new ways to consume them. The rarest and most prized stinkworm dish is a stir-fried bowl of stinkworm ears. The ears are shaved from the worm's body, rolled in flour and then lightly fried. This dish takes hours to prepare and costs a fortune. Goblins believe that if you eat a bowl of worm ears then you absorb the worm's memories of the places they have visited. This is not an appealing thought when you consider that a stinkworm's favourite environment is fresh troll dung.

---

Artemis Fowl and the Eternity Code

One of the fairy people's most popular pastimes is a card game called Bottoms Up. This game is almost the direct opposite of the human card game Poker. In Bottoms Up, the objective is to end up with the least valuable hand possible. There are four suits: Acorns, Toads, a weird shape known as Splats which is thought to be based on the shape of a stinkworm would make if it were stepped on by a troll, and of course, Bottoms, which gives the game its name. Historians tell us that the curved 'w' shapes which represent Bottoms are actually supposed to represent ocean waves but gamblers prefer to call them Bottoms and now the name has stuck. If a player realises that he is in danger of assembling a good hand, which is bad, he must trick his opponent into taking his valuable cards. The most valuable cards are a golden Acorn, a king Toad, an eight-pointed Splat, and a mega Bottom. There is also a hologrammed wild card which can be anything the holding player wishes it to be. If you are tricked into taking a wild card then you must get rid of it in the next two rounds or it freezes at its current value. When playing Bottoms Up, it is very important to hide any behaviour which might betray nervousness or glee. These behaviours are called 'tells'. An elf's 'tell' is to toy with his pointy ears, sprits sometimes flap their wings causing a downdraught which is never a good idea in a card game, gnomes eat anything they can reach including insects and pieces of furniture, and dwarves lose control of their internal gases. Once these gases build up past a certain point, it becomes almost impossible to hold them up. So if you see a dwarf with a red face, it is a good bet that he has a very bad card, which is good.

---

Artemis Fowl and the Opal Deception

There has never been a regulated scientific study of a dwarf's special abilities; what we know about them is based on folklore and hearsay. The most famous of these abilities is the dwarf tunnelling method by which they eat dirt and air before expelling them out the other end. Though the actual force of this expulsive have never been measured, several witnesses have reported windows breaking more than twenty metres away. It is said that a master recycler than finetune his gas emissions so that instead of a widespread blast of flatulence, he shoots out a concentrated column of wind. Legend has it that one such master recycler, a certain Blurt Diggums, was so accurate with these columns that he could turn on a light switch from the other side of the room. Dwarfs themselves use casual terms to refer to strength of their gas emissions. A shirt-flapper is a gentle emission that would barely inflate a child's balloon, a pants-ripper is a sturdier blast and would certainly blow a hole in even the sturdiest material, a nought-to-sixty is a sight whopper and could accelerate whoever dropped it to dangerous speeds, a strap-yourself-down is about as strong as it gets and could help a dwarf achieve flight, and finally, the legendary dark-side. If released in a mountaintop it could put a dwarf into orbit. there is no evidence that a dark-side is anything more than a myth. All the same if you see a dwarf on a mountain with a red face, take cover. You can't be too careful around dwarf wind.

---

Artemis Fowl and the Lost Colony

The demon scrolls tell of a warlock that will come to save our people but I couldn't rely too much on the scrolls. They also say that rabbits are supreme beings and that the best cure for a sore throat is a poultice of dung and old socks. Hence trust the scrolls at your peril. There are however a few basic tips for survival in a demon tribe that might be helpful if you were a human and had never actually met a demon before, which is unlikely to say the least. If you were a human, you wouldn't be able to read this in the first place. So, demon survival tips. First, never stab a demon with his own sword. This is the ultimate insult and will result in a vendetta that could go on for generations. It is fine to stab a demon with your sword, he will congratulate you for managing that but only poor warlocks lose their swords and then get stabbed with them. If the opportunity arises, give it a miss. Demons have a pretty comprehensive system of sign language ... (I couldn't find the rest unfortunately)

---

Artemis Fowl and the Time Paradox

From the collective correspondence of Opal Koboi, a series of letter between Koboi inmate number [cannot be identified], Atlantis maximum penitentiary, and Wing Commander, Vinyaya, Haven Council.

Koboi: "My dear Wing Commander, while I realise that my first probation hearing is not due for four hundred years, I feel that it would be in the people's best interests to release me before then. After all, the humans are becoming more sophisticated daily and a genius such as myself will be needed to ensure that fairy technology remains superior to human technology."

Vinyaya: "Dream on, Koboi."

Koboi: "I am sensing negative vibrations from you, Wing Commander. Do not be so quick to judge, people can change, surely you can accept that. I admit that once, I found the idea of being the planet's supreme power an attractive one, but who hasn't secretly nurtured the dream of wiping out humanity and utterly dominating one's own peers? I see now that this dream might be unacceptable to some narrow-minded fairies and I am prepared to swear on my pixie honour that should I be released I would not attempt to take over the world again."

Vinyaya: "On your pixie honour. Wow, I'll send the transfer shuttle right over."

Koboi: "I see now, Wing Commander, that you never had any intention of sending the transfer shuttle right over. In fact, you were being sarcastic. Mocking me from the safety of police plaza before i realised that the shuttle was not coming for me. I packed by belongings so that I could be ready, including my collection of model seahorses which I fashioned form chewed cardboard. My favourite seahorses, Twinky and Goodboy, were broken in the process. Twinky cries every night over her severed tail and Goodboy does not look so dashing without his head. Your callousness leaves me no alternative but to place you in my revenge list. When I am finally free of this horrible place and elevated to my rightful position as Queen of the world, you will take my place in this cell and I will send you troll minions to issue daily beatings with batons fashioned from seahorse tails. A fitting punishment, I am sure you agree."

Vinyaya: "See you in four hundred years."

[ranticore]

20, 21, 33, and 34 for qedivar!!

My lil birdman....

20: Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?

He likes Amivar his frenemy roommate who is also writing a thesis at the Spire, tho Amivar is doing historical anthropology. They tend to get along well, they can work in close proximity without wanting to murder each other (...that often), and sometimes they're fwbs. The only problem is that Qedivar absolutely loathes Amivar's theory of evolution, he thinks it's poorly founded and a whole bunch of nonsense, especially as there don't seem to be any mammals on Siren other than the people living there, so there's no evidence of close relatives, ancestors, etc. aside from the odd unaltered human skeleton in the fossil record. But no transitional forms! Amivar's reconstruction of an unaltered human places feathers on the arms, where they should be, but the wrist shape is all wrong. Qedivar isn't convinced. They fight about it a lot.

The reverse is Tekteivar, a scholar studying world languages. Qedi respects Tektei's work a whole lot because Tektei is the one who back-translated modern speech into English, so that all the records from Ishmael's time could be understood properly. But that's where the respect ends. Tekteivar is grating and cold and fighting with him isn't even fun.

21: What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?

In the Spire, the world's only university, the hierarchy of scholars is absolute. If you haven't published your work, or been recognised as an authority in your field, you have absolutely no right to question the knowledge of someone who has. The higher someone is up the chain, the less acceptable it is to question them. Qedivar used to respect this, as obviously you need to acknowledge when someone knows more than you. But since he started his own research into predecessors and Ishmael, and was completely blackballed as a result of his controversial findings, he no longer cares to follow that etiquette. The facts are what must be respected above all else, not the people studying them.

33: How do they greet someone they dislike / hate?

The Spire has a massively high population density and conflict is always held out in the open, to avoid simmering grudges or dysfunctional relationships that might affect dozens of individuals just because everyone's so closely packed together. So if you hate someone, you need to tread a fine line between making it known, so no feelings get bottled up, but not allowing it to dictate how you behave around that person. When working with Tekteivar, Qedivar is as functional as can be - all communication is clear, concise, to the point. They don't like each other but they are colleagues and working to a common goal, which they acknowledge, so they make it work. A greeting would be something like "Hello, today we will discuss [subject]", so that expectations are clearly stated and they don't have to spend more time together than is strictly necessary.

34: How do they greet someone they like / love?

He wouldn't greet them he'd just launch straight into whatever it is he'd want to say, trusting that the other person is familiar enough with him that he can do this without being misconstrued as rude or whatever. He is such a dramatic person that he'd probably start telling a story about how he almost DIED getting over here to meet them, with a multi-stage blow by blow account of the traffic conditions and whether he saw anything interesting along the way. He's very fun to be around but he can be exhausting lmao. Also Spire culture is very.. free and open where intimacy is cocerned so he would probably greet a friend with a hug or kiss [no distinction is made between friend and lover in the Spire]

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

Feyre is sent to a prison island after committing a murder. But she soon discovers that there is something far more sinister there than her fellow prisoners...

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Feyre/Rhysand

Rating: Explicit

Triggers: Murder, Horror

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7 (wip)

AO3 Link

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Chapter Six: Blood Sacrifice

There was something wrong.

He knew there something wrong. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, lingering just out of reach.

He was so tired though. The sun was still up. Surely it could wait until nightfall…

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She heard him long before she saw him.

It was hard not to what with him crashing through the underbrush for the last half hour.

So Feyre sat huddled underneath the skeleton of her long dead monster companion, clutching her knife in a death grip and hoping against hope he wouldn’t notice her.

This worked well right up until it didn’t.

“I can see you in there.”

She tensed up immediately.

“You might as well come out,” the man continued. “I promise not to hurt you.”

Shockingly, Feyre found that quite hard to believe all things considered.

“I think not,” she replied cooly. “You’re more than welcome to be on your way. Otherwise I won’t hesitate to stab you.”

She glared fiercely as the man crouched down into view, just out of reach. He wasn’t really anything to write home about. Middle aged, with the kind of graying hair and nondescript features that probably led to him floating through life mostly unnoticed. He wore the same blue shirt and canvas trousers all the prisoners were given before being shipped off and dumped here, though his were clearly newer and in better shape than hers (how long had she been here now? A week? A month?).

A new prisoner then.

“I’m warning you-”

“I won’t come closer. See?” He held his hands up in a non-threatening manner, as if that truly meant anything to her in a place like this. Feyre wasn’t stupid. She was very likely the only woman on this island. She was both prize and prey to any man stupid and bold enough to venture this far inland.

“I see you’re new here,” she said eyes flicking over his far less bedraggled uniform. “Word of advice. Don’t harass a lady when she tells you she’s not interested.”

“Now what makes you think I’m new here? Perhaps I’ve always been here and we never crossed paths?”

Feyre snorted. “You must think I’m very dumb.”

“Alright, so I’m new,” he agreed smoothly. “Even more reason for us to be friends.”

“I don’t want any friends.”

“Allies then.”

“I don’t want those either.”

“Surely you need some help, pretty thing like you,” the man argued, though Feyre had a hard time believing she looked particularly ‘pretty’ under the layers of grime she’d accumulated in her time here. If anything she likely looked more animal than human these days. “After all, I know you’re the only female prisoner to have been sent to this island for the last 30 years. And the last one was an old woman who I doubt is still alive by now.”

She startled. “…How would you know that?”

“The same way I know there’s something on this island I’d very much like to avoid.” The man smiled blandly. “Ah yes, I see you know what I’m talking about. Good. Then we can help each other.”

“What makes you think I want to help you?”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why we dump criminals on this island?”

“No.” Yes.

“You don’t think it’s strange to ship criminals off to a remote island and dump them there when we have a perfectly good prison system on the mainland?”

She had wondered that, but she also wasn’t about to let him know that so she just glared at the man and tightened the grip on her knife until her knuckles ached.

“You see,” he began, groaning as he shuffled out of his crouch to sit properly on the ground. “Oh yes, that’s better. You see, this island always was strange. People always lived here but it was mostly used as a waypoint for ships crossing the ocean. A refueling station if you will.”

Feyre didn’t bother to point out that she knew all this already, just letting him run his mouth as she eyed the horizon line and the sun slowly sinking towards it.

“But those port towns never lasted long. For a while everyone thought it was just the ravings of a bunch of superstitious locals. But then captains brought back stories of the strange behavior and disappearances of their crew who went ashore. Eventually it became such a hazard that ships stopped docking here, and with them went the local economy. The locals were forced to move inland and the few that stayed…well. No one is quite sure what happened to them. It was quite clear that there was something malicious on this island but no one was ever sure of what. Some locals claimed it was an angry ghost. Others were sure it was a monster prowling the woods…”

The man eyed Feyre’s skeleton home pointedly.

“Whatever it was, the government was quite aware of it. And then, oh just over 100 years ago, a new idea was floated amongst the elite. Why let the island go to waste? There were so many terrible people they would rather be rid of you see. And if there really were something hungry there, why not throw it a bone every now and then? A blood sacrifice, if you will.”

She felt a chill roll down her spine.

A blood sacrifice.

That’s what they were to the government. Meat. Something to keep Rhys fed and occupied.

“How do you even know all this?”

“Because I was one of the ones who put you people here.”

Feyre blanched. “What?! But then…why are you here?”

The man smiled self deprecatingly.

“Isn’t it obvious? I pissed off the wrong people.”

A politician then. A politician who knew too much and who was now being fed into the very meat grinder he had helped perpetuate. Well, she thought wryly, say what you will about them. They clearly have a sense of humor. A sick sense of humor, but a sense of humor nonetheless.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Simple. I want to know what you know. And I want to know how a sweet little thing like you has not only avoided capture but has seemingly survived out here alone. Unmolested by whatever keeps accepting our generous gifts.”

He didn’t know.

For all his regaling of the history of this island and the funneling of criminals onto it to feed some terrifying monster…he didn’t know what the monster was. He didn’t know about Rhys.

He didn’t know.

Feyre glanced back over his shoulder at the darkening sky.

And that was when he made his move.

Before she had any idea what was happening, the man lunged forward, grabbed her wrist and twisting. She cried out but still held onto her knife like her life depended on it.

Because it likely did.

He wasn’t a large man by any stretch of the imagination. But he was bigger than her and that was really all that he would need to overpower her. She gritted her teeth and snarled like an animal as she desperately tried to push him off with one hand while attempting to twist the other free.

“You know!” The man grunted. “You know something! Tell me!”

Feyre didn’t bother replying as she wriggled like an eel underneath him, trying to buck him off of her even though he had her hips pinned.

As the two struggled for control of the knife, the last rays of sunlight sank beneath the horizon.

And then everything went still.

Feyre felt a familiar sense of calm wash over her. Over her, the man who had just been trying to kill her had suddenly frozen in place. He blinked at her. Once. Twice. She couldn’t say when it was she knew it wasn’t him behind those eyes anymore, but she knew nonetheless.

Rhys grimaced at her with stolen lips.

“Are you alright?” He said with the man’s voice, though didn’t bother to wait for her reply before rifling through her head like he belonged there. When he seemed satisfied with what he found, she felt herself regain power over her own body again. She gasped. Her limbs shook with unused adrenaline. Rhys looked concerned until he saw Feyre’s face.

She was furious.

“What the fuck!” She yelled, shoving him off of her. He went easily, rolling back and letting her scramble out of his grasp to glare at him properly.

“That’s not a thank you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Well you got it regardless. Do you truly think I would’ve let him attack you? Hurt you?” The man’s features twisted with rage as he gritted, “Rape you?”

Feyre paled.

It was clear Rhys was not speaking in hypotheticals. He’d read this man’s mind after taking possession of his body. He’d seen exactly what he’d had planned for her. She’d known he likely planned to kill her when he’d gone for the knife, but for some reason rape hadn’t occurred to her. It should have. Lord knew every other man on this fucking island wanted a piece of her. But somehow he’d made her believe he was either too worried about saving his own skin or too distracted by his talk about blood sacrifices to have any interest in rape.

Well…she certainly wouldn’t be making that same mistake twice.

“No, you won’t, because you will not leave my side again.” Rhys chimed in, answering the thoughts in her head in that irritating way of his.

“What side?” She sniped. “You don’t have a side! I don’t know if you’ve noticed this but you’re fucking dead!”

“Oh, but I do.”

“What are you talking-” And then it hit her. “Oh…oh no.”

“Oh yes. We have all night for me to use this body. I might as well make good use of it.” He grabbed a hold of her arm and hauled her forward like she weighed as much as a loaf of bread. “Come along Feyre Darling.”

And then he hauled her in the direction of the shore.

[kx0e]

RAHHHH TYSM FOR ASNWERING MY PREVIOUS QUESTION!

So. I had 3 problems-

1. Constant study but no results

>I make sure I atleast spend 2 hours atleast twice a week doing full body or partial body sketches with references (from lineofaction🔥), and have been since 2021, but going from barely any art ability to now, all i've managed to do is drawing things from the neck up☠️ No matter how many different kinds of faces or perspectives i try its always the 3/4 side view. And i can barely even draw a recognizable jawline😭 (but then on any whiteboard or public art thing its as if the spirit of a medieval master artist possesses me)

2. motivation

>how on this earth do you stay motivated to draw your favorite fandoms😭 theres tons of shows i LOVE or games that I adore, whos characters i literally am obsessed with, but once i pick up a pencil its as if I've never seen them in my entire life💀

3. I know youre not really an oc artist (understandable, if I had the ability to draw genshin and/or persona characters forever, i WOULD.) But if you do have any, is there any specific place you got inspo from? a lot of art advice i see is to turn an object or concept into a character of some sort, but no matter where I look, and how inspiring it is, as previously stated, all traces of muscle memory delete themselves the second i pick up a pencil☠️

Have a nice day, Im really bad at explaining i apologize, and TYSM for hearing me out💖

long reply

1 - maybe doing some theory rather than drawing could help you, if you study the human skeleton and muscle you might understand more how the body works and therefore how it must look in different poses (read MORPHO). Other advice is to trace your references with basic shapes and landmark (just a cube and a cross for the face) and then do your study, you can also do quick studies focusing on only one part of the body but draw it under all angles (the thing is to not rush, if you have trouble drawing the face as a whole, draw all the element separated and add them little by little)

2 - this honestly depends on the person, im someone who loves fandom art but i have zero OCs because im not interested, dont force yourself to draw things you dont want too it usually ends up looking bad anyway !

3 - i do look at objects first when doing character design, but i also like to look at plants or in fashion history books. Most of the time i first do a global search on pinterest to find the general idea and then go to more specific sites depending on what im going for

i think you should take your time and draw only when you're in the mood for it, when you feel motivated pick up a pen and DONT THINK just draw whatever

remember art takes time, patience and a lot of practice, dont force yourself and draw for yourself first ^^

[bagellu]

had a burst of inspiration and have been writing this for the last half a day, so have a little read of something stupid.

(The voice in bold, i’d like you to imagine it sounds like Johnny Chiodini of Oxventure doing the skeleton voice and if you don’t know, please look it up on youtube or something bc it’s a great voice)

Many ages ago, in a time almost unthinkable to the modern man, archaeologists aside, magic worked a little differently. This was not to say that it was primitive or vulgar by the standards set by scholars, but things were understood in a manner less academic. It was just known, rather than being written down somewhere.

Of course, it had many a purpose in that time as it does now. Salves and slaying, along with any interest between.

As most societies eventually figure out, a rule of law is devised to deter would-be wizards from practicing arts that people view like curses. Necromancy was almost always viewed with disdain, outside of a few niche moments when having hoards of undead soldiers ready to die once more for their descendant’s homes.

Use of magic to cause malevolent harm was also frowned upon, dire need aside.

But there was one kind that people always projected more harshly onto than any other. Seelemancy, at least how it was known in these parts, went against gods and common sense alike. To touch the soul of another was an unthinkable act; sacred even to those who spurned religious practices. Manipulation and use of another soul was grounds for expulsion from all civilised society, and there was plenty of that to go around. It would make you an outcast among outcasts.

When the practice was developed it rarely bled further than master and apprentice, learnt in secret in the dead of night. That makes for a difficult relationship, as the student is more often than not eager to acquire power, and the master must temper such ambition.

The result, as I am in no doubt you could infer, is the soul of the master trapped inside some bauble to serve as a reminder of how powerful the student has now become.

There are some that broke from this magistricidal tradition, forging a path of discovery that charted untested waters in the field. Syphoning became a subtle tactic to forge the energies into something substantial, taking bit by bit from unsuspecting masses made up for the lack of individual subjects. For a time, this fuelled the intrigue of those who sought more answers.

An even smaller minority, mastering the craft to an unheard of peak, began to caress the very boundaries that held their own souls in their mortal forms. This did not come without accidents. Some were found as puddles of gore in their own laboratories, others as husks resembling deflated bladders.

Knowledge always came with the risk of an immediate and messy death.

Those that succeeded began to experiment with how their souls could be manipulated further, often with one goal in mind.

Immortality.

Some viewed it as an unachievable ideal; theory rather than practical magic. They relented and focused their talents on shaping themselves as they saw fit, gaining aspects that extended their lives without trying, but not indefinitely.

One mage became obsessed with it. He was convinced that it was indeed possible, as surely the souls that drifted off into the afterlife remained as permanent fixtures in the cosmos? With many years of practice, he could shape his soul to whatever was required, but he knew it would not be enough to complete his work.

With the knowledge of another fallen seelemancer, he sought to succeed where they had failed, leaving behind an assortment of chunks.

It was clear that inanimate objects could house the soul, or part of it, given enough space with which to store something that powerful. He heard word of another mage trying something similar some years before him, using gemstones to store the souls stolen from unsuspecting victims and then used at a later date. It was then a measure of finding the best solvent to contain them.

Many years of experimentation followed. Diamonds, despite their allure and price, were a poor container. Too clear as he reasoned, easy for the souls to slip out. Opal was tried and it worked for a time, but the fragility of the stone made it difficult to hold more than minute amounts of a soul, let alone a mortal one in its entirety.

Eventually, and with the unwilling help of many, he settled on an unrefined gem known as Terabite. It was robust but conducted the flow of souls very well. Not to mention, it appeared to have a remarkably large interior, capable of storing multiple souls within stones as small as a fingernail.

He was elated at this discovery. No doubt revealed itself that he was truly the pinnacle of all mages in his time.

He commissioned a band to be worn around the neck, a strap rather than amulet, with the raw crystal adorned upon it. The work could now begin to ease the boundaries of his soul to accommodate the stone and find a way to perpetuate his own life indefinitely.

At first it was like dipping a toe into unknown waters. It was warm, despite his hesitation, but could feel the pull from the stone. It was not unlike that sensation of pulling souls from others, the stream of energy that slipped into his control. With ample effort, he found he could slowly increase the expansion of his own boundary, and he hoped the continued growth would fuel him for many years.

When he stretched the barrier between, widening the opening, a fly chose that precise moment to zip around his head in search of something to do. Once, twice and then thrice it flew close to his ear. He remained as composed as possible, knowing that the spell required his utmost attention.

Then the insect perched itself on his nose.

He reactively waved a hand to budge it from his face and too late realised his mind had irreversibly wandered. The fine control he had evaporated, magic abound in the second that he removed his focus from casting the spell without direction. His soul felt as though forced through a straw; much more malleable than it should ever be and reshaped into a new container.

The trouble came when he attempted to move his arms, but quickly realised that he no longer possessed a corporal form. At least, one that was not a necklace.

Years worth of curses were spewed into the nothingness, unheard by any that would care. A single damnable fly had scuppered decades of finely tuned research.

He had no senses other than the tempest within himself, swirling inside a gem that sat neatly on the leather. No doubt his soul would sustain it, but finding something to possess would now be the most logical step forward.

And so he waited and decided to commit this tale to memory.

Many ages ago, in a time almost unthinkable to the modern man…

***

Mohore brushed her teeth without enthusiasm. The monologue had woken her some hours earlier, as it so often did, and she essentially ignored it as best she could.

Brushing her dark hair behind pointed ears, she gazed at her face in the mirror. The bags beneath her eyes were dark and heavy as usual, but no other concerning marks grabbed her attention.

The necklace, a leather strap that sat firmly against her neck, remained as it always did. It was such a pretty gem, which was part of the reason she had chosen to wear it in the first place. Oh to be so unbothered once again.

She perched herself onto her armchair. There was the scroller for this morning, but it did not feel the right moment for the news. Perhaps she would continue with the book she had been reading before going to bed. It was a novel with considerable attention to romance, which helped keep the noise inside her head to a minimum.

We reading this again?

“We’re continuing with it,” Mohore answered.

You sure it not too dull?

She shushed the protest. “You love it. Penelope is so secretive and witty, how could you resist?”

The voice remained silent for a moment in thought. Okay. But we not going too fast. Take time with it.

“Of course.”

For a while she sat, slowly reading the words on the pages. It was not her favourite genre, but it sufficed for the little routine she had devised.

At Penelope’s smart remarks a throaty chuckle echoed in Mohore’s head.

It was an hour or so before she was disturbed from this relaxation.

Fly.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring it for the moment. About to turn the page, she was halted by the word once again.

Fly.

“We’re reading, remember?”

Hmm. No, I missed words. Sort fly.

“Can’t we just pretend it’s not there?” Mohore pleaded.

Fly.

She groaned expertly and placed the book back on the side table. “Where is it?”

Kitchen.

Rising from the chair, she went quickly to the kitchen and pulled one of the many swatters from a hook. She held her breath for a moment, trying to hear the damnable thing.

There. Ceiling.

Mohore craned her neck and looked up to find a single bee, trotting around one of the many flowers painted onto the ceiling.

“That’s not a fly,” she explained. “It’s got stripes and is too big.”

Fly.

“No.”

Kill.

She set down the swatter on the counter and reached for a cup from the cupboard. “We’re going to help it out the window, not kill it.”

The voice grumbled once more. Why not just squish? Done quicker.

“Because it’s not a fly.”

I heard fly.

“Maybe you were wrong?” She scooped the bee carefully, using a nearby coaster to trap it before releasing it through the open window. “There, see? Easy and less mess.”

As she turned and intended to return to the comfort of the armchair, a black dot buzzed past her face and made for the pantry.

See, fly.

Mohore grumbled in her own, guttural manner. She grasped the swatter once more and swung at the fly.

As though it had predicted the attack, the fly hovered to the left and continued on its way, unscathed and unbothered by the attempt on its life.

Fly.

The swatter whipped the air once more, but failed to find the minuscule mark.

Fly.

Consecutive slaps echoed around the room, wooden cabinets like firm drums in a percussive melody. None struck the target.

Fly.

Mohore steadied herself and eased her breathing, letting the bug settle on a handle.

Fly.

“I can see it!” she exclaimed. “You try hitting it for once!”

She could feel the bulge of magical energy attempt to move her, but to no avail.

Fly.

“Gods above.” With a swift flick of her wrist, Mohore caught the enemy off guard and confirmed it was no longer a living problem to the voice. “What do we say?”

No response came.

“What do we say?” She rolled her eyes again. It was like trying to teach a toddler manners at times.

Thank.

That will do.

[sajirah]

The Prison Chapter Six

Blood Sacrifice

-o0o-

One again, you can read this here or on AO3. Enjoy.

-o0o-

There was something wrong. 

He knew there something wrong. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, lingering just out of reach. 

He was so tired though. The sun was still up. Surely it could wait until nightfall…

-o0o-

She heard him long before she saw him. 

It was hard not to what with him crashing through the underbrush for the last half hour. 

So Feyre sat huddled underneath the skeleton of her long dead monster companion, clutching her knife in a death grip and hoping against hope he wouldn’t notice her. 

This worked well right up until it didn’t. 

“I can see you in there.”

She tensed up immediately. 

“You might as well come out,” the man continued. “I promise not to hurt you.”

Shockingly, Feyre found that quite hard to believe all things considered. 

“I think not,” she replied cooly. “You’re more than welcome to be on your way. Otherwise I won’t hesitate to stab you.”

She glared fiercely as the man crouched down into view, just out of reach. He wasn’t really anything to write home about. Middle aged, with the kind of graying hair and nondescript features that probably led to him floating through life mostly unnoticed. He wore the same blue shirt and canvas trousers all the prisoners were given before being shipped off and dumped here, though his were clearly newer and in better shape than hers (how long had she been here now? A week? A month?). 

A new prisoner then. 

“I’m warning you-”

“I won’t come closer. See?” He held his hands up in a non-threatening manner, as if that truly meant anything to her in a place like this. Feyre wasn’t stupid. She was very likely the only woman on this island. She was both prize and prey to any man stupid and bold enough to venture this far inland. 

“I see you’re new here,” she said eyes flicking over his far less bedraggled uniform. “Word of advice. Don’t harass a lady when she tells you she’s not interested.”

“Now what makes you think I’m new here? Perhaps I’ve always been here and we never crossed paths?”

Feyre snorted. “You must think I’m very dumb.”

“Alright, so I’m new,” he agreed smoothly. “Even more reason for us to be friends.”

“I don’t want any friends.”

“Allies then.”

“I don’t want those either.”

“Surely you need some help, pretty thing like you,” the man argued, though Feyre had a hard time believing she looked particularly ‘pretty’ under the layers of grime she’d accumulated in her time here. If anything she likely looked more animal than human these days. “After all, I know you’re the only female prisoner to have been sent to this island for the last 30 years. And the last one was an old woman who I doubt is still alive by now.”

She startled. “…How would you know that?”

“The same way I know there’s something on this island I’d very much like to avoid.” The man smiled blandly. “Ah yes, I see you know what I’m talking about. Good. Then we can help each other.”

“What makes you think I want to help you?”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why we dump criminals on this island?” 

“No.” Yes. 

“You don’t think it’s strange to ship criminals off to a remote island and dump them there when we have a perfectly good prison system on the mainland?”

She had wondered that, but she also wasn’t about to let him know that so she just glared at the man and tightened the grip on her knife until her knuckles ached. 

“You see,” he began, groaning as he shuffled out of his crouch to sit properly on the ground. “Oh yes, that’s better. You see, this island always was strange. People always lived here but it was mostly used as a waypoint for ships crossing the ocean. A refueling station if you will.”

Feyre didn’t bother to point out that she knew all this already, just letting him run his mouth as she eyed the horizon line and the sun slowly sinking towards it. 

“But those port towns never lasted long. For a while everyone thought it was just the ravings of a bunch of superstitious locals. But then captains brought back stories of the strange behavior and disappearances of their crew who went ashore. Eventually it became such a hazard that ships stopped docking here, and with them went the local economy. The locals were forced to move inland and the few that stayed…well. No one is quite sure what happened to them. It was quite clear that there was something malicious on this island but no one was ever sure of what. Some locals claimed it was an angry ghost. Others were sure it was a monster prowling the woods…”

The man eyed Feyre’s skeleton home pointedly. 

“Whatever it was, the government was quite aware of it. And then, oh just over 100 years ago, a new idea was floated amongst the elite. Why let the island go to waste? There were so many terrible people they would rather be rid of you see. And if there really were something hungry there, why not throw it a bone every now and then? A blood sacrifice, if you will.”

She felt a chill roll down her spine. 

A blood sacrifice. 

That’s what they were to the government. Meat. Something to keep Rhys fed and occupied. 

“How do you even know all this?”

“Because I was one of the ones who put you people here.”

Feyre blanched. “What?! But then…why are you here?”

The man smiled self deprecatingly. 

“Isn’t it obvious? I pissed off the wrong people.”

A politician then. A politician who knew too much and who was now being fed into the very meat grinder he had helped perpetuate. Well, she thought wryly, say what you will about them. They clearly have a sense of humor. A sick sense of humor, but a sense of humor nonetheless. 

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Simple. I want to know what you know. And I want to know how a sweet little thing like you has not only avoided capture but has seemingly survived out here alone. Unmolested by whatever keeps accepting our generous gifts.”

He didn’t know. 

For all his regaling of the history of this island and the funneling of criminals onto it to feed some terrifying monster…he didn’t know what the monster was. He didn’t know about Rhys. 

He didn’t know. 

Feyre glanced back over his shoulder at the darkening sky. 

And that was when he made his move. 

Before she had any idea what was happening, the man lunged forward, grabbed her wrist and twisting. She cried out but still held onto her knife like her life depended on it. 

Because it likely did. 

He wasn’t a large man by any stretch of the imagination. But he was bigger than her and that was really all that he would need to overpower her. She gritted her teeth and snarled like an animal as she desperately tried to push him off with one hand while attempting to twist the other free. 

“You know!” The man grunted. “You know something! Tell me!”

Feyre didn’t bother replying as she wriggled like an eel underneath him, trying to buck him off of her even though he had her hips pinned. 

As the two struggled for control of the knife, the last rays of sunlight sank beneath the horizon. 

And then everything went still. 

Feyre felt a familiar sense of calm wash over her. Over her, the man who had just been trying to kill her had suddenly frozen in place. He blinked at her. Once. Twice. She couldn’t say when it was she knew it wasn’t him behind those eyes anymore, but she knew nonetheless. 

Rhys grimaced at her with stolen lips. 

“Are you alright?” He said with the man’s voice, though didn’t bother to wait for her reply before rifling through her head like he belonged there. When he seemed satisfied with what he found, she felt herself regain power over her own body again. She gasped. Her limbs shook with unused adrenaline. Rhys looked concerned until he saw Feyre’s face. 

She was furious. 

“What the fuck!” She yelled, shoving him off of her. He went easily, rolling back and letting her scramble out of his grasp to glare at him properly. 

“That’s not a thank you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Well you got it regardless. Do you truly think I would’ve let him attack you? Hurt you?” The man’s features twisted with rage as he gritted, “Rape you?”

Feyre paled. 

It was clear Rhys was not speaking in hypotheticals. He’d read this man’s mind after taking possession of his body. He’d seen exactly what he’d had planned for her. She’d known he likely planned to kill her when he’d gone for the knife, but for some reason rape hadn’t occurred to her. It should have. Lord knew every other man on this fucking island wanted a piece of her. But somehow he’d made her believe he was either too worried about saving his own skin or too distracted by his talk about blood sacrifices to have any interest in rape. 

Well…she certainly wouldn’t be making that same mistake twice. 

“No, you won’t, because you will not leave my side again.” Rhys chimed in, answering the thoughts in her head in that irritating way of his. 

“What side?” She sniped. “You don’t have a side! I don’t know if you’ve noticed this but you’re fucking dead!”

“Oh, but I do.”

“What are you talking-” And then it hit her. “Oh…oh no.”

“Oh yes. We have all night for me to use this body. I might as well make good use of it.” He grabbed a hold of her arm and hauled her forward like she weighed as much as a loaf of bread. “Come along Feyre Darling.”

And then he hauled her in the direction of the shore. 

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Tiny Yellow Sawfly - Monostegia abdominalis

It's a surprise to see this colorful insect in the yard again! The primary reason being that the primary food source of this insect's larvae has been completely removed from the backyard, that being the purple loosestrife plants. Over many years, the loosestrifes we've have been healthy until summer arrived and the larvae of this Tiny Yellow Sawfly appeared in droves to hungrily munch on the leaves. Try and we may to remove them, the larvae were too voracious and there were always a few left to fully consume any leaves they could! As skeletonizers, they feed on the greens (or purples) of the leaves, leaving only the veins. While the larvae are content to feed, the plant's health deteriorates tremendously without the ability to photosynthesize efficiently. As such, the loosestrife plants in the backyard faltered and died, while the Sawfly larvae that remained active went on the pupate, blissfully unaware that their food source would be no more. This isn't a problem, however, for the adults that would emerge later in the spring as the adults primarily feed on nectar and pollen from flowers and can navigate to new areas using their newly developed wings.

I'm making the situation far more dramatic than it needs to be, but this event does provide an important lesson on watching over your plants, pest control and not consuming something to the point where there won't be any left for future generations. The latter is something that the emergent adult Sawflies will have to contend with as they now have to search in a new area for a suitable host plant for their eggs. If they can find one, the saw-shaped ovipositor will go right to work and place the eggs securely within loosestrife plants and primroses. This is why it is a surprise to see this specie in the yard. The primary food source is gone, but they must a new host plant in order to ready the new generation for the summer. I really do find Sawflies quite fascinating, but I wish they weren't so destructive in their feeding habits (and there are some species that can clog up a plant using webbing, shed skin, and frass collection), even if they have to feed to support their growing larval bodies. The plants may have also fared a bit better had a predatory insect or a bird taken an interest in eating them, but a waxy coating makes them unpalatable. Best of luck to all the Sawflies out there searching for a suitable host plant, and to all you gardeners out there, please stay vigilant. Remember, they many resemble Caterpillars when they are young, but there are in reality Hymenopterans, so Caterpillar-be-gone will have little to no effect on removing them.

Pictures were taken on July 5, 2023 with a Google Pixel 4.

[illuveterian-archives]

The Last Illuveterian - Part 1

Content Warnings: gore descriptions, death, blood, harm of children, food descriptions.

First Person POV: Raymond

I must begin my story by stating that I am the last of my kind. And because of that, as well as other reasons I will get into shortly, I cannot die. It is a fate I would never even begin to wish upon another being, as it is endless torture on one’s body and mind.

My species carries the name Illuveteris adopted from the Latin phrase “illi veteris lucis” or “those of old light” used to describe us by the humans of old. Though our species existed much before the evolution of Homo sapiens, I don’t know why a name had not been chosen or whether or not a name had even existed before that point; I could never find a reason in any of the texts I read over. Now, before I delve into how I became the last of my kind, and what led me to kill hundreds, if not thousands of humans, I should tell you a little bit about my species so that later occurrences make sense. It will seem like a whole lot of nothing, but it feels important to get out of the way so no inconsistencies occur. However, feel free to skip to the story.

As far as physical descriptions go: think of a glass frog when imagining this, being see-through and all. I do not look like a frog, nor am I shaped like one, it’s just an easy visualizer to begin. We actually look quite similar to humans in terms of shape and proportion. As far as we can tell, our most basic structure of a skeleton is either near or outright identical, however there are plenty of key differences. The most noticeable being the fact that the Illuveteris do not have any organs internal or external, in any sense. The food we eat is instantaneously completely transformed into energy. So, there is no waste needing to leave. And our young come from growing them through magic, sort of similarly to budding, between partners. We also lack the presence of “skin” as it’s known in others. We do have a flesh that encases our bones and lack of organs but the colors range and it’s entirely transparent. The different colors signify different personality traits. My color is important to the story so I will elaborate on those.

The color of one's body tells how they will act throughout the majority of their life. It doesn't mean that someone will always “act their color”, but it summarizes their entire future. There was often a pressure in my society to fully live up to your color, or to fully act the opposite, depending. Red means “honest”, often to the point of detriment. Orange is “gentle natured and calm”, in almost any and every situation. Those with orange bodies are often raised and trained to be decision makers. Yellow means “optimistic” and often end up as entertainers or the creative crowd. Green means “cold natured, un caring, emotionless”. Many were pushed to act as if they were any color but green. Purple means “loyal”. Those who were purple often stood up for those closest to them, sometimes putting themselves in harm's way. Blue means “Big hearted”. They often became knowers of medicine or therapists.

My color is, unfortunately, mostly blue.

Having a lack of organs, or “vital” body structures did not mean that we were impervious to harm. Our bodies are made of a physical condensed magic. We could very much still die. And many of us have. Back before the “incident” by several decades there was a small war waged between us and some other magical species, leaving our population to only about 160 members. I will stop the descriptions here. I have a couple candid photos of myself I took fairly recently, originally intended to document my scarring as I gain more and vitiligo as it spreads; however, they can act as a visual for how most Illuveteri looked, should anyone actually be interested.

How do I know that I’m now immortal? Well, several reasons, actually. Firstly, because of the things I have survived which should end life through mortal injury. I watched someone die of the same injuries I obtained shortly prior to me being the last. Secondly, I went back and read as much ancient text as I could as soon as I was able, and as soon as I located the records of the last time there was a single member of our kind left. This took many weeks of searching the expansive library. Roughly 64 million years ago was the last and only other case of a single member being left. That number probably sparks memories of certain mass extinctions. The texts were all written in the oldest forms of our language. We are all born knowing it, yet like any language, it evolves and meanings change. So making out exactly what they said was completely impossible. What I could piece together is that the magic our body is made of is sort of its own being in a way. But only partly. And it’s apparently a little bit slow as it only realizes something is incredibly wrong once there's only one life force left. If only it had noticed at 2. However, I digress. I’ll move on into the actual story now.

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

I was born in the year 1930 in a castle heavily surrounded by the 17 and a half million acres of forests hidden in Maine. My mother was the queen of our kind. She was always busy, but often pulled away from her duties to bond with her children; and my father, her royal assistant and lead magic researcher. He had a little more free time. Technically, all of my siblings and I were born to him. I had 4 older siblings. My oldest brother, Sage, 68; My sister, River, 46; My sibling, Briar, 27; and my twin sister, Sunni. We may have been twins but the entire family used to swear up and down that she was born first, making me the youngest. 

The first part of my childhood I was spoiled, and I lived well. All the children had human nannies that had been hired to help raise us while our parents were busy. The nanny Sunni and I had was a hearty black woman from Louisiana named Cecelia. She made the best foods I’d ever eaten, and I’d give anything to see her again today. 

On July 23, 1936, the day of mine and Sunni’s 6th birthday, there was an extravagant celebration commencing. Generally around the age of 6 is when Illuveterians begin to gain access and control of our magic, so it is deemed as a very important day. Massive festivities covered the yard and lavish food adorned tables covered in decorations. Both of us were dressed in ornate robes that had been made and set aside for this specific day, and atop our heads were small crowns, each designed to fit our exact specifications and desires. Cecelia had made several of our favorite dishes; jambalaya, etouffee, beignets, the list goes on. I’m glad I got to enjoy the food that day. It remains the only speck of happiness within a memory shrouded in horror. I cannot enjoy that summer's day anymore. All I seem to be able to force myself to do is mourn those lost once it rolls around every year.

My mother came to check on us as Cecelia finished the fastenings on our robes and made sure that our crowns were positioned so they wouldn’t fall off at any point.

“Thank you, Cecelia, for all the work you’ve put in for today. They both look stunning.” My mother smiled at her.

“Ma’am, you know these two mean the absolute world to me. I’d do anything for them.” Cecelia bowed her head slightly. My mother hummed gently.

“I see that Raymond is wearing River’s old crown. It looks nice on him.”

“River said I could!” I called back, hugging onto my mothers dress. I wasn’t anywhere near tall enough to reach anything further.

“He insisted on wearing it.” Cecelia chimed in, “Said it was so pretty and he wanted to wear it for their birthday.”

“Well, so long as River agreed to it, then there’s no issue. Now, I believe it’s time for dinner.” My mother smiled again, putting a hand on both of our heads. Sunni and I ran off to the dining table, being sure to take our seats as quickly as possible.

We had eaten well and played many games. It was just as we were getting to the cake and presents that events kicked off in the entirely wrong direction. I remember I had just taken the first bite of my slice of cake when a guard hurriedly walked forward and whispered to my mother. A look of worry covered her face and she rushed out the door. I turned to Cecelia for an answer, which was met by a smile and a hand on my back. I kept eating. It was a coconut cake paired with pineapple ice cream. The thought of those flavors make me feel sick nowadays. I was 3 bites in when I heard a scream. It was my mother’s. I looked over to Sunni and saw she had also heard it and was visibly scared. Several of the guests began to panic. Every guard in the room took off running in the direction the scream came from. My father was with them. Several loud popping noises sounded nearby. At the time I didn’t know what they were, but now I know very well that they were gunshots. Cecelia took the plates from our hands and set them on the table, picking the both of us up and walking quickly into a nearby bedroom - her own. Admittedly, she was probably a little rougher than she meant to be. As soon as we were within her room she shut the door, and I heard the lock click. She ushered the two of us into the closet, motioned for us to stay quiet, kissed each of us on the forehead, and closed the doors. Through the tiny gap left between the doors I could see her rummage through the bedside table and pull out a large kitchen knife. I remembered having seen her cook with it and wondered when she’d stashed it. She then pushed the dresser in front of the door. Its legs scraping against the wooden floor were loud. From within the closet I could hear more pops ringing out. Several people were screaming. I remember a few of the screams being abruptly cut off. Sunni was crying and I am certain I was as well.

Cecelia sat herself on the edge of the bed, right in front of the closet, yet facing the door. She had such a grip on the handle of the knife that her knuckles were white, a stark contrast to her complexion. I saw a tear roll down her cheek as she grit her teeth. She looked over to the closet and smiled. It was forced and fake, but she was trying her best to keep the both of us calm. It felt like hours before nothing more could be heard. Though, it was probably only minutes. The door handle rattled furiously as someone on the other side tried to open it. They then threw themselves against the ornate oak. It was sudden and the breach of the silence caused me to jump. Sunni whimpered and covered her mouth. The banging continued. Cecelia shook as fear encompassed her person. She stood and pointed the knife to the door, though she looked like she might collapse at any second. Her face seemed to pale to an ashen gray. I, at least, had assumed that it would be too sturdy to be broken through. I learned very quickly that I had assumed wrong.

The wood of the doorframe splintered, loudly cracking as the lock gave way, the door slamming into the dresser, leaving barely an inch of view. I could hear a deep and gruff laugh. It sounded as if whoever it had come from had been smoking for the majority of his life - and I’d bet he had. Once he had the door busted from its lock he simply pushed against it to move the dresser. And once again that awful sound of its legs scraping the floor sounded out. Cecelia was frozen for a moment. I could not see who she was looking at but his footsteps were thundering. Within moments a very large figure towered over Cecelia, blocking nearly my entire view of her. She came back to her senses and swung the knife at the man, who easily dodged and ripped it from her hands. He grabbed her hair with one hand and she let out a cry of pain. He lifted her near effortlessly off the floor to be eye level with himself. 

She held his gaze, refusing to look at us. There was a stubbornness in her facial expression. In pain and imminent danger, yet continuing to protect us. He took the kitchen knife and plunged it into her stomach, dropping her to the floor right after. Unbeknownst to me, Sunni had stood over me to peer out, and she let out a gasp. That was all the indication the man needed. He made his way over to the closet doors, a crimson puddle forming around Cecelia as he did so. He did not throw the door open violently, instead choosing to slowly pull it open, peering down at us with an ear to ear grin on his face. He knelt down to where Cecelia’s body had fallen and removed the knife from her abdomen. He then crawled back over to the closet and began his seemingly endless shower of stabs. I turned away from him in an attempt to cover Sunni. As I did so I saw joy in his face. As I was the closest to the door I took the brunt of it all. The world was silent. I remember crying and screaming, but not hearing a bit of it. At some point I opened my eyes to look at Sunni. She was sobbing. My gaze fell to the floor as I was unable to keep my head up. As I did I felt the knife wiz through my hair just over my head, knocking my crown off. When I looked back up I saw the knife being pulled from Sunni’s face and ripping backwards across my left shoulder. I watched her body crumble and fade to nothing, just leaving her robes in a pile on the wood, covered in my blood. Her crown lay now atop it all. I yelled out for her. I yelled to nobody. That was the point I was officially completely alone. The last of my kind. The man had not stopped. I felt the knife then go through the back of my head a few times. The blade was long enough for it to go all the way through and out my forehead.

I felt a heat then envelop the whole of my body. It was as if molten metal coursed through me.. I had seen those older than me experience surges of magic, but never had I thought to imagine what they may feel like. It was quite an unpleasant feeling. My body at the time was not ready to handle such energy. I could see blue flames spouting out of every wound; yet they seemed to almost be just simple projections to the air around me, as they, themselves, seemed to produce no heat. It was then that my hearing came back as I heard the man behind me yelling out in pain. I could smell the sickly sweet scent of burning human flesh. It was overwhelming. The heat swelled hotter and hotter until a bright flash of white surrounded me. A void of nothingness. This, however, lasted only for a brief moment before I could feel myself falling. My body landed hard against a metal, grated floor; and the sound it made rang through a seemingly endless corridor. As my vision slowly faded out I caught a glimpse of a paper that had fallen off a table next to me. All I could make out on the page was ‘Dr. Z…’. And then all I knew was darkness.

[dungeonmalcontent]

There's some contenders for sure. But I gotta be right up front about the "powerful" criteria right now, the more powerful the spell the less likely it is to be useable. Contrarily, wish wins automatically for having maximum power and maximum possibility (so auto disqualified). Also disqualifying summon spells, because that's just the thing that the spell summoned and not the spell itself.

I like the 1st and 2nd level spells. Power can come from creativity rather than raw numbers. Grease, holding, entangle, snare, and so on have a lot of (obvious) potential but most require a partner.

Though, while I'm on the topic of spells to enhance the moment with a partner, ceremony. You get to have wedding night sex as much as you want, and that's kind of a wild idea. Very novel experience.

But yeah, the power criteria isn't that important just going off of slot level. I generally assume that lower level spells are less straining and therefore easier to cast, meaning you have more energy to actually enjoy the spell.

Expense is a valid factor too. I'm in the frugal camp when it comes to this particular niche of spellcasting. The thing you can enjoy more reliably and frequently is more enjoyable overall. That isn't to discount a novel experience though. Treat yourself when you can.

And duration is very important. As will be made evident.

Anyways, for the spell itself, I have some interesting ideas. In no particular order, consider the following:

+ prestidigitation: first up, ambience. You light candles, you get a nice aroma going. You also start out totally clean, which is nice, and you can clean up immediately afterwards. But the part we care about here--you can conjure basically any object that can fit in your hand. The nature of the object is limitless as long as it follows the rule of "non-magical trinket... that can fit in your hand". The only downside here is that it only lasts for about 6 seconds. I'm sure a wizard could figure out how to keep it going pretty seamlessly for the whole 1 hour duration, but that's some non-rules-as-written stuff. (Not disqualifying this for the summoning rule, because the item doesn't exist until you create it)

+ animate dead: make it a skeleton, give it a strapon. That doesn't make this any less cursed.

+ control water: I should not have to explain how versatile water can be. But you basically tell some water to do whatever you want, and it does.

+ creation: almost as versatile when it comes to the creation of specialized items as prestidigitation. The trade up here is that the item lasts a lot longer but can only be made of certain things.

+ bigby's hand: magic hand that does whatever you tell it. Maybe a little big for insertion, but I imagine it's great for outercourse.

+ phantasmal force: dangerous to cast on yourself, but if it can make you hallucinate any object of your choice... Perhaps the psychic damage is worth it.

-subheading here about phantasmal killer. I'm iffy about this one. I know for a fact that some people would feel some kinda way from a nightmare non-con encounter. But it could still super kill you. But maybe you're in to the pain.

+ passwall: you create a hole in a surface. As long as it is smaller than 5 feet wide, 8 feet tall, and 20 feet deep it can be as small as you want. With a little lube I'm sure that could be perfectly enjoyable for roughly half of all people.

+ fabricate: you take raw materials and turn them into a shape you want. It's extremely versatile. If you are a "must be a physical object interaction" person, this is your spell. It makes pretty much anything as long as you have the materials.

+ simulacrum: a clone of yourself. Made of snow so it might be a little chilly. But if you're into it... 🤷

+alter self: it's still mostly self care, but you can have pretty much any humanoid body you want. If you have any kind of desire to experience the pleasures of another gender or somewhere in the middle, or what it feels like for a member of another humanoid species... The spell will let you do that. It says "appearance" but the spell is substantially different that disguise self. I'm ruling it lets you change your body rather than just make yourself look different. If the GM in your head disagrees, tell them to fuck off while you play pretend mind games.

+ grasping vine: creates a vine that you control. Mostly it just grabs and pulls and whips around. But, hey, some people are into that.

+ telekinesis: think control water but more. It is an incredibly powerful spell. It could rip you in half... Or it could "rip you in half" if you know what I mean. Very versatile. It could touch you however you want. It could lift you however you like. It could restrain you in any way you like. Do I need to keep going?

Wild to hear a conversation of the most fuckable dnd spell and no one brings up Charm Person????

[sunmmon8689]

NOTHING IS OURS (continue)

POSITIONS OF POWER

Humans compete for even unimportant positions in their family, or high ones in their village, town, higher ones in the country, or the world. Because of positions of power, people have fought harshly against others, causing pain and suffering. It’s very terrible.

THE BODY

Although we do not feel it well, we badly cling to our bodies. Properly, honor, emotions are something outside, but the body seems to be ours. And this is worst clinging of sentient beings. These forms are not ours. These feelings, perception, mental formation, consciousness are not ours either.” The contemplation of the body’s impermanence very carefully to fix thise clinging.

So, to reach the core of spiritual practice, we must contemplate it very often even when we sit in meditation as follows: this body will disapear someday. I want it healthy, but it’s sick; I want it to sleep, but it’s still awake; I want it to be beautiful and stay young forever, but it grows older and older. The truth is, the body was born, grows up, become old, sick and will pass away some day. It then stinks, swells, is full of worms, and in a very frightening shape. After a time, the flesh goes away, and only the skeleton left. But over the years, the bones become ash and blow away. (We have to practice the contemplation of the impermanence of the body well, especially from death to when the bones turn into ash and blow away).

I try to understand there is no me

But only the vast universe

The mind and body is temporary

If we can make profound contemplation about this, all other clings go away. Even our bodies are not ours, what can be ours? All we need to destroy the clinging to the body, and all other clings to property, honor, positions, reputation, affection, etc. are broken, too.

DON’T ATTACH YOURSELF TO ANYTHING, AND YOU WILL HAVE ALL.

In fact, possession is an important attribute of human beings, and the law also gives ownership to everyone so that society will be well managed. For example, this house or this plot of land is in possession of this one and so on. The country is also divided into many parts to be well managed. And if everything were in public ownership, i.e, the society would be chaotic.

People only care about their things and interests. Economically, private ownership proves very effective, but spiritually, it’s very destructive.

So, living in this world, you still say this is my house, my land, my asset, but mustn’t adhere to them. When asked, “Whose is this house?” You also replied, “It’s mine” like normal people, but you must realize it’s not, while others feel it’s really theirs and will fight against anyone to protect it.

Strangely, when our minds let all go, and if otherwise, we will lose our things gradually and in the end we have nothing. Adhere most to something, and you will lose it first. If you just keep your money and don’t want to give others any, you will go bankrupt or lose all property someday.

Collected.

[llamagoddessofficial]

Thank you to @venelona for commissioning this piece from their amazing au, Check & Mate! Take a look at their @undertale-check-and-mate​ blog if you’re interested in the aesthetic & super cool worldbuilding~

“I have no idea how I beat you before, Papyrus.”

Frisk stared at the scattered chessboard, her brow deeply furrowed, finger rapping repeatedly against the tabletop in her frustration. Papyrus, opposite her, sat in his smart black and white chequered uniform... the picture of a winner.

This was just a casual game between friends. Of course, Frisk approached it with just as much fierce competitiveness as she would any other, but it was still nowhere near as high stakes as the official first match she’d had when she first met Papyrus. She moved her bishop, taking a pawn, saying the move aloud as Papyrus did- he was encouraging her to do so while in practise, to familiarise herself with the board and the options she had at hand.

“THROUGH YOUR OWN TALENT AND SKILL, OF COURSE! BISHOP TO F7.” He said, moving it with a gloved hand and taking the bishop she’d just pushed- he’d baited her with a pawn sacrifice. She groaned, puting her head in her hands, running her fingers through her chestnut hair... How the hell did I miss that? “SOME DAYS, WE PLAY BETTER, AND SOME DAYS WE JUST CAN’T WRAP OUR HEAD AROUND THE BOARD. THOUGH WHETHER MY DEFEAT WAS A FLUKE OR NOT, WE SHALL HAVE TO SEE WITH MORE GAMES... SHAN’T WE?”

“At this rate, fluke or no, Undyne is going to get me in two moves.”

Papyrus was fantastic to play against. He was a true enthusiast; he knew openings Frisk didn’t even know existed, he could adopt any play style or development or combination, he had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the game and through it all he had brilliant sportsmanship. After her first match with him in the snow, where she’d beaten him in a pulse-jumping game, the win/loss ratio between the two of them had been almost 50/50 and playing him was her no.1 method of efficient practise... especially considering her goal of beating every monster in this strange undeground world at chess. 

...

Papyrus was the complete opposite of his brother.

Sans the skeleton was the only monster, the only monster, who hadn’t challenged Frisk to a game when he met her- something that immediately wildly threw her off. “i’m way too lazy,” he’d said, with a wide and casual grin that almost fooled her into believing him. Black pants and sleeves, white gloves, a white shirt and shoulder-covering cape with black trim... and the most ridiculous long chequered double-tie she’d ever seen with a small bone-shaped lapel pin.

I don’t know how he manages to look good in that. But... he does.

... There was something behind his tiny eyelights, stupid grin and lazy demeanour. She saw it the second she shook his hand- he was observing her. He was smart... he was the interesting kind of smart.

... So why won’t you pick up a chess piece?

It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part, to say the least. Frisk had been asking him borderline nonstop. Curiosity about his true aptitude, combined with her determination to beat everyone (which included him), created a storm that couldn’t be subsided- but at this rate she’d be dead of old age before he moved a pawn, seeing as he seemed to be totally immovable in his resolution to not engage her.

... Which only spurred her on even more. Of course.

“nah. i’m terrible at chess. wouldn’t know a knight from a rook from a raven. i’ll leave all that hard work to the professionals.”

At that moment, he was reclined on his couch, apparently totally ignoring the casual match going on a few feet away. She had yet to see his eyelights glancing over to their table...

...

But her suspicions were mounting.

Looking over the board, her finger finally stopped tapping- Frisk spied an opportunity. 

...

“... Hm...” Her eyes narrowed in mock thought, and she had to try pretty hard not to immediately look over at Sans and make herself too obvious as she ‘wondered’ aloud. “... If I... rook to e1...”

... It was a total lie. She wasn’t going to make that move- it would leave her king completely open for Papyrus to move in and sweep up a pawn, checkmating it with his queen and ending the game there and then.

...

Sans went still.

Frisk spotted it, a hawk seeing a bunny twitch; he’d moved his skull a fraction of an inch to the side. He’d given himself away.

... He ‘wouldn’t know a rook from a raven’, huh?

“... Actually, no. Pawn to g5.”

///

Papyrus had to leave, eventually- heading to his training for entry into the King’s royal guard. He’d beaten Frisk, that time, catching her out with a knight and cornering her... but of course, being Papyrus, he was boastless and jeerless and merely congratulated her on a ‘FANTASTIC’ game with a handshake and a bright smile before he went.

His departure left Frisk alone in the house. 

With Sans.

...

... She reset the scrambled board, lining everything up and turning to look over her shoulder at the skeleton still silently reclined on the sofa. Even when lazed back with his lapel pin wonky, he somehow managed to look sharp in his outfit.

“Heeeey Sans....” She said, voice sweet and sing-songy, thick lashes fluttering. She even adopted a ‘cuter’ position- crossing her legs and resting her cheek on the back of the chair. “Y’know. You should come play with me.”

“no.” He didn’t even open his sockets, speaking in that calm and collected baritone, with a little teasing lilt in return for her playfulness.

Ugh. She quickly gave up on the cute position, sitting forward. “C’mooon...”

“you’re too far away. i’m so lazy. can’t.”

... Well. 

Not to be deterred, she prised her fingers under the entire board and hefted it up, carefully getting down from the table to carry it across the room. She placed it on the coffee table just in front of the couch and kneeled on the floor, eyes and smile glinting.

The sound of the board hitting the tabletop (and a few pieces rattling and falling over) was enough to make him actually crack open a socket, clearly curious- the pinprick eyelight observed her with that lowkey sharpness she really couldn’t take her eyes off of.

“... Look, I’ll even open, since you’re so lazy.” She picked up a white pawn. “Pawn to d4.”

...

... Sans sighed. He opened both sockets, and sat up in his seat... her heart jumped into her throat and she sat up straighter too; could this be it? Had she broken him with her pestering? Was he finally going to play a game with her? His eyelights were so intense, so unreadable as he looked across at the board. His gaze lifted to her... Sans smiled, leaning forward...

...

He flicked his king over.

“oh no.” He said, sitting back, sockets closing again. “you sunk my battleship.”

...

Frisk sat on her heels, throwing her head back and letting out a dramatic and loud world-weary groan that would’ve worked just as well coming from someone three times her age, smacking her hands against the tiny coffee table and jumping all the loose chess pieces. It made him snicker from his position on the sofa- absorbed in how cruel the world was and how her suffering was never going to end, Frisk completely missed the tiny fond look he shot her.

“You’re a total liar, y’know.” She wanted to throw something at him, but she just settled for crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at his stupid smug face seeing as the nearest throwable objects were all furniture. “You know how to play, I saw you listening in to the game earlier.”

“dunno what you’re talking about.” He was making the couch look... awfully comfy. How he was practically sinking into it... and she’d been sat at the table for what felt like hours while she played against Papyrus.

... She abandoned the board to come and sit heavily beside him, frustrated at once again being thwarted. Frisk knew he wasn’t going to admit his lie; and she wasn’t even going to try to get the confession out of him, it’d be like trying to get blood from a stone. But she at least had that knowledge... none of his dodging or thwarting could take that away from her.

“You. Are such a pain.” She grumbled.

“course.” He replied, in that wonderful voice of his. “s’my job.”

...

“So...” Frisk felt her smile widening. No rest for the wicked. She moved closer to him on the couch, shuffling over the cushions... juuust until her knee was touching his. “You like jokes, right?”

He glanced at her, cool calm & unaffected. “i sure do.”

She fully grinned at him. “Tell me a chess joke. I know you have a few rattling around in that skull of yours.”

“... you wanna hear a chess joke? when i have so many other brilliant puns? i’m hurt.”

“Go on.” She propped herself up on her elbow, voice lowering a fraction. “Just for me?”

He sighed.

(But... his smile grew a tiny bit.)

“... yesterday, i threw chess pieces all over my brother’s head. you should’ve seen the rook on his face.”

...

That was actually kind of brilliant. She snickered- she’d been expecting something much, much lower in quality, and was pleasantly surprised.

“Do you know what chess pieces look at when they have private time?”

“hm?”

She winked exaggeratedly. “Pawn videos.”

... He rolled his eyelights, smile mirroring hers in its wideness nonetheless.

“I wish I could become a doctor.” Frisk dramatically placed her non-propping hand on her chest, as if delivering an emotional soliloquy, enjoying the fact that she was melting him. “Alas, I must become a chess champion- for I have an incredibly chequered past.”

“so awful it’s on par with my usual jokes.” He snickered. “you’re lucky pap isn’t here.”

“Hey. What’s the most costly chess move?”

“that’d be the check, of course.”

“... Do you know any chess pickup lines? I can’t say I have any.” She said, coquettishly, leaning in closer to him- he didn’t reciprocate much, just turning to look at her a little more.

“dunno if it’s appropriate. also don’t know if i’m your type.”

That made her giggle. 

“... Well. Y’know what my type is...?”

“hmm?” He cocked his head.

“People who’ll actually play me at chess.”

...

His face... 

... Fell.

...

“do you ever quit?” He said, more akin to a snap than just a normal question. 

In quite literally an instant it completely shattered the aura the two had created. The sudden transition and frustration in his voice caught her totally off guard- she blinked, taking her head off her hand and sitting upright, losing all the closeness she’d gained from leaning in.

“Wh...”

“i’m not going to play with you. get over it.” His eyelights had gone whip-thin, and... oddly icy. “stop bugging me all the damn time and get something better to do. it’s not going to happen. just get back to ‘practising’ so you can run off and get beaten by undyne.”

...

What the hell?

...

A tense silence stretched between the two of them that got progressively more and more uncomfortable.

...

Frisk turned away from him in a manner that, from anyone else, would’ve been a resignation- but from her felt more like a jab right back at him- a ‘I’m not going to deal with this shit’ declaration with nothing but her face. She wasted no time moving herself off the couch, picking up the chess board carelessly to settle down at the table instead, across the room and by herself.

Several pieces rattled and fell over on both sides when she put the board down on the table. But she didn’t care.

...

“... uh... hey. wait.”

The wind was out of his sails- his tone had lost literally all of its previous bite. But she didn’t look at him, her brow furrowed and jaw set, far less willing to drop it than he apparently was.

“... frisk.”

...

Okay, fine. Whatever. She graced him with an upset glance- her posture was defensive, usually warm and amicable (either that or ruthlessly determined) expression twisted into something pretty unpleasant.

She just... didn’t get why he’d suddenly bitten like that. He had yet to seem upset at all by her asking him about chess, the worst he’d looked was entertained, and he could’ve just... told her if she was bugging him, right? Instead of lashing out like that with no warning when she thought they were having fun.

...

... He was sat totally upright, looking at her, leaning against the arm of the sofa like he wanted to push through it.

“... i’m... i’m sorry.” His eyelights were tiny, smile low. “i didn’t mean that. i just got mad.”

...

Frisk turned back to the board, righting the black king. “Okay.”

She didn’t see his cringe. 

“... you’ll beat undyne. i’m sure. you’re even more determined than she is, which is saying something.”

“... Mhm.”

Both of them could tell she didn’t think his second, meeker statement was the one he really meant. And he didn’t like that at all. “i mean it,” he insisted, louder.

Shuffling sounds- she wasn’t fully paying attention to him, moving some other pieces back into their proper positions, making sure the knights were facing forward. 

“... I know you do, Sans. Thank you.” 

She didn’t believe him. But he seemed oddly insistent on getting her to say he did... so she’d just agree, and they could drop it.

...

“you asked about chess pickup lines, right?” 

His voice was a lot closer than she expected it to be, and it almost made her jump- she narrowly avoided flinging the bishop she was holding when she turned to find him separated from her only by a chair. How the... how did he move so silently? He was righting the black queen, for her.

“... Uh...” She mumbled. He wasn’t the only one who’d had the wind taken out of his sails- she suddenly couldn’t find it in her to make a joke. “... Yeah.”

“would it be inappropriate of me...” He held up his hand, a familiar white piece between his index phalange and his thumb. “to call you good-rooking?”

...

...

Frisk couldn’t help it. She snorted, at that- it was so dumb... the perfect kind of joke to alleviate a mood. The small ungainly sound seemed to have a positive impact on him- his shoulders unwound, smile lifting at the corners just enough for the curve to seem genuine again.

“is that a king in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

Her snort became a proper giggle, which he apparently liked even more. Okay. I know I’m supposed to be mad, but this is too good to pass up. “I-I dunno. Looks more like a pawn to me.”

“... wow. i’m... wounded.” 

His eyelights were larger, softer... his body language had opened like a book. She looked up into his sockets, posture loosening too, unconsciously mirroring him until she’d gone from clenching her arms to only holding her wrist. “Sure you are.”

...

Both of them seemed to realise, at the same time, just how close their faces were. 

Frisk turned away first, her cheeks suddenly tingling and pleasantly warm- she pursed her lips and finished resetting the chessboard. Today was already proving to be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. Sans’ face was also gently coloured, a small dust of blue making an appearance on his cheekbones... but he didn’t turn away.

“... c’mon, let’s just watch some tv or something. i’ve said ‘chess’ and ‘rook’ so many times i’m starting to forget what they mean.”

“... Pft... okay. ... Sure.”

[psychotakublabs]

There is something peculiar about Jean-Luc’s appearance. From what we can tell, he is a mix of flesh and stone. Quite possibly a Golem to protect King. However, what is interesting about Jean-Luc is the flesh he is composed of looks like the same flesh Belos used during battle with Luz in “Young Blood, Old Souls”.

This flesh could possibly come from the Titan as it’s magic is so potent it spreads throughout the Isles. This would explain how Jean-Luc and Belos can morph the flesh into different objects like claws, axes, and bows. Both Belos and Jean-Luc have utilized those abilities in combat. However, there is also another similar aspect they share: their blue eyes. Both eyes glow the same color and even have the same shape. Both could be related to the magic from the flesh of the Titan. We can also see both are more technology based than magic. Jean-Luc is a Golem created from flesh and stone and Belos uses his staff (which seems to be made out of metal) to conjure magic and create a portal from metallic substances. Jean-Luc and Belos seem to have a lot in common which begs the question if Belos is related to the island somehow since he tried to erase it from history.

However, Jean-Luc is a Golem. Golems in folklore and fiction are makeshift beings created from specific materials with no thoughts/consciousness and pre-set goals/protocols. Jean-Luc’s purpose was protecting and serve King and nothing else. He cannot speak or do anything else unless King tells him to. He cannot gain any thoughts or feelings outside his directed protocol. It seems his purpose is also connected to the castle King was born from. When fighting Eda, he could not pass through the door and once outside the castle, he shuts off. He cannot function outside the castle, meaning there must be a power source or specific command ingrained in it’s programming of sorts. For now it seems he will just be a lifeless being stashed in Luz’s room for the time being.

Belos is widely different from Jean-Luc. He has intelligence and conscious awareness. Enough to speak eloquently and plan everything to his advantage (Boiling Isles Coven system, fight with Luz, tricking Lilith, etc). He does have a set goal (Day of Unity) but unlike Jean-Luc, who’s direct objective is to protect King from an ingrained command, Belos is acting of his own free will (He does say it is for the Titan but still does it of his own accord). Belos seems to control the Titan’s flesh through his staff and technology whereas Jean-Luc can control the flesh on his body on his own. Both use the flesh for combat. However, Jean-Luc is able to morph his flesh into weapons while Belos can only form claws. This is probably because Jean-Luc is created with the flesh to be used for combat. Belos only commands the flesh from his staff which can be limited. Another difference is physical appearance. Golems can have humanoid appearances if designed that way. However, Belos was breathing heavily in “Agony of a Witch” and had to consume magic of a palisman to regain his strength and composure. It seems Belos does function like most living beings (breathing and eating) while Jean-Luc doesn’t require them to function. Belos is more living and sentient than Jean-Luc is.

Despite similarities and differences between Jean-Luc and Belos, we do get a hint of Belos’s identity. Not just from Jean-Luc but from the mural of King’s father fighting a mysterious creature. In the mural, King’s father seems to be fighting a giant skeletal-like monster wielding a staff and breathing fire. The mural is damaged and the top part of the monster is missing (probably to create mystery and hide the reveal). However, there is something interesting about the monster. If you look closely, the shoulder is pointed upwards like a spike. It’s a small detail, but it also looks like the same upward appearance in the “cursed Belos” clip from the trailer. This could mean the creature in the mural is related to Belos. There are a few reasons how they can be related from other fandom theories:

1) Belos could be the creature itself from the mural but he is in a weakened state or in hiding. From many theories speculating throughout the fandom and information from the show (unauthorized history of the Boiling Isles), the creature could be the Boiling Isles Titan or at least a Titan. There have been sightings of bone fragments of different Titans but the Boiling Isles is the only complete skeleton. Meaning there is more than one Titan before they all perished and it’s possible this was because of King’s father. However, this is only plausible if King’s father came to be before or after the Titan decomposed (which has yet to be confirmed). Even if the language of the building King came from is not known, that could be because Belos erased this island from any known record. Despite Lilith’s comments on how ancient the building is, it does not confirm if it was created before or after the Titan’s death. If the creature is not a Titan, then it has to be some sort of giant or demon. In “Escape of the Palisman” the Bat Queen revealed she has no memory of who her previous master is due to thousands of years passing and her only recollection is she belonged to a giant. The creature in the mural is holding a staff which hints that this creature could be the Bat Queen’s previous handler. It could also be a demon that fought King’s father either out of retaliation or rage. Whatever this creature is, Belos could be it and is just in a weakened state or in hiding until the Day of Unity arrives.

2) Belos could be related to the creature. He may not be the creature itself, but have some relation. He could have come from the same race as the creature much like King. If King is able to be created from an egg, then it could be the same for Belos (not an egg exactly but some kind of demon creation equivalent). Belos’s  kind could have worshipped the Titan and gone on a crusade or war for dominance based on some type of Titan religion conquest. His kind, much like King, could have been wiped out from this war and Belos is the sole survivor. Belos could also have been created by the same creatures. Much like Jean-Luc, but a more advanced living creature. He could even have an ingrained command like Jean-Luc but is more of a living creature than a creation. Which could be a reason why he could be so hell bent on “The Day of Unity”. Belos could be in hiding by consuming magic from palismans to subdue his true form. May not make much sense, but he must appear like the others if he wants to remain in power. Again whatever this creature is, Belos could be related to it.

3) Belos has infused himself with Titan flesh or the technology he is using is starting to change him like Eda’s curse. Witch or human, infusing a magical substance or abusing technology/magic for too long can have dire consequences even if properly used. Much like Eda’s curse, he uses the magic from Palismans to keep his “curse” at bay. However, from “Separate Tides”, we see Belos with disheveled gray hair. This could imply either the usual trick is not working anymore or the curse is progressing faster. Possibly both. If the creature in the mural is the Boiling Isles Titan, it could explain his connection to Titan (heart beating in his throne room). If Belos somehow infused himself with Titan flesh or the technology has somehow made him connected, then his transformation could be a part of that as well. Belos cursed himself using forbidden techniques such as infusion or overuse of technology.

4) Belos could be a new type of Golem. Again, Golems in fiction/folklore do not have sentient consciousness and are made from someone/something. However, it doesn’t rule out the possibility that Belos could be a new type of Golem or robotic and organic creature. Notice how he never leaves the castle much like Jean-Luc never leaves King’s castle. He also has the same blue eyes as Jean-Luc and has a set goal (Day of Unity). He also uses magic from palismans to recharge his strength. He may not be a stone/flesh Golem like Jean-Luc but a much more advanced Golem. Advanced enough to speak and have conscious thought to carry out plans with flexibility. Now how is this related to the creature in the mural? Much like Jean-Luc being created from King’s father, Belos could have been created by the creature in the mural. The mural depicts a battle, but it doesn’t say if the battle was won or in a stalemate. The creature could have created Belos before passing. There is a slight possibility Belos could be possessed by the Titan. Golems usually don’t have conscious thought or sentience, so Golem Belos could be possessed by magic (especially if he is infused with Titan flesh) or the soul of the Titan itself. Again this is highly unlikely as Golems are usually makeshift creations that serve a purpose from their creator.

Whatever Belos may be, he definitely has a connection to King’s past. He hid an entire island from any record on the Boiling Isles. Although his reign is 50 years, the Boiling Isles seems to have existed for thousands of years. However, written records of this island never existed and Belos probably did that to cover his tracks and to fit his narrative of being a messiah to the Titan. King’s castle contains ancient murals, defective technology, and new language. This island's existence would pose a threat to Belos’s reign. However, there seems to be more reasons why Belos would hide it. First, King recalls hearing a roar and a crash before falling asleep. Outside the castle there is a large hole at the top left side. King translated the roar to son, meaning King’s father must have fought someone/something trying to get to King. This someone could be Belos since we do not know his real age yet or when this incident occurred. Although King’s father was trying to protect him, what if Belos was not after King? What if Belos was after the technology King’s father had. Notice how the castle doors are technology based and Jean-Luc is also technology. This does not mean there is no magic involved, but no spells, objects, or commands were used. Also notice how the huge hole is not directly in King’s room. Belos’s must have fought King’s father and stolen the technology he is using right now as his form of magic. He hid the island to protect the technology and history being discovered from the Boiling Isles citizens.

Belos has become one of the most mysterious characters in “The Owl House”. He is an all powerful witch who taught witches how to use magic the correct way and created a system limiting magic usage. Belos is a messiah to the Titan and uses dictatorship to rule by punishing wild witches. His reign has only been set for 50 years but has had a major impact in Boiling Isles society. He has a mysterious plan to build a portal to the human realm which is known as “The Day of Unity” (which is also a mystery). Let’s not forget he wield a staff that is mostly technology and is the source of his magic. What Belos is, his plans, and purpose for the Boiling Isles has yet to be revealed. However, this island does give us a hint to Belos. Although Belos was not a part of this episode unlike “Separate Tides” and “Escaping Expulsion”, “Echoes of the Past” has given us hints from the characters such as King and Lilith. Lilith mentioning there is no record of the island shows Belos is hiding something important from the island. Then we have King who recalls his father’s roar and a crash. Although King was still a fetus, we can tell King’s father did battle with someone to protect him. This someone could have Belos trying to obtain the technology in the castle. Then we have the castle itself. The murals, deactivated Golems (with exception of Jean-Luc), and technology based security shows us either Belos’s acquisition of his current technology and/or his past/origin. This is probably the closest we have gotten to Belos’s identity and we will probably learn more throughout the series.

[scriptlgbt]

TW: Talk of dead trans bodies

Question

I heard that skulls can have a facial reconstruction done. But how can that be done with trans people? Because if they check the DNA, they’ll find agab DNA and if the ME can’t match that they’ll reconstruct a face and do facial recognition. How would they even know the person was trans? What are other options that could indicate someone was trans and spur more accurate reconstructions, like for example any FFS/FMS? Another thing, how likely could facial recognition still work with the wrong gender done? After all, it’s still the same bone structure, and shape of facial features, even though the fat is distributed differently. I mean, reconstructions must account for skinny and fat people, which again a skull won’t be much an indicator. Also, what if the rest of the skeleton was also available, what more could be possible? (ps - there’s several trans characters in my story, not just the dead ones. and there’s plenty more dead non trans characters too.)

First want to note that the following advice doesn’t go into any of the morality of writing this. I feel like it takes a lot of care to write these stories in a way that is not-traumatizing, and I don’t have the capacity to address both that and actually answer your questions (which is what I try to do here). I’ll leave it up to followers if they want to add anything.

Answer

Re: DNA

Typically you need to collect a viable sample in order to even test. There are a lot of things that can interfere with how testing works. For example, if someone is buried in a place with other human remains, the DNA may get mixed up. This is more common in places outside North America where a specific gravesite may be up “for rent” for only the amount of time it takes a corpse to decay, in order to make room for more bodies in a limited amount of space. If you’re interested in learning more about how these things work in different places, I recommend Ask A Mortician on YouTube.

Re: Evidence of FFS/FMS, other changes in face.

This one is going to be all over the place due to variables like:

how long after the death people are looking at the body, and how it is treated post-mortem (level of decay, weather it was in, if the body was embalmed, mummified, etc)

who it is who is doing the identifying (a professional facial recognition expert, or the general public through a police sketch)

if the people looking for this person know the deceased is trans, and know to look for sketches that may show only a vague family resemblance

There are things that FFS does that would show up in various states of decay. (NOTE: FFS is a series of procedures that people consult with surgeons about regarding what is done and what isn’t. NOT everyone gets everything, and not everyone CAN get everything due to anatomy variance.) I would look specifically through the Wikipedia article for FFS to learn this. But FFS can definitely involve work on bone structure, and often does, as does FMS. This would usually be something a ME may be able to figure out though, at least if they are familiar with these procedures and what they entail (which I’m going to assume is rare). They may just notice that there’s been surgery done, and the specifics of what was broken or shaved down, and if it is healed by then. (Heal lines are a thing on bones.)

I do need to note though, that FMS is very rarely done as much as FFS is. I’m not wholly sure why this is. I’m guessing people look a lot more closely at women than men, and are held to different standards, but I’m sure there are other reasons.

If you’re talking specifically about fat/weight redistribution, that’s more of a hormone thing. FFS & FMS are more about things that hormones can’t do on their own - more like what someone may feel the need to if they went through a first puberty that they did not want.

Things that may indicate whether someone was on hormones are things like skin texture (testosterone makes skin a tad “rougher” and can increase sweat, body hair, stuff like that, and estrogen often makes skin smoother and clearer), and hormones showing up in drug analysis. Sometimes folks will carry medications with them when they are going places, so that may be found with the person. This is more likely for those who take daily pills, which skews towards those on antiandrogens and estrogen. There is no universal way people take hormones when they do but this is what’s most common with the people I know personally. Testosterone is more common in gel, patches, or injection. I know people who take estrogen via injection as well but I think more folks opt to not deal with needles. Unfortunately, testosterone injections are the cheapest form of testosterone, so it’s harder to get insurance to approve the non-needle options.

Other forms of surgeries and medical history stuff may be identifiable in other ways in remains. For example, if they have a hip replacement or had their wisdom teeth removed.

But with accurately gendered reconstructions (sketches, or pictures of aged-up missing people, etc)... I think an investigative team who is genuinely knowledgeable and well-versed in trans issues would probably be able to figure it out at some point, *if* the deceased trans person went through surgery, cut their hair, or otherwise presented in a way that might clock them. Hair length is often still used to gender remains. Skulls and hip bone appearance also may influence that. But investigators rarely account for intersex bodies or bodies that are trans. And if they account for trans bodies, they probably aren’t going to account for the body of a trans person who did not undergo surgery or dress in a way that may be coded as their AGAB, unless they are given some other reason to believe that, and happen to be people who take GNC trans people seriously for who they are.

I’m going to tell you that it is incredibly, incredibly difficult to find anybody in the policing profession who understands these things.

With all that said, I also want to address that trans people do not necessarily look any which way. Trans men have long hair sometimes and trans women have short hair sometimes. What someone is wearing or whatever does not necessarily indicate their gender and these aren’t always clues enough that help this person to be gendered correctly.

How I would suggest finding more accurate clues

In a grave that’s like, ancient, or otherwise was given a “proper” funeral of some kind (rather than dumped in a ravine or whatever), there’s generally grave goods through which we can get clues about who the person was in life. Things like looms buried with weavers, combs, swords, and such. Another thing to note is that linen was more common than cotton in ancient times, and linen does not rot. (Rotting off the non-textile parts of flax is actually how linen is made.) So if the person was wearing linen, you can get other clues based on their wardrobe. (This goes for modern folks wearing linen too I guess.) None of those things alone necessarily indicate identity, but neither does someone’s skull. What someone is wearing when they are found is probably the largest indicator of identity.

Depending on the resources available and invested in research on remains found, there are a lot of other helpful means of identification. Isotope testing on their hair can indicate where the person spent a lot of time in life, for how long even, and at different points. Testing the soil in the area the stomach decayed can give clues to what the person ate and if there was any heavy metal poisoning. Bones can be tested for certain nutritional deficiencies and you can see heal lines where someone has broken bones in the past. You can also tell a lot from teeth - dental records are often a huge thing used these days to identify remains.

There’s also the possibility of an identity of the person being found through them having ID on their person. Many trans people do not have an ID which matches their identity in their wallet. BUT sometimes there are other ways to get contact info (like our actual name) by looking in a wallet.

For example, this is what I did when I used to have a wallet:

Picture of a brown leather wallet with an ID slot peeking out of it. A white hand with chipped gray nail polish on the thumb is holding it. The ID slot has the edges of a green Ontario Health Card visible. In front of it is a folded lined paper with "IF FOUND (contact info) (open)" handwritten on it.

I wrote down my contact info on a piece of paper I put in my ID slot. If I do this again sometime I’ll probably make a wee booklet with some emergency medical info in it. Technically, all the medical institutions in my city will have my preferred name on log though, as well as my identity (at least the places that allowed me to make that clear in my file).

Depending on where you go, there may be ways to access this information in the systems the deceased navigated. Maybe they have a student ID card somewhere or are wearing a souvenir shirt from a venue they frequent. I lost my wallet like 8 years ago once and the person who found it contacted my school to let me know, since my student ID was in there.

If the deceased has living biological family, especially people who may have reported them missing, it is possible they may volunteer their DNA for matching in case anyone comes up.

I’m sure there’s more on this I could come up with, but this is already quite a long post so I will leave it at that for now.

- mod nat

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

it’s halloween month so I would love to know any and all of your dan/nate halloween headcanons (bonus points if milo’s there too) 🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡🖤🧡

you sent this on the first of october like the wonderful festive pumpkin pal that you are! but i have been sooo no thoughts head empty,,,, and i wanted to give this actual deliberation & thought before diving right in, so....

DAN, SPECIFICALLY:

ok. i think dan would have complicated & conflicting feelings re: halloween. we already know, canonically, that rufus was really into halloween, so this paints a pretty elaborate image in my head of halloween at the humphrey household - i bet it was a lot of fun! but then, of course: alison left. i think holidays in general become difficult for dan in the After, because they remind him of a time his family was truly happy that he cannot go back to.

so halloween is always bittersweet for dan, he'll carve all the pumpkins and get nate all the pumpkin flavoured stuff from all the cafes, and his wardrobe is so full of browns and sweaters that he's always ready for fall anyway, and he's happy! he is. but sometimes he'll remember another family he used to be part of that's all fractured & fragmented now, and he'll get a little sad. it happens less frequently over the years, but it never quite stops. (nate the ever observant always puts an arm around him and kisses his cheek, and says something silly to make dan smile. sometimes they talk about it; most of the time they don't. but nate is always there, quiet & non-judgemental, waiting for when/if dan needs him.)

NATE, SPECIFICALLY:

on the contrary........ halloween is natie's absolute FAVOURITE. much like the thanksgiving flashbacks we get in 1x09, i feel that halloween for nate, during his childhood, would involve being with blair & serena and all of them having the time of their lives. i think anne & howard would drop him off at the waldorfs, and eleanor would entrust blair & serena & nate to dorota's care. when they're younger they go trick or treating, and blair is very serious and very prim & proper and has on a perfect, sophisticated costume (she dresses as movie characters always) while serena's in a state of chaos, her costume for whatever she's dressing as (usually a witch or a ghoul or something like that) is a bit lopsided, the ribbons in her hair are coming out, her makeup is smudged (not deliberately!). nate, naturally, is sort of in between those two states - blair dolls him up and sets him to rights, serena takes his hand and runs around with him until his costume is a little wonky - by no means as much as hers, but definitely not in pristine, blair-approved state. blair just gives serena & nate a tired, Adult look, like they're toddlers and she's the babysitter (this doesn't change over the years, and this dynamic sets in remarkably quickly.)

once they're older, there's alcohol, there's halloween parties maybe, but nate still sticks with blair and serena, and they still hang out with him. halloween & the first of november are THEIR days, because they always do a sleepover on the 31st, and waking up together on the 1st of november is just something that makes the day Theirs, to nate. so unlike dan, for nate, he DID have that family feeling, and he had it consistently over the years, and he knows that it exists still.

DAN & NATE, FINALLY:

nate gets so excited for halloween! he goes full on into event-planning mode. he and jenny get really engrossed in designing costumes for the humphrey gang, and dan is like "who are you again?" and nate gives him the finger + an unamused look. halloween is a great bonding time for dan & jenny's gf, actually, because both of them get to watch their partner be an absolute dork over the holiday AND get really into designing (which is normal for jenny but not for nate, lol.) they just sit together and share drinks and act very, very cynical.

dan knows that halloween month is a special month for nate, and he's determined Not to be a grouch, so he goes out of the way trying to keep that cheer alive. he bakes sugar cookies that he ices to look like ghosts, he carves pumpkins, he does All The Things. but in a similar vein, nate knows that halloween month is a bit rough for his bf, so he is extra cuddly and patient, and goes out of his way to remind dan again and again that he loves him, that they're family now, etc.

i think halloween would also bring a lot of gender feels to dan, who gets this one holiday in which it's socially acceptable to wear makeup and doll himself up and dress up as whoever he wants to be. i think that'd give him a lot of euphoria, a lot of questioning, and a lot of anxiety, all at once, and i think nate would just be there like a stabilising force, because nate just loves dan that unconditionally, whoever dan is, even if dan is figuring that out - nate loves dan. i had more to say about This Point specifically but i am so tired, i kind of forgot what it was.

oh!!! vampire movies. all of them. nate and dan WOULD. they'd watch endless nights and they'd watch vampire porn and they'd definitely sleep together after THAT. nate would bite dan's neck and repeat some dialogue from the porno, and dan would laugh, but he would also be so, so turned on. (what! parts of this are literally canon!)

since dan also canonically reads anne rice (i wonder if he's one of the fic writers who got a cease & desist or whatever she was sending at them back in the day, that would be an interesting dan humphrey backstory) i think he'd read it aloud to natie. nate would just be lying there with his head on dan's lap, and dan would be sitting up reading aloud, one of his hands carding thru nate's hair.

at a blairena halloween party one time, dan and nate dress up as... *drum roll* each other. are you surprised? yeah, me neither. they keep making risque references to That Night At Yale, and blairena threaten to kick them out of the party (empty threats.)

MILO HUMPHREY MY BELOVED:

i wish i had more milo headcanons than just "jenny designs extremely elaborate costumes for milo, and nate goes trick or treating with him" but that's kind of it. milo would also end up wearing a LOT of orange-brown-maroons to school all through october (dan is like, nate, the kid is 5, is this the age to put your fall agenda onto him? nate is like, yes.) i think once he's older, milo would start getting these ridiculous mugs home in october - a pumpkin mug, a mug shaped like a skull, a mug shaped like a skeleton hand, etc. think mugs that look like THS thing that krysten ritter is holding:

dan looks at the collection of horror themed mugs they have with equal parts dismay and pride, and looks at nate like, yeah, you sure did raise this kid alongside me, didn't you? this is all YOUR influence, babe.

i also feel like milo would wear black nail polish ALLLL the time. he'd start during halloween and just never stop. i mean. if you're curious about this, i have two words for you: aunt jenny.

BONUS:

nate finds photos of a younger dan trick or treating - dan must be 7 or 8 in these photos, and he & vanessa are both dressed up as witches, with the hats and everything. dan is carrying a pumpkin shaped lantern, and marx is sitting in the lantern, peering out from inside it.

dan just smiles, and goes, "yeah, when i was a kid, all my costumes involved marx in some way." there's marx with angel wings (looking extremely disgruntled), there's marx with a green blanket around him ("he was a caterpillar that year," dan informs nate seriously), there's marx with a little bonnet on his head ("he hated that SO much," dan laughs).

the humphreys adopted marx when dan was around 7 - and given how unconcerned rufus is by lily's lack of pets - when he moves in with her, they do not discuss getting a cat or a dog or a bird or anything.. i'm guessing that maybe alison and dan went to pick marx out. i think dan and jenny have both seen marx grow from being a kitten to an adult cat, but because dan was older he remembers it slightly better. and dan and that cat were INSEPERABLE, to the extent wherein dan would often put marx in a pram and stroll him around everywhere. (there are halloween pictures of this, too.)

anyway, i'm just saying.

"he was my partner in crime," dan says fondly, looking at a picture of marx.

"i'm your partner in crime," nate corrects him.

"well, yeah," dan says. he raises an eyebrow. "but do you really need to compare yourself to my cat?"

/end

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 23

of the wwx emperor au I’m thinking of calling Lan QiRen’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2

The Peach Blossom Pavilion is heavily guarded. 

However, the guards are clearly focused on the outside threats trying to find their way in, not the Emperor attempting to sneak out. Wei WuXian’s hand is warm in WangJi’s, squeezing lightly to signal when they must be still, pulling him along when it is time to move. In the darkness, every stretch of cobblestones looks identical to the next. They cross two courtyards, both pitch black, nothing to distinguish them from one another except the faint scent of chrysanthemums. It is not long before no guards can been seen or heard, but Wei WuXian’s hand is still wrapped around his own, his thumb a hot brand on WangJi’s knuckles.

WangJi remembers that same hand coated in blood. Pressing against the arrow wound. Gracefully extended, so someone else’s fingers may rest lightly on its wrist.  

Somewhere in the Immortal Mountain City, there is boy lying wounded, because he had been willing to give his life up for the Emperor. And for a few moments, WangJi had forgotten that he even exists.

“Nie HuaiSang,” he says softly.

“Recovering. He lost a great deal of blood, but there will be no lasting damage. The assassin has not been caught yet,” Wei WuXian’s voice hardens, “but he will be.”

WangJi is relieved to hear it, but this is not the only reason he had said the Royal Companion’s name. Sneaking past the guards, depending on the pressure of Wei WuXian’s fingers to lead him, he could pretend that such contact was necessary. Now, he feels an imposter, holding on to something that does not belong to him.

Gently, WangJi attempts to disentangle their fingers. Wei WuXian’s grip tightens.

“A-Sang is my brother,” Wei WuXian says, “The rumors you hear, they have their advantage. But there has never been any truth to them.”

“Gossip is forbidden,” WangJi says, his face heating.

He can feel his heart beating in his chest, and his steps suddenly feel lighter, as if some pressing weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Wei WuXian laughs softly,

“If I were to forbid gossip, the next person to try and assassinate me probably would be A-Sang.”

WangJi is not sure how to respond to such a statement, and Wei WuXian does not give him a chance to try.

He tugs WangJi to a small door, its shape almost indistinguishable from the wall in which it is set. The door appears to be very old, but its hinges do not creak, soundlessly allowing them over a small stone threshold and into a courtyard. Although the plaque above the door had faded with age, it is still legible.

The outside of the Six Fans Pavilion looks forlorn.

The window holes are covered, the courtyard swept clean but depressingly bare. A long time ago, someone had tended its gardens with care. WangJi thinks that the wide planters out front must have once overflown with flowers in full bloom. Now, star jasmine has grown wild and sprawling, smothering every other sign of life.

He expects that the inside of the pavilion has not fared much better. Everything about the peeling paint and fading colors tells a tale of a place that is dusty and forgotten. Instead, the entry is bleak, but clean. The floors seem recently swept. There are no curtains or rugs, no decorations on the walls, no cushions on the seats. Each room looks stripped to its bones, the elaborately carved shelves gaping empty, tables bare, beds nothing but stark skeleton frames.

Wei WuXian leads him through, looking neither left nor right, until they reach a room that shows some signs of use. A few books are piled in the small cubbies behind an old desk. The desk surface is polished but rough, as if it had served more than one owner. The seats have cushions, although they seem old and threadbare. An old bronze brazier sits in center of the small space. Wei WuXian lights a fire with quickness that would suggest he has done this often.

“The Iron Palm Palace can be suffocating sometimes,” he says, and does not elaborate.

He does not need to; WangJi thinks he understands. It is a refuge, this place. WangJi has his own, at Cloud Recesses. He can appreciate the need for a space where one can just breathe in solitude and silence.

“How much do you know about Lan ZhongYi?” Wei WuXian asks, settling on the floor next to the brazier.

WangJi has always had a reflexive reaction to that name. Anger, distaste, guilt, shame.

He lowers himself not too far away, wishing he was properly dressed. Somehow, speaking of Lan ZhongYi would be easier, if he could hide behind the traditional trappings of Sect and clan.

“Lan ZhongYi was a Lan Sect member. Son of my father’s uncle. He was banished from the Sect for improper conduct. Less than a year after his banishment, he assassinated the Empress and the Emperor Consort.”

The words come out stiff and unnatural, a recitation of something memorized long ago.

“I know this is all that the Lan Sect teaches about him,” Wei WuXian says, “but have you never searched for more? Have you never wondered what this improper conduct was? Why he did what he did?”

“No,” WangJi says.

He cannot see what difference it would make.

“Did you know he had married at seventeen?” Wei WuXian says.

The question lands heavily between them.

WangJi did not know. He does not want to know. Why does it matter?

But Wei WuXian goes on unprompted,

“He married a rogue cultivator from the ShangWu Temple. Her name was Xu XiaoYun. This was some years before my mother took the throne, and the Empire had already begun descending into chaos. Most of the great temples were destroyed in the years that followed, never to be rebuilt. The ShangWu Temple was one of them. Xu XiaoYun’s brothers, sisters, teachers, not one of them survived. For years, I have searched for some information about her, hoping for anything, even a word of mouth. But I think her entire life burned in that temple, and there was only Lan ZhongYi left.”

The firelight is playing across Wei WuXian’s face, shifting his expressions from moment to moment. WangJi cannot guess what he is thinking. He cannot guess why this is the story that Wei WuXian thinks WangJi should need to know.

“She was pregnant when YanLing DaoRen killed her,” Wei WuXian says calmly, “on a day he had not even set out to kill anyone at all. It appears to have been a spur of the moment slaughter. There are no records showing what might have set him off in the middle of a peaceful trip through one of the MoLing’s marketplaces. But Xu XiaoYun had been nighthunting in the area.”

Silence falls between them, thick and unyielding. WangJi feels as if he had been given something he did not want, and cannot give back.

He thinks he knows why Wei WuXian has told him this story. Perhaps to the young Emperor who had lost his parents, it is important that Lan ZhongYi be a human being, with purpose, and feelings, and grievances. But WangJi has never wanted to feel pity for this man, whose actions had doomed all the generations of Lan to come.

Lan ZhongYi’s motivations do not excuse his crime.  

“The Empress did not kill her,” he says finally.

“And you did not kill the Empress,” Wei WuXian counters, his voice gentle.

He is right, but he is also wrong. WangJi is too agitated to address how both can be true at the same time.

“The Wen are not hostages here,” Wei WuXian says, slicing the agitation neatly in half.

Before WangJi can adjust to the fact that the previous subject is being abandoned, Wei WuXian is already explaining in a rush, as if afraid that WangJi will refuse to listen.

“After the rebellion, the Sects demanded that Wen RuoHan pay for the lives that were lost. They wanted this payment in blood. Wen RuoHan was to deliver one of his sons for execution, or the Sects were going to burn the Nightless City down, and slaughter every Wen in the Empire. Looking back, compared to the damage YanLing DaoRen had done, and the lives he had destroyed, the Wen rebellion was fairly insignificant. I have often wondered where this viciousness had come from. The Sects will say that their grief over my mother’s death gave it birth, but they seemed to hold little interest in offering support to her son. Perhaps this viciousness was left over from YanLing DaoRen’s reign, just waiting for a more vulnerable target.”

Wei WuXian waves his hand, his eyes locked on the flickering flames,

“It does not matter. Wen RuoHan did not deliver his son. Instead, he delivered fifty-six members of a small subdivision of the Qishan Wen Sect. An entire clan, led by his own thirteen-year old niece, to be slaughtered in exchange.”

WangJi’s stomach turns, propelling bile to his throat.

“My uncle,” Wei WuXian grins humorlessly, “had made a reputation for himself as a holder of no strong opinions, a man who may sway slightly whichever way the wind blew. This reputation helped delay the decision. In the meantime, I placed the Wen in the dungeons, to await their fate.”

“You-- you were going to--“

No other words will come. WangJi cannot ask the question.

He thinks a wrong answer might shatter something he had not yet given name to, something he still does not fully understand, but desperately wants to keep.  

“No,” Wei WuXian says, “I was young, and angry, and more than a little stupid, but I was not going to execute fifty-six people because the Sects demanded it. But I did put them out of my mind. I was twelve years old, sitting on a precarious throne, all of my power just a pretty illusion. There was a list of issues that had to be addressed, and somehow, the Wen would always move to the bottom of that list. This was another one of my uncle’s tactics, although I did not know it for such back then. Delay, delay, delay, and hope they forget. I almost did forget. Many times.”

Wei WuXian flashes him a bitter smile, and WangJi feels his chest tighten. Not so long ago, WangJi had thought his own burden too heavy to carry. He cannot imagine how Wei WeXian must have felt. He cannot imagine how heavy the weight of the Empire must feel to a twelve year old boy.

“They were willing to let me forget,” Wei WuXian says, the bitterness from his smile coloring his voice, “My uncle, the Council, my advisors, not one of them ever bothered to mention that an entire clan cannot forever live in the dungeons, that some decision must be made. If it were not for shijie, they might have lived and died below the palace floors, forgotten by all. She took me to the dungeons. She went among them as if they were family, passing out medicine and food, speaking to Wen Qing as if they had been sisters their entire lives. And then she put A-Yuan in my arms.”

Wei WuXian’s voice falters for the first time.

He shifts slightly, and clears his throat.

“His mother had been among the fifty-six. She had died in childbirth. In the dungeon. While the Emperor sat on his gilded throne, nodding at everything the Council said. I had been the Divine Ruler for a single season, and I had already created an orphan.”

WangJi’s chest squeezes tighter. He wants to reach out, but he had never learned how to offer comfort. Everything he can think to say is woefully inadequate. Every gesture he wishes to offer seems clumsy and awkward.

“And so they became hostages,” Wei WuXian says, fingers now nervously tapping against his knees, “the Sects were told that the fifty-six Wen who can be slaughtered at the slightest provocation were infinitely more valuable than one dead descendent of Wen RuoHan. They were not happy. For some months after, I was certain that another rebellion would take place, and that this one would end the Dynasty for good. Once it became clear that the Sects would do nothing worse than send assassins through my windows and stuff scorpions into my bed, I started to work on their resentment. I did not want the Wen to always carry the stain of that rebellion. I had already grown attached to Wen Qing and her brother, to Granny, to Uncle Four and A-Yuan. I wanted to protect them.”

He moves to face WangJi, his hands now curled tightly in his lap, something in his eyes hinting at desperation.

“I thought I knew resentment. Mine had always been a fleeting thing, so I believed everyone else to be the same. No one had bothered to tell me that removing one target would only exaggerate the other. I spent years trying to shift their perception of the Wen, but never understood the simple fact that your uncle had grasped in a single season of drought. The river must flow somewhere. And all the resentment, no longer flowing to the Wen, had simply shifted to the Lan Sect instead.”    

If not for Wei WuXian’s pained expressions, WangJi would have immediately declared his words to be utter nonsense. WangJi’s burden does not exist because Wei WuXian had placed it on his shoulders. The Lan Sect would have never relinquished its responsibility for the wrongs one of their own had committed, regardless of whether the Emperor had shown them favor or neglect. Even if everyone else in the world were to forget the sin he carries, WangJi would have never been allowed to do the same.

A part of him does wonder if the Emperor’s favor had gone to the Lan Sect instead of the Wen, how many of their circumstances might have been changed for the better? Would it have created a world in which his uncle is still allowed to teach?  A world in which the Lan Sect disciples are allowed into the Immortal Mountain City, to mix among the others? A world in which his brother smiled more often?

But even if this was the case, if he were to take Wei WuXian’s words as absolute truth, and the river of resentment truly must flow somewhere, then better circumstances for the Lan Sect would have meant worse circumstances for the Wen. WangJi would never demand his burden be made less; not even if the cost was a single life of an absolute stranger, not to mention an entire clan of people who had done nothing wrong.

“By the time I realized why the rancor toward the Lan Sect kept growing, even as the resentment against the Wen dwindled, it was too late to turn the tide,” Wei WuXian says miserably, “Trying to stem the flow only seemed to make things worse. Your uncle-- each time I tried to extend a hand, he would slap it out of the way. He does not want my help or favor. He does not trust me to do right by the Lan Sect. And considering that someone has already tried to kill you, and frame the Lan Sect for another assassination, I would not be surprised if he blames me for all of it.”

WangJi struggles for a few moments, trying to find the right words. It does not help that Wei WuXian is much closer now, his face flushed from the brazier, their knees nearly brushing.

“The Lan Sect would not wish to relinquish its burden of responsibility at the cost of others,” WangJi finally says, “and uncle would not blame you for the assassination attempts. He would consider it just another burden that the Lan Sect must carry, one that must be borne with courage and dignity. Uncle is-- proud, and stubborn. He perceives your favor as charity, and each time you imply that he may need this charity, he will only resent you more. There is no need to keep trying.”

“You are saying that there is nothing I can do,” Wei WuXian says, frustration coloring each word.

“You can do whatever you wish,” WangJi says, “You are the Emperor.”

“But he is going to hate me no matter what I do.”

“You are the Emperor,” WangJi says again, “I am sure my uncle is not the only one who hates you.”

Wei WuXian gapes at him, then seems to choke on nothing but air. He bends over, coughing heavily, and struggles for so long that WangJi wonders if he should perhaps try and find him something to drink. Only when he looks back up does WangJi realize that the cough was actually stifled laughter.

“You are something else, Lan Zhan,” he says, “I really like spending time with you.”

WangJi’s heart trips twice, painfully, as if Wei WuXian had reached through his chest and pushed it off course.  

He does not make a conscious decision to stand up, but suddenly, he is on his feet, trembling with a thousand emotions he does not want to acknowledge. Wei WuXian scrambles up as well, his expression startled.

“I must go back,” WangJi says, cursing his voice for wavering.

“Oh,” Wei WuXian says, “Of course. Let me put out the fire, and I will take you back.”

“No need,” WangJi says quickly.

He needs to be alone. He needs to think. Wei WuXian had given him a great deal of information that requires careful examination. 

I really like spending time with you, his mind offers unhelpfully. WangJi feels as if he had pressed his entire face directly to the brazier.

Wei WuXian’s expression seems hesitant now. WangJi desperately wants to see him smile one more time before he leaves.

“Use the door tomorrow,” he says.

“I-- what?”

“Tomorrow,” WangJi says firmly, his heart now beating in his throat, “Do not lounge on the rooftop, or hide in the dark. Come to the door.”

The slow smile that spreads across Wei WuXian’s face is devastating.

WangJi says nothing else. 

He runs.