#Lightfoot beats

[hiphopheadspodcast]

I Hit The Low Lights Tour Last Night

Beat showcases have been a thing I been hitting a lot in 2023. The production scene is crazy in Boston right now with so many beatmakers, producers and lofi heads that are killing it, it’s hard to keep up. But, going to these showcases really put a light on these artists and their craft and how they’re getting busy. I find these spots awesome if you’re an MC, creative, or just a fan you can…

[mourning-again-in-america]

weird not seeing any nat'l coverage of the chicago mayoral election. maybe it's just too far away and i'm not a national news junkie anymore but compared to the NY mayoral race, or the attention paid to SF/DC local politics, it seems like nothing for the third-biggest city in the US

[vraisetzen]

HII! I hope you are doing well🤍

I was wondering if you could do a Douma fic where him and the reader play a game of hide and seek. I feel like Douma would thoroughly enjoy the thrill of the hunt. But when he finds them (and he will), well..

I leave that up to you😈. If you are interested of course! No pressure! Have a lovely day/night❤️❤️

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒅𝒈𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑬𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 — 𝑨 𝑫𝒐𝒖𝒎𝒂 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒕

Tags: 18+, NSFW, Smut, Very light bondage

Author's Note: Sorry this took me so long! I had a ton of fun writing this, and it definitely got me back into the mood of writing for Douma. He's such a wonderful character, and so different for Kokushibo; and I wanted to explore how his followers would perceive him. Enjoy!

"I can hear you!"

Douma's giggles rang through the forest like a peal of bells, the notes of his childish taunt lingering in the air as you held your breath, pressing your back against the large rock you had found.

Each stir of the leaves raised the hairs on the back of your neck as you strained your ears for the sounds of any footsteps, and your eyes straining into the darkness for the sight of a darting shadow between the trees. Somewhere, a small creature — some deer, fox, or squirrel — skittered across the forest floor, an errant twig snapping beneath its lightfooted canter.

When you were certain that you were not being watched — and there was no way for you to be absolute on this judgement save for the calm beat of your heart pressing you on — you slipped away from the shelter of your hiding spot.

Immediately, you hear footsteps behind you, along with a flash of white gold; Douma was an expert predator if he needed to be, and in this moment he had ceased all teasing to pursue his you. Goosebumps traversed the length of your arm as you pushed yourself forward senselessly, going forth to where the night stole through the cedar crown in a scintillating dance of illumination.

The wind danced through your hair, the comb securing your knot in place having slipped and fell somewhere on the forest floor; there was no time for you to recover it, however, as you shunned low branches and skipped over rocks. Hitching up your kimono, you gained a longer stride, the weight of Douma's eyes on you spurring you forth.

Before you, the trees thinned out into a clearing, and as you stepped into the wide, irregular circle, you felt the cold crisp air fill your lungs. Whether by exhaustion or sheer awe, you sank into the ground, your eyes drawn to shower of stars that drenched the earth in its illumination. Beneath its magnanimity, you could only close your eyes, and bathe in its ceaseless pour.

How long has it been since you saw the sun? There were only candles and curtains in the abode where you lived, and you yearned for the warmth on your skin. In its absence, you learned to be content with its inverse: the coldness of the night and its unchanging atlas of constellations, true and constant.

Behind the drawn curtains of your lids, you saw a pair of eyes that were not your own: bright and youthful and green as a summer's glade.

"Pinky promise, pinky promise..."

"One day, we'll leave this place," Kotoha whispered, her hand drifting from where it stroked the soft hairs of her child's head as he nursed on her breast. "I promise."

The smile on her face was soft and serene — yet you could discern the strength beneath it, that undercurrent of determination and rage. Her hands, too, were brimming with a restless warmth, and it flooded your heart with an unspeakable disquiet as you watched through half-lidded eyes, pretending to be asleep.

"Caught you!" Douma's giggles interrupted your thoughts, and you opened your eyes. The crescent moon a scintillating diadem behind him, Douma looked down at you, his gold hair feathering around his face as he tinkered with the golden fan in his hand. From where you knelt before him, he could not be any different from a god that had descended from the Heavens, whose smile was at once full of mercy and without.

Is this not the eternal paradise you were promised?

You touched your cheek, and found your fingertips wet with tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked, crouching down beside you and wiping your cheek with his thumb. Despite the softness of his hands, his long nails were sharp against your flesh. His voice dropped to a sweet, hushed whisper: "Did I scare you?"

His hand wandered from your face, dancing along the starched collar of your kimono to your obi; all the young, unmarried women of the sect wore their knots in the front, and Douma undid it with familiar precision. The belt tumbled into the grass, and he shrugged the layers of tanmono and linen until you shivered beneath the cold night air.

Douma's lips were ice against your warm, flushed skin as he kissed your neck, tongue tracing over your pulse. His hands cupped your breasts, kneading the supple flesh and toying with the pricked nipples. To this, you mewled, and earned yourself a faint chuckle as Douma traced over your ear.

"Let's have a little fun, shall we?" he asked, dragging his forefinger down the trembling planes of your stomach.

Sparing no hesitation, he dipped further beneath to your loins, where you anticipated the trail of his hands along your sex; it dripped readily and knowingly even before he reached your seam, and a trill fell from your lips when he teased you over your clit in tight circles and broad strokes.

"Such a good girl," Douma purred, his lips brushing over your temple to give each of your closed lids a soft kiss. His arms tightened around your body, keeping you close to him. "You shall be duly rewarded for your piety..."

Your eyes fluttered open to see his opalescent gaze studying the softness of your face, the words etched within them darkening as you felt his manhood stir against your belly. Without another word, Douma pushed you back onto the grass before crawling between your legs; your kimono bundled around your hips as he propped his shoulder beneath your knee.

His long nails clinked against the metal clasps of his buckle; Douma took his time as he unfastened his trousers, pulling them just enough for his cock to pivot free from its guard. The sillage of honeyed white florals envelops your body as he pins your hand above your head, securing it with the belt he just unwound.

Not that you would run away from him; just as how he chased you through the woods, this was all rehearsal, a dance before the days to come, when he will take his most faithfull followers with him.

A land without pain nor worry; neither anger nor sadness — peaceful and content as a still lake reflecting the heavens for all of eternity; it would weld with the pleasure that flows and ebbs through your veins as Douma cajoled himself into your depths, its sweet, throbbing tightness drawing a low growl bubbling in his throat.

And yet, Kotoha had been happy, had she not? She had a child, and she was always singing to him; songs that you have never heard...

Perhaps this was why she was shunned from the doors of salvation, you thought; unlike her, you sang only the praises for eternal paradise — and you were happy to be here, to breath the air of your saviour who now panted over you. His long hair tickled your nose as he nudged that sweet spot inside you, the insistent burrow of his cock teasing you ever closer over the precipice. His nails, too, carved into your shoulder as he steered you over his length again and again, each thrust bringing you a thrill unlike any other.

"Douma-sama," you begged, your bound wrists straining against his belt while your hips met his relentless thrusts. Through the haze of mounting euphoria that melted you into Douma's arms, you felt the soaring creast of your peak on the horizon — to first of many to come, for sure, so long as the night was young and your pliant body beneath him.

"Come for me, darling," he beckoned, hand disappearing once more between your legs to stroke your clit in time with the shove of his hips.

And you answered the call of your saviour, serving your flesh and its joys into his arms and bared teeth; his brilliant, gem-like eyes that glittered even in the absence of light was the path on which you had devoted yourself, and following its trace you found its intense brightness inside you — white-hot lashes of pleasure that swept through your body in unceasingly waves, each sending you in a quivering tangle of breathless cries and arching hips.

If this was paradise, you would never desire anything else again; in its benevolence — no, in Douma's benevolence, you were buoyant and resplendent, a shining balefire of faith and longing. Douma purred and tucked his face into your neck; he was still stiff, and would be as long as he was adamant to bring you to climax once more, until you would forget all worldly woes and thoughts of straying even an inch from him. You would be his to take, to possess — unlike the others who left and disappeared; unlike Kotoha and her child.

Afterall, why would you leave, when you were on the edge of eternity?

Thank you for reading!

For my longer writings, visit my AO3 below:

[raointean]

Elrond Week Day 2 - Grief and Growth

Elros could hear nothing but the blood roaring in his ears and his own panicked breaths as he stuffed himself deeper inside the craggy rock hollow he and Elrond had always used as a hiding place during play. They were not playing anymore. Elros had followed his nanneth’s instructions and ran for the woods as soon as he was out the window.

He had lingered there on the forest’s edge, waiting for nearly a minute, but his mother had not come out of the house. Nor had Elrond.

He tried to quiet his breathing lest someone come across his hiding place and discover him and did his best to quell his tears. Nanneth and Elrond were almost certainly killed, Ada was away at sea, and Elros was entirely alone. No one to protect him, no one to pull him out of the spiral he had fallen into.

Just as he was about to lose the battle with his tears, he heard a scuffling outside of the hollow. His heart skipped a beat and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stop his squeak of fear from escaping, but as he listened more closely, the scuffling sounded… strange. Unsteady, lightfooted, not accompanied by any clank of armor or weapons.

Elros chanced a glance out of his hiding spot only to see Elrond! He called to him in a harsh whisper, beckoning him towards the hollow. As soon as he was within reach, Elros pulled him inside and pushed the both of them as deep in as they could go, so that they could only be seen from above.

“What happened?” he asked in a soft whisper. “Where is Nana?”

Elrond didn’t react, staring directly at him with wide eyes and uneven pupils, not registering a thing in front of his face. A cursory glance revealed the probable cause of his brother’s condition: a massive bruise blooming in the middle of his forehead to complement his still sluggishly bleeding nose. That wasn’t good. If Elrond was hurt so obviously, he could be hurt elsewhere. But if he could not speak, he couldn’t tell Elros where and how he was hurt.

Gently, Elros took Elrond’s hand and pushed his sleeve up, checking for injuries like Nana had taught them. As he searched, he spoke to Elrond, trying to get some kind of response from him. “We’ll be alright. We are outside of the village and away from the kinslayers where they cannot find us.”

No response. Elros tried a different tactic. “What… is your favorite plant today? I know that changes all the time. Is it something edible? Something pretty? Something… venomous?”

Still nothing. The damage was clearly far beyond anything Elros could treat if Elrond would not even correct his simple mistake of poisonous vs. venomous. He needed a healer

Elros kept up a constant stream of quiet chatter as he finished checking Elrond for wounds and made plans for how to get him to a healer. They would sneak out of the hollow at nightfall - surely the kinslayers would be gone by then - and find other survivors. But what if there were no other survivors? Elros immediately pushed the thought away- it was unhelpful and, if it were true, they were doomed.

All of a sudden, a shadow fell over them. Elros fell silent immediately, praying it was just a cloud or some large bird.

His prayer went unheard.

Above him loomed a monstrous figure, stained with blood and impossibly tall, staring hardly down at him. Elros hit, kicked, and bit as he was dragged out by the scruff of his neck and handed off to another kinslayer, but was unable to do any real damage.

He took no notice as he was handed to yet another murderer, this one on a horse, and taken to the nearby Fëanorian camp. He took no notice of his home burning behind him. He took no notice of the dark-haired Fëanorian’s calls for a healer.

He did take notice when Elrond began to scream as if stabbed when they passed a stretcher bearing a redheaded corpse.

What would become of them?

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

I also wrote what happened to Elrond (this is technically chapter 2) but it was a little gory for this challenge week. If you want to read it though, you can find it here.

@elrondweek

[holdingup-fallingsky]

As today is the 49th anniversary of the sinking of the Mighty Fitz, I wanna talk about the facts of what happened. I've been hyperfixated on this shipwreck for a full year now, so if you'd like to learn more about it, please keep reading.

I feel that a good way to present this is with the Gordon Lightfoot song as an outline, as it's what most people are familiar with. When it was written in November and December of 1975 after Lightfoot heard about the disaster, he felt that it was his moral obligation to get the facts of the event as correct as possible. However, an official investigation would not take place until May of 1976 - it was delayed due to weather conditions - months after the song was recorded. That is why his guitarist Terry Clements convinced Lightfoot to do what his favorite author (Mark Twain) would have done; tell a story. 

Superior, they said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy. Lake Superior is the largest body of freshwater on the planet, able to fit the other four Great Lakes inside of her. She’s also the deepest, with the average depth being close to 500 ft and the deepest point being 1,332 ft deep. It is also the coldest Great Lake, the bottom clocking in at a frigid 32 degrees Fahrenheit, making it just a hair above freezing. Because of this, that means that it is too cold for bacteria to grow and makes it impossible for bodies to undergo decomposition. So, instead of float to the surface as they would in other bodies of water, the bodies of Lake Superior instead sink and remain frozen in time. As of the time that this is being written, there has only been one body found from the crew of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald. It was because of the discovery of this crewman that the wreck site has been designated as a graveyard and dives to the shipwreck have been severely restricted. 

The ship was the Pride of the American Side… The Edmund Fitzgerald had many nicknames: “The Mighty Fitz”, “The Pride of the American Side”, “The Singing Ship”, just to name a few. “The Pride of the American Side” was given to her due to her size. When she was built in 1957, the specs of the ship were made so that it would challenge those of all other freighters. She would break shipping records throughout her entire career; six times, to be exact, often breaking her own records. She was given the name “The Singing Ship” because her third captain, Captain Peter Pulcer, would play music over her loudspeakers for boat watchers to enjoy, even going out on deck with a megaphone to give off facts about the ship - such as where it was headed and what it was hauling. Her fourth captain, Captain Ernest McSroely, took command in 1972. He would remain captain through the rest of her career. 

As big freighters go, it was bigger than most… The specs of the Mighty Fitz were 729’ in length, with a depth of 39’ and a draft (how much of the ship is submerged in water) of 25’. She was given such a specific length so that she could just fit in the Soo Locks - the engineering marvel that connects the Huron and Superior lakes in Sault Ste Marie, MI (pronounced “soo saint Marie”) - which had a max length of 730’. She was the largest ship on the Lakes (earning her the title “Queen of the Lakes”, a title passed on to whichever ship is the largest sailing the Lakes) until the SS Murray Bay was launched, beating her out by a foot of length. However, despite her hulking size, she was one of the fastest freighters to sail the freshwater, her top speed clocking in at 14 knots (~ 16 mph). A very impressive speed when you take into account that she weighed 13,632 tons with an empty cargo hold. 

With a crew and good captain well seasoned… It took 29 men to sail the Mighty Fitz. Michael Armagost, 37, third mate. Frederick Beetcher, 56, porter. Thomas Bentson, 32, oiler. Edward Bindon, 47, first assistant engineer. Thomas Borgeson, 41, maintenance man. Oliver Champeau, 41, third assistant engineer. Nolan Church, 55, porter. Ransom Cundy, 53, watchman. Thomas Edwards, 50, second assistant engineer. Russell Haskell, 40, second assistant engineer. George Holl, 60, chief engineer. Bruce Husdon, 22, deck hand. Allen Kalmon, 43, second cook. Gordon MacLellan, 30, wiper. Joseph Mazes, 50, special maintenance man. John McCarthy, 62, first mate. Ernest McSorely, 63, captain. Eugene O’Brain, 50, wheelsman. Karl Peckol, 20, watchman. John Poviach, 50, wheelsman. James Pratt, 44, second mate. Robert Rafferty, 62, steward. Paul Riippa, 22, deck hand. John Simmons, 63, wheelsman. William Spengler, 59, watchman. Mark Thomas, 21, deck hand. Ralph Walton, 58, oiler. David Weiss, 22, cadet. Blaine Wilhelm, 52, oiler. These are the names of all 29 men who went down with the Edmund Fitzgerald. 

When they left fully loaded for Cleveland… The final voyage of the Mighty Fitz started on November 9th, 1975. They had a cargo load of just over 26,000 tons of iron taconite. This is where we run into our first discrepancy of the song. The Fitzgerald was actually headed for a steel mill on Zug Island near Detroit where it usually made berth. However, the word Detroit doesn’t fit well within the structure of that part of the song, especially with the Canadian pronunciation of “De-troy-at” which we hear Lightfoot use later in the song. So, Lightfoot can be forgiven here.  

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave crashed over the railing. The weather conditions on Lake Superior went from bad to worse over the duration of the storm. A few hours before the Fitzgerald sank, the SS Arthur M Anderson reported at 1620 hours (4:20 pm) that winds had reached a speed of 58 knots (~67 mph) and waves reached a staggering height of 25’. The infamous Gale of November was upon them, and they were stuck in the middle of that merciless storm. 

And every man knew, as the captain did, too, ‘twas the Witch of November come stealin’. November is infamously the most difficult month of the year to be sailing the Great Lakes. An estimated 70 plus ships have been claimed by the lakes during November alone. While November gets a bad rap, these deadly storms can occur during any of the fall months. The warmer air coming up from the south clashes violently with the colder fronts from the north, culminating into deadly gales. However, the worst of these storms happen most frequently during the 11th month. The deadliest storm on record to occur on Lake Superior was that of the Mataafa Storm. Occurring on November 27th, 1905, the storm was named after the SS Mataafa, a freighter that found itself caught in the storm and a massive loss of crew, despite only running aground 700’ from shore. These infamous gales are nicknamed the “Witch of November”. 

At 7 p.m. a main hatchway caved in… Here, we run into our next, and largest, discrepancy of the song. Now, as I stated before, the song was written and recorded before an official investigation could even be launched. So, Lightfoot had to embellish a few details to finish the song. However, the U.S. Coast Guard would actually corroborate Lightfoot’s claim that the sinking of the Fitzgerald was due to water entering through the hatchways. This report would actually anger a few mariners, some even stating that it was flat out wrong. Now, in 2024, we know that it was simply not the case. In 2010, National Geographic conducted an investigation of their own on the Mighty Fitz. While they were unable to dive on the wreckage itself, they were able to use footage of the wreck taken in the 90s that was shot in High Definition. Not only did they use the footage, but the researchers interviewed Great Lakes ship captains, one of the inspectors that inspected the Fitzgerald herself, as well as a survivor of a similar shipwreck - Dennis Hale, lone survivor of the sinking of the SS Daniel J Morrell. After conducting experiments on a scale model as well as in a simulator, they concluded that the Mighty Fitz had sunk due to rogue waves - waves that can reach upwards of 60’ and were previously believed to be a myth - splitting her in half. 

Gordon Lightfoot was asked if his song could be used in the ending credits of the documentary, Lightfoot agreeing after watching the film. It was after this investigation that Lightfoot began changing the lyrics while performing the song live. No longer did a faulty hatchway cause the Fitzgerald’s demise in Lightfoot’s eyes, so the lyric was changed to “at 7 p.m. it grew darker and then…” One of the deck hands that was onboard the Might Fitz on her last voyage was Bruce Hudson. For 36 years, his mother - Ruth Hudson - had proclaimed and insisted that her son had always done his job at securing the hatchways, and that he did it with pride. In an interview with Lightfoot that same year, he said: “It wasn’t a hatchway. I don’t know what I’m gonna change [the lyrics] to, but I’m gonna change it. I hope Ruth Hudson will be around long enough to hear it, because she’s 82 and she’s worried about that all her life”. 

The captain wired in, he had water coming in… Throughout that fateful last voyage the SS Edmund Fitzgerald, she was not alone. Another freighter, the SS Arthur M Anderson was traveling a similar path as the Mighty Fitz with an end destination of Gary, Indiana. The Anderson was, at first, smaller in length than the Fitzgerald. However, after the Anderson was refitted, she would be longer than the Fitzgerald. Though, the Mighty Fitz would take the Anderson in speed as she was still the faster vessel. The two ships would stay in communication throughout the 9th and the 10th of November, their communications becoming more frequent as the storm became worse and worse. At approximately 1530 (3:30 p.m.), the Fitzgerald had radioed in to the Anderson, telling the captain (Captain Jesse “Bernie” Cooper) that his ship had taken on water and was beginning to list (the tilting of a ship to one side that is not caused by an external force). It was at this time that the Fitzgerald informed the Anderson that it would reduce speed so that it might catch up with the Anderson. An hour later, Captain McSorely of the Fitzgerald radioed Captain Cooper of the Anderson that they had lost function of their navigation equipment - namely both of their radars - and asked the crew of the Anderson to be her eyes. The ships were approximately 20 miles away from each other, well within radar range. Both captains made the decision to hug the north side of Superior, close to the Canadian shoreline so that they might have a better chance at weathering the storm before making it to the relative safety of Whitefish Bay. 

And later that night when his lights went out of sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Captain Cooper had stated on record that the snow had been falling so intensely that when the Fitzgerald was within 10 miles of the Anderson, the only thing that they could make out of her was her lights. At 1910 (7:10 p.m.), the Anderson radioed the Fitzgerald about a ship that was about 9 miles ahead of the Fitzgerald, stating that they were going to clear one another and did not have to worry about colliding. Offhandedly, the first mate aboard the Anderson asked “by the way, how are you making out with your problems”. Captain McSorely answered “we are holding our own”. “He showed no signs of panic,” Captain Cooper would later admit. At 1920, the crew of the Anderson could not find the Fitzgerald on radar and attempted to radio the ship. No answer came. Fearing their radio had malfunctioned, the Anderson wired another ship close by to test their comm systems. They worked just fine. At this point, the snow had stopped heavily falling and visibility opened up. The lights of the Mighty Fitz were nowhere in sight, despite being within visual distance of the Anderson. Captain Cooper gave the order to his crew to watch for a silhouette of the freighter, thinking the ship had lost power. 

Does anyone know where the love of god goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? The searchers all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay if they put 15 more miles behind her. According to the official U.S. Coast Guard report, the Fitzgerald was about 17 miles away from Whitefish Bay, the site of the wreck being at 46°59.9’N, 85°06.6’W. If she had maintained her top speed, the SS Edmund Fitzgerald would have made it to the salvation of Whitefish Bay in just an hour. The Fitgerald would never even send out a mayday or any indication that she was sinking. Within the blink of the Anderson’s watchful eye, the Fitzgerald disappeared. “I firmly believe that [Captain McSorely] thought that ship was gonna get him through,” Captain Cooper spoke when asked about that fateful night years later. The Anderson was the freighter to report to the Coast Guard that the Fitzgerald had gone missing after she reached Whitefish Bay at 2025 (8:25 p.m.). When Captain Cooper radioed about his fears concerning the Fitzgerald, the Coast Guard asked the Anderson if she would be willing to help with the search for the Mighty Fitz. Despite the danger of the still raging gale that claimed the Mighty Fitz, Captain Cooper agreed to aid in the search along with the SS William Clay Ford offering their help. No survivors were found, only pieces of debris from the freighter. 

And all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters. On July 17th, 1999, all of the families of the victims claimed by the Fitzgerald’s sinking gathered on the water on the exact spot of the wreckage. This ceremony was the official consecration of the site to be a protected graveyard. No longer would anyone be allowed to dive on the site; a direct response to a voyage to the wreck in the mid-90s capturing footage of one of the bodies of a crewman. Two wreaths were tossed over the site, one donated by Gordon Lightfoot, with the names of all the 29 lost that November night. 

The church bell chimed ‘till it rang 29 times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald. A funeral service for the men aboard the SS Edmund Fitzgerald was held at the Mariner’s Church in Detroit. Its bell rang a somber 29 times, each toll an honoring to a sailor’s soul claimed by Lake Superior that November 10th. Every year on the anniversary of the Fitzgerald’s sinking, the Mariner’s Church tolls its bell in remembrance of the men lost in the freshwater sea. On the 48th anniversary in 2023, the bell was rang an additional time, tolling 30 times. On May 1st, 2023, Gordon Lightfoot passed away due to natural causes. That additional toll was in honor of his life and all that he did to keep the story of the Edmund Fitzgerald alive, his song immortalizing the ship’s tragic end. 

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee. To this day, part of this fateful legend still survives. The SS Arthur M Anderson still serves on the very lake that claimed her sister 49 years ago. Her continued service is proof that, had the SS Edmund Fitzgerald not met her untimely demise so early in her life at the hands of the very frigid mistress that floated her cargo, she would still be its faithful servant. Every November 10th, the Anderson calls out to her sister; her horn wailing to both salute and mourn the beloved sister she honors with every trip she takes across Lake Superior. The Fitzgerald is a reminder to all of us. We do not know how long we have in this world and it could all be taken from us in an instant. Choose to live a life that you are proud of rather than one that is controlled and ruled by fear. 

[anonfanfic]

Write whichever ship you want! (Unless someone else suggests one. Or you could always do a random one)

Clexa it is! (haha)

"This trip is meant for mending fences and coming together!" The Raiders coach yelled above the din of the two teams disembarking from their buses and walking into the makeshift summer camp. 

“After you have found your bags, come to me for your room assignments!” The Hawks assistant coach yelled, her clipboard pressed tightly to her chest.

Clarke grabbed her backpack and single suitcase and walked over to figure out which Raider she would have to tolerate for three days of bonding.

“Griffin, Room 13 with Woods!” The coach announced so loudly that Clarke’s heart felt like it had stuttered over several beats. Both teams stopped what they were doing. Putting Clarke with the other captain was like putting oil and water together as far as they were concerned. They despised each other and it would be hard to make any bonding happen if the leaders tried to kill each other in their sleep. Clarke felt a strong and bright heat creep up to her cheeks and neck as she took the key from her outstretched hand.

Clarke walked toward the mess of cabins at the center of the grass field without looking back at the group. She had no desire to lock eyes with her cabinmate. The two teams that were involved in this little bonding trip did not like each other. That hatred was fueled mainly by the two leaders of either team. 

The Raiders and Hawks had always been rivals. But once Lexa Woods and Clarke Griffin took captain spots last year, the rivalry had intensified to nuclear standards.

Clarke heard lightfoot falls running behind her and didn’t have to turn around to know that Lexa was jogging to catch up.

“Clarke, wait up!” Lexa called and Clarke heard howls and jeering from the group.

“What the fuck, Lexa!” Clarke spun around on her heels, her face still red and her jaw now clenched tightly. “Do you have to make this more of a spectacle than it already is?” 

“Lexa stopped just short of where Clarke stood and lifted her arms up defensively. “Whoa, I was just trying to get out of this heat. Sorry, didn't know it was a whole thing to get to my bed.” 

Clarke rolled her eyes and turned back to continue her walk to their cabin. She crossed her arms over her chest and let out a quick breath. 

“Bullshit, you knew what you were doing.” Clarke grumbled, fumbling with the old key and lock system. “I just want to survive this and finish my senior year so I can get the fuck out of this place.”

The door finally creaked open and Clarke walked in taking the bunk on the far right side.

“Hate it that bad here?” Lexa asked, walking in and avoiding the other beds that were further from Clarke’s and putting her bag on the one right next to where she had chosen. 

“Fuck you. You made me hate it here.” Clarke growled, getting up and moving over the the bed on the far left.

Lexa got up and followed Clarke, this time not sitting on the bed next to Clarke but jumping down next to her on the same bed. 

A loud crack echoed inside the cabin and the center of the mattress they were sitting on buckled and fell in.

Both girls jumped up and Lexa moved over to sit on the bed across from the broken bed.

“Because I didn’t want to be hidden away for four years?” Lexa asked, slamming herself down on the bed and looking up at Clarke.

Clarke’s fists were balled up at her side as she walked over to Lexa. “You didn’t fucking care when it mattered to you, too.” Clarke sat down on the bed with such force that the wooden side of the bed frame splintered, sending both of them to the ground.

Lexa jumped up and without pausing walked over to the bed on the right closest to the door.

“It never fucking mattered to me, Clarke. I loved you more than all this shit.” Lexa sat on the bed and crossed her arms over her chest. The sting of tears on the edges of her words.

Clarke got up and walked over to Lexa. She stood in front of her and looked down with intense eyes. “Everything in my life has come with a condition. How the fuck am I suppose to know this god damn relationship wasn’t going to cost me more than I had?” Clarke almost jumped off her feet before landing next to Lexa on the bed. The old frame basically buckled on the stress. Both girls got up and eyed the only other bed left in the small wooden cabin.

“I don’t know what else I can say to make you understand how much I love you.” Lexa got up from the destroyed bed and gently sat on the last remaining bed in the cabin.

Clarke got up and moved to the only door out and turned the brass lock. She moved toward the bed Lexa was sitting on and sat next to her.

“Why don’t you show me?” Clarke whispered, leaning in close to her ex.

[in-our-special-place]

The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the night and the empty skies my love

To the night and the empty skies

The first time ever I kissed your mouth

I felt the earth turn in my hand

Like the trembling heart of a captive bird

That was there at my command my love

That was there at my command

The first time ever I lay with you

And felt your heart beat close to mine

I thought our joy would fill the earth

And would last 'till the end of time my love

And would last 'till the end of time

The first time ever I saw your face

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave

To the night and the empty skies my love

To the night and the empty skies

-The First Time ever I saw your face Gordon Lightfoot

[y-rhywbeth2]

Haven't actually got around to gnome history yet, but since I doubt I will anytime soon and flicking through the timelines reminded me so I figured I'd just mention it: The Netherese once enslaved gnomes (and performed horrific experiments on them - some sages try to claim the Netherese invented gnomes, but others point out that gnomish artefacts predate Netheril), which is probably a large contributor to why they like hiding so much (illusion magic and hidden communities 'the Talls' don't have access to.

It's actually an interesting element for svirfneblin characters, what with the two-for-one enemy threat with an artefact of the empire that enslaved their ancestors and the illithid who are a present day threat that tends to enslave them.

The halflings are also aware of this danger where their small stature makes others think they can overpower them and get around it by either having a military and a war deity who will personally show up to beat the shit out of you if you invade their kingdom while ensuring that said bread basket nation is too valuable a trade partner to risk (Strongheart), or by breeding and training giant fuck-off guard dogs to protect their families (Lightfoot).

[writing-sideblog-behind-books]

3

jiraiya has something dangerous to check out so he left naruto in a cushy bodygard job until he retuns. it had been a nice chance from all the spying and combat training they'd been doing lately but nothing's happening and naruto's bored out of his mind. until he isn't. there's a masked intrudor on the second level sneaking around and naruto plops his own mask onto his face - annoyingly jiraiya hadn't let him use a henge this time he was supposed to train on disguised without chakra - and is out of his bed and at the window they endered through within seconds. guarding the client would probably be smarter than stalking the intruder but naruto's bored and his shadow clone will tell him if he's needed anyways. the intruder is clad in complete black and their face and hair completely obscured. they're maybe of naruto's height and dangerously lightfooted. they dance through the traps without setting them off and their steps make no sound. had naruto not seen the shadow of the open window he wouldn't have noticed them. there's a sword strapped around the intruder's waist and while naruto's armed it's only a couple of kunai and some ninja wire. in a fight he'd be outmatched. especially since he isn't supposed to reveal his identity. slowly, the intruder winds their way deeper into the complex until they come to some sealed room. the door is carelessly, with a slash of the sword, cut apart and they step through. all seals destroyed before they can activate. it's a beautiful desplay of restrained violence and precision. naruto is in awe. as the intruder searches the room naruto ponders what he should do. normally he would just barge in and stop the thief but he isn't really naruto right now, he's a disguise. and while preventing thiefery isn't technically part of his contract preventing harm to the client is and one could argue either case. naruto decides to do the less boring option that bears the less likelyhood of him getting yelled at by the client in the morning and makes himself known. the intruder startles so bad he throws the scrolls he's holding in the air, then in a practiced motion kicks them at naruto. the paper scolls flutter hamlessly, if not a bit torn up, to the ground but the wooden ones embedd themselves into the wall. the intruder, meanwhile, seems to have found what he's looking for because there's something in his hand as he goes for naruto's throat. his kunai stops the other's blade but he's at a huge disadvantage in range. he snaps his other arm foward and the ninja wire, rasor sharp and whip strong, tears into his opponent's side revealing pale skin and a line of blood. taking a step back, then summersaulting themselves over naruto's head, the intruder is almost to fast to follow. gone are the quiet steps but they're as fast and agile as before. naruto grabs one of the katana the guards summoned by the noise carry and continues his persuit until they're outside. the stolen scroll has vanished within the intruder's clothing and both their hands are free as they turn to face naruto again. they don't plan to be followed and if naruto wants the scroll back he needs to take it by force after beating them. the situation is painfully familiar. naruto doesn't plan to loose. a grin splits his face and at once they spring towards eachother. only, instead of clashing with him like sasuke does in his memories the intruder doges to the side and wire he had stolen is wrapped around naruto's legs. naruto stares into the sky, pondering just living in the dirt from now on, while the intruder is surely long gone. "bastard!" he yells out into nothingness, startling the guard that had finally made their way outside.

[syrupspinner]

i just beat the messenger

there's a joke about shooting the messenger in there somewhere

so this is one of those games with a very specific thought process. let's add a unique and enticing gimmick, but make it a surprise reveal! I always thought this was a bit silly. like, if you're a fan of horror, then you have no reason to play doki doki literature club, because it's just a normal dating sim. but if you do know it's a horror game, then you just had half the game ruined for you, because so much of the presentation and writing and atmosphere and... EVERYTHING is done with the intention that you're going in blind. it's a weird conundrum between trying to market the thing that makes your game stand out and trying to maintain a cool subversive reveal.

the messenger has that in two parts. the first reveal is the time travel gimmick. you start off in an 8bit ninja gaiden-like platformer, and eventually upgrade into a 16bit ninja gaiden-like platformer, complete with world swapping puzzles. yeah, I love world swapping puzzles! link between worlds was my shit back on 3ds

the second part is that the game has a minor genre shift, going from a straightforward platformer to... a nonlinear platformer. I know that all the advertising says a metroidvania, and you can call me a genre snob for this, but I'm not sure if it really counts. sure there's some overlap, like the hub area, but like... you unlock all your cool new movement abilities during the platforming bit, so once the "metroidvania" part starts you don't unlock any new abilities, which is kinda stupid to say out loud. that's like saying you're playing as a roguelike without random generation, I think we lost the plot here.

don't get me wrong, just because it's not a metroidvania doesn't mean it's not fun. act 1 (the platformer) is already a fantastic retro platformer, reasonable difficulty that's juuuuust tough enough to keep you engaged without making you feel like you're being asked for too much, great controls and a good kit that gels with the level design really well, it's good shit. I don't play a lot of retro platformers, so I dunno if saying it's one of the best I've played holds much weight, but damn

act 2 (the not-metroidvania) is also fun! like I said, slut for world swaps. I'm VERY lucky that I was saving up my currency (gems?) so I could get all the map upgrades at once, I would have a very unfun time fumbling for all the collectables without the sparkles. there's also the prerequisite of backtracking through earlier areas, but I think the hub teleporters being in unique spots and the time travel make it more fun that it would've been

WAIT. RED ALERT. so as a peak behind the curtain, I usually write these as I play. maybe not the most professional form, but it helps me collect my feeling in the moment so I don't forget shit. I played like an hour and a half of act two, getting those green coin things and even got a few music notes, the one from the colosusses which was just a world swap puzzle and the yellow one that was just a platforming challenge. also, the fact that I could traverse what I thought was the whole world with my normal moveset made me complacent. but uh. I just got the Lightfoot tabi and I can now walk on water. so never fucking mind I guess! this is a certified metroidvania

ironically, I think the game is at its best with the linear design. when the game opens up, there are a lot of points that feel... easy to lose. there isn't that feeling of exploring for cool new movement tech, feeling your character get objectively more skilled and having that reflected in the map. there are spots like that, like the seashell and the candle. but just as much is like, talking to someone and then being like "don't worry I'll do the thing" and then they do the thing and you get a macguffin, which is much less satisfying in my opinion. like, there's the big where you have to go to an out-of-the-way spot to talk to a monk, and she just opens a path for you in another location. it's fine to have a progression system that isn't based on movement, but the genre shift makes it feel less... impactful. it feels like the game is caught between being a tradplat and a metroidvania, and suffers from trying to fit into both molds at once

so all in all, it's not a perfect 10/10, but it's still a great game that is absolutely worth your time. personally, I'd love to check out a full retro platformer from this team without the mid-game shift, something in the vein of Primal Light

also, there's this whole wrap-around thing when act 2 begins, where Manfred takes you so far east you wrap around west. then it's revealed that you're part of a time cycle thing, but... is Manfred part of it too, or is it like a different dragon every time? and if there's been a bunch of messangers before me, how come my village is still standing? and if the implication is that Manfred flew us around the literal whole world, like... why? why not just... oh fuck it it's not that important

[tragady]

                     CHARLES  WOOD         BEATING  SOUL  AND  BREATHING  BLOOD.

basics.

given  name.     charles  wood. nickname.     charlie,   chuck,   give  him  some.     call  him  anything  but  charles. age.     thirty-three   (   november  10,   1990   ). place  of  birth.     long  beach,   california. song.     mr  sandman  by  the  chordettes. orientation.     bisexual,   slight  preference  for  women.     probably  left  many  a  situationship  at  home  but  would’ve  still  called  himself  single. occupation.     the  wretched  butcher  for  a  glum  town. education.     passed  high  school:   held  no  love  for  his  studies. religion.     possibly  been  baptised  but,   otherwise,   holds  no  emotion  towards  any  branch  of  faith.     occupied  his  younger  brothers’  weekends  by  sending  them  to  sunday  school.

physical  characteristics.

height.     one-hundred  seventy-eight  centimetres,   five  foot  ten. eyes.     shy  of  a  deep  brown,   livened  in  the  light  when  he  flashes  his  teeth. hair.     jet  black.     can’t  gel  his  hair  properly  anymore;   absolutely  slicks  it  back  with  his  sweat  now. gender  identity.     cis  man   (   he   +   him   ). build.     broad  shoulders  and  long-legged. distinguishing  marks.     a  white  grin  dripping  red  from  his  bloodied  lip.     ever  the  charmer.

personality   &   behaviour.

hobbies.     the  demanding  kind,   especially  pertaining  to  his  hands:   fiddling  with  a  car  engine,   sculpting  wood,   scaling  stone  walls  and  chainlink  fences.     with  all  the  time  in  the  world,   these  hobbies  probably  bore  a  craftsman’s  hands.     a  big  gamer,   and  winner  against  his  brothers.     recently  began  hunting  before  arriving  in  the  town. likes.     shuffling  a  pack  of  cards,   watching  the  moon,   now,   and  the  path  it  lights  for  him  to  follow,   when  a  vein  pops,   a  crowded  bonfire,   cracking  full  beer  bottles  against  skinny  trees   –   for  target  practice,   of  course. dislikes.     the  songs  crickets  sing,   dry  mornings  peppered  by  an  animal’s  lightfoot,   true  silence,   a  bedroom  of  his  own,   freshly  cleaned  hands. quirks.     bites  his  bottom  lip  so  often   –   therein  will  lie  a  moment  of  genuine  emotion:   his  deep  sneer  and  lowered  chin   –   that  it  often  looks  swollen. strengths.     when  he’s  talkative  in  a  way  that  reads  as  friendly. weaknesses.     when  he’s  glib  like  a  hungry,   pink  cat. moral  alignment.     chaotic  evil. character  inspiration.     lalo  salamanca   (   better  call  saul   ),   feyd-rautha  harkonnen   (   dune   ),   billy  butcher   (   the  boys   ),   wade  wilson   /   deadpool   (   marvel   ),   spike  spiegel   (   cowboy  bebop   ),   tyler  durden   (   fight  club   ),   vaas  montenegro   (   far  cry  series   ),   mr  blonde   (   reservoir  dogs   ),   handsome  jack   (   borderlands  series   ).

background.

before  your  mother,   there  is  your  sister,   biting  your  shoulder  after  you   –   wide  and  itching;   greedy  down  to  your  fingertips   –   stole  another  fry  from  her  plate.     your  mother  isn’t  there,   in  your  mind’s  eye,   but  she  must  be,   ignoring  your  sister’s  indignant  cries.     but  not  your  reddening  cheek,   nor  the  deep  teeth-marks  now  dampening  your  washed  shirt.     the  cupboard  hinge  creaks,   the  sink  continues  to  drip,   and  your  mother  watches  a  salt-lipped  smile  cling  like  a  loose  scab.     there’s  a  pinched  cheek,   and  a  wet  temple.     a  gaunt  laugh.     this   is  how  she  pockmarks  your  memory.     how  you  mark  your  territory.     yes,   your  mother  was  there.     it  wasn’t  your  aunt,   or  their  mother,   or  a  neighbour.     or  a  kind  stranger  at  the  supermarket.     she  was  there.

after  you  and  your  sister,   there’s  a  flock  of  younger  brothers.     stretched  years  between  you  and  them;   your  hands  must  warm  their  blankets.     offer  their  toothless  mouths  your  food,   this  time.     your  mother  is  less  than  a  memory  now,   barely  a  footnote.     your  sister  knew  this  before  you  did.     she  accepts  a  dream  for  what  it  is,   and  then  provides  anew.     chips  the  colour  away  with  her  nail  until  their  beds  remember  what  mother  means  in  this  house.     how  it,   too,   yearns  for  that  woman’s  touch.     weeps  its  paint  off  the  old,   plaster  walls.     it  admits  something  that  you  never  will.     not  even  when  you  surrender  to  the  same  fate.

there  is  a  man  in  the  house.     out  on  the  patio.     in  the  garden,   amid  the  wilted  soil  and  yellow  grass,   leaning  against  the  old  tree.     just  as  crooked,   bending  into  the  neighbour’s  garden.     the  silhouette  of  a  man,   which  is  all  any  of  you  could  know,   without  you  in  the  house.     you  learn  to  provide   –   under  the  quiet,   harsh  press  of  your  sister’s  thumb   –   with  quick  work  cutting  meat  at  the  book-end  of  a  grocery  store.     uniformed,   yet  rowdy.     you’re  messy  when  you  skin  an  animal.     your  teeth  are  still  white,   like  the  milky  edges  of  your  eyes.     you  are  the  man,   and  now  you  are  the  silhouette  too.     your  mother’s  son,   your  father’s  legacy.     your  own  rotten  dream.

where  was  charles  when  he  saw  the  tree  and  the  murder  of  crows?     where  was  he  going?     was  he  travelling  alone?     how  did  he  feel?

he  was  returning  to  the  family  cabin  after  a  morning  hunt.     alone,   of  course,   like  any  older  brother  would  be.     and  the  empty  pit  in  his  chest  that  comes  with  it.     if  anything,   he  thinks  of  the  cold,   and  how  he  needs  a  new  jacket.

describe  charles’  first  day  in  town.     did  he  arrive  in  the  daytime?     was  he  warned  by  the  residents?     did  he  have  to  be  restrained?

roved  through  the  red-sunned  woods  for  a  while.     despite  knowing  the  trek  is  longer  than  it  should  be,   he  levels  his  hunting  rifle  at  the  first  person  that  crosses  his  path.     you’re  trespassing,   he  would  say,   this  is  my  land.     but  there,   he  learns  that  there  is  no  land.     or  how  all  that  remains  is  land.     the  news  doesn’t  disturb  him   –   not  in  the  way  the  villagers  might  expect   –   he  just  laughs  and  laughs.     forgets  that  there’s  a  rifle  in  his  hands.     sun-blistered  face,   again,   under  a  new  set  of  stars.

what  did  he  leave  behind?     what  was  his  life  like  on  the  outside?

he  leaves  a  family  that  was  rich  with  warmth.     the  sister  that  will  look  into  the  mirror  in  his  room,   and  see  her  mother’s  face.     the  butcher  will  only  notice  that  his  hand  shakes  more,   now  that  he  cuts  more  meat.     charles’  empty  heart  joins  him.

[dollarbin]

Nickel Bin #20:

Gillian Welch and David Rawlings' Hashtag

A week or so back I reveled in the untapped and humble greatness still to be found in this duo's second Bootleg collection. At the time I promised to dedicate my future self to their new record, Woodland.

Well, I encountered that future self yesterday while moving a little less than half of my sprawling record collection around my house; my son's gone back to college so I'm claiming a corner of his bedroom as my own for the fall. Here's the current state of affairs:

Anyway, maybe it was me missing them, or maybe it was getting my hands on all my old titles, or maybe it was the 100 degrees and rising temperatures beating in on our unairconditioned home, but I played Woodland through twice yesterday and each time I got to Hashtag, a mostly Rawlings number in his thoughtful, here's-something-I've-been-meaning-to-tell-you guise, sung with his increasingly trademark quaver, I burst into tears.

How about those yearning strings? How about the harmony coming in on "when will we..." Man, I'm tearing up again!

As he ages, Dave's voice increasingly sounds wise and soulful to me; twenty or more years ago, in the rare initial moments when he sang without Gillian, Rawlings vocals struck me as sophomoric and pimply. Gillian's voice was rich, strong and unique on one day one: they both knew it, so her name, face and singing graced their records. But something exciting is happening for them now; Dave's coming into his own.

I should have seen this coming. After all, his cut off take of Dylan's Abandoned Love from the duo's Covid cover toss off record made his rising confidence and tone clear.

Hashtag was apparently written for Guy Clark, a guy they once opened for, who penned for Jerry Jeff Walker and many others one of the greatest songs of all time.

But the song could just as well be for John Prine, Gordon Lightfoot, Tom Petty or Johnny Cash; five, ten or twenty years from now they could dedicate to Neil, Bob, Joni or, gulp, Lucinda.

And us? When will we become ourselves? I don't know. But I'm gonna wipe these tears away and go get to work on it right now.

[beardedmrbean]

Scandal-ridden Illinois Mayor Tiffany Henyard faced waves of jeers and booing throughout a raucous meeting where she faced fed-up constituents.

Henyard, the self-described "supermayor" of Dolton, a Chicago suburb, and Thornton Township Supervisor, has recently been dubbed the "worst mayor in America" by critics after being accused of misdeeds ranging from weaponizing police raids to spending taxpayer money on luxuries in Las Vegas. Most recently she has also come under fire for an alleged sexual assault by one of her allies during the Vegas trip, where the alleged victim claims to have been fired after speaking out.

Earlier in April, Henyard made headlines for being condemned by local Dolton residents, but this Tuesday, she was similarly skewered by residents of the Thornton township in a town hall meeting. "Everybody wanted to continue to be a s---show and not really show facts as it relates to what's really going on in our township," she responded.

The mayor, holding a golden microphone, sparked outrage when she argued, "We’re here to help each other and not hurt each other. And it’s a shame that us — us, I’m talking to my Black and Brown communities — would sit here and fight."

DEMOCRATIC ILLINOIS ‘SUPER MAYOR’ VETOES ATTEMPT TO PROBE HER LAVISH SPENDING

The audience could be heard loudly jeering and booing in response and Henyard went on to add, "Guess what? I am the youth, I am the future, no matter what you think or may say."

Residents slammed Henyard for the alleged scandals and accused her of lacking transparency about them.

"When you don’t answer questions, there’s something to hide," Dolton resident Mary Avon said at the meeting.

While Henyard has repeatedly condemned media coverage for allegedly misrepresenting her conduct to the country, one South Holland resident, Curtis Watts, said, "No, ‘madam supervisor,’ we are not brainwashed. We are fed up."

Multiple people spoke about the sexual assault allegations, arguing that it demonstrates that Henyard fails to protect women. 

Trina Downs was one such resident who said, "As a Black woman, I wanna see you protect Black women, and I haven’t seen that, Tiffany."

Henyard has made headlines for appealing to racial politics amid her scandals before, proclaiming during a previous meeting, "Y’all got false narratives out there, and y’all should be ashamed of y’all selves. Y’all Black. Y’all are Black! And y’all sitting up here beating and attacking on a Black woman that’s in power. Y’all should be ashamed of y’all selves."

Fox News Digital previously reported that Henyard has been living like a royal with a combined salary of nearly $300,000 — more than the state's governor — and frequent use of beauty vendors, despite the 23,000 residents of the Illinois town having a median income of $24,000.

The Village of Dolton in Illinois voted Monday to hire former Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot as a "Special Investigator" to look into Henyard's conduct. On Tuesday, Lightfoot began to be paid $400 an hour to gather information on Henyard’s alleged spending and finance mismanagement as well as "any state and federal violations." 

[cheetour]

whichever or however many from 1-30 you wanna answer, I'd really love to hear you gush about your characters

Bahahaha, I don't think I have all 30 questions in me!!! But let me take the first 6 and gush a bit about the mechanics of how I built Eve!!!

what's your tav's name, class, and race?

which background do they have? how does it play into their story? (and if you're doing a durge playthrough, how did your tav come to be the haunted one?)

what feats have you picked for them?

favourite weapon type to beat away goblins with?

for the spellcasters, what's their favourite spell?

Evening Tavernsong is a Lightfoot Halfling Bard with the Acoloyte background (although I think an argument could be made for Guild Artisan or Performer). Her subclass in-game was Lore, but I think Glamour would be a closer fit.

Eve spent most of the game carrying the Blood of Lathander and never using it. In Stepdaughter, she has a dirk, which is a sort of everyday dagger that can be used for both self-defence but also, like, cooking, which I don't think she ever uses to fight; Eve hates to get her hands dirty.

Gameplay-wise, I created her to be absolutely, hilariously, piteously useless in direct combat, which is reflected in Stepdaughter. Eve's spell list is entirely made up of shit like Friends and Feather Fall and Enhance Ability. In my BG3 campaign enemies don't even target her, she's so useless. For most of the game, her singular offensive spell was Vicious Mockery.

Also, because at my core I am a 5e bitch, this is Eve's current in-universe spell list (in addition to Vicious Mockery and Friends):

Absolutely none of these are offensive spells and most of them don't even appear in BG3. She really does just run around on her little legs while everyone else is fighting.

[gale-gentlepenguin]

List of Pixar Protagonists and whether or not I can kick their ass

Flick from Bugs life: Yes. He is an ant, I am a man. Now if we were the same size, thats a different story. But I still think I got him beat

Marlon and Dori: They are fish. I would eat him for dinner.

Mike Wazowski: I wouldnt want to fight him, but I could beat his ass

Sully: No... He would rip me in half like a sheet of Paper

Woody and Buzz: If its a one v one no issue. I would probably so freaked out toys are alive I would smash them to pieces. But if they tag team I might get overwhelmed. I have seen the Toy story movies

Wall-e: I would not fight Wall-e. He is too cute. I would walk away.

Remy: If he gets on my head its over, but considering how easily he has been caught... I think I can take him

Mr.Incredible: No... f*** no. This is basically Hercules all over again.

Mrs.Incredible/Elastagirl: I stand no chance.

Lightning McQueen: He is a car and I have watched Man vs Car. Car always wins

Mater: He is really stupid. I could probably trick him into not fighting me. But if I gotta fight him no... I would probably get Tetanus anyway

Carl: I would beat that old man's ASS.

Russel: I would punt that child

Merida: No... I would not beat merida, she would riddle me with arrow wounds before I even got close

Joy: The concept of Happiness... I mean probably. Mainly because Riley was beating it most of the movie (Lol)

Arlo: He is a dinosaur... but he is a small dino... hmmm 60/40 on who would win that

Miguel: I could beat him up... but that movie already did so much to him I couldnt do it

Ian and Barley Lightfoot: No magic... I could beat them easy. With Magic.... no

Joe Gardner: He does seem scrawny... I think I could beat his ass

Luca: As long as we arent in the water I think he's an easy fight

Meilin lee: She can turn into a giant Red Panda... so no

Buzz lightyear (Light year) : Buzz is supposed to be a peak astronaut… but I will not lie. I would win because of my unyielding rage regarding the film he is in. I would BEAT HIS ASS