#MORTAL ADVOCATE

[aliumfungus]

blue // red

tybalt and zegg

[fsfghgee]

What other thoughts do you have on Madame Bo? She interested me even more than the guest characters. And how do you think she and Sektor get along with the other Linkuei we already know?

By the way, I really like your blog 🧚‍♀️

.... ....

Like all Lin Kuei, Madam Bo trained since childhood to better serve the clan.

Although the Lin Kuei are an ancient warrior clan with the duty of defending Earthrealm, Madam Bo, as a former Lin Kuei and a former warrior leader, traveled to many realms and among them OutWorld on missions when she was part of the clan.

On one of her missions, Madam Bo met a citizen of OutWorld, who at first she believed was plotting against Earthrealm, but turned out to be an ally who over time ended up becoming something more.

Madam Bo's loyalty to the Lin Kuei made her decide to end her relationship with the OutWorlder, due to her duty lie in Earthrealm and that of her suitor in OutWorld.

After some time alone, Bo decided to give a chance to her childhood friend, an master armorer, who ended up becoming her partner and the father of her only daughter.

Madam Bo has been training Kung Lao and Raiden since childhood.

She was there when Kung Lao spoke his first words. And according to her, ever since he was born he has been making excuses for not doing something he should just because he doesn't want to.

She considers Kung Lao and Raiden as her sons. Raiden is her favorite student and she would like to have more like him, one Kung Lao is enough.

Before the attack on Kuai Liang and Harumi's wedding, Kung Lao had never met Sektor. The only skilled female fighters in Earthrealm that he knew were Madam Bo and Raiden's sister. For him and Raiden, finding out that Madam Bo had a daughter and that she was so different from her mother was a shock.

Madam Bo's favorite pastime is cooking. Opening a restaurant after leaving the Lin Kuei was her first idea.

Madam Bo's special tea is strong enough to cause hallucinations.

Kung Lao's stubbornness and soft body tests Madam Bo's patience. Sometimes she can't help but hit him on the head with her big spoon.

Although the Lin Kuei's act as thugs threatening Madam Bo and attacking her restaurant was merely a test for Kung Lao and Raiden and designed by Madam Bo herself, Sektor was not happy to learn that her elderly mother agreed to Smoke throwing her off the balcony, and even less to learn that Kung Lao had injured Bi-Han.

Sektor doesn't get along with Smoke and Scorpion now. But she used to get along with both of them as much as Bi-Han did, except that in any dispute between them, she would take Bi-Han's side.

Sektor loves her mother, but as a true daddy's girl, she has never hidden her favoritism for her father since she was little, and before she started following Bi-Han, the man she followed everywhere was her father. And her father, in turn, always gave her everything she wanted and never denied her anything. Even though she spends less time with her father now due to her responsibilities as second-in-command of the Lin Kuei, her father is still her best friend and confidant.

Although only for passing by, due to her duties as a warrior leader and to her family, as well as for her mission to train Kung Lao and Raiden naturally create a distance between her and the Grandmaster's family, Madam Bo has known Bi-Han and his brothers since childhood.

Madam Bo didn't disapprove of her daughter's relationship with Bi-Han at first, but she does now.

Sektor's actions embarrass Madam Bo.

Madam Bo was very surprised to hear about what Bi-Han has done, especially because in her presence, he was always on his best behavior.

Sektor and her mother disagree on many things except when it comes to their fighting skills. Sektor admires her mother's fighting skills and has become a great warrior to honor her mother's legacy in the Lin Kuei. Madam Bo knows how skilled her daughter is and how powerful she has become.

Training Raiden's sister has made her think more of Sektor than usual. Even though the two have little in common and very different personalities.

Madam Bo didn't allow Kung Lao to join Tomas and Kuai Liang in Raiden's sister's test because she knew it would distract the girl. She knows how sad the young woman was that Kung Lao hasn't written to her in a long time.

Madam Bo enjoyed getting to know Tomas and Kuai Liang better when Tomas finally fulfilled his wish to visit her restaurant for a meal instead of a fight.

Being away from her family to train future Shaolin monks and champions of Earthrealm wasn't a life she chose, but she is certainly honored to have received this mission from Lord Liu Kang.

[mobydyke]

life is about picking the weirdest hills to die on and then dying there

[poedays]

This is Sugar’s song:

“Forever young, I want to be forever young // Do you really want to live forever? // Forever, and ever

Forever young, I want to be forever young // Do you really want to live forever? // Forever young.”

[famewolf]

cishet men really do just be saying things to me because they think i am also cis

i am often appalled at the things they decide are ok to say/think out loud to other men because they think it's a 'safe space' to say it

[primordialchoice]

Lilith isn't someone to have a fixed point of view in her quest for throwing hurdles your way. She is in constant motion and will change her arguments depending on her opponent.

[bronzebtch]

in the absolutely raaare case (emphasise on rare) AU where maybe rhea actually got along w/ da3mon and vis3rys and she was invited to ride a dragon, she would 100% faint on the take-off and landing, and maybe possibly puke once she touches down 😔

[epicwin64]

David Zaslav hates animation

David Zaslav hates video games

David Zaslav hates preservation

David Zaslav hates ART. Fixed it for you.

They're doing it with video games now :/

[failuretolisten]

Silent Suffering: Unveiling the Crisis of Black Maternal Mortality

Black maternal mortality risk is a pressing issue that highlights significant disparities in healthcare. Black women are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications compared to white women, regardless of education, social status, or pre-existing conditions. This racial disparity in maternal mortality is deeply embedded in the healthcare system and reflects broader social…

[primordialruin]

^^^ Best summary of my interpretation of this fiery lady.

[nevermind-i-forgot-whats-that]

Sometimes, as much as I love internet communities and spaces, I really think a lot of people have spent so much time in sanitized, morally pure echo chambers that they lose sight of realism and life outside the internet.

I live in Alabama. My fiancée and I cannot hold hands down the street without fear of homophobic assholes. We have an abortion ban with no exceptions for rape or incest. We are one of the poorest states in the US with some of the lowest scores on metrics related to quality of life, including maternal mortality, healthcare, education, and violence. It’s not a coincidence that we are also one of the most red, one of the most Republican states in the Union. In 2017 the UN said the conditions in Alabama are similar to those in a third-world country.

Trump gave a voice to the most violently racist, sexist, xenophobic groups of people who, unfortunately for most of us in the Southern U.S., run our states and have only grown more powerful since his rise to power. The Deep South powers MAGA, and we all suffer for it.

We have no protections if they don’t come from the federal government.

I know people are suffering internationally and my heart is with them. However, this election is not just about foreign policy - we have millions of Americans right here at home living in danger, living in areas where they have been completely abandoned by their local leaders. We need this win.

No candidate is perfect, but for the first time in my voting lifetime I’m excited to vote. I’m excited for the Kamala Harris/Tim Walz ticket because they are addressing the issues close to home. They’re advocating for education as the ticket to a better life, but without the crippling student debt. They’re advocating for the right to love who you love without fear and with pride. Kamala has always been pro-LGBT+ and so has Tim. Again, if you’re queer in the South, we don’t have support unless it comes from the federal government, and we absolutely will not have support if the Republicans regain the White House.

Kamala speaks in length about re-entry programs to reduce recidivism and help people who have been arrested and imprisoned regain their lives. Tim Walz supported restoring voting rights to felons. In the South, you know who comprise the majority of felons? Members of minorities. It’s one of the major tools of systemic racism and mass disenfranchisement, and arguably the modern face of slavery (there are some fantastic documentaries and books that explain the connection between the post-Reconstruction South and the disproportionate rates of imprisonment for BIPOC). Having candidates who recognize this and want to restore the freedom and rights to people who have come into contact with the criminal justice system? And keep them from having to go to prison in the first place? That’s refreshing. That’s exciting.

I would *love* to live in a country where women’s rights are respected, where LGBT+ rights and protections are a given, where we treat former criminals and individuals experiencing mental health crises with respect and dignity. I would *love* to live in a country where education is free of religious interference and each and every citizen is entitled to a fair start and equal opportunities.

But I don’t live in that country. Millions and millions of Americans find their rights and freedoms up for debate and on the ballot.

Project 2025 poses the largest threat to the future of our democracy as we know it. We are being called to fight for the future of our country.

We have to put on our oxygen masks first before we can help others.

You don’t have moral purity when you wash your hands of the millions of us who are still fighting for own freedoms right here.

The reality is that a presidential candidate is a best fit, and not a perfect fit. But comparatively speaking? Kamala is pretty damn close.

[aliumfungus]

MORTAL ADVOCATE - chapter 18 - UPDATE! When magic is routine and dictator of Holy Light casts his jealous gaze over the planet, follow Unit #2399 (aka 'Zegg'), a corpse-lawyer, as he investigates the most important criminal case of his undead non-life.

MORTAL ADVOCATE CHAPTER 18 (link)

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[deadgodjess]

Do I think Batman is "overprotective" in the traditional sense we talk about with parents wrt to their kids? No.

Do I think he has a special file on every creature any of them have interacted with more than twice? Yes.

But like, he's not giving shovel talks, and hes' not gonna go harass someone who made one of the Robins cry.

But... he does probably encourage them to have contingencies for everyone they know, especially other superheroes, especially people they're dating.

Like, Batman isn't afraid of them getting their feelings hurt, he IS afraid of them getting compromised (because he projects on them SO HARD and is ALWAYS getting compromised because of his penis and emotional immaturity).

This isn't like, just him being a cold heartless asshole, imho. I think this comes from a place of real love and care but he's, you know, Batman. He formed his core identity at 8 years old from a movie about masked heroes.

[the-mortuary-witch]

TYPES OF DEVOTIONAL ACTS

FOR LOVE/BEAUTY DEITIES: 

Skin care.

Do your makeup (or embrace your natural beauty).

Paint your nails.

Dress up a little.

Write love letters.

Masterbate.

Change your bed sheets/clean up your room/space.

Listen to love songs/songs about sex/loving yourself.

Having sex.

Read romance novels.

Play interactive romance novels/romance games (stardew valley, dream daddy, The Arcana, etc).

FOR WAR DEITIES: 

Listen to angry music.

Advocate for yourself.

Reinforce your boundaries.

Cut out the negative people in your life.

Feel your anger, recognize your anger, don't force it down, but don't lash out to others. "I am angry. This thing made me angry. It's okay that I am angry, it is not okay to cause harm to those who do not deserve it." Etc etc.

Read biographies or accounts of war, or dystopian novels (accounts of war like Night by Elie Weisel, dystopian like Divergent or Hunger Games).

Learn self defence.

Learn about how your area was used in past wars.

Play fighting games (call of duty, mortal combat, etc).

FOR MUSIC/ART DEITIES: 

Create! Learn an instrument, draw, etc.

Write a song.

Paint for them.

Listen to experimental or storytelling music. All music is art, so find a vibe for your deity.

Take pictures of nature, art is everywhere in nature, from the paintings on butterfly wings to the sunset.

Read/write poetry.

Read poetry books, or books about music or art (think biographies from musicians/artists, or books like Guitar Notes by Mary Amato or such) (guitar notes is a mid-grade book but it's the only one I could think of the name of).

Visit galleries or local shows, support local artists.

FOR WISDOM DEITIES: 

Read books, any type, but mostly classics like Sherlock Holmes or Jane Austen.

Watch documentaries.

Take free online courses on subjects that interest you.

Visit and support your local libraries and independently owned bookstores.

Find old unloved books at thrift stores.

Learn a new skill.

Listen to music from different time periods.

Visit museums.

Play strategy games (chess, supreme commander, etc).

Do puzzles.

FOR NATURE DEITIES: 

Raise a plant or a garden.

Listen to nature sounds, or music with nature sounds.

Observe nature persevering, vines crawling up a building, dandelions in cracks in the pavement.

Read wilderness guides.

Learn about your area's native flora and fauna.

Visit local parks.

Open windows and let the fresh air in.

Scavenge/forage (in safe areas).

Play cozy games (animal crossing in a good example).

FOR DEATH DEITIES: 

Visit local graveyards/cemeteries (don't forget to be mindful and conscious of others and the spirits there).

Listen to music by artists who have passed on, or music about death.

Learn about different cultures' funeral practices.

Safely move roadkill out of the road, leave a small offering if possible (again, do so SAFELY).

Read books that have death themes (like Edgar Allen Poe, Wuthering Heights, or They Both Die In The End).

Think about how you want your body to be treated in death. Do you want to be buried, cremated, donated to science?

FOR HOME/HEARTH DEITIES: 

Read cozy books.

Play cozy games (sims, animal crossing).

Make your house seem warm and inviting to visitors.

Learn how to bake, either from scratch or a box, both are acceptable.

Learn how to sew or knit or crochet.

Watch cozy movies.

Light candles if you don't have a fireplace.

Listen to soft music.

Visit your friends or family and bring them baked goods.

FOR STRONG PARENTAL DEITIES:

Take care of your friends. 

Make sure your friends eat and are drinking water, do the same for yourself. 

Tell the people in your life you love them, you're proud of them, they're doing a good job. 

Read books about found family, self help books. 

Listen to music that makes you feel safe and loved. 

Carry a figure that represents them. 

Take care of yourself the way that they would take care of you.

Cook for yourself. Make yourself feel safe and loved.

FOR HEALTH DEITIES: 

Carry bandaids, Tylenol, and extra pads/tampons for people who may need them.

Learn about the human body and how it works.

Take your meds.

Make art out of old pill bottles for them.

Know and respect your limits.

Watch documentaries about doctors or health sciences.

Research holistic remedies and see if any might be of use to you (DO NOT SUBSTITUTE THEM FOR MODERN MEDICINE) be careful of misinformation, and any interactions that certain things might have with your meds.

FOR SEA/OCEAN/WATER DEITIES: 

Have a small fountain in your home (you can find them at some dollar stores, or if you're mechanically savvy, make your own).

Salts in your baths.

Visit local streams, creeks, rivers, or beaches.

Read about marine life/river life.

Read about your local water sources, learn about the water cycle.

Collect rain water.

Stand in the rain, feel it on you, let it ground you.

Listen to music about water/with water sounds/the ocean/the beach

Have pictures in your home/space of the ocean.

If you visit the ocean, collect some water and sand and seashells (make sure you follow your own personal gratitude system) to have in your home.

Don't fret if you're landlocked, your practice is valid, you don't need to be at the ocean all the time to feel it's presence. The rain clouds blow in from hundreds of miles away. The ocean is always with you.

Drink water.

Carry a small vial of water with you (could be ocean water, river water, or tap water with or without salt in it) you can keep it in your car, in your pocket, or wear it as a necklace, etc.

Carry a small vial of salt with you (could be hand harvested from the ocean, table salt, or any kind of off the shelf salt).

FOR SKY/WIND/AIR DEITIES: 

Let the air in, open windows when possible

Offerings of air, such as burning incense, smoking tobacco, or using essential oils.

Reading poetry, mythology, or other writings about the deity.

Let yourself be free.

Sit outside for a few minutes a day, or longer.

Playing wind instruments, like flutes or panpipes.

Making offerings of feathers, wings, or other things related to birds or mythical sky beings.

Participating in sky-related activities, such as skydiving, flying, or hot-air balloon rides, to feel closer to the sky deity.

Building or using a wind chime or wind sculpture to connect with the energies of the sky and the wind.

Engaging in outdoor activities like biking, sailing, or kite flying to appreciate the gift of air and sky.

Flying kites or sky lanterns. 

FOR TRAVELER DEITIES: 

Pick something up for them on your travels, could be a rock, could be a souvenir.

Put a symbol of them in your car.

Wear shoes that are good for walking.

Drive/walk around to explore new places (you don't even have to leave your town).

Take backroads.

Be a respectful tourist in every new place that you visit, don't be afraid of looking stupid.

FOR QUEER DEITIES:

Educate yourself on queer history.

Express yourself truthfully.

Listen to queer music.

Read queer books.

Embrace your identity.

Read queer poetry, like that of Sappho.

Keep yourself safe in spaces that are less open to identities.

Support local queer owned businesses or artists.

Queer art.

Love yourself and take care of yourself.

Go to drag shows.

Relish in the fact that queerness has been around since the very first civilizations.

[cosmermaid]

It's been years since I've read a Discworld novel and I don't remember what the actual plot of The Shepherd's Crown was.

What I do remember is fucking sobbing in my bathtub because of how obvious Pratchett made it that he was aware his time was coming and he wanted to face his own mortality, and did so by taking Granny Weatherwax with him.

For those who don't know Pratchett was diagnosed with Alzheimer's eight years before he died, and advocated for the legalization of medically assisted suicide. He was open about how he struggled with Alzheimer's, and how he wanted to die while he was still himself.

I don't remember the plot of the book, but I do remember Granny Weatherwax cleaning her home, taking a bath and dressing in her finest clothes, then altering her "I ATE'NT DEAD" sign to say "I IS PROBLY DEAD" before laying down to pass away.

I remember Death greeting her with a kind judgement when he came to reap her soul.

FOR I CAN SEE THE BALANCE AND YOU HAVE LEFT THE WORLD MUCH BETTER THAN YOU FOUND IT, AND IF YOU ASK ME, said Death, NOBODY COULD DO ANY BETTER THAN THAT.

Like, it's so glaringly obvious that Pratchett was expressing that control he craved over his own end. Dying with dignity and leaving a positive impact on the world. Granny Weatherwax knew it was her time and took every detailed preparation she could. I think Pratchett did the same with the Shepherd's Crown.