#Raven Writes stuff

[shorthaltsjester]

i truly am baffled by some of the cr fandom when it comes to the topic of the gods and c1 and death in general because. the raven queen didn’t kill vax. in fact she gave him more time. she Does get the blame from keyleth and some from vex but even those two by the end were more so just holding grudges wrapped up in their own issues that were exacerbated by vax’s choices. but it was always vax’s choice. which, y’know, i’m aware of a portion of the cr fandom’s propensity for dismantling every interesting choice a character makes into something forced upon them, but the role of fate in exandria has never been like bad faith you must adhere to the path chosen for you, it’s much more like what brennan has spoken about wrt specificity: as one makes more choices they become more particular to a given outcome. but that’s not some curse by the gods that dooms characters that’s literally just. what living is.

and of course death is a complicated thing that everyone approaches differently but. god the amount of people who view vax’s dynamic with the raven queen as an injustice or his death as some unforgivable thing the raven queen caused some how? in the words of laura bailey, Were We Watching The Same Orb? it isn’t an injustice that vax, completely willing to pay whatever it cost him to save his sister, was bound to the Deal He Agreed To. his role as the champion was one he found meaning and purpose in. further, it was the raven queen that allowed him to be resurrected later in the campaign. like, it isn’t fair that vax had so little time but it is time he chose and time he was given, but vox machina tends to fall on the reaping the benefits side of unfairness of power in exandria. if what makes the gods — particularly the matron of ravens — irredeemable is that they have the power to make choices that mortals can’t like denying someone’s resurrection, how irredeemable must the group of heroes called vox machina (whose members drop like flies to be revived moments later) be to the everyday person who just has to watch the people they love die and make peace with it?

of course it sucks that vax could not have a happy ending or epilogue like the rest of vm, except of course, vex has a family and is happy and loved, and keyleth is strong and alive and protected, and i think that looks a lot like what vax wanted most.

[micamicster]

Super Rich Kids

Close my eyes and feel the crash...

I wrote this one on post-its on a trans-continental flight after my phone (where i was re-reading the raven cycle) died. 0/10 plane experience would not recommend but I did manage to entertain myself! And now hopefully you as well!

When Ronan pulled into Monmouth Manufacturing he knew Gansey wouldn’t be there. Adam Parrish was, though, sitting on the steps in the golden afternoon light, bike dumped to the side in dying grass. He didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid when Ronan bootlegged the BMW into an approximation of parking on the far side of the lot, which was fine because that’s how he would have parked the car anyway, whether or not Adam was here.

Ronan was pretty sure that Gansey had arranged a shift system with the other boys, to prevent Ronan from being unaccompanied on the rare occasions of his own absence. The idea of a babysitter should have rankled Ronan, but Adam did not seem particularly invested in his role. Small favors.

As he got out of the car he gave Adam his customary once-over, as brief as it was habitual. You could notice a lot in a single glance, if you were Ronan, glancing at Adam.

Adam was wearing long sleeves (his father? Or just because it was October?) and his faded camo pants, the ones Ronan said made him look like a jingoistic meathead. They had recently acquired a tear in one knee. Not in the stylish, deliberate manner in which Ronan’s own jeans were shredded, but awkwardly, in an L-shape, where they had caught on some jagged edge and given way before even careful Adam had noticed and unhooked himself. The tear gaped open at times, like it was doing now, revealing Adam’s knobby left knee and, worse, a triangle of his brown thigh.

Ronan looked away.

Ronan never allowed himself, even in dreams, to trespass beyond the carefully demarcated boundaries of Adam’s clothes. And Adam was usually helpful in the maintenance of this boundary. Unlike Gansey, who could be found working on his model Henrietta in boxers at all hours of the night, or wandering to and from the shower in a towel, absent-mindedly forgetting his clothes in bathroom or bedroom. Unlike the boys Ronan played tennis with, who stripped down casually in the locker room after practice. Unlike even Ronan himself, who’d never met a shirt he couldn’t rip the sleeves off; Adam was always fully covered.

This summer, foolishly, Ronan had imagined that this might change. Now that the hideous secrets Adam protected with his long sleeves were no longer his alone. But by now he knew what kept those sleeves in place, something that Adam had already understood: that knowing and seeing are two very different things.

For example: this. Ronan knew that Adam, like most people who walked around on earth under their own power, possessed thighs. Two of them, attached in the normal way to other body parts, such as knees and hips. To know this was one thing.

Now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t stop seeing it. The way his knee bent, and the muscle above shifted as Adam made room on the steps for him. Ronan was looking away, out at the familiar, grounding, skid marks on the concrete of Monmouth’s lot, but he could picture in their place with deadly accuracy the hinge of Adam’s knee, the tanned skin of his thigh, scattered with golden-brown hair. He could dream about pressing his face against it.

He picked up a rock and hurled it. It glanced off the side of the soulless suburban and fell anticlimactically into the grass dying by the rear tire. It didn’t help.

Adam shifted next to him, subtly.

“What?” said Ronan. “Impressed?”

“Surprised, more like. I thought you were supposed to be the tennis star.”

“You think you can do better?” Ronan pried another hunk of gravel or concrete out of the dirt and tossed it in his left hand, tauntingly.

“I know I can.”

“But?”

“But,” said Adam, with some hint of exasperation coloring his voice, “I’m not going to sit here chunking rocks at Gansey’s car to prove it. My ego’s not that fragile.” His accent slipped out on chunkin’, not as if Ronan had pissed him off enough to forget to hide it, but as if it was a word he’d never used any other way.

Ronan threw his rock again. This was, if anything, a worse throw than before, and it skittered harmlessly across the suburban’s roof.

Adam made a small but contemptuous noise.

“Don’t give me that shit, man. You know he hates this fucking car.”

“That was for your shitty aim.”

“Come on then.” Ronan hefted another piece of gravel. “Ten points if you knock out his taillight.”

“It costs a hundred and five dollars to replace a taillight on that make and model. Plus tax.”

Ronan’s brief cheer was collapsing again. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to bust Dick’s lights.”

Adam blinked slowly, his dusty eyelashes obscuring the contempt in his eyes for a brief moment. “I’ll leave.” (He wouldn’t).

Ronan dropped the rock. Next to him Adam sighed. Abruptly, he put out his hand. “Telephone pole. Six feet from the top.”

Ronan swept back up the rock and dropped it into his hand. Their fingers did not touch. His heart thudded.

Adam tossed the rock once, testing its weight while his gaze, cool and assessing, remained on the telephone pole. It was a splintered, tilting thing, shamed by his attentions. In one smooth, economical movement, he rose to his feet and let the rock fly. His leg went forward, knee jutting out of his clothes, his back curved, and his arm swept around in an arc, fingers scraping at the blue October sky. Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to know if the rock hit—he could see it in the brief hard satisfaction on Adam’s face.

Adam turned back to him, one eyebrow cocked.

“You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to earn that hundred,”

Adam shrugged. The gesture was disinterested, but there was a quirk to his mouth that contradicted it. “I know nothing blew up, but…”

Ronan already had another rock in his hand. “West corner lightbulb. It breaks or it doesn’t count.” Adam rolled his eyes, but turned agreeably to watch Ronan miss.

“Would you like to get your tennis racket?”

“Eat me,” said Ronan. (Maybe).

They traded shots back and forth for a while, calling increasingly specific and complex plays.

“Bullshit. Bullshit.”

“Get the government to pay for some glasses, Parrish, and then come back and try to tell me that wasn’t a fucking bullseye—”

“It wasn’t even close! You—”

“You calling me a liar?” Ronan loomed, and Adam, as usual, was unimpressed.

“Just because you don’t lie doesn’t make you right all the time! Like when you said that quote on Tuesday was Seneca. It doesn’t stop being Martial just because you’ve got a child’s sense of morality—”

“See, right there.” Ronan pointed triumphantly at an invisible scuff mark on the doorsill, marking where his handful of gravel had made impact.

Adam gave it a skeptical glance. His face was faintly flushed from exertion in the cold air, but his eyes were as cool and considering as ever. “What we need,” he said, “is a knife.”

Ronan was not allowed knives.

~

“Are you trying to stab each other in the feet? Why are your shoes off! It’s October!”

“Equal playing field.” Ronan wiggled his toes against the cold asphalt. “Parrish’s shitty knife is no match for my boots.” Over Gansey’s head, Ronan tried to catch Adam’s eye, to share a ‘can you believe him’ sort of look. Adam’s embarrassment over being caught acting irresponsibly meant Ronan could expect the look to be rebuffed, but he couldn’t help himself from trying it anyway.

Adam was bent over, eyes hidden. He carefully dusted off his socked feet one at a time before sliding them back into his shoes, as though the socks or sneakers could look any worse. A little parking lot crud might improve their appearance, actually.

Next to him, Gansey was still fussing. Without the pressure release valve of eye contact with someone who knew Gansey was overreacting, Ronan snapped, “Come off it, man, I’m not going to slit my throat while Parrish watches. He can’t afford that caliber of snuff film.”

Gansey’s concern transformed into revulsion, but underneath it he looked hurt, which was far far worse.

Adam straightened up. “We were just using it to mark where we hit. Honestly, we could have done it tossing a sharpie, but neither of us had one.” He sounded conciliatory, which pissed Ronan off. But Gansey was letting it go, returning the knife to Adam with an apologetic smile. Sorry for the fuss. Sorry for Ronan. Ronan’s bare feet were cold against the asphalt.

“Well? Are you going to throw or not, Parrish?” he said belligerently.

Adam rolled his eyes, but obligingly stooped for gravel and let one fly at Ronan’s open bedroom window, a shot he made easily.

Gansey whistled. “You’ve got quite the arm on you. How come you’re not on the Algionby baseball team?”

Adam shifted his feet, awkwardly.

“Please,” scoffed Ronan, “he’s not a team player.”

Gansey did not let it go. “Bet you’d have a better fastball than both our pitchers.”

There was a pause, during which Adam’s face clearly showed all of the thoughts he was trying to corral into a polite response to Gansey’s unconsidered enthusiasm. Ronan got there first. “Yeah, Parrish, why not hitch your wagon to the star of organized sports, like every other rags to riches wannabe?”

“Ronan!” said Gansey, Ronan’s offensiveness registering where his own had not.

“Hitch my wagon to a star?” Adam was unruffled. “I thought quoting Transcendentalists could get you excommunicated.”

“Who said I know it’s Emerson. It’s a sourceless idiom to those of us who aren’t sad little nerds.”

Adam smirked. The smirk said, I never said Emerson. His words said, “Gansey’s damning me with faint praise. No one’s going pro out of an Algionby sport team. Even tennis.”

“Ouch,” said Ronan, cheerfully. “Hit me where it really hurts. My school pride.”

~

Now that Gansey had arrived, his plans for the day took precedence over noble pastimes such as flipping pocketknives at each other’s feet. His plans involved comparing readings from various instruments and then placing said various instruments in various new locations, all of which were equally arbitrary (to Ronan’s eyes) and inaccessible. Gansey’s plans involved him waiting by the car to monitor the readings while people hiked with antennae to the outermost reaches of the signal. People, in this instance, being Ronan and Adam, Noah having mysteriously and silently fucked off, as he so often did when a job required carrying anything.

Ronan put his head down and trudged. It was brambly here, and slightly damp, and he was beginning to work up the kind of counter-intuitive sweat that appears from working in the cold, the kind that makes you colder later.

As the person leading the hike, custom would dictate that he should catch and hold the long clinging arms of the brambles for the following hiker. This presented a dilemma. Ronan compromised, and set about stomping the multiflora into the ground as he walked. Scarlet hips burst under his feet, invasive and beautiful, spreading their millions of seeds across the damp earth. Noxious weeds.

“It’s too unreliable,” said Adam, into the silence. “Sports. It all depends on… your physical condition.”

“And your condition is shit.”

There was Adam’s ironic smile. “Yes. So.” He shrugged. There was the part they weren’t saying, which was that his physical condition could always get worse. Unexpectedly.

“My dad hates baseball.” Ronan heard himself make the slip—hates and not hated—and a spark of fury burned through him, brief and inconsequential.

“My dad loves it.”

They marched on in silence.

Adam swore as a bramble Ronan had beaten down sprang up again, catching him right across the tear, where his skin was exposed. He bent to unhook it from the camo with deft, deliberate hands. “What?” he said, like he could feel Ronan’s eyes.

Ronan looked away. “Why not the military?” He kicked purposelessly at the bramble and heard Adam sigh. “And don’t tell me you never thought about it. Test scores like yours out in hicksville high school, you must have had recruiters hopping all over you like fleas.”

“Would you believe I had a moral objection?” Adam’s smile was self-deprecating. Ronan studied it.

“No.”

Adam shrugged. It, too, was self-deprecating.

“I think you had a superiority objection. You think you’re too smart for that shit.”

Adam blinked at him. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

Ronan snorted. “Hell no. You can do better than getting blown up in a desert for the United States government.”

The smile, when it came, was small and stunning. “Damned by faint praise again.”

[wishchip106]

more ready player one cherik au ideas

erik is pretty much a complete loser irl and online and barely has any friends until he meets charles at the first trial and joins his online friendgroup (aka fc xmen) when he gets the first key

everyones avatars are more based on their comic looks so they all look a bit silly but its the oasis so its okay

thats pretty much it so far my brain is slowly building some kind of a story but it hasn’t gone into details yet

i dont even know if im gonna write this i just gotta dump my ideas here otherwise they’ll be sent to the void

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

How do you edit your pics? They look so stunning

Are you talking about the character banners I use? (Like this one:)

Thank you ^^ I had help from a friend in figuring out the initial assets (border, pen, texture) and basic composition, so I can’t take all the credit.

I use a combination of official card art, a textured layer with a soft light filter (so it makes the official art I lay with it look like it is drawn on a sheet of parchment), and free assets I find on sites like PNGtree. Some of the borders are even hand-drawn.

I have many other variations of this same standard banner layout; those I throw together based on my own instincts and pure vibes 😂

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

For trouble (make it double) can we have a version of the bar conversation where Nyx tells his friends that Regis thinks they are brothers?

Because I don't think many people know that Crowe and Nyx share their bio-father but not the mother, so it would be just the two of them making a meaningful eye contact, while Lib is just eyeing both of them like they're about to start trouble. The rest of their friends are not aware of the potential drama.

The evening was murky and lukewarm as Nyx finally found Libertus, Crowe, Pelna and Luche occupying the usual table in that little outdoor eatery they all frequented regularly. They sat there, cups of something steaming hot with a bitter smell in front of them, and a platter of striped meat covered in what counted as a sorry excuse of edible seaweed in this city, between them. They had clearly been waiting for him.

Without so much as a greeting or paying attention to his friends' curious faces he stole Libertus' cup, who only gave a token of resistance, and drank it down in two large gulps as he plopped down on the only free chair left. It scalded his tongue but he didn't really care. This hot the strong bitter-leaf tea was even semi-palatable. He was kind of put out, however, that it wasn't alcohol. Nyx set the cup down harder than he needed to, proceeded to lay his head on the table and groan pitifully. Bellowing laughter was his answer and if looks could kill every single one of his friends would be dead now.

“Where's the alcohol?” he asked – more like whined but he would never admit to it – and forced himself to sit up when Pelna set a cup in front of him without a word. Had he mentioned that he was his favourite friend right now?

Nyx took a sip from the cup – it was something that burned all the way down, cheap and Lucian – and as he finally looked up again, saw four faces in front of him with expressions ranging from exasperated to down right ready to strangle him. He resisted the urge to needle them a bit, if only to evade the dreaded subject for a few seconds more. They all stared at each other for a bit longer until Libertus made a noise at the back of his throat.

“Shit, man. What by the Depths happened? The last time you looked at me like that...” he didn't finish the sentence and shook his head, clear worry in his eyes now.

“It was a shit show from the very start,” Nyx forced himself to say and took another burning mouthful of the cheap alcohol. It tasted like piss. Or worse. He hadn't quite decided that yet.

“It's the royal house of Lucis we're talking about here. What did you expect? Also, aren't you going to take that out?” Luche gestured at the left side of his head where the debtor's braid still hung, heavier than it had any right to be.

Nyx grimaced and tugged at it. “Have to go back later. And I need you to come with, Crowe.” Which was also the reason why he hadn't changed out of his service dress yet. Still, he finally shrugged out of the overcoat with its stiff collar and heavy black and grey fabric. Luckily what he wore underneath that was made of breathable fabric and light, even with its long sleeves, the black colour and the intricate silver embroidery on it. The latter a poor attempt at cultural acknowledgement. There was no rhyme nor reason to the patterns that would normally be carefully arranged in meaningful compositions mostly used on the northern islands. The most one could read out of it was 'Prosperity for Death' if one squinted and tilted the head just so.

"Awwww. You need me to hold your hand?" Crowe teased, however there was an undercurrent of worry in her voice. Her magic pinged at him, promising support. Nyx shot her a grateful look.

"What? Why?" Libertus asked and managed to sound indignant and put out at once.

Oh, how to answer that? Nyx shot Crowe another look, heavy and deliberate. She blinked, first in question, then in realisation, and groaned. Libertus looked between them both, head swivelling rapidly.

"Well, shit," he said. "What do you plan to do now?"

Nyx and Crowe exchanged another look before both shrugged at the exact same time with the exact same facial expression.

"Not much we can do but comply," Nyx said taking another gulp of alcohol. "We knew this would happen sooner ot later the moment we entered Insomnia."

"Woha, stop right there," Pelna cut in, both hands raised like he could touch their words to make sense of them. "What exactly is going on here?"

"I would like to know as well," Luche said, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed and eyes calculating.

Crowe looked at Nyx. "Coerl's out of the jungle with this one. Do you want tell them or should I?"

Nyx gestured towards her. "By all means. I already had to sit through one meeting with the King, and I'll probably do the talking when we get back again in a bit."

"Better you than her," Libertus muttered.

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Guys! Hey, guys! I know you love to bicker, but please, stop stalling," Pelna cut in yet again. For once it was clear he was reaching the end of his patience. Whatever instinctual response had been laying on Nyx's tongue, died a swift death at the look in his friend's eyes.

"Nyx is my brother," Crowe said, rolling her eyes. The words landed bewteen them in a graceless heap. Both Pelna and Luche looked mildly confused.

"That is not news to us," Luche said.

Libertus snorted.

Crowe shook her head and looked at Luche like he was a toddler. "No, no. He is my brother."

And here Crowe put extra emphasis on the word brother. Fatrun. She had used 'fatrun' and not 'tahrun'. Both meant 'brother', though their context was different.

"That... explains a lot," Pelna said into the shocked silence.

Nyx and Crowe gave identical shrugs. Libertus groaned. "Do you know how hard it is to herd two of them? I'm only one Ostium."

"There certainly is a resamblance shared between them," Luche said, eyeing the siblings with a calculating eye. "I am guessing that whatever the King wants you for, has something to do with your shared parent?"

"You know, Luche, you've always been way too sharp," Nyx said.

[cursedwerewolf]

in dream thieves, adam's mattress is specifically described as an ikea mattress, so now i need a fic where ronan and gansey take him to ikea (noah's probably there as well). it's right after trb, so adam is being all creepy and haunted by the magical forest he just sold his soul to, gansey is feeling all heartbroken and betrayed, ronan has just revealed he can take things out of his dreams and they're all freshly traumatised by seeing their latin teacher be trampled to death. they all have probably never been to ikea so they have that whole experience to take in. they eat shitty hotdogs and mispronounce swedish names and buy too many scented candles

(i am just gonna have to write this aren't i)

[not-poignant]

My assumption about you is that you’re not very minimalistic? And that you might be even like to collect little knickknacks, trinkets, or shinies?

Haha that's spot on, anon.

I think part of it is just naturally that I worked as a traditional artist for a decade, and so my house is filled with art, art supplies, sketches, sketchbooks, and thousands of coloured pencils and other mediums etc.

But yeah my hobbies are definitely around - whether it's stationery or Paperblanks journals, Lego or tarot decks or blind box / collector's toys or crystals.

I can be quite mercenary something, once I'm no longer enjoying something I often give it away to someone who will enjoy it.

I'd say I don't actually really like collecting knickknacks/trinkets specifically, there's very specific hobbies all my stuff is connected to. Even the blind box toys serve as artistic inspiration. I like functional pretty things. As soon as it loses its purpose, it goes to someone else.

But I am a big fan of living a healthier childhood as an adult so there are just playful things around :D

~

From the Assumptions meme!

[desertduality]

New Ad Astra chapter tomorrow :)

[gallopinggallifreyans]

last one before i buckle down for the semester (featuring a little headcanon about summer)

[inastarlesssky]

Okay, it's here.

I am so very grateful to @kydrogendragon for so kindly looking over this silly little bit of writing. It's my first attempt at a fic for The Sandman, and I tried my level best to do Morpheus and Calliope justice.

Anyway, here it is! Little attempt at a fix-it that had to break things a little bit first. Basically a look at what would have happened if Calliope had visited the Dreaming on that 'one day perhaps'...

[kaseyskat]

Once, this palace was lively. 

Well, as lively as it could be, given its history. Still, despite all grievances, Lark had been happy here, running the halls, causing mayhem and mischief, tearing down trees in the forest and exploring and everything else that came with living in a near-abandoned castle in the middle of nowhere. 

Maybe they should’ve expected that the old owners wouldn’t be so happy about a new family coming and redecorating the place. Lark hadn’t– he was a kid! So really, it was their parents to blame, wasn’t it? 

Their parents aren’t here anymore though. It’s just Lark, curled up in the room he had claimed as his own, and the wolf form of his brother sprawled out next to him, asleep. 

It’s so unfair that I don’t get to be a person when I’m awake much, Lark thinks with a grumble as he stands, stretching his arms and staring out the open window at the star-lit sky. Already, the moon has dipped close to the horizon, meaning that his time on two legs is just about over. Whatever. 

He doesn’t look at Sparrow. When the curse settled in, it felt like that’s all they ever did– frantically looking at one another during the rise and fall of the sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other in human form before being overtaken by magic. It’s been a few years though, now, and Lark just sighs as he gingerly runs a hand over the windowsill, enjoying the sensation of dirt and dust lining his fingers. 

Fur brushes against his side, and Lark jumps, glancing down at the wolf that has joined him, head nudging at his legs endearingly. 

“Don’t feel too left out, I wasn’t going anywhere,” he huffs, but he still can’t resist placing one of his hands on top of Sparrow’s head, gingerly stroking through the rough tufts of fur. “We do need more food though. Want me to handle that after sunrise?” 

Sparrow makes a little snorting sound in the back of his throat, and he nudges at Lark’s hand. After years of relying solely on this awful method of communication, Lark interprets that as a yes please, brother, you enjoy the hunt far more than I. 

Never mind that Sparrow’s cursed form is literally a wolf. How he got the cool form and Lark got the stupid bird, Lark will never know. 

The sky lightens to grey, and then a dark red. Lark inhales, and he closes his eyes, his hand falling away from Sparrow’s head. 

When he opens them again, he has shifted forms. Readjusting to Bird Vision is difficult, and he twists his head around, watching as Sparrow curls against the mattress. Despite the sleep he had gotten in wolf form, his eyes are dull, his gaze staring off to nowhere. 

It would seem after years of being cursed like this, to live alone and without each other for company, has finally started to take a toll on his brother. Lark glances longingly out the window for a long moment before carefully flying over to where Sparrow’s curled next to the pillows, tapping his cheek as gently as he can. 

“Sorry Lark,” Sparrow mumbles, and he reaches a hand up to gently comb over Lark’s feathers. “I’m just so tired… you can go out today though, don’t let me stop you.” 

Lark caws at him more insistently. I don’t want to go without you! he tries to convey, hopping down a bit so he can pull at Sparrow’s threadbare shirt, careful not to catch skin. Please don’t give up on me, Sparrow. Please. 

But Sparrow doesn’t move, his eyes fluttering as he dozes off, face screwed up in a grimace. Lark tugs at his shirt for a moment longer before giving up, hopping backwards and looking longingly at the window again. 

Those adventurers are probably still around here, he thinks, flying to the windowsill. Maybe they can help return Sparrow’s spirit. I just have to… bring them here. 

He doesn’t trust anyone. Not since the last person to run into them had been so awful. However, there isn’t much that Lark wouldn’t do for his brother! 

So, with one last glance at Sparrow, Lark takes flight, soaring out the open window and towards the last place he had seen the three imbeciles who were wandering the castle grounds. It’s his only option. 

[nondelphic]

i fear ebony dark'ness dementia raven way will always be the blueprint for goth characters

[artbyfuji]

someone asked for handwriting headcanons.

[guitarstringed-scars]

I’m literally itching to write for shoyo again I can’t wait until I get to his section of the ravens eye diner it’s actually gonna be so cute

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

for the twst anime, do you think they’ll animate the manga? so like episodes of heartslabyul and savanaclaw yuus and the other manga yuus coming for octavinelle, scarabia, pomefiore, ignihyde, and diasomnia?

Personally, I don’t believe so. If they did, then it creates… a weird issue where Yuuka, Yuuken, etc. would appear more often in official TWST media than other Yuus do (ie Yuuya, game Yuu, etc.), which would make the manga!Yuus seem “more” canon or more important than other Yuus. Normally I wouldn’t point this out as being a particular issue, but I’ve seen how badly the English speaking fandom initially reacted to Yuuken because some people thought that a “canon” Yuu being introduced invalidated their own Yuusonas... so it feels like spotlighting one or a handful of Yuus over the others would probably not look too good optics-wise.

I think if they introduce a Yuu for the anime at all, it would have to be another new iterations/interpretation of the character that expands the so-called Yuuniverse. Alternatively, the anime could be from a first person perspective (so we never actually “see” Yuu, but rather “see” through their eyes). I’ve also seen some people throw around the idea of a “shrimp” Yuu, and while I think the idea is funny and inclusive (and has been done similarly by Obey Me), I don’t know if that would match the tone and feel of TWST.

If I’m being 100% honest, I myself don’t want to see another Yuu, and certainly not in a main story retelling (especially since Yuu is not super involved in the story beyond like… the prologue and books 3 and 4) DX I’ve also seen the main story told so many times over by now that it feels slightly nauseating. My preference would be that the anime covers materials NOT addressed in the light novel or the manga (so this would be things like events or just silly slice-of-life school days content), because that would at least be something “new”, or the perspective is that of Grim or the students.

A lot of game to anime adaptations that try to retell their plots in anime form flop because animation is very expensive and time-consuming to produce, so the final products have the stories compressed/rushed and turn out very sloppy. The P5 anime and Ace Attorney anime are just a few examples I can think of; there are plenty of others that establish this trend. That’s not to say that the TWST anime will be necessarily bad if it does end up being another retelling. but it does have me highly skeptical. I’ll reserve my judgment for when I see the final product for myself though.

[simoni-999]

edgegirl 🐦‍⬛