#Resources and Ingredients

[mekkthemighty]

Magical Natural Resources PT 3 Plants

Acid Algae: a bright green algae that is naturally acidic and deadly to most creatures, this algae usually grows in swamps inhabitated by black dragons. It deals 1 acid damage per round to any creature who makes contact with it. This algae can be collected in a glass vial and can boiled to create an acid vial, though the gasses released will deal 1d4 acid and 1d4 poison damage to any who inhale it. When used as an additional material component in casting Acid Splash or Acid Arrow, the acid damage destroys the targets armor if it is nonmagical and the damage exceeds the creatures armor class.

Aloe: Found primarily in deserts, often used to treat burns and can be made into a potion of fire resistance with a DC 15 alchemy craft roll

Arrowroot: Found primarily in the desert, acts as an incredibly strong digestive stimulant. Can be made into a potion of poison resistance with a DC 15 craft roll

Beast’s Foil: An herb found in the woods, known to repel magic beasts such as Griffons, Harpies, and Basilisks. Can be distilled into a poison potent against creatures with chimeric origins including bestial humanoids

Bell Flower: Found primarily in mountain foothills, repels aberrations and can cause infatuation when consumed. Can be made into a potent aberration poison or a love potion.

Berserker Spore: a red mushroom with a sweet scent, when disturbed it releases a spore dust which causes those who inhale it to go berserk, attacking anyone around them DC 15 Con to resist

Bladegrass: a variety of grass that is razor sharp, walking through it deals 1 Slashing damage per 5ft square, thankfully it has a slower growth cycle than other grasses and remains somewhat rare as a result. It can be picked with a DC 20 Herbalism, if failed by more than 5 take 1 Slashing damage. If Plant Growth or similar spell is cast over an area of Bladegrass, consider that area to be under the effects of Spike Growth. Can also be made into an inhaled poison called Sharp Powder (see poisons)

Blisterwort: Found primarily in the swamps and marshlands. Repels Ooze based creatures and can be made into a poison which is effective against oozes, Can also be made into a Potion of Acid Resistance with a DC 15 craft roll

Bloodleaf: Found primarily in the desert and thus remains rare as it is known for its aggressive growth. This weed often forces all other plant life from its growth area and is even known to harm Awakened plants. Can be made into a Potion of Necrotic Resistance with a DC 17 craft roll

Bright Rose: Found primarily in the grassland meadows. Incredibly valued for its wide uses, including repelling undead, magic mind clearing properties, and innate radiant energy. Some theorize the flower is actually native to the Higher Planes, specifically the Fields of Elysium, and was transplanted to the Material Plane. Tea made with this flower has a 1% chance of becoming holy water. Can be made into a Potion of Radiant Resistance with a DC 17 craft roll

Buckthorn: Found primarily in the swamps and marshlands, famous for its ability to repel draconic creatures. Can be distilled into a poison that is quite potent against creatures of a draconic lineage

Catnip: attracts cats, also can be made into a potion of confused haste with a DC 15 herbalism or alchemy, the potion when drunk gives you an extra confused action on your turn in which your action is determined as with the Confusion spell lasts 1 minute

Coca Leaf: The leaves of the Coca bush. The branches are curved, and the leaves are thin, opaque, oval, and taper at the extremities. The flowers are small, and disposed in clusters on short stalks; the corolla is composed of five yellowish-white petals, the anthers are heart-shaped, and the pistil consists of three carpels united to form a three-chambered ovary. The flowers mature into red berries. Can be made into a Potion of Rage with a DC 15 alchemy craft roll

Cursefruit: the fruit of the Cryingwood tree, resembles a peach with pale white skin and black flesh. The fruit retains the curse of treant and will inflict the curse on those who eat of it and do not plant the seed at its core. Casting remove curse on the fruit before eating it adds color to its skin and makes it not only safe to eat without being cursed but also causes it to provide 2d6 temporary hp and advantage on saving throws made to resist curses, disease or poison until the end of your next long rest  Can be made into a petrifying poison known as Barkblood (see poisons) unless the curse has been removed.

Darkberry: a rare berry found in forests. Often the subject of great study, darkberries are extremely toxic to non magical creatures. Beasts and humans alike are repelled and disgusted when near the plant, however creatures and humanoid races with innate magic energy, spellcasters, and magical creatures are completely unaffected by the plant. It can be made into a poison potent against non magical creatures.

Earthbread: A relatively common herb found in forests and grasslands, known for its magic healing properties. Eaten raw provides 1 hp of healing, can be made into a healing potion with an herbalist or alchemist craft roll DC 10: 1d4 healing +1d4/(+5DC)

A lot of these are stolen and adjusted from this cuz it was one of the first things on google: https://allaria.fandom.com/wiki/Magic_Materials

so thanks for the resources

[blakistan]

You know it's kind of a shame, this season's whole alchemy thing could've been really cool if they took an approach more similar to Dawning cookie ingredients. Like. obviously they couldn't use literally the same items, they'd need new names and icons to separate them from the secular winter holiday theme. Hell, if they were literally 1-to-1 with Dawning ingredients, just with new names and icons, we could have a fun little thing when Dawning rolls around where Eido decides to get in on the festivities by baking cookies with Eliksni Apothecary techniques! Alas, here we are

[bonefall]

Bonefall Rewrite Allegiance Planning

So I am FINALLY about to start making allegiances. Since my rewrite covers ALL of Clan history, I think it would be a much better idea to divide these lists by GENERATION instead of period, era, or most relevant book.

A generation will be a period of about 4 - 6 years. As I laid out in my family tree rework rules, I have a cutoff for age gaps at 4-ish years exactly because of the fact that a senior warrior is hard defined as being at least 5. This is when a power imbalance would enter the dynamic.

So with all that said and explained... Feel free to pitch your suggestions for the following generations;

Yellowfang, Tallstar, One-eye, and the 'elder-age' cast of TPB. These cats are significantly older and born before the start of the "Campaign Era." Pinestar is one of the oldest cats of this generation.

Bluestar, Thistleclaw, Crookedjaw, Lizardstripe, Deadfoot, the "middle-aged" characters of TPB The ones who are already established, may have had apprentices and grandchildren, are generally no longer climbing the ranks. These cats are around 8 - 12 years old, considering retirement if they haven't already done so. They were born after the Campaign Era had already started but remember (and were shaped by) the escalation of force between Clans.

Brokenstar, Tigerclaw, Mistyfoot, Leopardfur. The distinguished warriors of TPB. The ones seeking positions of power and generally established to some degree, between 3 - 7 by TPB. Having never known a time before Clans were lethally violent towards each other, these cats are ready to kill and die.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

Getting ever closer to radicalisation by trying to buy my cats a bed and realizing it would cost me nearly a hundred dollars to buy anything passing a decent standard of durability when I could just build a bed myself out of a wooden crate and some old pillows and fabric for $20 or less and my cats would be perfectly fucking happy

[lrdvyke]

are you in any pain? [ concerned D 🥹 ]

The sun is brighter now that the Erdtree's glow no longer eclipses it. The clouds no longer with a sheen of gold, but an ashy grey which roll across the sky in variable fits. Vyke scrubs at his eye with the heel of his palm, squinting against the horizon where the sun has finally arrived at its zenith for the day. His fingers find purchase upon the clean cloth around his head then, it sits at a slant to cover the abyss that the absence of his other eye creates, and pulls the other side down over the remaining eye.

His fingers itch to wrench the thing from its socket still.

The sudden darkness soothes for but a moment, even when the distant light within blinks in and out of existence. He listens for Darian's footsteps instead, attuning himself to them, and continues to follow the man's strides through the Lands Between without falter. Vyke knows what is coming. He likes to think he has gotten better at this, at telling when the boluses have finally lost their strength inside of him. It is just about the same time every day allowing him to anticipate and, in a way, overlap. When one wears off, the other kicks in, so that the flame never gets a chance to latch onto him again.

But today is not that type of day. They have been walking for longer, something of which Vyke does not wish to stop, but it takes its toll upon his body. The boluses keep the madness down just enough for half of the day, but sometimes the pain shoots through regardless. Where one person may feel a little sore in their legs, Vyke feels as if his whole body was submerged into the lava pits of Mount Gelmir itself.

He does not realize he stopped until Darian's voice drifts through the rush of wind in his ears. His hand pushes the cloth back up, a frenzied-yellow eye peeks out at the blur that is his friend, before he shakes his head. ❛ Not too much, ❜ he says quietly, his hands moving to unlatch the sword belt from around his hips. It is about the only thing tight on him that which he can bear for longer than a second. The trousers he has on are loose, cinching only at the ankles to be tucked into his sturdy boots. His shirt is even looser, wrinkled at the bottom from where the belt had been. They do a well enough job at covering the burns and missing skin ...

But he starts walking again, ignoring the reflexive grimace.

❛ Told myself I must make it past midday before I can rest, ❜ Vyke then explains. A goal, if one wishes, made in silence during the early mornings when sleep was hard to come by. But a goal nonetheless, bringing forth focus that is also quite difficult to come by these days. ❛ We'd never move if we stopped every time there was a flareup. ❜ Eyeless bodies, dried-out husks of people who are frozen in their midst of madness—it flashes in mind, but does its work in spurring Vyke onward.

To stop meant that the flame won.

@luredeep !

[everyveganrecipe]

Ingredient Spotlight: Radishes

❓ What is a radish? A radish is a small, edible root vegetable. It is a member of the Brassicaceae family, which also includes mustard, cauliflower, broccoli, and cabbage. The radish is a fast-growing, annual, cool-season crop that is commonly grown in many parts of the world. Usually eaten raw in salads or side dishes mixed with herbs, they are also delicious roasted, pickled, or steamed.

🌈 The root skin color ranges from white through pink, red, purple, yellow, and green to black, and the flesh ranges from white to multicolored rings. The roots obtain their color from anthocyanins. Red varieties use the anthocyanin pelargonidin as a pigment, and purple cultivars obtain their color from cyanidin. Radishes are a good source of vitamin C, calcium, potassium, and other nutrients! They also contain natural nitrates which help improve blood flow.

🌿 The word "radish" comes from the Latin word "radix," which means "root." In some cultures, radishes are used as a natural remedy for various ailments, such as sore throats and digestive issues.

🚀 Did you know? The radish was chosen as one of the first vegetables grown on space stations because it grows beautifully in zero gravity.

🤪 The largest radish ever grown weighed 68 pounds and was grown in Japan.

[happywebdesign]

https://www.understoryprotein.com/

[jenneferofjengaberg]

e

The nature of the immigrant is any food they make is inauthentic, neither "authentic" food from their homeland nor "authentic" food from where they live. This is of course, not xenophobic in the slightest.

[fogaminghub]

🌿✨ Attention, Visions of Mana fans! Are you ready to tackle Chapter 5: "We're Alm in This Together"? Our new blog post breaks down everything you need to do to find Von Boyage and collect the essential ingredients. Join Val, Careena, Morley, Palamena, and Julei in this thrilling quest! 

🗝️🌈

[basilkate]

This is a story from like 2 years ago, but I saw a post talking about all the free organizations like Archive.org and Wikipedia and stuff, and how people should support them. And this made me think of this. So like my mom does my taxes for me, which is great, she’s awesome at it, but like she asked me if I had donated anything, which I was like yeah. So she says, how much and to who? And I say Wikipedia and she’s like why, you could donate money to something else that’s better, and I’m like? Cause I love Wikipedia? Why else and where else would I donate to? (Obviously, there are a great many other organizations and nonprofits that would benefit from my hard earned dollar but this isn’t about them) ( I also just really resonate with Wikipedia? I guess?) Anyways, that’s all

[hayatheauthor]

10 World-Building Aspects You Probably Overlooked

When crafting a fictional world, it's easy to focus on the big picture—epic battles, grand landscapes, and memorable characters. However, it’s also important to flesh out your world-building to create a ‘real’ world. Some aspects to consider when world-building are: 

1. Local Cuisine

Consider the types of food your characters eat and how it reflects their culture, geography, and economy. Unique dishes can reveal societal values and local ingredients.

2. Currency & Trade

Explore the forms of currency used and the trade systems in place. This can include bartering, precious metals, or unique items as currency, influencing economic interactions.

3. Timekeeping Practices

Different cultures may have their own methods for measuring time, whether it's a unique calendar system, seasons, or celestial events, affecting daily life and traditions.

4. Cultural Taboos

Consider the unspoken rules and taboos that govern behavior in your world. These can drive conflict and character motivations, adding depth to societal interactions.

5. Local Flora and Fauna

Unique plants and animals can shape the environment and influence the culture, whether through medicine, food sources, or as part of local mythology.

6. Rituals and Festivals

Incorporate unique rituals or festivals that celebrate historical events, seasonal changes, or important life milestones, providing insight into cultural values and traditions.

7. Language Nuances

Explore dialects, slang, or even the use of sign language that reflects the culture and social dynamics, enriching dialogue and interactions between characters.

8. Architecture and Housing Styles

The design and materials of buildings can reflect climate, resources, and cultural values. Unique architectural features can tell a story about the society that built them.

9. Social Hierarchies and Classes

Examine how social structures affect character relationships and interactions. Class distinctions can influence everything from daily life to political power.

10. Environmental Impact

Consider how the natural environment shapes societal behaviours, resource usage, and conflicts. Climate and geography can drive migration patterns and societal development.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors!

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[vitality-plus]

A Household Hero: My Experience with The Doctor's Book of Survival Home Remedies

Life throws unexpected curveballs, and sometimes, a minor ailment can disrupt your entire day. While I believe in seeking professional medical help when necessary, I also appreciate having natural remedies at my fingertips for everyday issues. That's where The Doctor's Book of Survival Home Remedies comes in. This comprehensive guide offers a wealth of knowledge for treating common ailments at home, and it's quickly become a trusted resource in my household.

A Practical Guide for Everyday Ailments

The Doctor's Book of Survival Home Remedies isn't a theoretical tome filled with obscure ingredients. It's a practical guide packed with actionable solutions for various common ailments. From soothing a sore throat with a honey-lemon concoction to calming an upset stomach with ginger tea, the book offers readily available remedies utilizing household staples. The instructions are clear, concise, and easy to follow, making them perfect for anyone, regardless of their medical expertise.

Simple Solutions with Science-Backed Explanations

What I appreciate most about this book is the balance between natural remedies and scientific explanations. The author doesn't simply present remedies; they also explain the science behind them, offering a deeper understanding of how they work. This combination of practicality and scientific insight makes the book a valuable resource for anyone curious about natural healing.

Empowerment and Confidence in Home Care

The Doctor's Book of Survival Home Remedies empowers you to take charge of your well-being. Having a variety of natural remedies at your disposal provides a sense of confidence in handling minor health issues at home. This is especially helpful for families with young children or in situations where immediate access to a doctor might be limited.

A Well-Organized and Easy-to-Navigate Guide

The book is well-organized and easy to navigate. Chapters are dedicated to specific areas like coughs and colds, digestive issues, and headaches. Additionally, a comprehensive index allows for quick reference when a specific ailment strikes. The inclusion of pictures for various herbs and ingredients further enhances the user experience.

A Valuable Addition to Any Home Library

Overall, The Doctor's Book of Survival Home Remedies has become a valuable addition to my home library. It's a practical guide packed with effective home remedies, empowering you to address common health concerns naturally. While it doesn't replace professional medical advice, it offers a wealth of knowledge for everyday situations. Whether you're a seasoned believer in natural remedies or simply looking for some helpful homecare solutions, The Doctor's Book of Survival Home Remedies is a valuable resource to have on hand.pen_sparktunesharemore_vert

[tony-andonuts]

Friendly reminder that all you need to make oat milk are oats, water, vanilla extract (optional), a blender/food processor, and cheesecloth/a coffee liner/fine sieve

[catgirltoes]

Essential information of previous post:

A product called "i can't believe it's not estrogen" by a company called "estrolabs" is being advertized on Twitter.

It is not estrogen. It is ashwagandha.

The active ingredient increases your lutenizing hormone, which will cause your body to produce more of whichever sex hormone it produces endogenously.

If you have testes, this will increase your testosterone levels.

If you are transfem, this shit will increase your testosterone levels.

They are lying to you to take your money. Don't fucking touch it. Tell your friends and family.

If you're desperate, DIY is an option. The subreddit r/TransDIY is an excellent resource, as is the DIY Wiki.

If what you really want is a herbal supplement, there are certain herbs that will have a minor antiandrogenic effect. The DIY resources here will have more information on it.

Edit: the dose of ashwagandha is so high that it will give you serotonin syndrome within four to eight weeks. This shit is evil.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

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

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Twisted Wonderland Lore Compilations + Resources Masterlist

Family

Family members and relationships

Mage and non-mage family members

Najma and Jamil relationship lore

Shroud family hair

Anippola lore

Raverne lore

Magic/Skills

How magic works

How overblotting works

Unique magic (of main cast)

Potions

Who can play an instrument?

Schooling (NRC-centric)

When they wear the Ceremonial Robes

Dorm leader + vice dorm leader duties and powers

How the current dorm leaders came into power

Methods to become dorm leader

Pocket dimensions (Mirror Chamber vs Hall of Mirrors)

Divus Crewel as a student

Final Masterchef groupings

NRC, NBC, RSA: co-ed or not?

NRC scheduling and general schooling

Subjects at NRC

How Idia’s tablet works

Magic for Flight and Potionology

Ingredients for potions

Lab safety violations

NRC Staff and their thoughts on Crowley

World + Population

Kinds of fae

Land boot camp for merpeople

Ghost lore

Transportation

Island of Woe

Other

Main story timeline

TWST Valentines Gifts + Messages (2021-2023)

TWST Valentines Gifts + Messages (2024)

Character heights

Character ages

Popularity ranking among yumejoshis (2020-2023)

Popularity ranking among yumejoshis (2024)

NRC characters’ fashion sense

Food

Food culture and lore of the world: part 1 / part 2

Food likes/dislikes and why