#THIS FUCKING GAME. THIS FUCKING GAME!!!!!!!!!! stepping away from the imperialism and racism to talk about the misogyny for a bit because

[lanayrutower]

ALSO does no one find it even a little weird how the old Zelda games firmly state that it's Hylia who built/was the first ruler of Hyrule (the king is just. sort of there), and then totk comes in and is like ahaaa no it's actually rauru who's so special and godlike actually. yeah, his wife was actually his priestess who once served him and then died stupidly because she wasn't paying attention. mmhm, she was also the reason ganon was able to take over hyrule and be super duper evil btw. uwu.

[yshai-tia]

. layercake

.LAYER ONE: THE OUTSIDE

name: y’shai tia

“at yer service, mate. aye, though ye might wanna ask again inna moon ‘er so-- lil’ more papers ‘ta push through an’ the last bit’ll change there. still can’t gods damned believe it if y’ask me.”

eye color: blue (left), green (right)

“pree’ common combo fer seekers, y’know? green from me ma, can only guess the blue from dear ol’ pops. is tha’ how it works? i ain’ a genetics sorta guy.”

hair style/color: black, lackadaisical

“oi now, leas’ it ain’ a qiqirn’s nest. take care ov’ me braids though, if yer lucky jus’ might tell ye what they mean some day.”

height: 5 fulms, 9 ilms

“look, ‘m tall fer a miqo’te, thas’ gotta count fer somethin’. ain’ about the height, mate, s’all ‘bout how ye use what yer slapped with.”

clothing style: predominately black with abhorrent amounts of leather

“what, like either ov’ those things ‘er ev’r gonna go outta style? lookin’ good an’ bein’ durable, ye can’t really go wrong there. an’ it ain’t like ‘m allergic ‘ta change, startin’ ‘ta get used ‘ta this whole buttoned ‘ta the throat business. sorta.”

best physical feature: absolutely everything, take your personal pick

“c’mon now, lookit yers truly, notta shortage ov’ ‘bests’ in sight, choosin’ jus’ one would jus’ be cruel. thick thighs, thick arse-- lil’ thick in th’ head sometimes but, aye, leas’ yer lookin’ at somethin’ nice.”

.LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

your fears: physical restrictions, i.e. being bound, failing to protect those he loves and/or hurting them himself, powerlessness and ineptitude, particularly large coeurls

“cor, jus’ had ‘ta go from a fun question straight ‘ta this. lighten up, mate.”

your guilty pleasure: who’s guilty?

“ain’ nothin’ guilty ‘bout indulgence-- an’ i sure as shit don’ think ‘bout-- ... ah, fuck. guess there was one time... but that was long ‘go now, ain’ no point bringin’ it up.”

your biggest pet peeve: don’t get him started

“the fact that ul’dah exists, does that fuckin’ count? aye, yer right, ‘ta big ‘ta be a peeve. cor, i dunno, what ye cryin’ over spilt yak’s milk fer. i guess... aye, well, this is a personal one-like, but whiddle this fer a second; self-proclaimed sorts ov’ engineers who go off wif’out a single thought fer consequences. ... aye, aye, i hear ye, real fuckin’ bold fer someone like me ‘ta bitch ‘bout that, but, listen, a guy can change. it’s one thing ‘ta fuck ‘round with things ye don’ understand fer the sake of curiousity but ye also don’ see me gettin’ ass deep in allagan bullshit jus’ cause there might be a fancy toy there that tickles me boredom away fer a spell. shit’s got its conveniences, aye, not like i dunno the uses ova’ tomephone-- but most ov’ it is also fuckin’ dangerous, not sayin’ that it shouldn’ be explored proper, but not by some renegade blighter who fancies himself some magitek wiz so far up his own arse it makes yer local garlean look like a dozen o’ roses.

swear, ye got folks out here thinkin’ jus’ cause they can take apart a chronometer ‘er do some basic maintenance on a firearm that they’re ready fer solo-scavenging-- next ye know they’re wadin’ in aetherochemical spills an’ huffin’ ceruleum.

so that’s one fer the road there, ask me again sometime an’ i’ll enlighten ye ‘bout all the fuckin’ joys ov’ seeker racism ‘ve ‘ad the pleasure of gettin’ ‘ta know.”

your ambition for the future: much and more

“one day ‘atta time has always been me go of things, aye, gander though i ain’t without dreams, ‘specially now with tha’ stability in me life-- let me think ‘bout things that i nev’r really thought mattered ‘ta much ‘ta me ‘fore, the future an’ like.

firs’ thing that comes ‘ta mind would be me projects, bein’ able ‘ta have me own workshop has been both a blessin’ an’ a curse; blessin’ fer obvious reasons, curse cause ‘m startin’ ‘ta have one ‘ta many irons in the fire, if ye whiddle me meanin’. the biggest one though... even i gotta admit tha’ this is a generational project at bes’ outlook, but. workin’ ta’wards bein’ able ‘ta purify an’ clean the land ov’ the remnants of war-- speakin’ ov’ ceruleum spills an’ the like. with hope me husband says that we could maybe one day bring th’ elementals’ blessin’ back ‘ta tainted lands, thas’ his field of expertise at work there... jus’ bein’ able ‘ta rid the land ov’ imperial consequence is a worthwhile goal ‘ta me, i reckon.

oth’r than that.. there’s some silly things, aye, winna big marksman competition ov’ sorts, fish up a catch that no one’s ev’r seen ‘fore, get stronger... thas’ one thas’ nev’r changed, fer differ’nt reasons now mind.”

.LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

your first thoughts waking up: depends on the morning

“considerin’ the curr’nt season an’ all, most of me mornins’ start with me husband latchin’ on ‘ta me an’ not lettin’ me leave the bed at leas’ an extra bell fer the sake of warmth.

which is ‘ta say me first thoughts when wakin’ are pree’ fuckin good ones.”

what you think about the most: his husband, work, personal projects, underlying worries and responsibilities he’s not prone to publicly airing

“i ain’ exactly the ‘fee-low-sof-ick-al’ type, mate. keep it simple-like, thinkin’ ‘bout what’s in front ov’ me, the next step aft’r that.”

what you think about before bed: depends on the night

“‘pends on if ‘m too fucked out ‘ta even think ‘fore sleep takes me ‘er not. still, thoughts still mostly the same ‘gardless-- usually somethin’ long the lines of jus’ how godsdamned lucky i really am.”

you think your best quality is: once again.... take your personal pick

“well, ‘lready mentioned me ass, me thighs... if ye fancy scars me chest an’ back are pree’ damn nice too, me arms got some neat lookin’ ones lemme-- oh, y’don’t mean physical this time. cor, why didn’ ye say so.

shit, uhh... well, i ain’ the type ‘ta give up, come hell ‘er high water. shit tha’ might be a flaw but fuck it, it gets results, at leas’.”

.LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

single or group dates: single

“the hell issa group date? like a bunch’a folk all mated goin’ out? separate mated pairs? yer missin’ me here. only got eyes fer one, so the point is prolly moot.”

to be loved or respected: respected

“this issa easy one. trus’ me, know what is like bein’ ‘loved’ without respect, shit’s fun fer a spell, strokes the ego ‘til yer cummin’ yer own pride an’ fumes, but is all the same as a grog binge down at the Wench-- ev’ry single time ye’ll wake up feelin’ like shite an’ prayin fer death. ye can get mighty high on’a pain an’ pleasure cycle like that, aye, but ‘ventually the pain wins out.”

beauty or brains: they correlate

“me baby’s got both, so it ain’t like i gotta choose. ‘m a spoiled bastard, i know.”

dogs or cats: both

“cute buggers aren’t they, the both ov’ em. been at the mercy ov’ the teeth ov’ ‘em both too-- from coeurls ‘ta imperial trained bloodhounds. still, can’t rightly hate the animal fer instincts an’ trainin’, all jus’ tryin ‘ta survive.”

.LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

lie: naturally. but also poorly

“ain’ ‘xactly me strongest suit, fair, but ‘ll bullshit me way ‘round somethin’ if i gotta.”

believe in yourself: of course-- sincerity is a non-factor

“fake it ‘til ye make it, mate. call it cheesy writin’ on the wall ‘er what’ver ye like, shit does the job. no one gives a shit how ye feel ‘bout yerself-- jus’ fuckin’ tell yerself that ye got this an’ go. don’ look back.”

believe in love: he’s in it

“kinda hard ‘ta refute somethin’ ‘m experiencin’, y’know.”

want someone: every second of every day

“jus’ ‘cause ye already have it don’ mean that ye stop wantin it. aye, if anythin’ jus’ want ‘em even moreso. constantly, shit never stops. it’s fuckin’ heaven, lemme tell ye.”

.LAYER SIX: EVER?

been on stage: not professionally

“nothin’ like singin’ er dancin’, less ye count bar tables as impromptu stages.”

done drugs: not always consensually. but a moko edible every now and again isn’t such a crime.

“relax, ain’ like i make a habit ov’ it. special occasion, really. don’ fancy bein’ out ov’ it ‘ta of’en.”

changed who you were to fit in: naturally

“ye gotta if ye wanna survive beyond yer own comforts, mate-- that is if yer lucky ‘ta be born inta’ such ‘ta begin with. look, is called adaptin’, an’ if ye haven’ noticed we miqo’te are pree’ fuckin’ good at it. not even mentionin’ tryna fit in at home-- when i left it was change ‘er die; changed when i started learnin’ the common eorzean tongue, changed when i started dressin’ different, when i started learnin’ how ‘ta act, walk an’ talk so as ‘ta survive, hold me own. y’see it all the godsdamn time-- lookit every miqo’te who changed their name once they started livin’ in one ov’ the big cities, aye, not all ov’ ‘em do, but ‘nuff do ‘fer us ‘ta notice.

it’s adaption. it’s survival. hide parts ov’ yerself ‘ta preserve the greater whole. ain’t sayin’ it’s a nice thing tha’ we gotta do it-- but, aye, survival rarely is ev’r nice.

... if yer lucky though, if ye live long ‘nuff, ye can start reclaimin’ them hidden parts ov’ yerself back, aye, s’process.”

.LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

favorite color: black

“were ye expectin’ anythin’ else? ain’t gonna say no ‘ta gold either-- ‘specially of the rosey sort. they jus’ go ta’gether so well, y’know.”

favorite animal: jaguars, of course

“biased? me? ‘course not.”

favorite food: seafood in general, rustic homecooked meals, spicy food, way too sweet cream-filled coffee, nostalgic preference for almonds, coconuts, and fruit based desserts

“ye ev’r have those lil’ balls of cod deep fried in batter? could get meself sick on those buggers. too damn good. ‘specially if ye add a generous ‘mount ov’ dragon pepper ‘ta the fish ‘fore hand. ‘course if it’s good, fresh catch then ye can’t go wrong with simplicity neither, crab meat straight from the leg with no bells an’ whistles issa snack fit fer the finest.”

favorite game: card games, puzzles, anything that can spur fun competition, whether it be from hunting, to racing, to a snowball fight, isn’t adverse to the cheap thrill of betting on a race chocobo every now and again

“anythin’ can be good, fun competition if yer willin’ an’ rarin’, nothin’ like a lil’ friendly fire under yer arse ‘ta get the legs movin’ an’ cogs whirrin’.”

.LAYER EIGHT: AGE

day your next birthday will be: 28th day of the first umbral moon

“would be pree’ wild if me nameday wasn’ on.... me nameday.”

how old will you be: 29

“ugh, c’mon, i’m tryin’ not ‘ta think ‘bout it. knock it off.”

age you lost your virginity: between the ages of 19 and 21, he does not specify

“whas’ it matter? past is the past. leave it alone.”

does age matter: to an extent

“i ain’ no damn preacher, but it’s pree’ godsdamned obvious when someone is exertin’ power ov’r another. s’reason there be words like kid an’ adult. don’ fuckin’ be that person.”

.LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

best personality: bullheaded, smart, witty, compassionate, strong-hearted and strong-willed, brave, stubborn, impatient, and rather tactless

“maybe toss in a damn fine arse an’ voice like’a songbird-- wait, those ain’t personality traits?”

best eye color: rose gold

“bonus points if they gotta nice, natural glow ‘ta’em.”

best hair color: a warm rose peach with a streak of pale blonde

“what? ‘m a guy who jus’ knows what he likes. an’ i like what i like, cuff me if issa crime.”

best thing to do with a partner: exist with them in the entirety of life’s capacity

“call me fuckin’ sentimental, but learnin’ ‘ta fuckin’ live, really godsdamn live, with ‘em rath’r than jus’ survive... can’t fuckin’ be beat, jus’ can’t. shit’s golden, can’t wait ‘ta do it ev’ry single day on this star ‘til me times’ up.”

.LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

i love: “me husband.”

i feel: “pree’ chuffed, might go fer a nap.”

i hide: “poorly. mean have ye seen me, mate? ain’t easy hidin’ when yer this big. less’ maybe was in a house built with roes in mind.”

i miss: “me ma. aye, still lot’sa things that make me miss home, wouldn’ change where i am now fer the world, mind.”

i wish: “... fish. er, sorry, mind blanked there. they rhyme. been at sea fer the past few days now.”

tagged by: @ffxiv-sunderedsouls​ tagging: this is a stupidly late response so not sure how alive this particular meme is still but, here’s the deal; you wanna do this? do it and tag me THAT WAY i’ll know in the future to tag you in other things, good deal, right? right?!

[jackblankhsh]

Inauguration of a Nightmare -- building the avalanche

JANUARY 20, 2017– the resistance begins

Sirens randomly wailed as emergency vehicles screamed towards grim scenarios.  For any city native it’s a common sound, though one is tempted to call it foreshadowing.  A palpable dread pollutes the dreamlike atmosphere of this fog shrouded metropolis.  Any other night it might feel like the start of adventure and perhaps it still does, though one can’t help feeling what lies ahead is too dark to enjoy.  Yet, it’s the perfect time for Chicago to feel ethereal. The last few months have certainly felt unreal.  

In that time America elected a new president.  By many standards the man is barely human.  A mass of congealed hate and rotted dumpster meat wrapped in ruby cheeked Peking duck skin, cloaked in a miasmic aura of narcissism, dishonesty, and the kind of childishness one hopes never to see in a world leader; there are many facets to this wicked pig.  Like a matryoshka doll many entities exist within his soul: the Twitter crazed tantrum throwing teenager, world’s most successful conman, the unstoppable pussy grabbing hand rapist, demagogue extraordinaire, and gold plated plutocrat.  His obvious flaws caused Olympic grade mental gymnastic in many of his followers, while he fought hard to ultimately lose the popular vote, yet still become president.  

So on the night of his inauguration thousands gathered in Chicago.  In Washington protesters assembled for the event itself, but they got off on the wrong foot.  Violence erupted, and though brief, it tainted the message.  The goal of these protests is not to spill blood, or burn the world, it’s to avoid silence.  Activists want to show where they stand:  against what is coming.  This is especially necessary now given Trump’s pathological lying, and routine desire to rewrite history for his benefit.  Even after winning the election he found it so implausible that he lost the popular vote he began alleging voter fraud.  Not only does he operate under the delusion the country loves him he thinks reality is open to revision, particularly if it doesn’t match the fantasy in his head.  That’s why people are gathering in order to leave a mark which cannot be denied.  

Walking there, distracted by bleak visions of tomorrow – Vlad and Donnie raping Lady Liberty while dead eyed Stepford wife Melania watches, waiting to be told what to think, and press secretary Spicer prepares alternative facts to explain the grotesquery favorably – I wandered down the wrong street.  Instead of joining at the designated assembly point, Wabash and Wacker, I strolled down an empty avenue cordoned off by a smattering of cops. However, police made no move to stop a solitary oddity drifting with the trickle of 9-to-Fivers.  I blended in, and got a chance to observe the cops in waiting.  

Chicago police have a long history with protests, not all of it good, but in that time they’ve learned a thing or two.  Instead of trying to herd the rally they simply fortified the only target of assault. The odds of anyone getting within spitting distance seemed improbable, and because I beat them by chance I will eternally regret not taking the opportunity to hork a wad of phlegm at the building.  An officer moved a barricade aside to let me out of the area, complimenting my sideburns as I passed.  It made me wonder about their feelings.  Some may not have voted for him, but are now ordered to protect his property like dutiful centurions.  One can only hope that given a crisis of conscious, a moment that requires humanity not slave devotion to orders, they’ll do the right thing.  But for now they simply want the night to pass peacefully. They aren’t alone.  

Demonstrators assembled loosely, crowding into a tighter collective by Kupcinet Bridge. There to shout across the river at the name TRUMP glowing in blue tinted lights.  Among the masses a throng of musicians calling themselves Sousaphones Against Hate provided an odd soundtrack to the evening’s events.  One doesn’t think of sousaphones when picturing a protest, but they added a flavor to the affair more clichéd choices would not. There’s something about a brass band playing “The Imperial March” – it put a smile on the face of a man dressed as a nuclear missile, his costume chillingly implicative, but given the music one could only grin as well.  

Homemade signs declared the litany of grievances against President Trump from his failures as a human being and business person to his grotesque, undesirable political agenda. It’s unnerving to watch a young woman hold up a sign in hopes of reminding the world she’s deserves decent treatment because she doesn’t expect it in Trump’s America.  After all, she isn’t the right color, or on the right side, literally and figuratively, though it is heartening to witness so many gathered to stand with her.  

Amidst the activists at least two different publications vied for attention.  Handed for free to any who wanted them, one extolled the virtues of socialism, the other communism, while both asserted this presidency is the fault of capitalism.  Some took the papers gladly, though a few accepted them with a roll of the eyes destining them for the trash can unread.  Wandering the crowd I picked up discussions as protesters tried to comprehend how this reality came into being.  Everyone seemed to subscribe to their own theories which tended to lean toward their personal cause.  African Americans asserted racism as a primary factor in Trump’s win, while many women blamed sexism, but it’s important to note no one dismissed anyone else’s idea… except for one young man jabbering a slew of Orwellian weed tangled gibberish.  Many politely ignored him.  The point being that under a microscope everyone there clearly believed in a different cause, specific to their personal lives, yet those factors go somewhat to the wayside as activists assembled to resist the new president.  

A problem with contemporary protests is that everyone wants to come together as one but be heard individually.  Of one goal, demonstrators expect to be heard in multiple voices, each distinguishable from the whole.  This results in a garbled message.  However, that didn’t happen here.  Whatever a person’s reasons, everyone came to protest Trump.  And that message came across.

That made it sad when the various local news outlets seemed reluctant to record anything. I watched camera operators fiddle with equipment, but not shoot a thing.  They swapped idle chit chat waiting for, I can only assume, something unpleasant.  Riots are ratings gold after all.  I thought maybe they wanted to wait until the crowd reached a more sizable proportion, but honestly, the mass never reached anything critical.  Though thousands may’ve come a casual glance could tell the number easily stayed below ten, possibly even five… or dare say two.  Friday’s rally didn’t have an astonishing turnout, though Saturday would demonstrate perhaps many merely opted to wait to march in solidarity with the women of America.  

Still, this is a new era.  Reliance on old media is unnecessary.  I saw several in attendance recording, live streaming, photographing and video documenting the event.  The regular news may not have covered Friday’s protest in-depth, but the irregular new news, beamed out across social media, spoke volumes.  

#

The night started. Chants kicked up then died down, not enough voices joining in.  An organizer shouted into a crackling PA system that occasionally cut out, her voice vanishing before returning midsentence in a cloud of static. Volunteers passed out chant sheets, so anyone in attendance would know what to say.  Glancing over one I noticed a preponderance of, “2, 4, 6, 8…” followed by rhymes like, “No more violence, no more hate.”  After an hour, though, standing around felt like doing nothing, so I went into Hoyt, a nearby hotel tavern.  Also I needed to piss.  

Inside I found a pair of bottle blondes taking selfies, giggling over white wine without a care in the world.  Most eyes glued to the Hawks game on TV.  A few tourists glanced out the windows, and as if for the first time noticed the protesters choking the street.  They speculated about what could be happening.  It didn’t seem clear despite the “fuck Trump” signs and mass of humanity shouting anti-Trump rhetoric.  Then in true tourist fashion they hurried to the windows to snap pics, capturing real world souvenirs.  

Then midway through a refreshing Scotch I saw the protesters start marching.  I slammed the contents of my glass, and hurried outside.

“This is it!” I thought, “The resistance has begun!”  

Rushing to catch up I saw the demonstrators halt at Michigan Avenue.  Anticipating the attempt police stood ready to hold the movement back. So for a time the protest seemed destined to merely pinball between two streets until a group of activists turned the flow towards the river walk.  

Anxious to storm the Tower, the march poured down the concrete steps.  Hurrying to lower Wacker the maneuver seemed naïve.  Surely police must’ve anticipated such a move, though in fact they didn’t need to.  As already mentioned, barricades stood preventing anyone from getting close enough to piss on the gutters out front.  But motion feels like action, so the bulk of protesters surged onward. Signs held aloft elicited honks of support from passing motorists.  Cheering, feeling rejuvenated, on the road to success, the march circled like a shark.

It was then I saw a couple pausing from the protest to take a picture.  Passing by the infamous Billy Goat Tavern, a boyfriend photographed his girlfriend.  She posed to have, not only the landmark, but her sign in the photo as well.  The march slowly getting away from them, while they made sure to get the right shot.  

Shortly afterward I heard two demonstrators talking:

“Which street do we turn down to get to Trump Tower?”

“The next one?”

This exchange taking place a block after the relevant street.  I thought about directing them, but momentum seemed in favor of simply wandering the streets, shouting for attention.  When an organizer cried out, “We’re going to Lakeshore Drive!” trying to corral the herd to the Chicago landmark I departed from the march.  Gumming up LSD with protesters has become a predictable move in recent years.  It felt like the obligatory song of a one hit wonder trying to win back fans drifting to the exit.  Make no mistake, the spirit is willing, the flesh is not weak, but the movement is already fatigued.

Every day is a fresh pot of awful drunk choking back vomit.  This weekend’s protests are important, but they are more indicative of what’s to come rather than anything expected to effect change.  It would take god-sized optimism bordering on lunatic naivety to presume protests alone will unseat this “man.”  This is only the beginning.  

Now that it’s proven a call to action can assemble the masses it’s time to consider the next move. It isn’t enough to simply get people together.  Protests, after all, are more symbolic than effective.  Their main accomplishment is proving there is a movement, but they have to have an impact on something other than awareness of said movement.  

A friend of mine put it best, and if I may paraphrase:  it starts with a snowflake building to an avalanche.  We now need the avalanche.