#The Humanoid Torch

[zelly-raptor]

Date unknown - The Humanoid Torch.

Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four may have been the Human Torch but he wasn't the first Superhero to have that Title.

The First Hero known as the Human Torch was born from Failure. Professor Phineas T. Horton was a Pioneer in the field of Artificial intelligence and built one of the worlds first Androids in 1939.

Unfortunately it burst into Flame when exposed to Oxygen.

In time the Android learned to control this Ability, took on the Identity of "Jim Hammond" and became a Crime fighter.

Later he would join the likes of Captain America, Bucky Barnes and Namor the Submariner to fight in the Second World war and after that founded the All-Winners Squad.

For our interpretation of the Human Torch, Since Jim is an Android I made him look Abit more Mechanical, more Robotic looking!

Jim Hammond/ The Human Torch is property of Marvel comics™ all rights reserved.

Text acquired from "Avengers the Ultimate Guide" written by Tom DeFalco.

[edwards-exploit]

The Bournemouth Belle, and The Last Shunter.

More OCs! SteamNav and Missus are rather new so some info might be subject to change, and they were AU versions of certain characters (3 points if you guess who) buuut they spiralled into new characters. SteamNav is tranquil fury incarnate, trying to take control of his life after so long being something humans have tinkered with and throwing herself into making Incredibly Bad Descisions; and Missus can and will judge your (engine) sins, but she keeps losing at poker and that's why Sodor is so damn haunted. If anyone has any more questions or just want to help me brainstorm send me an ask and I'll answer :]

[archaicbones]

The elders

Digital

[plasma-tree]

anyways im gonna play skyrim and fuck the living tits off of some orc blacksmith or whatever

[talasdoodles]

Some concept and names for the members of my Splatoon idol/band oc Aiasho.

They're band is called "Hanging Moss" the name having jointly been decided by most of them aside from Erin as she came around later.

For these four;

Markus is an Asterina starfish with a hobby of nature preservation; he plays guitar and gives backup vocals

Erin is a moon jellyfish and glows in the dark; She plays drums for the band

Inari is a queen anglefish and the oldest of the bunch and also acts as the groups manager; She plays electric violin or keyboard depending on the song

Torch is a bluering octoling, only he knows if that is actually his name or not; He plays bass for the band and is actually best friends with Markus

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hi! I love your writing

Could you do something like the villain finding out his nemesis hero is member of his nearly extinct (fantasy?) species?

Like the villain thought he was the last of his kin?

"You..." The villain's eyes widened. "You're..."

Between wearing either heavy make-up and coloured contacts in his civilian guise, or his hero mask when he wasn't, the hero could usually pass as human.

Unfortunately, his mask rested utterly useless in the villain's hands and he hadn't had time to do a full face before rushing out the door. The inhumanity of him was thus blatantly visible beneath the villain's devouring gaze.

"A monster?" the hero snapped. "That's rich coming from you, you-"

The villain reached up and, with the careful press of a button, his own mask slid away.

The hero froze.

The hero stared.

The whole world, and all that he was fighting for dropped away as his heart leapt and his mouth went dry and it felt like every atom in his body hummed with recognition.

The villain's eyes were the same purple shade as his own - a dark orchid-esque colour that humans couldn't quite filter properly and had no entirely accurate name for. The line of his cheek had the same glimmer of scales, though the villain's were a shimmering pearl compared to the hero's blue. He hadn't filed his teeth down to blend in like the hero had either. They were carnivore-sharp.

Dragon. In his more humanoid form, certainly, but a dragon nonetheless.

Just like the hero.

Several key facts slid into place.

"Oh," the hero said, breathless. The old language suddenly felt ready and perched on his tongue like a waterfall. He swallowed it down.

"I thought I was the only one left."

The hero's brain churned, as he struggled to compute the astounding evidence in front of him. Because he couldn't - the villain couldn't - except he obviously was.

Had he been stealing for his hoard?

"I thought I was alone," the villain said. "Are there others?!"

Mutely, dumbstruck, the hero shook his head.

He'd thought he was alone too. For so long, so very very long, he'd thought he was the only one left. And now - now. The hero scrambled belatedly to his feet, with a groan of pain. He could feel panic rising. Panic and hope and fury and longing.

The villain closed the gap in an instant, as if scared the hero might run. He curled one hand around the front of the hero's suit to hold him in place, pinning him back against the wall with a matching strength that suddenly made so much more sense. The wall behind them gave an ominous shudder.

His stare raked over the hero's body, like he could slip beneath his clothes and perform a full catalogue or history, before snapping back to the hero's mouth. His teeth.

"What did they do to you?"

"They didn't do anything. I -" There were too many questions, it was too big. The hero had no idea where to start. He reached out to grab his mask back from the villain.

The villain hurled it aside, well out of the way. His freshly-freed hand gripped the hero's wrist. Tight. Possessive.

"Why are you protecting humans?" the villain sounded somewhere between bewildered and livid. "What's wrong with you?"

The hero bristled, the fury clearing his head a little bit too. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you? You nearly torched half of London, are you insane?"

"They hunted us. I thought I was the only one left. Are you -"

The villain swore in old tongue. Fire-tongue, though the hero had guessed that much.

He could practically feel the heat rising off the villain, sudden and foreboding. His instincts swerved this way and that; torn between the violence of enmity, of every vicious memory they shared, and all the sheer longings of a home he'd thought lost forever.

Before he'd even fully realised it, he'd reached out, palm searching the villain's chest in turn, finding his heartbeat. Slow. Much slower than a human's could ever be.

Dragon, dragon, dragon.

Kin.

The same.

His.

"Oh, god," the hero said.

"You even sound like them," the villain said, tone not quite kind enough to be wonder. "I really thought you were human. What did they do to you?"

"They didn't do anything! Just - shut up. For one second, just shut up. I need to think. Because you - you're - oh god."

There were many arguments the hero could have made, never mind that the whole point of a secret identity was to fit in, but all he could focus on was the enormity of it.

He wasn't alone.

They weren't alone.

He didn't have to be alone.

The villain's hands moved up to his face, clutching his jaw, cradling him. The purple of his eyes began to deepen to flame.

"Come with me," he said, fully switching to the old tongue. "We shouldn't be fighting each other. You're young - you must be young if you're on their side - we'll talk. You'll tell me everything."

The worst person the hero knew was the only one who could possibly begin to understand.

It was all too much.

The hero ripped himself free, and bolted.

[veilantares]

Psylent Platinum

Metal Masked Machines, gleaming as they always have, like torches in the Night, hold vigil until the bells all toll

Anyone that looks at these usually can probably fairly quickly tell they're often accidentally becoming Warframe 2, even if they're a long ways away from catching up to the spiritual inspiration.

I don't quite know what to think of that impression, I guess my main response is that there is a lot of Warframe, and within that there's also many different eras of Warframe deisgn - it takes a village to make those real after all.

Maybe the main differentiator will be getting back to some non-humanoid designs, which there's meant to be a lot of in the universe these are in - the rough part about those is just not being able to use my own poses as reference.

Lost a fair bit of progress because of an unusual save error, so some parts of this are a bit more haphazard since they got done a second time. compromise compromise.

Guess it's also a little strange to choose bright silver after the last few have been so colourful, I usually avoid this and keep the main figure more neutral when I can, because having both be bright can make it feel like the picture is "screaming" at you. Subconciously or not I think the colour choices for each piece are sometimes informed by how good I think they look in a profile grid, which is a really strange incentive to not be braver with these. bleh.

[running-with-kn1ves]

BELONGINGS

Orc x Kidnapped human reader (Gender neutral)

A/N: Literally NO ONE asked for this but I kept seeing all those shrek/swamp romance tiktoks and got inspired to do some orc stuff. Man I love orcs... like big dumb bugs personified. (also ignore the experimental latin pet names idk what im doing)

CW: Kidnapping, forceful holding, arson, raiding, kind of just angst fluff?

Word count: 2600

You knew the excitement of your life would never move past the blandness of day-in day-out work to survive, not as one without any bestowed or taught brow-raising talents that could lift you away from the mundane daily life you held in the wispy fields of the woodlands. 

As a realist you concurred that you’d never be the breadwinner in your family, maybe not the strongest when hauling crops, or the smartest when it came to solving passed down arithmetic equations from your cousins’ old school books. But as a child you always took comfort in the thought ‘at least I won’t be chained down, won’t be tied to some ugly pig farmer for a couple shillings.’ Your family valued you that much; well-- your working hands, that much. ‘One more body is one more mouth to feed’ you were told time and time again, but you pulled your weight and then some. 

You had little time to think outside of planting, weeding, bathing and eating. Meals and getting rid of the dirt covering your soles that you were scolded for after hours of being in the damp pastures were the only down time you had to yourself, not surrounded by the screaming nieces and nephews you were expected to take care of when the elder of your family members eventually passed from whatever disease ran rampant in the village the coming winter. You prepared your life, prepared for taking care of others and continuing your hard work in growing what you needed to survive, and selling what you didn’t. 

Unfortunately, that humdrum future was wiped out by swirling flames and the braying of stallions of mountainous size. They came in, trampling the greening cranberry bush you were planning to keep all to yourself, and the cabbages your family would have relied on for meals for the next two months before winter fell. 

Persimmon trees were burnt to crispy thorned stumps, the lush of your family’s acres now shredded to flecks of dead grass and muddy hoof prints, along with humanoid footsteps far too large to resemble any of the humans or disfigured hybrids in your teensy rural hamlet. Who were these unwelcomed strangers, the enormous creatures of the night that disrupted the only human civilization for miles around? You remained clueless for the entirety of being ripped out of your bed, continuing to be hauled over some olive-colored shoulder and thrown into a sack on the back of a wagon. 

“This one.” You heard, right before your dirty finger nails were pulled away from your twin beds fading sheets you desperately tried to keep. You had even managed to bring a small, lumpy pillow along with you, the creature that slung you over their shoulder leaving no assumption of a notice. You witnessed the still-burning remnants of your frail thatched home, as the silhouette of a muscular man lowered a flamed stick to its leftovers. 

The entirety of the bumpy ride to wherever your captors were bringing you to, you could only think of the fires holding onto the greenery of your land, of the dirt and rubble and smoke that clawed at your feet when you tripped into the wagon, burnt air choking you as a baby screamed out for its mother. 

Hours must’ve passed before you were brought into this musky, dank room with other fading faces from your village, but it only felt like a few moments ago that you heard the crackling of a fiery tree crushing rows of perking crops. 

The snapping of fingers nearly as grimy as your own blocked your recollection of clouded smoke and angry flames, bringing your attention back to the leather hut you sat domestically within. It was damp and dark inside, the light of torches outside being the only form of light. That, and the reflection of the metal on the warrior in front of you. He turned back, thumbing toward you as he looked at a similar creature.

“Agh, its no use, practically fucking deaf this one. Sure you don’t want one of the mothers?” 

The other orc slapped his fellow warrior on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. 

“No, my friend. Besides, sweet things’ only other option is Brutus. Don’t think he could last with one of these poor creatures without splitting it in two; ‘specially this one.” 

You were suddenly and acutely aware of the orcs conversation, now that your fate was being so clearly decided in front of you. 

The first, far sootier orc patted his fellow brethren on the chest as he turned away with a look that showed he was hardly convinced. Yet, he still walked out of the tented hut, ducking slightly to fit under it. 

You watched him leave, feeling a sense of relief as the threat had been removed. And yet, there was still one so prevelantly in front of you. 

“Hey there.” A guttural, almost faltering voice murmured to you. 

Eyes growing wide, you gripped harder onto the smushed pillow in your lap, instinctively leaning your upper body backward to get away from the orcish face right in front of you. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The orc gruffed, falling to a crouch as he watches you slide to the edge of the hut’s leather wall. “Just wanna see you up close.”

He consumed the entirety of your fearful attention, his existence like a heavy weight in the room as the quiet tension aimed at him. You pushed your head painfully against a wood pole behind the leather walls, trying to morph your body any distance away that would provide you a miniscule fraction of comfort. But none came, especially not when a sudden warm finger pushed into your cheek. The green thumb pulled your upper lip, showing the ends of your teeth. Your other cheek smushed into your eye as the orc did the same to the other side, observing your poor excuse for chompers compared to his large, well-groomed tusks. 

“Guess these’ll do. You can atleast chew meat, right?” he pulled your jaw open gently, making your lips part. “Don’t wanna have to feed you like a baby bird; though, that wouldn’t be the worst of troubles.” 

You slapped his hand away, grimacing at the idea of being fed by this beast-creature. 

“I can eat perfectly fine.” You grumble, noticing how stiff the orcs arm was, still holding out beside your face as it rests dejected. “What does that matter, aren’t you going to eat me anyway?”

You keep a frown on your face, glaring up at the crouched brute. 

He let out a hearty laugh, those around you turning away from their miserable memories to face the strident disturbance. 

“So cute, as if you’d be enough to feed an orcling!” He let out another chestful of a laugh, grabbing at your cheek this time with a pinch. “My little to-be spouse, I knew you’d be worth the trouble.”

Wincing in pain, your fingers came up to try and pry his rough, printless thumb off your salty skin. 

“So adorable,” He throatily squealed, dragging you closer by the cheek to stumble into his chest. The only thing covering the caverned flesh of deep holes and ravined slices in his skin were straps of bull leather, and the furs of cottontails sewn to form a thin shawl around his bulky shoulders. 

He smelled of a foreign musk, the slight piquant scent of his skin being swallowed in by your nostrils as your lips smushed against the dip in the middle of his chest. Something sharp poked into the side of your face as you were held tightly against the orc, making you muffle against him to let you go. 

“You’re right you’re right; we should have some privacy-- and you, should get a chance to see your new home. My home.” He huffed against your ear, humid breath making your neck sweat as tusks touched the top of your head. “Name’s Xerxes, don’t forget it-- make sure you tell it to any orcs that try n’ talk to you.”

“Wait now--” Your aimed attempt of protesting was cut wrongly short by the sudden grab of your ankles, Xerxes beginning to stand back up as he dragged you with him. Before you knew it you were upside down, hollering as fat fingers made their way around your tibia. A shoulder jutted into your soft stomach, throat heaving as Xerxes began to move. You saw your lone pillow left on the ground, growing farther away as the large legs belonging to your captor moved from below your vision.

With every huge step he took, the harsh necklaces of teeth (which you prayed belonged to animals) dug into your side-- huh, so that must’ve been what was scraping against your face earlier. They clinked together as he walked, his body so rigid and unorthodox that he made a sound whenever he moved, whether it be a snorted grunt or the stomp from his feet, or the shift of his clothes and sheathed weapons. 

Xerxes didn’t open the leather flap of the hut sahe carried you out, walking straight as it brushed across your head. You shut your eyes in an unavoidable flinch, but the orc hardly noticed as he adjusted you on his shoulder, grabbing right below your thighs to hold you steady. 

The brilliant idea of beating and scratching his back enough to get free was so enticing you were on the brink of trying it-- but the orc standing outside the hut you just left, the unfamilliar darkness of the grasslands surrounding you, made you think twice. 

And just like that, your world spun and you were tossed inside what must’ve been another tent, a blur of oranges from fiery torches and grey browns of animal hide entering your vision. Something soft hit your back as you let out an ‘oof!’ from the depths of your chest. 

You scrambled to get back up, alert now that you were thrown in some different environment. But as you clambered to look around, whipping your head from side to side, all you saw were reddish walls of leather and two warm torches, along with the occasional spread of a map or a scribed foreign language.

This tent was much smaller than the last, not meant for a community to rest in. Instead, it was about the snug and spacious size of a room for only one to sleep in. The softness of hairs touched your palms, layers upon layers of furs covering beneath you to create a small lump of a warm, makeshift bed. 

“Look at this,” An excited, guttural voice begged of you. “Been keeping it since forever; saw it in some… abandoned goblin grotto, once. Couldn’t help but take it with me as a memento. As soon as I saw it, I just knew it’d be the perfect gift for my future amasiuncula.”

You could taste the lie on your tongue, as if it was thick in the air once he spoke it. Orcs didn’t just ‘find’ things, the destruction of your teensy village showed you that much. But that didn’t matter, not when the piercing blue of a silk fabric dazzled at you. Why, you had never seen something so plush in your life. It was surely just a base blanket-like piece likely once spooled for the future of becoming some sort of clothing or undergarment; it was still so silkenly smooth nonetheless. Your fingers traced the perfect fabric, its sensation nothing you had ever felt in your years of living as a farming peasant. The softest thing you’d ever touched were the baby calfs your far neighbors had bred into existence. 

“See how soft it is?” Xerxes said with a slight sputter, bringing the silk to your cheek. “Like a cloud… it’s yours. My engagement present.”

You looked back up at him bewildered. “Engagement?” 

“A present. Orc tradition is to offer a gift of richness; the wealthiest thing I could get my hands on.” He covered you in the silk, wrapping your shoulders in it as he pulled you from the furs to his bare lap. You would’ve resisted given the chance, but the orc smugly kept the silk around your arms, bringing the other side of it to wrap around you, pulling it tight; you could hardly move yourself now, shoved in this warm softness of a cocoon; it frightened you. But the tusks pressed against your cheek, chewed lips touching your temple as a tongue gently poked out to swiftly press against your skin, made you fear something else more. “Always wanted a human..” The orc exhaled, audibly sniffing in the scent of your hair. “Been looking for a good once for a while now. One that’ll be nice and docile, a sweet little foal for me to enjoy--” 

You slid your arms against the suffocating silk that was beginning to build heat. “I don’t think i’m what you’re looking for, besides I’m not--”

“Oh but you are,” Xerxes cut you off, leaning his orcish face close to yours to make you look at him. “So.. soft, your skin is like obsidian smoothed and frosted by the tumbling of waves of the sea, so polished and spotted I can’t help but want to keep it in between my fingers.”

Beads hung low by his neck, attached to rings of metal that pierced large holes in his pointed ears. The black and silver balls that dangled would jingle when he moved his head to get a better look at you, along with the wire and metal ornaments wrapped around the braids in his hair. Despite the undercut he fashioned (that you could see better now), a great mane of thick brown hair traveled to his shoulders, tickling your neck as he squeezed you closer. You felt almost like a baby, swaddled and pressed close to his large beating heart that thumped against your shoulder. 

“And oh your dainty little fingers and toes, when I saw them peeking from your bedsheets I knew grabbing them with would be no mistake.”

The orc nuzzled into you with his flat nose, warmth spreading against your cheeks as his sunken face created friction. You always sort of thought your fingers were quite round, your toes a little mishappen, but compared to him, your entirety was merely like a child’s straw doll’s. 

“I don’t want to marry you!” You blurted, freezing as the orc kept himself nestled against you. “I wanna go home, I want to go back to my bed and forget this-- I'm not some little trinket to mate with!"

Xerxes gave you a look. It was so smushy, an embarrassed grin like some pubescent boy watching his crush undress. It was perverted, so snickeringly crude as he bit his lip at the word "mate."

Ahh, he heard his fellow warriors, his chief in command even, discuss their "mates" with lustful wonder and candied eyes that danced with images of their beloved, their spouse. He had never had a person, never had a soft warm thing at night to hold, for him to bully himself into; it was hard to contain the joy inside of him, even with your rapid repeating of "no no no!"

"Mate…" He repeated. 

"I said NOT to--"

"But you said it; and now… I can't get it out of my head, dulcis." Xerxes was snug against your wiggling chest, pressing his freckled cheek against yours to make your lips pucker. He was unbelievably, fiery warm, with a heat under his skin that you wondered was just a layer of embers. 

The mixture of the orcs body heat and the humid equinox night made sweat cling to your dirty skin, the satin coddling you now feeling stickier.  “Now, I s’pose its time we get you looking like a proper orc, smelling like one too. Like me,” Xerxes pressed his tusked mouth below your ear, protruding lips pressing a deep, slightly nipping kiss to below the corner of your jaw. “Get rid of this disgusting… exhilarating human stench.”

[themaclean]

We Don't Have To Be Friends (1/2) Characters: Cooper Howard/Lucy MacLean. Summary: 3,507 words, Post Season One -- character study that was meant to be PWP, but then ended up being entirely plot. Part two will be smut or I will krill myself. Warnings: Nothing you wouldn't see in the show. ( Ao3 ) > Part One | Part Two | Part Three <

Cooper never thought much about Hollywood anymore.

He had no reason to and no time either— but the thoughts bubbled up when he saw how the gold thread of his shirt dulled and familiar street signs melted into slack arches. Sometimes, he’d catch sight of a tattered newspaper with names he recognized or faces of people long since dead.

But nothing made him think of Hollywood the way Lucy did.

It hit him one afternoon with a nasty churn, that flash of the old world that locked his knees mid-stride. It was pathetic, really, when he thought about it now.

It was the flash of Lucy's Vault-Tec-sponsored smile over her shoulder, her thin hand with a necrotized finger pointing ahead of them at some landmark she’d heard of. With her head turned at just the right angle, and the sun was low as it caught the edges of her cheeks and lashes…

She had the sort of face girls in the movies had: clear skin, big eyes, and neat hair. Pretty — beautiful, actually, but not as a matter of compliment. Beautiful in the way she’d make a good price at any given market if he was inclined to sell her. Beautiful in the way people loved to exploit.

That’s the lifeblood of Hollywood—that churning mass of young talent desperate to prove they had what it takes. They’d sweet talk whoever they needed to, go to the parties, and chat his ear off about how amazing he’d been in whatever movie had come out lately, about the sponsorships they’d been offered, and about the dresses they got sent. They’d slip him their number and hold his bicep too long like they’d been taught to by managers and mothers alike.

Dozens of pretty women rushed to audition for the role of arm candy. They’d audition to play the mayor's daughter, the farmer's daughter, or so-and-so’s daughter. They’d always been the damsel. Then, whatever cowboy he’d been hired to play would toss the pretty woman onto the back of Sugarfoot and ride off into the sunset. The sort of girl who'd be gone by the next movie or end up married to a director, so she'd quit acting.

And, much like all the girls in Hollywood Cooper had spent time with, Lucy had changed. She had the same optimism, but it’d dulled; her marketable face now held tired, empty eyes. It was like she finally caught onto the world’s current: no sunset and no next movie.

Cooper couldn’t fault her. It's a strange journey to discover what to do to survive.

“Hey Cooper — is that it?” Lucy asked, repeating herself. The sprawl of buildings ahead was dotted with torches and candles.

Cooper nodded, his hand firm on Dogmeat’s collar.

A short strip of buildings stood out against the expanse of desert and dry shrubs. Each building leaned towards another, with sheet metal fastened with unskilled welding. Several turrets puttered away, seeking whatever wasn’t humanoid enough. Strips of fabric and tin cans garlands peppered the buildings' front. The smaller buildings on either side were your standard fare: a repair shop, a medic, a trader with a little diner area.

But the one Cooper was after stood out for its neon sign—Hell’s Oasis.

Hell’s Oasis served its purpose—it was a decent place to get information, and the people minded their business. They weren’t too bothered with ghouls or mutants as long as you had caps. The place often served as a meeting ground for bounty hunters and their contractors. It was also one of the more upscale places, as they wouldn’t harvest organs unless you died of natural causes.

And, if you couldn’t fight or forage for survival, you could fuck for it.

(Not that Cooper ever wasted caps on the whores who took residence within Hell’s Oasis. He’d sooner pay people to fuck off than spend the night with him.)

Cooper grabbed Lucy by the nape of her neck to yank her close and keep her firmly by his side. Most people he brought here, he left here — call it a force of habit to handle her so roughly.

“I can walk, y’know,” Lucy hissed.

“Stick close,” Cooper clicked his tongue at her, and a slight hiss followed. His grip flexed to further the message that she’d do well to follow his guidance.

They made their way through the hotel lobby, the moldy carpet slick against the floor with dirt and grease from the world outside. A few people chattered away in the attached bar, laughing at jokes Cooper couldn’t make out. Casino chips clattered on the table as they played made-up card games.

Long dead plants clung to arid dirt, the sticks of old ferns wilting against one another. Metal crates were lashed together in each corner of the alcove where the front desk sat, providing a makeshift cage between the staff and the patrons. Several girls rushed past Cooper and Lucy, jeering and cackling as they approached the bar. They were clad in lacy nightgowns. He couldn’t tell if they knew they were lingerie rather than clothes or if they’d even care.

“It’s so lively here,” Lucy said, a pang of something in her face.

“It happens in pockets,” Cooper said with a shrug of his shoulder. Little uh… spots of life.”

“Must be why they call it an oasis.”

Cooper rolled his eyes as they reached the front desk. Magazines sat in thick stacks with information about local tours in the area and a guide to the national parks. An abandoned handbag was tucked against the desk, which Lucy eyed with curiosity.

Cooper slapped the front desk bell a few times, a gargling growl low in his throat.

They needed this break after a couple of weeks on the road together. Water was getting sparse, and he wanted to be ready to meet with whoever the fuck Hank had run off to. And in such an open desert, there’s no sense traveling at night, and all manner of dumb shit came up along the way.

It was always something. People needed help or some dumb cunt trying to pick a fight, resupplies, rest… He didn’t like helping people much, but Lucy argued with him whenever they tried to go on without at least trying. And whether the people lived or died, at least they tried. That was her argument.

But Lucy listened to him a little more now, and he was as patient as he could be with her.

Cooper rang the bell again. He wanted a room, and the chattering laughter in the bar was only making his aches worse.

Priscilla appeared from behind a moth-eaten velvet curtain. Her hairline was hidden beneath a thick headscarf with puffy blond curls bouncing beneath it. The last time he’d been here, her hair had begun to rot out of her skull. He guessed it’d only gotten worse. She’s still pretty, mirroring that old-world red lip with pin curls.

“Oh my God, is that you, Coop? I haven’t seen you in a long time,” Priscilla said in a slow, low voice. She had a rasp to it, always had, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the radiation or a smoking habit.

“Was underground,” Cooper said with a lazy smile. He wouldn’t mention that he’d been underground in a literal sense, trapped in a coffin.

“Well, it’s nice for you to come to see us and…” Priscilla’s gaze slid to Lucy, that usual surprise swelling up at the sight of a genuine Vault Dweller. They weren’t hard to spot. “Ah, you turning her in for a bounty?”

Lucy’s head snapped towards him, a mixture of shock and disgust.

“No,” Cooper shook his head, his grip firm on Lucy’s neck to turn her head away from him. His fingers tensed before they dropped away altogether, brushing across Lucy’s shoulder. “Tag-along. Helpin’ her uh…” He picked through the words that came to mind, cautious not to share too much. “Adjust to the surface.”

Priscilla’s jaw squared as she stared Lucy down.

“We’re just lookin’ for a room, some food,” Cooper said before she could pry further. “Usual fare.”

“Please,” Lucy said, like Cooper had forgotten, and it was important to say. “The usual fare, please.”

“She speaks,” Priscilla said in a purr.

Cooper had to give Lucy credit. She’d stayed quiet much longer than he’d expected.

“Oh, we’ll also need water,” Lucy said, looking up at Cooper. “For cleaning and drinking. I’m not sure if you separate it that way or if you reuse it unless you have showers.”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “Running water? We can get you a bucket of water, sweetness. That alright with you?”

“It works great for me. Big fan of buckets. They’re the backbone of agriculture and cleaning, really, if you think about it…” Lucy agreed, her smile as bright as the neon sign by the front window.

Priscilla looked at Cooper and then at Lucy, repeating the loop before she sauntered behind a moth-eaten velvet curtain strung up with zip ties. The distant hum of a generator underscored the silence as Cooper picked over the board of caricatures. Plenty of people were banned from the premises or with a bounty on their heads — no one stood out on the board, at least.

“She was giving us a weird look,” Lucy leaned closer to Cooper, feigning a swipe of her hand through her hair. The floor creaked as she shifted her weight closer to him. “Is it the bucket thing? I panicked.”

Cooper scoffed from the back of his throat.

“It is safe here, right? You trust her?”

“It’s safe,” Cooper bared his teeth at Lucy, begging her to return to the docile silence she’d thrived in.

“Then why — ”

Cooper hissed for her to shh through clenched teeth.

Priscilla pushed past the curtain. She gripped a little blue card with faded gold edges. A key with a golden ball chain was attached to the edge. It felt strangely archaic to be so formal about lodgings, but it was why he liked this place.

“I guess it makes sense,” Priscilla said as she slid the key to Cooper. She nodded to Lucy. “You wanting a girl who’s more… Old—world flavor. It reminds you of the golden years, hm?”

“Six, right?” Cooper ignored her question, his gaze fixed to the card.

“Six,” Priscilla repeated, her gaze on Lucy.

Cooper tossed a few caps onto the front desk, the clatter of metal their own punctuation. He notched his head towards the stairs, and Dogmeat and Lucy followed in stride. He was eager for the simple things — water, food, and a moment to let his bags rest.

“Wanting a girl…” Lucy smiled, mumbling more of Priscilla’s words under her breath.

After several flights of stairs and a few hours, Cooper felt all the better. He’d eaten his fill and enjoyed the peace of an enclosed room. He didn’t often allow himself such a luxury, as being in a settlement put a target on your back for any larger groups. But it’d been two weeks since they’d had proper rest out of the elements.

Tracking Hank wasn’t easy, either. That suit meant he could skip over all the pocked landscape and roaming threats. What would take him an hour to travel by air was a day for them sometimes, a fact that spurred Cooper on. But they couldn’t rush, as rushing would only get them killed.

One wrong step and you were deathclaw chow.

“God, more, please!”

And there went the silence. Cooper’s eye twitched; his lipless mouth sneered at the screeches.

Whoever had taken up residence in room five was making the most of their money — an hour straight of screams and moans, an hour straight of Lucy pretending to read. She’d picked up a holotape at the last outpost they’d stopped at; something about a sequel she’d always wanted to continue reading.

By the second hour, it wasn’t so much that room five stopped fucking. But they at least got a lot quieter about it. The occasional shriek or moan rattled through the air vents, but it was far and few between.

Lucy lay across the double bed, her boots discarded beside the door. Her vault suit hung from the defunct radiator. Her washing was all done, and she’d freshened up, the usual Lucy shit. She’d helped herself to the water and changed into some pajama set she’d pilfered from a house a few days back.

“I think it’s nice,” Lucy said into the open air of the hotel room.

Cooper looked up from his shotgun, teeth bared like he was trying to smile. “The quiet?”

“No,” Lucy smiled at the wall between them and room five. “That people can find love, even now.”

Cooper couldn’t stop himself from laughing at that. The cackles shook from low in his lungs and caught him so off-guard he hacked up some foul muck into his palm. He hissed through a wheezed breath as he fumbled with his RadAway puffer.

“I mean it! It’s not funny!”

“That ain’t love, Vaultie,” Cooper coughed out, his eyes narrowed as drool and tears mingled on his cheeks. He wiped his face, fine skin catching against the scarred, leathery mess. “That…” He pointed to the wall. “S’probably a whore and her John making the most of the caps.”

Lucy’s eyes darted as she picked apart what he’d said. “John..?”

“John’s a term for uh…” Cooper’s jaw strained against a smile, though it was far too cruel to be kind. “A guy who pays for sex.”

“Ah, wasteland slang,” she said with a solemn nod, as if it made sense she hadn’t caught on immediately.

“Old world slang,” Cooper corrected.

Lucy looked around the hotel room anew, like she’d finally caught on to what this place really was. She scooted to the edge of the bed, to sit with her legs angled towards him. “That woman at the front desk said you’d want a girl who’s old world — she thought I was a prostitute. ”

“Maybe.”

Lucy crossed her arms as if she had more to say on the matter. But then she remained quiet, uncharacteristically so.

“S’waste of caps.”

“Hiring me to have sex with you? Actually, I know all about sexual gratification, so I think it’d be a great use of money — caps.”

Cooper stared Lucy down as if he couldn’t parse what she’d just said. “Paying anyone money to fuck you is a waste.” Cooper tongued his lips apart. “Bullets. Meds. There’s shit worth paying for. Sex is — ”

“Important.”

“Sex ain’t worth much.”

“To you, maybe,” Lucy frowned. “It’s an act of love and intimacy, and… It’s how humanity continues, and it’s — fun if done well.”

“You wanna waste your caps on some cock?” Cooper snapped, his hand flapping at the door. “Be my guest.”

“No,” Lucy shook her head. “I don’t want to, but I’m saying that I… I think killing people is probably worse than sleeping with people for caps. If it’s to survive, I think it makes sense. Morally speaking.”

“Don’t,” Cooper snarled.

Cooper didn’t like how Lucy spoke to him most days, but this was a new, worse permutation. Her Vault-addled morality was sickening enough on its own, as she embodied whatever bullshit had been drip-fed to her by the company who’d bought her vault. Not that he was without sin, given the shit he’d done to survive this long.

But sex and love and all that shit was not front of mind. He needed to find his family and to know what happened to them. He didn’t need a two-cap blowjob from a stranger in the dim light of some bar. Though, in all honesty, his drug habit mixed with the amount of alcohol he’d drowned himself in, some nights got hazy.

There’s that animalistic, self-destructive part of him that won on his worst nights. The same part of him that kept him alive, the same part that let him do all the miserable shit he needed to do to survive.

But it’s certainly never been love. Not since Barb.

Never again, he’d wager.

"I had sex once," Lucy said this like it was a point of pride, now on her feet. She idled beside the bed, her gaze settled onto the empty space she’d been lying. "With my husband, but…" Her face twisted with this delayed amusement. She turned towards him, closing the gap between them.

Lucy’s eyes remained unfocused as she stared at the marked table between them, where his shotgun lay across a dirty cloth. "Does that make us both widows..? You said you have a family, right? So, you were probably married and had at least one kid. Not trying to presume, so tell me if I’m wrong, but… You said that in the observatory. That’s what you’re after."

Cooper parted his lips, a nasty tilt to his hairless brow.

Lucy gave a tight smile. "I was married. Only for a few hours, but… It was an arranged marriage, I didn’t meet him until the wedding. It turned out he was a raider from the surface posing as my match from Vault 32 and…" At this point, Lucy caught herself. “I feel for you, if you lost someone. That’s all.”

“You ain’t a widow.”

“Technically — ”

Cooper stood up, unable to stay seated. “You say you’re a widow like it’s a fact outta some book. The shit you went through — you’re an experiment gone wrong, not a damn widow,” Cooper said, his voice flat.

Lucy’s face twitched at his words as if she struggled to keep her smile. “Well, guess what? We’re all an experiment gone wrong, whether you’re in a vault or not.”

Cooper’s eyes twitched, narrowing in the dark of their hotel room. Room five was quiet, which made this moment all the worse. He didn’t like how she spoke about him, as if she knew what was happening in his mind. He wasn’t some wounded man looking for sympathy.

He wasn’t anything.

“Go back to your holotapes,” Cooper said with a jut of his chin. “You’ve been up here a few weeks, acting like you know how it is.”

“Well, I know we’ve all been screwed over by people hundreds of years ago, and I’m sorry if I’m not as beaten down by it as you, but — I’m just trying to share things with you, to…” Lucy struggled through her words, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “We don’t have to be friends, but we have to be — something.”

The couple in room five screeched. Cooper tensed out of habit but relaxed again when he reasoned what the noise was. It didn’t solve the fierce look on Lucy’s face as she stared him down, her fists clenched by her pajama-clad thighs.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Lucy said, shaking her damp hair out of her face. She stood idle by the table as if she had just realized she had stepped towards him in their argument. There was a bird-like shake to her chest, her heart and lungs quick beneath bone.

It was moments like this that made his nature crystalline to him — that thin line she couldn’t perceive of how easy it’d be to string her up by the ankles and bleed her dry. Of how easy it’d be to slide into that ache for warm flesh between his teeth and blood down his throat.

Ghouls aren’t welcome in most settlements for a reason, and Lucy is too damn optimistic to learn that lesson.

Cooper tongued the inside of his cheek, and his teeth gnashed at the frayed edge of his lip. “We have to be something, huh?”

Lucy’s brow twitched, and her jaw strained as she tried to stand taller. She nodded as something like hope softened her stern expression.

It wasn’t hard to close the gap. It was even easier to grab that ponytail she always wore and yank her head close, fist tight in her hair as he brought her close. Her hand scrabbled against the table, and nails dug into the wood as their eyes met.

“Don’t you ever talk about my family again,” Cooper said, his voice level. “We clear?”

Lucy’s breathing redoubled, but she nodded. Her nostrils flared as he let her go with a firm shove. There was a real sense of satisfaction as he felt her perception of him shift as if she’d forgotten she was dealing with a monster rather than a man. As if the rotted skin and exposed tensions, or the gaping hole where his nose had once been, weren’t enough warning.

Pretty girls in Hollywood were overlooked as much in his time — all in the name of survival in a race that no one really won. You took your part and played it until the work dried up. Then, you prayed for sponsorships, deals, and other things to spare you from the real world.

He watched it with co-stars, time and again. It wasn’t much different now, just less rhinestones and more rads.

[brykp]

THEORY: Lucifer Morningstar in Hazbin Hotel... Might Actually Be a Star

I was thinking of what Sera said to Charlie when she was first welcomed into Heaven... "Greetings, Daughter of the Morningstar"... or, did she enunciate morning-star? This is a real thing in the world that exists for us people on earth, in fact you can walk outside and see it very early every morning --- it is the last star shining in the sky. Tangent oncoming, but it gets back to the main point ----- Lucifer means "light-bearer", or, "light-bringer", because it calls forth the rising sun. In symbology, this has been interpreted as a man holding a torch. In Hazbin Hotel, we not only see Lucifer literally can produce fire from his hand, but this has been passed down to his daughter as well. They're light-bearers --- literally. Also, that is precisely what stars do... they produce light! Now let me advance to next bulletpoint of this post... Vivienne Medrano ALREADY used a "living" object, that can terraform into a more active form, in this web show. And that is none other than Kiki, the literal key to the hotel. She turns into a cat-semblant body.

On the same note, Vivienne Medrano is no stranger to humanoids or beings naturally being another thing. This was a primary feature of her extinct webcomic, Zoophobia, where every animal naturally has a humanesque form they can convert to whenever necessary. For example, Jackie is a great macaw (this isn't the parrot's true appearance, this is a format she takes alternatively):

Now, I know Lucifer is snake-coded, but I couldn't help but acknowledge how well-versed Vivienne Medrano seems to be in demonology and religion, to an extent, based on some videos from YouTuber cartoon analysis channels. And (I'm going to repeat, excuse my drawling), it is a common fact that the morning star.... in the sky... can be seen every morning. Hence, Sera uttered; "Greetings, daughter of the morning star". So, here's the next bulletpoint --- the acknowledgment of celestial bodies as sources of worship (astrology) is a key point in this universe. Stolas, a major character in the same world, studies and is a sort of regulator of the celestial bodies.

That's his whole schtick. Plus, he is royalty in Hell, so astrology is probably a no-shit presence of fact among the general population in Hell. On the the next bulletpoint: YouTube theorists and fans of both these web shows in general have expressed how they think Hazbin Hotel + Helluva Boss take place somewhere in 'outer space'. From the Pride Ring alone, we can see other celestial bodies IN the sky, like Heaven and a weird moon with a copy of Pride Ring's Pentagram on it. While I don't think the Hellaverse is in outer space exactly, I really think it's code for 'the heavenly realms'. Now on to the next and probably most important fact... now, what might the Pride Ring be? What does its parameter resemble? (Btw, follow this person on Tumblr and X, they are a great Lucy fan artist):

Not to mention the pentagram (which is also, coincidentally, and non-coincidentally a star-shape) floating right above it. What is a meteorite? A falling star. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What is my final say on this? I might say Lucifer is... well, a fallen star. He may or may not be a literal star in the show, but this is a huge probability in the Hellaverse considering it IS Vivienne Medrano's brainchild. This is my headcannon now... that because these are the heavenly realms, the most powerful beings/ characters can and do exist likely in alternate/ first forms in the same existential plane. Charlie is half human and half angel... or further, half star. Also, this means Lilith fucked a star. (And Eve too, oop.)

[shirefantasies]

This is gonna be a weird one..

Azog and a human reader?

It can be smut or fluff.

Not weird, I like the challenge 😎 This is a fascinating concept to me I love human x non-human (as long as it’s still humanoid, I’m not a furry 😂) I’m sorry I don’t think this is very good though 😅😆 hope you still can enjoy!

Chains of Flesh- Azog the Defiler x Human!Reader

Warnings: minor language, implied past abuse

You had to be a liability. You suspected that from the moment they took you. That you could not fight well must mean little more than ill in your favor. Fighting was the last thing on your mind anyway as your body, consciousness fading fast, was slung onto the sloped back of a warg like a doll. You had fought enough in your days. Such was your last memory before you awoke.

Vines crept up stone walls. You had no memory of that place, no recognition as you clambered up from the battered cot frame. There was a haze in the air, a feeling like an unseen fog had drifted somehow inside and survived even the torch burning on a bent sconce outside the rusty bars. A prison cell?

Shuffling to the edge of the bars- though you dared not touch their jagged, soiled edges- availed you a greater view of your surroundings. A stone fortress of some kind, desolate and abandoned as it was, one hung with tight cages skeletons swung in. Clearly you didn’t have it so bad.

But why? What set you apart from men deemed little more than beasts? Greater importance or so stark a lack of threat?

Pounding footsteps had you straightening, stepping back again from the bars as boots echoed upon stone. Soon a pair of orcs stood before you and the first one, tall, dark, and broad, spoke slowly and intensely. His tongue was unknown to you, yet you knew it was the Black Speech; vile as it was said to be, the sound of it fascinated you.

The second, a shorter, leaner figure with scarred tan skin and an empty socket where his left eye once was, hissed in a quicker voice to you. “Information. You have it. Azog will deal with you.”

You’d heard that name before. Azog the Defiler was the sworn enemy of that dwarf named king, the one who’d brought destruction and strife to the town you unfortunately had called home. The bastard that called himself Mayor needed only one word of the riches beneath the mountain to change his tune completely on letting the town burn. If they wanted dirt on that villain and his filthy underling, they could have it and gladly.

The bars were wrest open and your upper arms seized by a leering orc on either side. Tempted as you were to smack the looks off their faces, you knew that would be a death sentence; instead, you bid them drag you up spiraling steps and toss you humiliatingly at the boots of the Pale Orc. His lip curled at the pair of underlings, then he looked at you with interest crossing his carved features. More Black Speech in a deep, richly imposing voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Tell us everything you know about the mountain,” the one translating demanded, “and tell us fast if you know what's good for you." Just to hammer his point in further, he pointed a quite redundant blade at your chest.

Even though it spiked your heart rate, you couldn't help rolling your eyes- you had yet to do anything but comply. Stepping forward as far as you could without impaling yourself, you ignored the faint pressure that jabbed you and spoke.

"They are only granted reentry on the one day. The one who calls himself king has the key. First priority goes to the main treasure room where the dragon is keeping his prize. After that, they reclaim the kingdom. It sounded like there were lower entries that may be blocked, so they have to go in right by where the dragon is, but I could be wrong.”

For what seemed like far longer than it had taken you, the shorter orc relayed his message to the Defiler, whose piercing blue gaze kept sliding to you. Azog spoke back as his eyes practically bore holes in your head, giving some command that sparked shock across the tan orc’s face.

“You show great promise and you seem like good fun… someone like you could be the perfect addition. A spy, even, too if you swear to us. What say you?” He bared his teeth as he spoke, rows of sharp, dark points. From behind him, Azog smiled, a look of smug curiosity that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t exactly want to find out what their methods were at answering denial, and besides… something told you they were not opposed to letting Laketown fall. And, if you were lucky, taking the men who mistreated you down with it. Swallowing, you shakily mirrored their dark smiles. “I’ll do it. I have enemies at the foot of the mountain. Lay waste to them.”

The tan orc spoke again. Moonlight shone upon them both. In one sudden motion the Pale Orc took hold of your arm in his one flesh hand, wrest it such that you were pulled into him. Somehow, though, he’d done it without hurting you. Pressed against him as you were, you may have been trapped, but as you felt the rapid beat of his large heart against the back of your head all you could feel was a rush. Azog’s hand ran up and down your arm.

The shorter, darker servant tilted his head. “Those Laketown scum have not been kind to you, have they?”

Heartbeat still thrumming against you, you just shook your head. Warmth coursed through your body. Azog’s metal hand traced gently along the curve of your neck, scratching the skin lightly. It brought a gasp to your lips, the cold sensation of metal upon skin. As soon as the air left you, though, he stopped.

He stopped. Let go slightly. Something Alfrid never would have done if you hadn’t punched him so hard he saw-

“Swear your allegiance to us, then,” Azog’s servant demanded with a grin, his harsh voice cutting through the stab of memories that had your chest heaving.

Shakily, you inhaled, breathing in time with the one who held you close. “What will you have me do?”

“Let the Pale Orc decide that. He’s the one who wants you,” he chuckled, smacking the shoulder of the taller, broader servant as they stomped away toward the door they’d hauled you through.

Only when they disappeared, door slamming at their backs, did Azog loosen his hold upon you all the way, fully releasing his chains of flesh as he watched you step back. He could have broken your neck, kept you at blade’s edge, but instead he just peered at you like a rare treasure he dare not break, lest his time of admiration then cease. You weren’t used to such a look- did he…?

“I am not the strongest servant you could have. But I think you know that, do you not? What is it you want? Is it my hate? I am tired of being downtrodden!” Your voice raised with each word, but you didn’t care. “I will fight to live, but only if I can do so with my dignity. What is it you want from me?”

Smiling again in that way that tingled your spine, the Pale Orc stepped forward once more to meet you, reaching out his hand. At first you flinched back, but heaving another breath you steeled your body and met his eyes again. No fear. If allegiance they desired, with courage you would offer it.

To your surprise, all the motion brought you was a new rush of warmth as he took hold of your cheek, thumb tracing the outline of the bone therein thoughtfully. His blue eyes glanced up, searched yours, and your heart lurched.

Why you could not say, perhaps the relief that flooded your very heart and soul at the question in his eyes, the chilling stab to your chest of realization that an orc could possess better manner than men, the sheer desire you felt to seal the waste of the place that harmed you so, but you found yourself nodding.

Moonlight shone off of that infamous glistening white skin, illuminating every scar carved deeply into its tone. Surprise colored Azog’s scarred face, then triumph once more as he surged forward. His lips were rough and you could feel the cut of his scars upon them as they moved to dominate yours. Fighting back, you found your own lips moving faster, your own stance straightening, though you dared not move your hands or loosen the Pale Orc’s grip upon your cheek. Best not have him changing his mind, after all.

Moments of warmth and shocking passion passed before Azog pulled away, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your head. Keeping your foreheads pressed together, he gazed intently once more into your eyes.

You understood. From the high towers of his smote-out ruins the Pale Orc had sought one not just to do his will, but to stand at his side.

Now all you needed to do was pass the test.

[brokehorrorfan]

Mondo has added An American Werewolf in London to its Nightmare Vessels line of soft vinyl toys housed in themed packaging. Priced at $125, it's expected to ship in March.

The set includes 6.5" Werewolf Nightmare Demon and Mutant Nightmare Demon figures with interchangeable humanoid heads, knife, gun, and torch, all packaged in a 9" wolf head vessel.

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Kijimuna

CR 2

Chaotic Neutral Small Humanoid

Adventure Path: Jade Regent: Tides of Honor, pg. 84-85

These coastal cousins of the common goblinoids lack most of the malicious bent that can be found in goblin clans in the Inner Sea Region, for more than a few reasons; they don't want for food, they live simple lives, and their pyromania is considerably less destructive than that of their landlocked kin. Unlike many of the larger goblin clans in the Inner Sea, the Kijimuna are also cut off entirely from the wicked teachings of the Goblin Hero-Gods (this ironically includes Zogmugot, despite her dominion over goblin shoreline societies) and instead their culture seems to have been born from kindly spirits of fire and the sea... not that any of them remember it. Whatever story in their past happened to make them the way they are today is lost to time.

Combat-wise, the Kijimuna are nothing to write home about; this article is mostly about their lore and behavior rather than what they can do in a fight. They come armed with spears that deal 1d6+1 damage with one attack, and most of them carry around entangling nets to make their victims easier to beat to death. More often than not the spears are only used as deterrence, the Kiji rarely ever fighting to the death and preferring to render enemies unconscious, then steal their stuff and leave them tied up somewhere for someone else to find. Any fights to the end are always the result of someone attacking to kill THEM first, and in every other case, they prefer to take it easy.

The most shocking thing they can do is Steal Fire, calling any nonmagical fire of campfire size or smaller to their hand and turning it into a ghostly Dancing Lights at their command. The Kijimuna can command their orbs to crash into someone or something, either causing 2d6 Fire damage (and potentially igniting something flammable), or outlining them in ghostly fire (as Faerie Fire) for 5 hours. Both modes have their uses, but ironically, it's likely the Faerie Fire that's the more dangerous one! Any source of flame snuffed by Steal Fire cannot be relit for 24 entire hours, and Faerie Fire makes the victim glow like a beacon for every predator in the coastal forests the Kiji call home... predators they can no longer see coming or ward off with flame, because they can't relight their torches or campfires. Kijimuna are not especially dangerous on their own, but they can still cost someone their life indirectly... not that they're in a hurry to.

Kijimuna spend the majority of their days doing one of three things: fishing, planning pranks, and pulling pranks. Living on the bounty of the seas has given them a +4 racial bonus to both the act of fishing itself AND to Swim checks, giving them a total of +9 to Profession (Fisherman) and +10 to Swim, typically meaning a single Kiji can catch far more than it will ever need to eat on a given day. A portion of their catches, in fact, end up rotting on the shore when they inevitably get abandoned, the Kiji growing bored of the act and forgetting to store their food. They fish both for sustenance and for entertainment, and when fishing is no longer fun, they quickly move on to the aforementioned pranks.

Consummate pranksters, Kiji can spend hours concocting their jokes, their homes literally littered with diagrams and sketches of their next big prank (whether they have the same belief about the written word as landlocked goblins is not stated), making their huts, caverns, and tree-houses look like the lairs of some maniacal villain. When it comes to launching them, things rarely go as well as they hope for, but part of the fun is trying at all! Besides, if they DO end up working, then it's all the better.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Kiji pranks run the full gamut of harmless but inconvenient to legitimately dangerous, with the Kiji having difficulty grasping why anyone wouldn't want to be a part of their comedy acts (which, again, points towards them having fey origins). To the Kiji, being included in the bit is an honor, and anyone who grows angry or resentful over being pranked--even if the prank caused them actual harm--is just a spoilsport who clearly needs to be pranked even harder until they can see the actual humor in it, in much the same way a comedian who offends someone with an off-color joke may attempt to double down on them until the soured audience member either leaves or laughs. In this case, though, the poor target may eventually die... though in the Kiji's defense, this isn't on purpose.

Kiji are not killers, you see. They try and avoid directly causing deaths to any creature that doesn't wish them death first, with only the dreaded octopus (a creature they are, as a whole, irrationally terrified of) earning their lethal ire no matter what. Any settlement living nearby a clan of Kiji never fears for starvation, as the goblinkin will gladly stock their storerooms with fish (even and especially if they have to break in to do it), and the Kiji will even come to their defense as guardians if a true threat actually arises. There are a few reasons why they do this, mostly because if their friends and neighbors die, they'll have no one to share fish and jokes with!

Perhaps their lackadaisical and mischievous approach to life also has something to do with the fact that they have a maximum lifespan of 15 years, with most of them passing away at around 10, an absolutely ephemeral pittance when half the playable ancestries can easily hit 100 and still have life left in them. With their own histories lost to their kind, Kijimuna may be subconsciously motivated by the need to be remembered by someone else. A single human being can see four, five, or even six generations of Kiji come and go, so they can remember pranks pulled in the past, acting as unintentional living libraries of things the Kiji have already done and essentially forcing the next generation to come up with new material, because the old jokes won't work on them anymore.

You can read more about them here.

[atlas-nsfw]

Ohh do a spider centar thing, love those

Oo! They are usually called driders which was popularized by D&D were drow (the dark elf race) could be cursed by their evil goddess to be half spiders (drow+spider=drider) but there isn’t a name for them outside of that context so most people call any half humanoid half spider a drider these days lol I will happily write about one though!

A drider who has built a home of steel-like webs to keep her human partner safe. She brings her food, clothes, and fresh water. It is only natural that she would take care of her. The other humans were always trying to steal her away from her so perhaps she came off as overprotective but it was hardly unwarranted. Men with horses and armor and torches would arrive in her cave, threatening and swearing. She couldn't let her poor delicate human see such awful creatures. She would dispose of the bodies and bring back some of the horse meat. She would arrive to her pretty little princess, waiting for her on a bed of webbing.

[yuurei20]

Idia Facts Part 47: Idia and Ortho (pt4)

Idia’s guilt over Original-Ortho’s incident is hinted at early on, and in Book 6 we learn what happened: seeing Idia depressed by how his future has been decided for him, Ortho encouraged him to go on adventures while he can.

Idia decides to do just that and takes Ortho along, shutting down the security system that keeps the phantoms in check.

An escaped monster attacks Ortho in front of him, in an incident that Idia now says is “a blank” for him. (“By the time I woke up, Ortho was gone.”)

Idia blames himself for Ortho’s death and decides to take him back, spending two years building Robot-Ortho: “the world’s first self-improving technomatic humanoid.”

Idia’s accomplishment disturbs researchers at the facility where he lives, but Idia decides, “Who cares if he doesn’t have some unprovable, immaterial thing like a soul? My brother’s right here.”

Idia reflects, “Maybe if I hadn’t tried to go on an adventure…or maybe if I’d never wished to be a hero…maybe if I’d never been born into this family at all.”

(Idia seems to have complicated feelings about being alive.)

Fairy Gala IF is a stressful time for Idia, who initially refuses to let Ortho participate (Ortho convinces him through fake crying).

Fairy Gala IF is Ortho’s first time making his own gear (it was designed by Crewel).

When Ortho gets called out for his unoriginal ideas by Vil, Ace asks why he just doesn’t go to Idia for help. Ortho insists that he wants to challenge himself rather than have his brother tell him what he should think.

Ortho does not even tell Idia about the plan he comes up with (with help from the other 1st-year students), with Vil and Crewel calling Idia out for his lack of support in the brother he supposedly has so much faith in.

Idia encourages him with, “Your big bro knows you can do it.”

Detour: about Idia’s use of “big bro”: Robot-Ortho and Original-Ortho are differentiated by how they refer to Idia in two different ways, with Nii-san/Idia for Robot-Ortho, and Nii-chan/Idy for Original-Ortho.

This is important in Book 6, acting as the hint to Idia that reveals who he is really talking to after the island gets taken over, and it is used in a symbolic “passing of the torch” way by Original-Ortho.

But there is a third element on EN that doesn’t exist in the original game: When Idia refers to himself as “Nii-chan,” it was changed to “Big Bro” on EN, when technically it would be “Idy” on EN as it is Idia referring to himself in the same way that Original-Ortho did.

This means that every time Idia refers to himself as “big bro” in the English-language adaptation, it is a reference to Original-Ortho (Robot-Ortho refers to him as “Nii-san” both pre- and post-Book 6).

Idia does so in Book 6 and Fairy Gala IF. I thought that this might be a Post-Book-6 trait, but Idia also did so twice before (removed from EN) and in a vignette.

Looking at all these instances together, it seems “Leave it to your big bro” is supposed to be a go-to phrase for Idia, but maybe EN didn't realize it until Book 6, which would explain why Idia's dialogue was rewritten for English speakers at first.

Much like when an anime is being produced based on an ongoing manga, EN might just not know very much information in advance!

Normally it would not be a problem for certain flair to be added to dialogue during the localization process, but if EN does not know what's coming next, there is a risk of something seemingly innocuous being rewritten only to be later revealed as an important character point--which might be what happened here!

[larsisfrommars]

The Light Won't Die (Part 4)

Halsin x Tav

Rating: T for Teen (Canon Typical Violence)

Chapter: 4/??? (<- Prev Chapter • Next Chapter ->)

Word Count: 787

Genre: Adventure, Hurt/Comfort

Content: Halsin x Male!Tav, Fighter!Tav, actually dealing with the shadow curse now!, aforementioned canon typical violence, Bloodweave if you squint, Everyone is Having A Bad Time, near death experience.

"Tav was falling, what little light could reach through his eyelids in this accursed place vanished into nothingness. Through the pounding blood, the last thing he could hear was a familiar, bellowing roar."

———————✨🌿✨———————

One by one the torches around their unoccupied tents went out with terrifying swiftness, only Halsin’s stayed alight. Bolstered by the mace Tav now always carried with him.

“Stay close to the fire!” Halsin called to the rest of their party.

Everyone scrambled for their weapons, shoulder to shoulder, battle ready, their shadows in the firelight forming a twisted crown of humanoid shapes on the ground as they armed themselves by torch and steel.

It was from this crown the shadows took full form, ready to feast upon their strength, and more floral enemies crept along the edge of what remained of the woods.

The shadows leered hungrily at them, but it was Tav who struck first, driving down The Blood of Lathander into what passed for the head of the Wraith before him. Praying that its radiance would do more than just blind their enemy.

All became blood, spells, steel and chaos. There were at least a dozen enemies sans the Wraith that Tav had been fortunate to destroy only a couple blows. They were outnumbered and unprotected, this would not be an easy fight.

The battle felt as though it had gone on for hours, the campsite nearly slick with blood. Tav prayed that if the Wraiths had blood, it would stain the ground with equal measure. But given the glances he was afforded, he wasn’t hopeful.

Shadowheart was using nearly all of her power just to keep the party alive let alone fighting. Karlach and Lae’zel had both long since gone into a near animalistic survival mode, shredding anything that came near them.

Halsin had been restrained by two Blights, tearing a gash across his armor. He burst from their entanglements. A snarling, wrathful bear in place of the hulking wood elf.

Astarion was desperately trying to rouse an unconscious Gale as Wyll was poised to defend them both. The Blade’s sword arm was shaking. The dark necrotic magic having sapped them all of their strength, Tav included.

Tav’s attempt at assessing the fight cost him dearly. Driven back to a cliff edge by their unwanted guests. The onslaught of the undying was overwhelming. He could only hope the others were holding out as he tore his eyes away from them. Facing death head on, if he could just take out one more! Then maybe they would be safe!

But no… Tav felt himself drop to his knees without warning, the pain from hitting the ground barely registered. All he could hear was the blood pumping in his ears.

This was it then, Gods what good was this bloody mace if he could hardly hold onto it? No divine favor, no holy weapon could save him now. It was his own fault, should have seen the invisible fuckers coming, cost him an eye after all. That stupid bard!

Crack

No time left to be bitter it seems, Tav could feel the ground starting to give underneath him. He was going to fall to his death then, good, better than being taken by these things. It would be like how the nautiloid was supposed to go. Tav closed his eyes.

He was falling, what little light could reach through his eyelids in this accursed place vanished into nothingness. Through the pounding blood, the last thing he could hear was a familiar, bellowing roar.

The Druid would not, could not let Tav die. Not when it was within his power to save him.

Halsin did everything he could to curl his massive ursine body around Tav as they tumbled down the cliff side. In hindsight he was grateful there was at least some angle to it rather than a death drop. He preferred not to endure the feeling of his back snapping in two, animal form or not.

It seemed such a tumble was still enough to best a wounded Cave Bear. He felt himself lose hold of the wildshape after hitting his head a particularly sharp rock. Better his wildshape than Tav. The wounds his true form bore bellowed in protest as he & Tav continued to roll. Adding deep seated bruises to the list of injuries this battle had done him.

The bottom of the steep slope came mercilessly quick. The impact knocking the wind out of the Druid’s body. Still, his vice-like grip around the smaller man did not ease. His vision blurred, the words of his healing incantation lost as he struggled to breathe. Finding himself unwillingly joining Tav in unconsciousness.

He prayed to the Oak Father it would be brief as he slipped away, this was no place to die. Not yet. Not when things had not yet been made right. Not when Thaniel was so close to being within reach. Please…