#ableist language-cn

[scentedluminarysoul]

Two things:

Straight men

"males" is TERF speak.

And yep, sure enough

Anti-porn, anti-sex work, ableist radfem

I fucking BEG of you all to learn what dogwhistles are and to NOT share TERFs/radfems. And btw, this is how they get you: they say something you agree with, or agree with you, and lure you in, then feed you their disgusting ideology bit by bit

Please stop falling for far right ideologies!

[anendoandfriendo]

It's the STRESS, stupid. Why don't we get us something to eat, and do literally nothing for the night?

Yes this includes your chores and errands. I do not care about the library books, they can wait another day or so.

This brainbody is a little...heavy, just trying to take front for the moment, which seems to be happening a lot this year.

- Benimaru

[itsagrimm]

He Who Comes from under the Water

Chapter 9 - Of Moons and Monsters

Monster!König X she/her afab Reader

CN mentions of death, mentions of murder, mentions of cannibalism, arranged marriage, disrespecting and displaying a corpse, ableist language, internalised toxic masculinity, creepy observers with no understanding of boundaries, warning for those who have issues with paranoia, König has issues and needs fairy tale therapy

Not sure how the phases of the moon work? Click here.

Notes for better understanding at the bottom!

Partly beta-read by the amazing @queenquazar. There are typos in there but I need to publish this asap before spiralling into another round of rewriting this for the 10th time. also, thank you so much for baring with me.

6.9k words

Masterlist

this is a hit or miss chapter. love it or hate it. i am ready to throw out my laptop bc this chapter was hard to write.

Oh and I made a playlist for this series. Enjoy.

As the King of Everything from Under the Water, König never grew tired.

As a man, König felt like he was grinding his bones into dust.

The never-ending work started to get to him, eternal weariness was wearing him down like a stone getting chipped away in the currents.

He yawned.

During the day König worked on the Half-Palace. The Half-Palace was getting close to being done, rising up into the sky as high up as it reached down low and deep into the waters. It was a marvel. But König was not done yet, working tirelessly to finish his new residence to finally marry and bring his fiancé home safely.

During the night König guarded his Bride. With his axe in his hands, he stalked her garden, carefully avoiding her strawberry patches and making sure no villager or malevolent creature harmed her. The rumours of a human maiden marrying the Vodyanoy had made its rounds, and König started to see more unusual unwelcome guests creeping in the shadows. Sometimes he found villagers too, boys who turned on their heels just at the sight of König’s giant frame, axe, and piercing deep blue, ever-seeing eyes. Not all the trespassers were clever enough to run away at the sight of him. Twice König used his axe and spilled blood. First time it was a Tschort trying to sneak through the kitchen window. The other time a Kikimora nearly made her way to the Bride’s window. König got to them both in time, killing the intruders with quick blows of his axe and hanging them up in the alder tree around the bride’s house for the night as a warning. The first time his bride cried out at the sight of it, the second time she did not cry anymore.

During the few moments in between when he walked at the lakes beach with her or closed his eyes for a moment, worry consumed any thought in König’s mind. His Bride was fragile. The creeping beings in the shadows wanted her blood, her tender flesh, her inheritance. There was danger everywhere and König started to feel on edge from being on the lookout all the time. In all his life he had experienced worries and insecurities. Now he had learned to fear - for her.

In those moments König wished he could just ignore all tradition and carry her to the half-finished Half-Palace before the wedding to keep her out of the hands of those that wanted to tear and bite and kill and devour her. But then he looked at his own hands - long clawed fingers that could wrap around her neck and break it like a twig or drag her down the deep waters until she was nothing but a lifeless body. The first time that realisation hit him, it had mortified König. He was a danger - just like all the others. And she was just a girl. A girl that managed to get tangled up with him. Baba Jaga’s words still hung over him, telling him he had to sacrifice something to keep his Bride safe. Something deep inside of him knew he had done it wrong, all of it so far. Her fear of water was testimony of it. And so he sacrificed everything for her. But one question remained.

Will it be enough?

Feeling tired and drained, König sighed and made another round to check for danger. For now, no one was there but the moon, rising over the gable of the Bride’s house.

Peaceful, calm, familiar.

König nodded in greeting to the silent lunar wanderer. At least the moon was not out for his Bride. For now.

Of course, the thin slice of the waxing crescent did not nod back.

It was the moon after all.

König let himself fall onto the grass again, leaning against her door and closed his eyes.

A moment, just a moment of rest.

Rest.

Rest.

Rest…

Sleep was alluring. It called to him like the Rusalkis called for him to return to just being in the water.

Just a little bit...

Just a bit closer…

No harm in it…

With a low “thud” the axe slipped out of his hands, waking König back up from his light short slumber.

König shook his head.

No! He had to stay up. Another Tschort could try to crawl in any moment or Ivar might wipe up the village into a frenzy and come for her. His Bride was so frail in comparison to him, a little maiden and nothing more. Just yesterday she cut herself with a kitchen knife. Or was it tomorrow? Does not matter! One day she would hurt herself again and he had to make sure that would not happen. He could take it, not sleeping and working every moment. His body will withstand. He was a king after all! He was her guardian, her fiancé and soon-to-be husband, her man.

And she was worthy of König to grind himself down as a payback for the life he had condemned her to and the pain he would cause her with his huge hands and sharp claws. Sleep and labour was a necessary sacrifice.

“You are an idiot.”

König looked up, searching for the source of those words.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. You are an idiot and deep down you know it already.”

König got up from his spot, taking up his axe.

“Who is it! Come out! Show yourself!” The king called.

“I am not hiding myself. You just don’t see what is in plain sight like the fool that you are.”

Confused, König's head whipped around, searching for whoever was talking to him.

“Here, little king. Up!” The voice called. “You are not used to looking up when speaking, aren’t you?”

As told, König looked up while raising the axe in expectation to see a new threat, a new danger, a new assailant.

What he saw instead was the moon.

“Hello.”

 König blinked, not understanding how and why the thin lunar sickle was smiling down at him.

“Don’t look so surprised!” the moon scolded with a laughing tone. “You greeted me yourself.”

“How?” König asked, lowering the axe.

“You are asking me how I can speak?”

König considered the moon's words before smiling shyly like a kid getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Okay, that’s fair. You can speak just like I can.”

If the moon could nod it would have done so. Somehow König felt like far out in the interstellar realm of implausibility the moon indeed did nod at him.

“Why after millennia of not speaking to me you do now, moon? I greet you twice a day.”

“I grew to like you, little one. And I got bored watching you self-mortifying yourself. It was entertaining for a while until it became the most pointless thing I have witnessed in a long time.”

“What do you mean, Moon? I am not mortifying myself! How would you even know.”

The moon raised an eyebrow at König. Somehow it did that.

“Please. I have better eyes for that than you, little king. I do nothing else but watch and witness.”

Unconvinced, König crossed his arms.

“What do you know about me and my worries?” He countered.

“Only about half of it. I just see you at night.” The moon admitted. “Shame really. You doing everything else but talking to your fiancé is quite the sight.”

“What is there to talk about?” König replied. “Spare me. Everything is clear. She is just a nice girl who ended up engaged with me, so I have the duty to protect her.”

“Sure, little king. Then you would have no issue just crossing that doorstep of hers and telling her that. Sacrifice the facade and just take her to that Half-Palace of yours and be done with it. It’s all just formalities and traditions at this point. You are just concerned for her safety.”

“I am concerned for her safety.”

König gazed around the dark garden. There was the spot where Ivar had threatened his Bride. And the alder tree König had strung up those that had wanted to harm her. And the axe with which nowadays he did as much killing and fighting as he did building.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

XXX

König looked at the Bride’s door. The familiar wooden frame she walked through every day. It would be easy to just open it and go in. Or knock? König felt like she would appreciate a knock before getting dragged out of her family home in the middle of the night in the name of her safety and his pragmatic marital claims.

Up in the night sky the thin moon sickle was grinning at the sight of the fool calling himself King, silent and expectant to watch something - anything - happen.

But it did not.

Not every night was calm and spent in solitude.

A bunch of laughing and giggling Rusalkis decided to join him and the occasionally appearing fox on his guard post. König looked around, seeing the half-moon rise above the horizon. It had been silent ever since that night a while back.

Of course, the Bride was still sleeping in her own house.

Of course, he had not even attempted to move her from it.

They were still unmarried.

It was tradition König told himself.

She would not want to be in the nearby finished castle with him anyway.

“Why so grim dear Vodyanoy?”

Startled, König spinned around, teeth barren and the axe in his hands.

“Easy.” A rusalka straying behind soothingly replied, her hands up.

König stilled.

“Oh it is you, Lada.” He said and lowered his axe, “I am sorry. I thought someone had crept up to me.”

Lada leaned forward. Her pretty eyes gazed up at him as she lowered her hands.

“You know, not everyone is out there to get you or the Devitsa, Vodyanoy. Take a rest. We can guard her in the meantime.”

“No.” He grumbled. “It’s nice that you are here to help, but she is my responsibility to carry. I brought this upon her.”

Curiously, she leaned forward.

“Oh, you do that a lot these days, König.” Her words splashing down her lips like a lively spring, unimpressed by the near display of violence moments before. “Always responsibility. Always offering yourself up like that makes a difference. Tell me, is this spectacle for you or her?”

“It’s not a spectacle.” König replied, moving back from her and crossing his arms before him.

Lada grinned.

“Alright. Sure. Good luck.” She declared and waved a goodbye at him before, jumping back like a firefly raving in zig zag over a pond's water. König watched Lada return to the other Rusalkis, giving a sharp, toothy and nearly careless smile to flirt with the Fox. They seemed so content with chatting in the moonlight. As if stalking and hunting intruders was a Rusalki past-time. Knowing the Rusalkis it probably was.

König suppressed a yawn, unwilling to admit Lada was right. He really needed to take a break. Soon, when he was married and the bride was safe. He would have given anything he had in him then. But until the wedding there was no point of even thinking about rest or the life leisure he had known before.

Was he really that busy all the time?

Unapproachable and lost in his own thoughts nowadays?

König remembered how much time he used to spend with the Rusalkis. Oh, he did. They had played, filling the air with splashed water, with laughter, with moans.

It felt so long ago.

He hadn’t even thought about it.

Would his marriage remove him forever from that part of his life?

He stilled as the realisation hit. It hurt. But only a little.

Thinking about the Bride's little human fingers that tangled his hair, asking him how his day was, telling him about hers pleased him. König had gotten used to the Bride in his life so quickly, he wanted more of it.

But enough to stop lust and satisfy his more carnal desires?

She…

You promised to guard her, protect her, make her your Queen. Nothing else. König reminded himself unhappily and looked up, searching for answers in the night sky.

There were none, only the looming moon.

It was as if the half-moon was watching him with mockery, observing König’s thoughts and temptations.

König grunted.

Fine, maybe she was charming in many ways. He had to admit that to himself. But maybe that was another sacrifice he had to make for the sake of her. König was sure they could find an arrangement at some point. There was little he promised nor expected from her outside of their marriage. But that was for a moment in the future when he had the right words for it.

Until then, his tasks were easy: No sleep, no leisure, no lust.

König tapped on the hilt of the axe. It’s been a couple of days since he had to use it as a weapon and the calm waiting was wearing him down nearly as much as thinking about his forbidden Bride - her clever remarks, her unrelenting will to life, her careful steps around water. If he asked her opinion about his sacrifices she would say something wise. She always seemed to do, giving him little knowing looks over tea cups, over the lake, over hot puffs of breath escaping her lips. And when she spoke her words rang in his ear like music. Melodic syllables falling from her mouth like raindrops and teaching him of the world.

Now the bride's words were siren songs to him.

He sat down into the grass and watched the house of the bride. There she was, sleeping her well earned rest. And he was outside where he belonged with his claws and flaws and desires. He looked up to the sky. Cold stars and the unmoving moon grinned down at him, silent and calm unlike his thoughts. König wondered if it was easier that way, just to watch and never to do. Just to witness but never to participate.

No wonder the moon is a judgy creep.

König frowned, wishing he did not feel drained, unsure and like he had made the wrong decision.

Let them see. I will do right by her - König promised to himself.

XXX

The night was pleasant but cold. It had rained and the now cleared sky and fresh breeze added to the unusually cold summer weather. König was sitting right under the ledge of the roof, watching drops of the previous rain roll down from the leaves and running into little pools of water. It was calming. And with humid weather like that he knew at least no villager would show up, giving him one thing less to worry about.

König heard her steps before he saw her step out into the night. He looked up.

“König.” She greeted with a blanket around her shoulders. “Would you mind company? The full moon is so bright, and the rain kept drumming against the roof. I cannot sleep.”

He nodded before suspiciously eyeing the massive, silent luminary above them.

Creep.

She settled next to him under the dry roof, facing the dark garden and treeline with him.

“Are you okay?”

Her words reached into him and laughed at his convictions. Just hearing her voice made something stir in him.

“There was so little time these past days and we hardly spoke.” She continued. ”Can I help with something?”

König shook his head before even thinking.

His burden, not hers.

“No, Bride. You cannot fight the monsters lying in wait. You can’t even lift my axe.”

The thought of her facing another Kikimora, a Tschort or an angered, disapproving Rusalka terrified him. She did not even have teeth to tear and bite.

“Is fighting the only way to help?”

He looked down at her, the little pretty thing that he spent the day admiring while working and the night desperately trying not to think about.

She pressed her thighs closer to her body for warmth.

Tangled limbs, desperate touches, heated kisses. He could warm her up.

Instead, he lifted his arm and silently invited her closer. No point in keeping her cold.

“Yes, it is but it is unpleasant work, my Bride. We will marry soon, and you will be safe in the Half-Palace. Do not worry yourself.”

She moved closer, pressing herself into his warm body. With a stern look more for himself than to others König commanded the last of the drops on the grass and from the dripping roof not to touch his shivering maiden.

Of course, she did not notice, only purring like a cat before the warming fire.

For a moment they stayed like that as if she was thinking about his words while König closed his eyes for a moment, indulging in it.

“What will happen with my family’s house? I am fond of this place.” She asked finally.

König sighed and opened his eyes.

“Whatever you want, Bride. It is yours and it always will be.” He chuckled grimly. “Maybe you want to stay here every once in a while, when you grow tired of my company.”

“Do you think you are an unpleasant presence to be around?”

“At times.” He admitted.

“I do not.”

“You are too kind.”

“I doubt that.”

There it was again, the banter. She met him exactly at his level, hitting him playfully where he would never expect it. There was a lightness in her words that made him nearly believe her. König could not help but grin to himself while pressing her slightly closer.

“Any idea about the sacrifice?” She asked while leaning into him to cover his massive frame with what was left of the blanket. A cute but pointless gesture.

“I have some ideas,” König resigned. “But there is no way to be sure it is working and I doubt you want to test it.”

She shivered.

“No.” Her voice was thin and frail, hitting him with guilt.

“I think I need to ask my brothers for help.” König continued. ”But I'm not sure that is wise. It could be dangerous.”

She nodded. “I suppose dealing with family can be like that sometimes.”

König stilled, thinking about her words and listening to the drumming sound of the rain.

“Hmm, I suppose you know a lot about that,” He hummed and paused before daring to speak again. “May I ask … are you angry at your family? For marrying you off to me?”

It was as if he was asking the bravest question of all.

She shifted around.

“Sometimes,” She admitted. “It’s hard because till this day I love my family. But to be fair, marrying me off to a stranger was just the last thing of a long line of things that weren’t as well thought through or kind as they might have told themselves. Who knows. They are dead now and I am here. Could be worse.”

He nodded, trying not to feel too much about her words. Marrying him was bearable. König hardly blamed her. Still, it hurt more than he had expected. Was that pain another sacrifice?

“Could be worse.” He repeated flatly.

“Well now you make it sound bad. That’s not what I meant.” She muzzled into him as if she truly wanted to be there.

König closed his eyes, reminding himself not to lie to himself. This was just a practical arrangement for her. For him.

He cleared his throat.

“So, what do you think we should do?” The Vodyanoy changed the subject. “One brother you already know of is Simon. We used to be close but something happened and since then he is like a ghost of himself, moody and withdrawn but capable of kind and terrible things at the same time. It’s hard to know with him. He never formally claimed his kingdom, but everybody knows not to cross the master of the forest, the Leshy.”

The forest turned silent as if knowing that König talked about its master.

“What are the things that make him dangerous to be around?” Her voice was so little in the woodland's silence, so brave to speak.

König swallowed, remembering his days with his brother. They were long gone, lost in a sea of blood.

“Simon taught me how to kill.”

The forest stayed silent, as if trying not to breathe like an animal of prey sensing a possible predator.

“Oh.” Brave like a single flame in the dark she whispered into the night, breaking the silence, and releasing the forest from the dark grip of its master.

“I have other brothers but the one who could help is the deathless one - Koschei, the master of bones and battlefields. Nowadays he goes by the name Graves.”

“Charming. Leaves little to the imagination why he could be dangerous.”

He grunted in agreement.

“That’s quite a family I am marrying into.” The bride paused. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Scared?”

She shrugged.

“Only a fool would not fear a brother-in-law who is called deathless or for whom the forest dies down.”

Brave one.

“You do not have to marry me and into this family. You know that, right my Bride?” It felt right to say it and offer her a way out from the terror that was his presence.

She stared into the cold wet forest, unmoving and expressionless.

König wished he knew what she truly thought of right now.

“Do you not want me as your bride?” She asked finally with a flat voice.

Her lips singing the siren song. What does marriage even mean at this point? 

“I promised it, did I not?” He said instead.

She nodded, a stony expression on her face.

“So, we stick to it.”

“Aye.”

König felt tired. Like he had run out of words, keeping it short and safe instead of pouring out his heart and burdening her. If only he could rest, lay down next to her and close his eyes.

“You say Simon was here?” The Bride mused. “He was the one to point out the danger to me. If he knew how to get rid of it or wanted to help, he would have done it. But he did not. I don’t think we can count on him here. Which leaves…”

“Koschei.”

König felt the corners of his mouth drop down into a disapproving frown.

He knew she was right. Still…

“Maybe there is a safer, cleverer way to engage with him?” The Bride continued. “He is the Deathless. I am sure he might know something and maybe a simple letter or a messenger will be enough. What do you think?”

Still unhappy, König considered her idea. It was sound. Yet the mere thought of having to ask his brother for help and being in debt to him worried him more than he wanted to admit. Graves always had a thing for pretty girls. And for his Bride to draw the attention of Koschei the Deathless did not only feel like asking for disaster but evoked new fears in König.

What if Graves would like her and do as he had done with many girls before?

A new ugly thought roared its head up.

What if the Bride would prefer Graves over him?

“If i keep practising my writing I can write to him.” His dearest Bride added. “I could ask for his council as a bridal gift. What kind of man would refuse or violate that?”

König took a deep breath. He hated how right she was.

“I could work but-”

“Perfect. Let us do it soon.”

Her voice left him as little room to argue as there was left under the blanket between her and König.

“Fine.” He surrendered like driftwood to the currents.

Instead of pushing for more she just sighed herself, relaxing into him and staring into the dark.

She will just be my Queen. König thought to himself, surprised by his own possessiveness. As long as she is safe, it will be fine. No need to worry more than usual.

She was here, at his side and safe.

Nothing more than someone like him could expect or ask for.

He closed his eyes again to enjoy the feeling of the Bride so close to him before straightening up and concentrating on being on guard again.

She yawned, muzzling closer.

“I might fall asleep here.” She admitted. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all, Bride.” König replied with a feeling he wasn’t familiar with, “I’ll be there.”

xxx

It felt ridiculous how much König loathed the thought of his Bride meeting Graves. He knew it was unfair, hating what his own insecurities and worries did to him. The Bride had suggested a plan and he was the one not sticking to it, that odd feeling in his stomach stopping him from teaching her how to write or write Graves himself. Instead, König could not help but make excuses.

It’s late…

I am busy right now…

Maybe tomorrow…

König told himself that his worries and reservations were justified. He was just cautious. It was Graves after all, the Deathless, the one called master of bones and battlegrounds. And the Bride was so fragile in comparison to all those monsters and men.

“Just talk to her, boy!” The moon nearly shouted down from its high place one night right before vanishing behind a cloud. 

König only shook his head.

The Bride was his responsibility and it was his duty to protect her from the world. That was his sacrifice. It had to be the answer. But then doubt whispered again to him.

Not good enough, Graves will be better for her.

A day passed, a night, another day. The Half-Palace was shaping up and König was dreading to be finished. He would bring her home then, far away from all those who were out for her blood.

But then she would be alone - with him.

Suddenly the axe was looking tiny in his hands, just a simple twig in clawed fingers made to rip and tear and drown.

He felt stuck - he was the reason for her troubles but also the key to her safety. He wanted to keep away but then how was he supposed to guard her? He wanted to marry her and be done with it. But what did marriage even mean for him? For her? Was it the delight in her presence he felt? The excitement of just talking to her? The secret longing to take her deep into the waters and embrace her with everything minor that he was, feeling her bare skin and tangled limbs and bubbles of air escaping her moaning lips and reminding him it would be the death of her.

Confusion dripped more into his tired and worn mind.

He was scared of himself and what he was capable of doing.

But no one could understand what he was anyway.

And so König kept it to himself.

That night he was alone. The Fox had gone home. He had young to play with tonight, he had said, and König had only nodded.

Yeah, yeah, sure, I understand.

Lada and all the other Rusalki left for some rest in the ponds, and rivers and lakes.

Deep down König knew that he needed some break as well.

But he was afraid of leaving the Bride alone or staying alone in the house with her. He was a danger too after all.

Defeated, he sat on his regular spot next to the door, gazing through the garden and hoping for nothing and something to happen at the same time.

The axe in his hand had started to rust a bit from all the blood it had spilled. A long time ago it had been a gift from his brother Simon, back when they were close.

“It does not have to be this painful, you know?”

König looked up, searching for the source of the voice. The garden with its tidy strawberry patches and attempts of growing buckwheat and sunflowers was as untrodden as it had been the last time he made his rounds. 

“Still up here, little king.”

König looked up and the thin crescent of the waning moon smiled down softly at him.

König leaned back against the wall of the house.

“What do you want, Moon? I am tired. I don’t need a lecture or getting shouted at again.”

The grand luminary of the night sky stayed silent. König wondered if that was all then and prepared to get up again for another patrol round.

“I am sorry. I should not have done that.”

The Vodyanoy blinked in surprise.

“Is the mighty Moon apologising? To me?”

“Don’t make this harder than it is, little king.”

König crossed his arms but nodded.

“Fine. Your apology is welcome. What do you want, Moon?”

“I just want peace between us. Of all your brothers and the old beings walking this earth I feel the closest you. The waters and I… There is some magic working between us and I felt responsible to say something but I overstepped. That is not how good-”, the moon paused, “Neighbours, let’s say neighbours are supposed to be.”

König huffed.

“You are a creepy neighbour, you know that?”

Moon in its interstellar ways giggled.

“I am the watcher in the night. What else did you expect?”

 “Maybe, but I don’t have to like it.”

The moon kept smiling.

“If you ever have children I will watch them and keep them safe just like I watch you and just like I watch your Bride.”

“I don’t trust that. And I doubt I will ever have children.”

“Who knows. That’s not up to me.”

They stayed silent.

Nervously, König grinded his teeth and considered what he had heard.

“You watch her too?”

“Yes.”

“Is she okay? Clearly all of this must get to her. And the arranged marriage…”

“Little King”, the moon whispered near softly, “Isn’t that something you should ask her yourself? Be brave. Talk to her.”

“You keep pushing me to talk to her!” König cried out in frustration. “Why? It wouldn't matter anyway! There is nothing to say. Our marriage is just a facade. I am the one most likely to harm her and there is nothing I could say or do to remedy that.”

The anger of the past months, bottled up and pushed down, made their way out of König. Like a hurt animal he howled his words up to the moon.

He jumped up. The axe was ready swinging in his hands, clawed and ready.

If he could, König would have picked a fight with whoever crossed his path just for the sake of it. But there was just the moon - cold and far away.

He screamed in anger.

“I do everything! And it’s not enough. I AM NOT ENOUGH!” König stalked around the grass and felt his anger dissipate with every step getting heavier and heavier. 

“I am not enough.” He repeated with finality and came to a halt. “And I never will be.”

It was silent. 

Conscious about his outbreak he looked around. Not a leaf dared to move around him. Ashamed he fell into the grass and covered his face.

“I am sorry. It was too much.” König mumbled as he tried to catch his breath and fight the tears. “I am not like that normally.”

“I know, König. It’s okay.”

The moon's words felt like the last push. König cried. He did not know why. Some of it he understood. But a lot were just tears he had to shed years, months, nights ago and now he did not know why he cried.

Heaving for air in between his sobs, König hears the moon's soft words. 

“Oh it’s okay, König. It’s fine, little king. It’s fine…”

He was the water and the water him. Köng’s tears flowed endlessly until he was done and only a tired void was left in him.

He looked up to the moon, staring down at him. The soft smiling crescent unchanging and familiar, surrounded by a countless number of stars shining down at him.

“I am sorry for … this.” König started.

“No.” the moon interrupted. “Don’t you dare to apologise for crying. I mean it. It’s okay. Next time, just leave the axe out of it, okay?”

König looked at the axe a bit off in the grass. He had let go of it at some point, feeling like failure again - even in his sadness he was intimidating.

Vodyanoy nodded.

“Listen König, may I say something?”

Another nod.

“You breaking down like that was inevitable. Don’t torture yourself like that. You don’t need to carry it all alone. And I guarantee your the Bride would be the first to listen to you.”

A tired smile made its way up to Königs lips. “There it is again - you want me to talk to her. But she is so fragile. She can never do what I can. What’s the point?”

“You build her up in your mind as mighty as that castle of yours. She is the most fragile, the most worthy, clever and beautiful - don’t deny it. I watched you yearn for her for too long. But she is just a person and not your dream of her. And all your sacrifices are great but the one that truly matters you did not give.”

“Which one?”

“Honesty - with her, with you. You two need to talk with one another instead of silently offering yourselves up. She is not as weak as you make her out to be. And you, little king, are not always strong. It’s painful to watch.”

Defeated but not yet passive, König tried to reason. “You don’t understand. Besides, what is there to talk about?”

“That you care about her maybe? And that you care so much, that’s close to twisting into a mindless adoration suffocating both of you. Let her be strong and be to you what you are for her instead of sheltering and keeping her away. She is an ocean worth discovering, not a cup of water that needs to be kept out of the sun to not evaporate.”

König looked down at his hands. The same claws as always.

“Don’t start that again, boy. Get up, knock at her door and ask if you can sleep there. And tomorrow you can talk.”

Slowly, König eyed her door.

Disturb her? Be a burden to the one he wants to keep all burdens away from?

“Be brave, little king.”

The moon was wrong. Nothing could be fixed with talking. But what if the moon was right?

The door drew him in like nothing before.

And he was so tired.

König got up, collected his axe and stepped forward.

Should he really do it? The moon stayed silent, waiting for König to walk to the door and knock.

He took a deep breath, wiped his hand over his face and stepped forward.

This was it. It felt like the bravest, hardest thing he had ever done.

He knocked.

Cultural context

Tschort (literal translation: devil) can be both a plural and singular. It can be translated as demon or devil. But that only captures the word in its Christian context and not its presence in mostly in pagan traditions in folk and fairy tales. It’s easiest to understand a tschort as a type of evil or at least ill-meaning supernatural male being.

A kikimora is a bad female house spirit known for haunting dreams or generally the household. I know her as an entity that drives humans insane by whispering, stealing eggs, spinning spider webs and confusing her targets but there are other tales about her in which she has other abilities. There are proposed links between the Kikimora and the ancient Greek Moiren, the Germanic Nornen, and obviously the old Slavic goddess Mokosh. Funnily enough in the game “The Witcher 3” the kikimora is a type of giant spider.

Erle / alder is a very important tree in central European folklore and especially German speaking folk. Alder trees are part of the birch tree family, making them very resistant trees. The alder grows on very humid soil, often appearing close to bodies of water or moorlands. Since moors were associated with the dead, alders were considered a bit spooky. Alder trees ‘bleed’ a reddish liquid when being cut, adding to their spooky association. There are several rites around alder and alder twigs. The Erlenkönig or Alder king is a very famous German poem about an elven king trying to seduce a sick child to come and live with him. A german – English translation can be found here https://www.ogn.ox.ac.uk/sites/default/files/bellcogo2015.pdf All in all the alder tree is just a cool spooky tree with plenty of pagan-Christian connotations around it.

There are a few stories about the moon and as far as I am concerned, they all coexist in a semi plausible way. In the 1964 soviet, kids’ movie ‘Морозко’ the sun does not rise out of kindness to give the protagonist time to finish her nightly chores. The man on the moon or the moon face is a story drawing from German speaking tradition that the moon is a single wanderer watching out for those that cannot sleep or work late at night. It’s a kind presence and there are lullabies for kids about the nice man on the moon guarding them. Also, the moon as the cause of ebb and flood would be of interest to a water being like the Vodyanoy even though many Slavic folk traditions come from landlocked places therefore not noticeably experiencing the tides. At last, the moon is a way of keeping track of time, not just for eastern or central Europeans.

The Rusalkas name is Lada. Lada is a name used till this day. The origin of it is interesting. There are conflicting theories about ‘Lada’ being a possible Slavic goddess of marriage, fertility, love, spring and much more. Since primary sources on beliefs before Christianity in eastern Europe are basically non-existent, I would be careful with set ideas about the goddess Lada. The word лада appears to have further linguistic roots and connotations in old eastern Slavic and modern spoken Slavic languages like significant other, fret, lover, maiden, husband, etc. However, my Russian is far from good enough to get into this and I also don’t speak any other languages from this region. So please be mindful of that. If someone feels like educating me here, I would be very interested in learning more.

Little reminder – Rusalkis are something akin to mermaids or nymphs. They are loaded in symbolism as being promiscuous but also connected with children and childbirth, playful but also dangerous as they kill and drown those who harm them, spinning and washing clothes but also leisure, very much alive but also connected to suicide by drowning. In the stories I am familiar with, Rusalkis can leave the water if they want to, however there are stories where they don’t. Since Rusalkis are a staple in a lot of eastern European folk traditions, there is no one set idea what the right Rusalka is.

Koschei / Коще́й in Russian is the recurring male bad person in at least Russian Slavic folklore. Koschei is also called the immortal or the deathless. The name Koschei translated literally can mean something along the lines as the one of bones. Supposedly he is unkillable because he keeps his soul or heart secured in a separate place than his body. Often that is an egg which is placed in other animals which are guarded. Stories about Koschei tend to place him as the antagonist or love rival. Koschei is supposed to be rich and likes gold. He tends to kidnap, enchant, or marry unwilling young beautiful women (which require rescue of course). He is a sorcerer. Often, he is named as head of a castle or larger hall which indicates a ruler position. This is stressed with many tales naming him tsar / царь / ‘king’. There are links between Koschei and the other classical bad girl in Slavic folklore – Baba Yaga. That is symbolised by helping each other or being related somehow. However, they rarely appear together.

Addition by 'Uroo7kuro0': "Кощей" can come not only from the word "кость"/"bone". Also perhaps he's the prototype of another god whose name is "Карачун"/"Karachun" who was in charge of the cold. Interesting fact in some fairy tales Koschei and Baba Yaga were equally negative characters, while in others Baba Yaga helped the main characters kill Koschei

Devitsa is a transliteration from the word ‘девица’. It’s not well translatable but means something along the lines of maiden, mistress, damsel, maid or lady. Here, it is used like an honour title but like all honour titles the word Devitsa can and is used ironically. Nowadays in spoken contexts 

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[smithbrainz]

CN: ageism, racism, migosyny, ableism, gaslighting, British royal family and all their CNs

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I'm following the blowback on social media against the current British monarch and his spouse. I happen to dislike them, but that's not what this is about.

Lots of people rooting for Team Sussex are comparing photos of Harry's mother to photos of his stepmom. I'm a fan of Team Sussex. I am only a couple of years younger than Harry's mom would be had she not died in 1997. (Few of us married literal princes, but many of us in that cohort had psychological journeys a little like hers.)

I'm calling foul on people using misogynistic, ageist garbage language in their pushback against the current spouse (who, if various accounts are truthful, is nobody I'd want to be in the same time zone with). Knock it off.

Harry's mom did not get the privilege of growing old enough to sag, have wrinkles. to maybe give less of a damn about being "glamorous" and more of a damn about comfort. She didn't get to see her sons grow up to be men and hold grandchildren in her arms.

Beauty does not equal superiority. Beauty per se is neutral. Its importance in our culture is anything but. The racist, misogynistic, ageist, ableist standards, the pressure on certain people to perform beauty, changing norms and the price tags and health risks attached, the ways society punishes perceived beauty and punishes perceived lack of beauty...all of those permeate our world and our brains and are worth deeper dives than I can do here today.

But what I CAN do is remind all y'all that Diana used what worked in her favor to help others who didn't have it so good. She hugged patients with HIV when that was still a huge taboo. She walked across a minefield and helped survivors of those terrors. She spoke uncomfortable truths about a powerful institution that nobody else dared speak.

THAT'S FRIGGIN' BEAUTIFUL.

Using what privileges you have to leave the joint a little better than you found it is beautiful. Throwing your glamour around to draw attention and support to people and causes worthy of more support is beautiful. Hell, even making people feel better about themselves by sharing a bit of that glamour ain't a bad thing. A little pixie dust thrown around at the right moment might do a lot for someone's spirit.

Diana became a beautiful person through her choices and deeds. Camilla, if Harry's recent memoirs are correct, has been a horrid person for her entire adult life. Every time someone makes this about Camilla's appearance, it feeds into the same overall universe of garbage that ruined Diana's short life. Do better.

[vaspider]

I know that the above is a shitty, bad-faith response, but let's pretend that these are serious questions and answer them like you actually give a fuck about the concerns of disabled people:

1. Why are you purchasing beer?

Because I live with 3 people who can drink it, and I host people at my house who can drink it. Because beer cans shouldn't be a source of cross-contamination I need to worry about. And, get this: this product is expressly intended to be used industry-wide, by companies which also produce things like cider, which is usually safe for celiacs to drink. The creators say they hope this is adopted industry-wide, which would include not just cider, but actual gluten-free beer, which does exist.

2. Why are you drinking out of the beer cooler?

Because up until this point, there's been no reason to worry that there would be cross-contamination from the drinks cooler, so if I wanted to put my sodas in the cooler with the beer, it's not a big deal. People don't normally, you know, pour their fucking beer into the water/ice in the cooler, so normally putting those cans in the cooler would be relatively safe.

3. Why are you upset you can't eat the holder?

I'm not upset I can't eat the holder. I'm upset that it isn't required to declare these things so that I can make a decision about my health appropriately. Right now, in the US, companies aren't required to tell us about changes like this, so we don't have the information we need to be able to make informed decisions about our food.

Gluten cross-contamination occurs with extremely small amounts of gluten, and gluten permeates plastic and other permeable surfaces, making them permanently unsafe. Putting a biodegradable item made of poison, or the residue of that item, unknowingly into a plastic cooler full of water means I've just ruined that container for my safe use forever. And if I don't KNOW ABOUT IT, I can't make an informed decision and protect my health.

It's also extremely short-sighted to say "they're only using this for beer," while not recognizing that gluten-free beer exists, that cider is often made by the same manufacturers (who aren't thinking about whether or not this makes celiacs unsafe), and not recognizing that the issue is that these things are undeclared and that the law in the US doesn't require them to be declared.

I'm excited for the possibilities of this for people who can have these things near them. I'm also upset by the fact that these materials are not required to be declared in situations where they are very clearly in a food preparation situation, and that this is a very common problem. The proliferation of paper straws made with undeclared wheat byproducts, of compostable forks made of undeclared compressed barley, and other things like that made out of undeclared common fucking allergens whose presence can kill people quick or slow, means that now I have to be eternally on my guard and treat every food-related formerly-plastic thing marked as "compostable" as if it might send me to bed for three days of crying while my joints burn and I shit myself for hours. And, you know, while people like you talk about me like I'm a fucking animal.

The reason why we don't go to Tractor Supply and complain about horse feed, but this is a problem, is because

I'M NOT A FUCKING HORSE, YOU WEEPING ANAL PUSTULE.

Tractor Supply isn't putting undeclared barley all over HUMAN FOOD CONTAINERS and then yelling at the top of its caps lock at me about it. If this is clearly declared, I can make different choices - I can buy beer in a case for my non-celiac family and guests, I could buy beer in glass bottles instead. I can choose beer which isn't processed or bottled in the same facility with that beer for my guests. I can buy cider which isn't covered with microscopic amounts of two of the most common allergies.

Are you gonna all-caps at me if I'm in my wheelchair and don't like not knowing about a set of stairs so that I can plan to go around it or just not buy tickets to an event in an inaccessible building next, you soggy dog biscuit? Are you gonna all-caps at someone with epilepsy for being upset about undeclared flashing lights in a video next, you brillo thong of a human being?

The presence of undeclared allergens in food-adjacent items, toiletries, and medications in the United States is a fucking problem, and the fact that people like you feel like it's appropriate to virtually scream at disabled people for being concerned about things that can hurt or kill us, well.

I wish I could be surprised, but I'm not, because celiac isn't actually treated like a disability by most people, even though in the eyes of the ADA it is exactly the same legally as being blind, as requiring a wheelchair. It's a fucking disability, but it doesn't get treated that way. Gluten-free food is a fucking punchline. People have deliberately contaminated my food. All that we want is to fucking know about these things so that we can make appropriate decisions about our health and our lives.

But, you know, you could also just behave like this instead, you fucking sandpaper tampon. You could compare disabled people to fucking animals and spend 4 paragraphs all-capsing at, again, disabled people, who have to deal all the fucking time with behavior like yours and with the proliferation of ✨️undeclared✨️ wheat and barley in ✨️fucking food containers✨️, you moldy jock strap. You could do that. That's a choice you could make.

That would be a true asshole maneuver, but, you know, that's a choice you could make, just like the choice I could make to buy beer in a different container or fashion in order to allow my family and guests to drink what I can't while still keeping myself safe.

We all make choices, right? You ... just... made this one.

Asshole.

[highfivingyourself]

“1. You are not crazy [edit: for noticing racism. Having a mental illness does not invalidate you. <3 HFY] 2. Being a person of colour is not a pathology, even if you're told otherwise every single waking moment of your life.

3. History is against you. The institutions are against you even though they espouse the language of inclusion and diversity.

4. When someone commits an act of violence against you, you are not sensitive if you call them out. You are stating a fact: "Please remove your hockey stick from my ass. Now."

5. This being said, there is nothing wrong with being sensitive. As Winona Ryder said, "I'm so sick of people shaming women for being sensitive or vulnerable. It's so bizarre to me." The same can be said for people of colour.

6. As your bruise blooms, know that the pain is real. Someone fucked you up. It is not in your head. You did not invent this for attention.

7. When someone commits an act of violence against you, they are responsible for their mistake. They may make it about your reaction, rather than about their transgression because they are evading responsibility. They are in the wrong.

8. When you call someone out on their violence, and their response is "I'm sorry you were offended" it is as if they never apologized. You may continue to be angry. You are not being petty or emotional.

9. The right response to being called out on fuckery is, "I am sorry. I made a mistake."

10. When someone doubles down with a racist response when being called out for acting in a racist fashion, it's not you, it's them.

11. You may respond to "Can't you take a joke?" with "Dude, you're not fucking funny. You're no Aziz Ansari or Ali Wong."

12. There are people who will wield the words "free speech" to cut you down when you critique them because they believe they have the right to say anything they want without consequence. You are not afforded this same privilege.

13. If you object to anything they say or do, they will tell you that you're the thought police. They will accuse you of doing all the things that they are doing. They will accuse you of being a victim while calling you a bully.

14. They think they are good people. In their minds, this makes you the villain.

15. If you stay silent or say the words they want to hear, you will be told that you're articulate.

16. When they want you to know that they still have power over you even after you have pwned them so hard on national television, they will praise you for being gracious.

17. They believe that you are measuring yourself against their approval, their person, without knowing that the sun has set on that bloody empire. You are woke.

18. The reason why everything feels so heavy is that structural racism exists. It colours every interaction that you have, no matter what you do. It is why you feel powerless. You know that you cannot trust the law or the state to stand behind you even if you're in the right.

19. In conclusion, they are always telling you that two plus two equals five. You are good at math so they can just fuck off.”

[elenyafinwe]

Stop using ableist language

CN ableist language for the whole post

(Little note at the beginning. I’m no native speaker and while I know one or two things about the English language, I’m no expert in slurs in any language. Most of the time I come in contact with slurs in German, therefore some things in the following probably apply mostly for the German language and/or work differently in English. Think for your own.)

And most importantly, far more is ableist than most are even aware of. Towards 2020, I made a resolution to name ableist language as soon as I see it, and amazingly have followed through relatively well since then. Some respond with agreement and thank me for pointing it out, but most respond with disapproval and the very special clowns of course blithely carry on. I, at least, will never get through to these people, because it is too much effort for me to deal with them further, but I live in the hope that someone is always reading along and starts to rethink. And behind every person who speaks out, there are dozens who have not dared to do so for various reasons, but who may feel encouraged by it.

I usually name ableistism in a form of "I agree with you in principle in your argument, but you are using ableist language at this point" or simply "This is ableist language". It's understandable that most respond with rejection at first, because the vast majority hear me saying, "You're ableist." Which, if you take a closer look, is not the case at all. Because most of us have internalised ableistism, racism, sexism, queermisia and other isms without being aware of it. I believe most of them mean no harm when they reproduce ableist language. This makes it all the more important to become aware of the internalised isms and to actively relearn. The emphasis is on learning, because it is a learning process that does not happen overnight. Mistakes will always happen, even to me, and no one is perfect. But the important thing is to stay committed and to continue to be willing to learn.

The following list is neither in any particular order nor does it claim to be complete, and I will certainly add to it from time to time if I do find something that slipped through my fingers. For some terms, there are appropriate substitutes, while others should simply not be used. In general, insults are a wonderful field of language per se, as long as they are not used to the detriment of other population groups. Get creative and call the next empty thinker (you probably call them anti-vaxxers, but we in Germany call them Leerdenker in contrast to their Queerdenker) and mask denier a soggy toast or fall back on the good old list of mushroom names. How about a Stinking Slimehead or a Great Gall Tear? (Yes, these ar literal translations of German names for mushrooms. Dunno if those work in English, too, but it’s great.)

Queerphobia, Lesbophobia, Homophobia: Yes, using that term is ableist because it has nothing to do with phobias. Phobias are clinical diagnoses of various anxiety disorders. Being a fucking terf (trans exclusive radical feminist) like Rowling or generally speaking out against queer people's rights is not an anxiety disorder. It's a conscious choice that qualifies one to be an asshole at most. Better to speak of queermisia.

"It triggers my OCD." Two things at once in that statement. One: please don't ever speak of "triggers" again unless you really mean triggers in the psychology context. It dilutes the term. Triggers are certain key stimuli that, well, trigger certain reactions. They can be anything from scents to certain objects and very specific statements and behaviour patterns in you or other people. Triggers can be harmless, but they can also trigger terrible trauma reactions that go as far as self-harming behaviour and suicidal tendencies. This is not to be trifled with. It is better to rephrase the word completely. Also, don't talk about OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) unless you are really talking about OCD. This, too, is a complex field that involves much more than seemingly excessive neatness, but mainly obsessive thoughts and compulsive behaviours that people affected cannot defend themselves against. So the next time you see a desk that doesn't match your sense of orderliness, you'd better say, "That awakens my inner Monk."

Retarded: A no brainer actually. Disabled people are not an insult! This category also includes the long list of physical disabilities, which should also please never be used as an insult again, under any circumstances. These include lame (why don't you use good old boring instead the next time you see another lousy film) as well as spastic (although I'm not sure, if this is used as a slur in English. It is in German. Just don't do it.). I think (and hope) that most people are already aware of this. It becomes more difficult when it comes to mental disabilities and mental illness.

"That's schizophrenic." No, it isn't. Things and circumstances can be ambivalent, conflicting or contradictory, but never schizophrenic. Schizophrenia is one of the most severe mental illnesses and people affected by it suffer greatly. To call them crazy or insane stigmatises them even more.

In general, terms like lunatic or insane should be removed from the vocabulary, as they generally reinforce the stigma of mental illness. The same goes for crazy, maniac or sick in general.

In the Third Reich, people with physical and/or mental disabilities were subjected to euthanasia. This included people with diminished intelligence. Insults that refer to a person's intelligence are therefore also to be classified as ableist. These include stupid, debil, low-wit, moron, fool, idiot, retard and others. Do not say. Never again. Under no circumstances. Get creative and make a list of mushroom names. By the way, Covidiot is also ableist. Say Coronazi instead.

In recent years the stigma of mental illness has been hugely magnified by people like Trump being remotely diagnosed by people without proper medical training. He's already had a whole host of the above terms foisted on him, including being labelled mentally ill. As far as the world knows, he is not. He is simply a thoroughly despicable human being and to call him mentally ill puts him on a par with people like me. I am mentally ill, I have social phobia.

All derogatory remarks about a person's body shape, no matter which way it deviates from the socially accepted norm, are ableist and hurt people with eating disorders and/or illnesses that make them gain or lose weight. Common phrases such as "Are you blind/deaf?" or statements such as "Can't you read?" are also to be classified in this way.

In general, it can be said that all phrases and terms that refer pejoratively to the physical, psychological and mental characteristics and abilities of other people are derogatory, and they are far more deeply embedded in our everyday language than one might think at first. Be aware of your language and reflect on your behaviour.

(Originally postet on my blog.)

[stormclouds-chainmail]

[Image description

10 stills from the TV series MASH.

1. Text: Two dumbasses and a keen spectator. Image: Benjamin "Hawkeye" Pierce, BJ Hunnicut and Walter "Radar" O'Reilly.

2. Text: Two dumbasses and an inveterate optimist. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Father Mulcahy.

3. Text: Two dumbasses and an indulgent caretaker. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Sidney Freedman.

4. Text: Two dumbasses and a chaotic bastard. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Corporal Maxwell Q Klinger.

5. Text: Two dumbasses and someone who believes they're the voice of reason, but clearly doesn't know what they're talking about. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Colonel Flagg or whatever he was calling himself that week.

6. Text: Two dumbasses and the voice of experience. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Colonel Potter.

7. Text: Two dumbasses and a shameless enabler. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Rosie of Rosie's Bar.

8. Text: Two dumbasses and an oblivious dweeb. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Frank "Ferret Face" Burns.

9. Text: Two dumbasses and the one who lulls you into a false sense of security because you think you've found the voice of reason, only for it to become apparent that they're the worst of the lot. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Major Margaret "Hotlips" Houlihan.

10. Text: Three dumbasses. Image: Hawkeye, BJ and Major Charles Emerson Winchester.

End description]

“Two dumbasses and the voice of reason” is a fun relationship dynamic, but also consider:

[wormworker]

cn/ableist slur

the fact that vinesauce joel has english as his second language, but he still stops for a moment after saying the word "crippled" (when he meant "glitchy" or something) and goes "wait... that's a bad word"

it's such a small thing to be happy about, but it's because that's way more than a lot of english-mains bother with, who already know the background of that word and that it's a slur lol

[thecreaturecodex]

Melonhead

Image © deviantArt user JLeichliter. Accessed at his dA page here.

[I’ve been on the fence about melonheads for a while. On the one hand, they’re a common American urban legend, and murderous cannibals in the woods are always good for campaigns. On the other hand, they’re awfully ableist, being essentially “hydrocephalus as monster”. So I removed any and all references to real conditions and made them mutant gnomes instead. Why gnomes? There’s all sorts of offshoot humans, elves, and dwarves in Pathfinder and D&D. When was the last time you saw a mutant gnome?]

Melonhead This wizened humanoid has pointed ears and an enormously swollen head. Its body is wiry and thin, as if it’s been stretched out of proportion. Its teeth are pointed and it wears little more than rags.

Melonheads are simultaneously pathetic and frightening figures. Melonheads are developed from gnomish stock and are rumored to have been created by a gnomish alchemist attempting to bring gnomes to human size. He succeeded through the use of alchemical reagents and selective breeding, but the proportions were dramatically off, resulting in a humanoid with an oversized head and sharp teeth to match.

Most melonheads have been abandoned to the elements and live feral existences in small communities. They are carnivorous, as they need large stores of protein to fuel their strange, enlarged brains. Many tribes view other humanoids as food sources, as they have been rejected for their appearance and are jealous of the creature comforts that others enjoy. They are not inherently evil, but cults devoted to monstrosity and murder often recruit melonheads into their ranks, giving the creatures a sense of belonging while enticing them to ever more evil acts. A melonhead feels emotions very strongly and openly, which can make them either fast friends or frightening enemies depending on how they are treated.

The average melonhead stands about five feet tall and weighs 120 pounds. They have little material culture and view metal weapons and armor as rare treasure to be prized. Melonheads advance by class level, with ranger, rogue and barbarian being the most common among them. Melonheads do have a tendency towards psychic magic, and the leaders of melonhead communities are often psychics or mesmerists.

Melondheads as Characters

Melonheads are defined by their class levels; they do not possess racial Hit Dice. A melonhead character has the following racial traits

+2 Con, +2 Cha, -4 Wis Melonheads have tough bodies and forceful personalities, but have an exaggerated form of gnomish flightiness and distraction. Senses: Melonheads have darkvision 60 ft. Natural Attacks:  Melonheads have a bite attack that deals 1d6 points of damage. This is a primary natural attack Hunter’s Senses A melonhead gains a +2 racial bonus on Perception and Stealth checks. Gnome-blooded Melonheads count as gnomes for the purposes of spells or abilities that effect gnomes specificially. Mental Fury (Su) A melonhead can still use spells with emotion components when under a harmful emotional effect. This does not allow a melonhead to cast spells while raging. In addition, a melonhead with levels in the psychic class use their Charisma modifier for their phrenic pool and psychic discipline abilities, no matter their psychic discipline. Off Balance (Ex) A melonhead takes a -2 penalty to its CMB against grapple and trip attempts. Languages: Melonheads begin play speaking Gnome. Melonheads with an Intelligence bonus may choose from the following bonus languages: Aklo, Common, Elven, Giant, Goblin, Orc or Sylvan

Melonhead barbarian 1                 CR ½ XP 200 CN Medium humanoid (gnome) Init +2; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +3 Defense AC 11, touch 10, flat-footed 9 (+2 Dex, +1 armor, -2 rage) hp 16 (1d12+4) Fort +6, Ref +2, Will +0 Weakness off balance Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee bite +5 (1d6+6) or club +5 (1d6+4), bite +0 (1d6+2) Ranged rock +3 (1d4+4) Special Attacks mental fury, rage (6 rounds/day) Spell-like Abilities CL 1st, concentration +3 1/day—dancing lights, ghost sound (DC 12), prestidigitation, speak with animals (burrowing animals only) Tactics Base Statistics when not raging, a melonhead’s statistics are as follows, AC 13, touch 12, flat-footed 11; hp 14; Fort +4, Will -2; Melee bite +3 (1d6+3) or club +3 (1d6+2), bite -2 (1d6+1); Ranged rock +3 (1d4+2); Skills Climb +6; Str 14, Con 15; CMB +3; CMD 15 (13 vs. grapple, trip) Statistics Str 18, Dex 15, Con 19, Int 8, Wis 6, Cha 14 Base Atk +1; CMB +5; CMD 17 (15 vs. grapple, trip) Feats Throw Anything Skills Acrobatics +6, Climb +8, Perception +4, Stealth +6, Survival +2; Racial Modifiers +2 Perception, +2 Stealth Languages Gnome SQ fast motion Ecology Environment temperate forests Organization solitary, pair, gang (3-8) or tribe (10-40 plus 1 3rd-5th level elite per 10 members) Treasure standard (padded armor, club, other treasure) Special Abilities Mental Fury (Su) A melonhead can still use spells with emotion components when under a harmful emotional effect. This does not allow a melonhead to cast spells while raging. In addition, a melonhead with levels in the psychic class use their Charisma modifier for their phrenic pool and psychic discipline abilities, no matter their psychic discipline. Off Balance (Ex) A melonhead takes a -2 penalty to its CMB against grapple and trip attempts.

[thetumblingdyspraxic-blog]

My nana  (CN ableist language)

It was quite a big day for me yesterday (relative's wedding reception) and even though there was a lot of dancing I didn't fall over, knock anyone over, break anything, or anyone... the Gremlins must have been too drunk at the bar to mess up my evening, and for that I'm very grateful! Something my nan said to me last night really touched me. 

But first, we need to backtrack 10-20 years, when I was a kid, both my mum and my nana were constantly telling me off, to sit down, be quiet, stop tapping, be more organised, for-god's-sake-stop-talking-when-people-don't-understand-you-it's-embarrassing... the list goes on. The prefix to any sort of telling off is what I dreaded... “Why Can’t You Just”. They couldn’t understand why I had trouble doing these things. They thought that because I was “so clever at school” that I was choosing to misbehave. The impression I got is that they thought I was selfish, and for a long time I believed them. I would agonise over it. 

Why can’t I just be normal, I would cry, my foot flapping all over the place because in my room no one was telling me to stop doing it, and the pressure had been building up all day from suppressing it.

Why can’t I be normal, I would cry, every time someone asked me to tell them about my hobbies and ended up with a screwed up face because I was talking too fast and backwards.

Why can’t I be normal, I would cry with a complete understanding of my work in my head, and only scribbled nonsense and a messy desk to show for it.

I haven’t lived with them for a few years now. I’m 23, I’ve had time to rebuild confidence, to accept and embrace how my dyspraxia shapes my personality, to defiantly ignore the echoes of their voices in my head, to do and say what my instincts tell me. 

I was nervous, before the wedding reception, but I finally felt ready to show my family my personality for what it actually is, not the trimmed, tidy, demure little thing they’d tried to preserve from my toddlerhood. And you know what? I f*cking did it and I enjoyed every second. I found common ground with cousins I hadn’t seen in years, I danced like the Tasmanian devil in a hurricane, and was brutally honest about no longer giving a monkeys about being the scholar of the family. They supported me; they were just thankful that I was happy at last. 

In the car on the way home my mum had her old Soul and Motown tapes on. I’d had far too much to drink and I was laying across the back seats singing, doing impressions of musical instruments, telling mum and nana what a great night I’d had...

Then my nan turned around in her seat and said in her stop-that-nonsense voice “Anyone ever tell you, you’re a nutcase?”

And I looked her straight in the eye, fully expecting a slap, and said “You two did nana but like you always said I never listen.”

To which she burst out laughing and said... 

“Well, I’m glad.”

[panharmonium]

three old notes i made for myself about the opening scene of “battlefields,” retrieved from my ancient email history and compiled together here at @brambleberrycottage’s request :) 

1) she was someone to him, too

that first line of stiles' about allison is so significant.  it's one of those lines that says so many things without saying anything at all; all the deep meanings are unspoken.

i don't think he's talked to allison, either.  

but that might be more her choice.  

you know?

every time i watch that i think, "no, ms morrell doesn't know.  but you do."

the show doesn't make the comparison in words, but it does make the comparison.  having stiles add the 'you know?' after that pause - having him accurately infer that allison is choosing not to talk to scott (which we see confirmed in the next shot, when she ignores the message scott left on her car window) - having the "you know?" placed over this shot of his eyes, where his gaze does a tiny shift down and away from ms morrell, off into space, the way we look when we're looking at something that isn't there, when we're thinking about something else.

he knows.  the show makes the comparison without having to say a single thing about it; it doesn't have to tell us in so many words - these little things are enough to remind us.  he knows.

this is such a little moment that is so important to me, the jumping-off point for their connection.  because it's not that they weren't friends before - but it used to be more of a 'you're my best friend's girlfriend/you're my boyfriend's best friend' kind of thing, whereas this is a crisis point, a turning point, one that kicks off their building of a relationship that will exist on its own terms.

and this relationship-building is a thing stiles chooses to make happen, at least in the writing-verse i’ve been playing in, anyway - i have a lot of feelings about this process and about the internal impulse stiles feels to do something, to be available, to be there, because everybody should have somebody.  he had somebody.  allison should have somebody, too.  

i don’t think he even consciously recognizes how strong that conviction of his is; he's just doing what feels right, but really what he's doing is exactly what chris tells allison earlier in the season:

what you know makes you responsible.  

stiles knows.  and so stiles feels responsible.  "whether you want it or not, you can do things that nobody else can do.  so that means you don't have a choice anymore.  it means you have to do something."  he's in a position to do things for allison that nobody else in their group can do.  he knows things that nobody else in their group knows.  he can do something - and that means he has to do something.

and that's why when we say stiles isn't nice, it doesn't mean he isn't good.  this girl dumps his best friend and it doesn't matter; he doesn't care; he's still going to be there, he's still going to go out of his way to make himself available.  he can't not do it.  he feels compelled to do it, in a way he doesn't fully understand but can't refuse or ignore.

2) (not) appeasing my parents so they don’t take away my car keys

aka, how stiles actually interacts with ms. morrell vs how we originally would expect him to interact with ms. morrell.

going back to that whole ‘stiles as a mass of contradictions/a character who defies expectations/doesn’t fit in a box’ thing i always talk about - because just looking at his character and what we know about him and the constant litany of ‘i’m fine’ that he recites to people around him, as well as how he handles adults he doesn’t have a connection with (see 3a & b for more on that) - you’d expect him to be more like lydia.  especially given that as far as the kids know, at this point, ms. morrell doesn’t know anything about the supernatural stuff they’re dealing with; she’s just a plain old guidance counselor.

but when we come into that scene, stiles is working with her.  he isn’t doing the lydia “it’s a butterfly” dance, which is what we would originally expect.  coming into that scene for me feels like stiles is pretty familiar with how this goes, and maybe he’s not completely comfortable, but he’s still willing to work with this lady, as long as she doesn’t give him a reason to retract his consent.

how do i organize my thoughts about this, um -

stiles absolutely COULD do the “it’s a butterfly” shutdown/evasion if he wanted to, and he absolutely would, if he stopped feeling like this was worth his time or if the counselor in front of him gave him a reason to withdraw his very temporary and very conditional trust.

the way stiles works with ms. morrell very much gives me the implied sense that stiles knows school counselors.  not ms. morrell herself, but school counselors as an Experience, you know, he knows that whole scene.  he answers every question that's asked of him, even asks a pointed one of his own ("how come you're not taking any notes on this?" - "i do my notes after the session" - "your memory's that good?").  he knows this process well enough.  

and the way that he works with her also implies that he’s willing to roll with counselors, up to a point.  like - stiles is so often smarter than the people on the other side of the desk; he is often two steps ahead of them, and he could, if he decided to, game their system.  he probably has, plenty of times, because stiles is, again, one of those kids who knows who he is and who knows what’s good for him and who doesn’t need unfamiliar adults/authority figures to affirm him or give him permission for anything.  he makes decisions without their input.

so what i'm saying is, if stiles decided he was done with counseling with ms. morrell, he’d be done.  it would just be over, that’s all.  she wouldn’t get anything else out of him - he’d either go lydia and take the “it’s a butterfly” route, or go master manipulator and manipulate himself right out of the room, testing normal/”fine” on every scale.  

but he doesn’t do that.  ms. morrell doesn’t have to pull information out of him; he volunteers it when she doesn't even request it.  i.e., ms. morrell says “one positive thing came out of all this, though, didn’t it?”, about stiles’ father getting his job back - and if stiles were just sitting there talking to her because he was being forced to, if he were lydia-ing his way through the whole thing, all he would’ve had to say is “yeah, i guess,”  and that would have been enough.  he could have left it there; it would have been a completely satisfactory answer. but he doesn’t.  he volunteers extra information.  he puts more out there when he doesn’t need to - he gives her something new when she doesn't even ask: “yeah.  yeah, but i still feel like there’s something wrong between us.  i don’t know, it’s just like tension when we talk.  same thing with scott."

and he does it again, when she asks “how about we get back to you?  stiles?”

“i’m fine.”  and you think it’s going to be just that, the lydia answer, but it’s not: “yeah, aside from the not sleeping, the jumpiness, the constant, overwhelming, crushing fear that something terrible’s about to happen.”

he gives that information up when he doesn’t have to.  he’s a willing participant in their discussion.  and yes, his willingness to participate absolutely can and will be withdrawn, immediately and without apology, if what he’s doing stops being valuable for him, if he stops benefiting from it - but he’s willing to run with it, for the time being.  

it's like….stiles is this kid who doesn’t feel any particular desire for counseling, when he’s not in the room, but he’s been in the room enough times to know how it works, and he knows that sometimes it’s a complete waste of time and sometimes it’s okay, and he’s willing to work within a system that he could manipulate himself out of in half a second as long as that system doesn’t give him a reason to change his mind.  he may not have any connection to ms. morrell in particular, but his M.O. is to give counseling its chance and roll with it for as long as it feels useful.  

this is just a very interesting dynamic to me, because it's definitely not what you would expect just from looking at his other character attributes.  and stiles and his attitude toward adult authority is one of my favorite character things to look at with him, because he just reminds me SO strongly of some kids i've known and it's so difficult to express what it is - it's not rebelliousness, it's just a mixture of self-awareness and self-sufficiency that renders the vast majority of external adult influence...unnecessary.  not resented, but always just - extraneous.

3. because...he’s evil.

(cn ableist language in the quoted material)

the exchange ms. morrell has with stiles about matt daehler is what i mean when i say this entire scene is a stiles stilinski character study.  

"are you saying you hope matt felt some peace in his last moments?"

when ms. morrell asks him that question, stiles looks up immediately, with a look on his face that says he knows exactly what she’s trying to get out of him, but he's not going to lie to appease anybody, and he's not ashamed of the truth, either, even when he thinks other people will say he should be.  

"i don't feel sorry for him."

"can you feel sorry for the nine year-old matt who drowned?"

and this bit, character-wise, this is THE BIT, because stiles makes this exasperated little expiration of breath and readjusts his lacrosse stick and proceeds to explain to her, in the clearest possible terms, no.

no.

Just because a bunch of dumbasses dragged him into a pool when he couldn't swim doesn't really give him the right to go off killing them one by one.  And by the way, my dad told me that they found a bunch of pictures of Allison on Matt's computer.  And not just of her though; I mean, he photoshopped himself into these pictures.  Stuff like them holding hands, and kissing...you know, like he had built this whole fake relationship.  So yeah, maybe drowning when he was nine years old was what sent him off the rails, but the dude was definitely riding the crazy train.

and this is huge, here, because stiles isn’t fronting.  he’s not compensating for some kind of submerged guilt or pity - he legitimately does not feel sorry for matt.  

i love that the show allows this, that it doesn't take the easy route and give all its characters the same heroic empathy.  because scott mccall would have answered this question differently - but the show doesn't pass judgment on whether scott or stiles is right, the same way ms. morrell doesn't challenge stiles' explanation.  it just lets us have the differences.  it lets these characters exist with legitimately dissimilar outlooks on life borne out of dissimilar life experiences.

ms. morrell asks stiles specifically about "the nine year-old matt who drowned." what exactly is stiles supposed to answer that with?  stiles is not scott mccall. stiles loves scott mccall - loves him for being the kind of person who always wants to try with everybody; loves (and worries about) the fact that scott is the kind of person who would give someone like deucalion a second chance to do better - but stiles and scott, close as they are, have lived very different lives. and when ms. morrell asks stiles about whether he can feel sorry for the nine year-old matt who drowned, stiles can't say anything but no.

no.

bad things happen to everybody.

they happen to people who deserve them.

they happen to people who don't deserve them.

they happen to grown-ups.

they happen to nine year-olds.

and what happens to you, after something happens like that, is your call.

can you feel sorry for the nine year-old matt who drowned?  

he can't.  stiles was drowning when he was nine, too.  somebody threw matt in a pool, and then in the span of a few minutes matt was pulled out again.  life threw stiles in the pool and that was it; that was his new plane of existence - agony now, hell later, just survival - trying to hold his breath underwater.  it's called voluntary apnea.  no matter how much you're freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won't open your mouth until you feel like your head's exploding.

climbing out of that pool took years.  some days his feet are still in.  but he managed it, and he managed it without turning into a murderer, or an abusive stalker, so when ms. morrell asks him about nine year-old matt, sixteen year-old stiles looks back at his own nine year-old self and says no.

take responsibility for yourself.  

he tells danny that later, as a joke.  but it's exactly the right summary of where stiles is coming from here.

[granvarones]

CN: mentions of anti-Blackness, holding non-black people of color accountable, performative activism, colonialism, mentions of death, police brutality etc. PEASE READ if you can!

Ok but seriously though, with everything that’s been going on in the past week (and forever, really), ie #PhilandoCastile's murderer being acquitted, and new developments of police killing #CharleenaLyles, the murder of Nabra Hassanen, and of course things that happen every day that will never make headlines. What are we as non-Black POC doing to dismantle anti-Blackness in our communities, families, etc. (especially us light skin folks)?

Like way beyond posting shit on social media to ease your conscience. I'm talking about chopping up all these big academic words about racial injustice with your tíxs, primxs, comrades, etc. I'm talking about explaining to folks WHY what they said/did was wrong. I mean stop excusing anti-Blackness as just glorified "messiness" I mean holding our community members accountable when they slip up, even if it's "just that one time". VIOLENCE IS VIOLENCE! Period. Full stop. I get feeling uncomfortable or feeling afraid of getting into an argument with someone you care for, but I'm SURE a bit of discomfort over dinner is a lot less worse than the violence Black folks face just for breathing and existing. Being uncomfy means you have stuff to unlearn!

Edit to add: before you say "But I'm not anti-Black" note that our very existence as non-Black people is INHERENTLY anti-Black. And at the end of the day, we don't get to decide what is or isn't anti-Black.

Our communities are rife with this shit. But we need to own up to our shit. Because the fact is we attended the colonizers' tea party, and we drank from their cups. And something most of have been afraid to admit is that WE LIKED IT. We liked being able to assimilate, to have a group more marginalized than us to feed our egos. We can be/have been JUST as anti-Black as white folks. We feel just as much entitlement to appropriate Black culture as white folks. (Hell non-Black Latinx have stolen a SHIT TON from Black cultures. ie. music, style/fashion, language/"slang" and much more. And let me tell you, almost all of us have that one family member who's still scratch their heads trying to wrap their head around the fact that Black folks can speak Spanish. (Hello Black Latinx erasure) *eyeroll* or who claims "pero yo soy blanca!!")

We need to start speaking the hell up! And doing our part, and make it crystal fucking clear that anti-Blackness has NO place in our communities and movements. And that it won't be tolerated. We need to be en la calle doing what we can! Like jfc stop being so silent. I'm not saying you have to know everything either... just like... damn put in the work! Quit with the performative activism. Stop with doing the bare minimum just to tell yourself that you're doing enough and feed your ego. This is LITERALLY life and death, people!

- Nik Angel Moreno

Nik Angel Moreno is a 24-year-old, disabled, queer, Chicano writer, poet, and crochet artist hailing from south Texas, but currently transplanted in northeast Pennsylvania.

His writing has been featured in Wear Your Voice Magazine, The Body is Not an Apology, and Latina Magazine. His poetry has been featured in Hooligan Magazine as well as his Chap Book titled Liberación (2016). He has also independently published zines such as This Not That: A Guide to Eliminating Ableist Language, and Why Disabled People Are Magic.

He mostly enjoys educating readers about Ableism, White Supremacy, and other institutional power structures through his writing and zines. He is actively involved in advocating for people with disabilities and involved in the discussion surrounding disability rights. He also is passionate in writing about rape culture, trauma, and survivor-ship of abuse and trauma. He is an activist and advocate for victims of rape, sexual assault, abuse, and trauma, and he is very dedicated to the healing and recovery of trauma survivors.

Nik continues to write and educate, resist, and express himself through his poetry, zines, as well as articles.

[insidethecracks]

Got suspended from Twitter and need a place to release mental tension

CN: TERFs

So I got suspended from Twitter... Allegedly for a tweet denouncing TERFs which was mainly about getting a trans woman's unjust suspension lifted, I basically just wrote what she had written... And her suspension got lifted a while back... lol. Twitter is such a mess...

CN: suicide

.

.

.

@Twitter: Stop denying marginalized people the outlet they need... At best you're further marginalizing them.... At worst? You're killing them.

CN: horrendous ableism

It happened right after I told an ableist that it wasn't up to him to decide whether a disabled person is able to vote or not... I'm pretty sure they dug through my tweets trying to find something that could get me "in trouble"... And it effing worked..

END OF CW

Twitter was a vital accessibility tool for me... The word limit helped me organize my brain into intelligible chunks... And it helped me to look back at them for processing...

It helped with my memory issues and most importantly, it gave me a support system, a community, social connections. It made me feel more secure in myself and it made me realize I wasn't alone.

Writing a traditional diary never worked for me because the community aspect isn't there. There's no feedback. Also I can't emphasize enough how much the character limit is perfect for my brain.

Twitter was also the healthiest version of escapism I ever had... I deal with maladaptive daydreams and Twitter also made me feel like I was more in controle of my brain in that aspect.

Oh and did I mension that all of the suspension bs went down on the German side of of Twitter which I'm still somewhat new to?

CN: escapism due to abuse related trauma

Part of my online escapism has always been to escape from my native language since in my mind, it's strongly intertwined with the abuse I want through under my parents roof...

It was very hard for me to drop parts of guards and this is just... A lot...

END OF CW

I really hope I can find the time to go through my Twitter list sometime to create two esperate lists... I need a way to remove my self from German Twitter temporarily... Not now specifically... But just in general...

I "just" (it apparently took me 40min. to write this...) got out of a really exhausting appointment with a really rude person from the the child protective agency and my old home support person (nobody told me she would be there...). Now I finally won't have to let strangers into "my" apartment for no reason anymore! lol.

But damn... That was taxing AF...

-the end. lol.

[elenyafinwe]

Please stop using ableistic slurs

CN for ableistic language

Pssst, most of you still use ableistic language. I’m not free of it myself, but I try. Calling stuff and/or people dumb or stupid or even crazy is ableistic, because it devaluates people with mental health issues and intellectual disability. Those people have no less value than other, but this kind of language hurts them and keeps stigma alive. Stop using those words immediately in any context. And no, not even Trump is “crazy”, talking about that fucker in this way is terribly harmfull towards people with mental health issues. I don’t care why you use this kind of slurs. They are harmfull whether you think it’s justified or not to use them. Find other words, please. And please don’t call them ugly or stuff like this, that’s just as ableistic as well.