#amalgam assembly

[shootingdio]

i went back and forth on whether i wanted to do artfight this year but i decided i will!

https://artfight.net/~demonskull

[riversebb]

to assemble bicycle, step one: bicycle assembly requires great peace of mind.

[greatquestionidontknow]

yall ever see someone and just know they have the most annoying accent before they even speak?

[ohnoitsjetster]

Didn’t Herbert West technically TECHNICALLY try to baby trap Dan in Bride of Reanimator?

Thoughts?

(Im sorry this took forever to respond to. life got in the way, of my silly little words)

technically, yes. The main intention was the same. But "Baby Trap" does not even start to explain the shit Herbert pulled in Bride of Reanimator.

thoughts? you want THOUGHTS? alright how about let me break down exactly what Herbert did here:

That man stole Megan's heart from an evidence locker and stored it in his fridge. When Dan tried to leave Herbert, He offered the heart to Dan with every ounce of reverence he could deliver without getting down on one knee.

that is to say, Herbert anticipated that Dan would leave him and saw that he loved Megan. So his reaction was to steal Megan's actual physical HEART, and give it to Dan as an offering to force him to stay.

He vaguely explained that he was about to baby trap him with it, to which Dan agreed because of his blind love for Meg, and his blind love for Herbert, and because, in the words of Bruce Abbot, "no one will ever get rich overestimating Dan's bad taste."

(This could maybe be because the world of Reanimator uses weird sci-fi logic where the heart contains the person's personality or life or whatever, and it'd actually bring Meg back (even though these movies seemed pretty brain-focused thus far), in which case, pretty good manipulator leverage! nice job, Herbie! Otherwise, its either because Herbert knew Dan would like this weird creepy gesture of love, or because Herbert thought this weird creepy gesture of love was a normal and good idea, and coincidentally Dan was that same wavelength of out-of-touch freak as Herbert, because they're just meant for each other or something. That last option is my personal favorite)

So, then Herbert goes around the hospital STEALING more body parts off corpses (former patients who also presumably received some form of care and attention from Dan), trying to create Dan's perfect woman based on his shallow perception of whatever it is that straight, allosexual, relatively neurotypical men like (maybe since Herbert can't be what Dan wants romantically, he can create it for him and earn love that way (that cannot be good for His internalized transphobia)).

so then he meticulously assembles a woman like an Ikea cabinet and proceeds to give Dan the worlds most sensual elevator pitch, using... a line that he heard Dan use with his girlfriend when he was eavesdropping on them having sex. He tries to explain why this is the perfect woman for all your woman needs! Like uhhh sex, and... sex, and lawyering? maybe murder? (I guess he thinks it'd be nice to have a woman who can kill for you and defend your crimes in a court of law. That does sound useful in their situation)

Then he watched the Bride fight Francesca like some sort of underground girlfriend fighting ring, as if the larger and stronger girl would win ownership of our poor pathetic Dr Cain. Unfortunately Herbert's creation broke down to nothing when it removed its own heart to give it to Dan in the same exact gesture with which Herbert showed Dan the heart earlier.

Pure heterosexual coincidence, of course. There is absolutely nothing odd about Herbert's gift to Daniel being a grotesque amalgamation of everyone Dan loved instead of him and everything those people had to offer Dan, fueled by the pumping of Megan's heart (whom Herbert had hated and competed with), a heart both stolen and offered willingly, one both frozen and thawed, both beating and dead. There Dan stays, too close, yet too far. (am i reading into it- You Bet)

Yup. Pure coincidence. And also nothing suspicious about it being a creature created of such concentrated love, reverence, devotion, and bitter fear of rejection, that at the moment of being pushed away, it entirely self destructs because its only purpose was to love Dan and be loved by him. Its only purpose was to be perfect for Dan, to be enough for him, to be some action of Herberts blood sweat and tears that could ever be wanted by him. But of course Herbert doesn't understand Daniel - understand people - as well as he hoped too. Dan is horrified. No clearer rejection than that. If we see her as an extension of Herbert, it's obviously the last straw. Herbert truly did everything for Dan, not only was he still unlovable, but repulsive, an affront to... what have you; god, nature, some simple short-sighted ideal of what a human should be. Above that Dan could see the seams of the uncanny imitation of his past loves, and the love that laid beneath was too much for him. Too loud, too fast, too raw and bloody. So it dies. The heart is given, and thrown away.

What I'm trying to say is that shit was crazy. Herbert could have done a much more cut and dry baby trap. He could have reanimated some random kid, forcing Dan to stick around and protect it. That would have been its own special kind of fucked up and is probably a good fanfic prompt. But noooo, Herbert had to do the most psychosexual, convoluted, batshit, traumatizing, bloody, gory, and frankly unnecessary declaration of love that could be achieved by one little scientist with nothing to his name but a little green potion and every mental illness. I for one think it was a fantastic idea.

No tldr, ur just gonna have to match my freak on this one. Hope my mad ramblings made some sense. Peace and love

[neuroncryptid]

With the recent reveal of several Phoenix Lords (RIP Karandras) I've been kept up at night, stuck on just understanding what it means to don their armor and what it says about the Eldar. As evidence by the Harlequins, an army of clowns is many things but subtle is not one of them, a lot of Eldar identity is defined by theatre. Its all so. . . enticing.

The Craftworlds, the traditional "vanilla" flavored space elves, live lives in the neat constraints of the paths. In order to stave off the ever hungry gaze of Slaanesh, the Aeldari dedicate themselves a particular craft or occupation. This is shown on the tabletop most clearly through the Aspect Warriors: Striking Scorpions, Warp Spiders, Howling Banshees, Dire Avengers, and more. They are masters of a particular art of war, individuals who dedicate themselves to replicating an aspect of Khaine, the god of murder. But do not be mistaken. The paths are not just a warrior thing. The poet, the musician, the painter, the sculptor, all of these things are represented by a path. They each are incredibly specific.

An individual Eldar may spend a century, maybe even thousands of years, on a singular path. But they might also just simply dip their toes into one only to hop to another after a short time. The goal of the paths is not to lose oneself to one or even master a particular thing. The act of a repeated task is enough. That, the self control, is the purpose of the paths.

Most captivating to me is the getting lost though. We are told this is a tragedy but being lost to the paths is nonetheless shown in both lore and tabletop to produce the best at a task or role. This of course makes sense. Should you spend a thousand years on one thing, have it become your person and you will become the best at that thing. But I can't help being stuck on what's lost.

The 1995 animated film Ghost in the Shell depicts a world of cyborgs and cybernetics. Every body contains some artificial product. The physical self is produced piecemeal on an assembly line. Some, like Major Motoko Kusanagi, have their entire bodies replaced. Only the brain remains, but even that is enhanced, probed, has metal shoved into it.

Of course these artificial bodies are designed with aesthetic in mind, but the individual is housed in an impressive array of augmentation and precise tuning. This leads to bodies being specialized for the tasks they need to fulfill. The Major is made for police work, her entire being curated to the application of force on behalf the state.

Not even the sparks of electricity in your brain is safe from this sense of artificiality. The thoughts that race through your skull can be manipulated, reprogrammed, hijacked. If this is what it means to exist in this imagined future, then what does it even mean to be a person.

This brings me back to the concept of the Phoenix Lords and the Aeldari. The Lords are in a way, just sentient suits of armor. But when they are worn they do not just speak to the individual. The individual becomes the person in the armor. To wear these plates is to cease to exist. You die so an individual "great hero" may walk again.

This is seen too, though in a less destructive to the individual form, in the Exarchs. These are the "sergeants" of the aspect warriors on the tabletop. They are those who lose themselves to the paths, those who become so dedicated to a form of murder that the act becomes more themselves than whoever took the first step into the shrine. Like the Phoenix Lords, Exarchs are kind of a sentient armor but unlike them, a person donning it is not completely lost. They are subsumed into the gestalt of past wearers. They become amalgamation, reshaped into a more honed individual.

But this doesn't just end there. Even the non-war focused Eldar see a form of this loss of self. When a conflict requires the conscription of the civilian population, the people take on a "mask" that separates the mind from the excess of war. The individual is hijacked to better suit the role. Of course, once any eldar leaves an aspect or the battlefield they are returned to their former self.

The Aeldari culture sees this as normal. It is made from the ground up with systems which facilitate the donning and discarding of a self depending on the role they find themselves in. There is of course tragedy in this from their perspective, but its only in the complete loss of self. The narratives of 40k place the war mask and the exarchs as separate things, diametrically opposed but they're not really are they? In a way the craftworlds are an assembly line producing bodies who's particular inhabitant is repurposed, reshaped for whatever path they find themselves on.

This. . . implied lack of actual self is so interesting by sharing space in the same civilization which has each of its citizens wear a spirit stone, a device which may save the soul from the jaws of She Who Thirsts by containing it in a gem. Clearly there is something, someone who is contained within them; the Wraith constructs show this. But who are these stones saving? Who is that self, the individual being kept?

[gomzdrawfr]

yall are cute

Owlie! pick an accessory for your owl/penguin thingy 1 2 3 GO!!

SOMETHING PIRATICAL!!!! an eyepatch or a pirate hat or a cutlass 🦉

[dmwrites]

Gem wasn’t sure how she’d been roped into this, but she was standing outside, at night, with a flashlight and a hoodie from Pearl over her dress. Grian, Scar, and Impulse were gathered around a map as she approached the bridge between Grian and Mumbo’s bases.

“Ah, there’s our other G!” Grian said, turning when he heard her footsteps and waving Gem over.

“Guys, what on earth are we doing? Old houses and buildings are one thing, but Hermitcraft? Nothing here was built over two years ago! What kind of ghosts could you possibly think exist here?”

“I don’t know, but there is some serious evidence that there is a ghost on this server.” Impulse said seriously. “We have freezing temperatures in some places-”

“What, like on top of mountains? Or in ice biomes?” Gem scoffed.

Impulse gave her a withering look and continued. “Scar swears he’s seen ghost orbs-”

“I saw them with my own two eyes!” Scar said.

“I thought you could only see them through cameras?” Gem asked.

“And, most importantly, we have a witness.” Impulse said proudly.

“A witness?” Gem asked.

“With bottled proof of this ghost’s existence.” Impulse continued proudly.

“If this witness has actual, real proof that ghosts exist, this could be groundbreaking for the world of ghost hunting.” Grian said, zipping up his backpack. “Okay, let’s go! Lead the way to the witness, Impulse!”

——

The second team GIGS landed in the hole in the ground, Grian made his thoughts known.

“Zedaph is our ghost witness? Impulse, please, you’re supposed to be the brains here. It’s not that I don’t like Zed, but he’s kind of…”

“How do we know he hasn’t been sniffing his test tubes as a zedvancement and hallucinated this all up?” Scar finished the sentence for him.

“Just wait and see.” Impulse replied.

Zedaph came out of a side tunnel moments later, holding a lantern in one hand and a small jar of fluorescent green liquid in the other. He was wearing a frankly horrifying dress (or just a really long shirt) that consisted of stitched-together clothing of all the other hermits.

“Hello, hello!” Zed called to them. “If it’s ghosts you’re looking for, I’ve got the spooks!”

“Zed, what on earth are you wearing?” Gem asked.

“Oh, this is my Halloween costume! I’m all the hermits, in a horrible amalgamation of cloth!”

“Well, he’s got the horrible part down pat.” Grian muttered to Scar.

Zed didn’t seem to hear the comment, as he looked at the four ghost hunters, counting them two times over.

“My friends, aren’t you missing someone?” Zed asked. “Where is the ‘S’ in GIGGS?”

“Skizz isn’t whitelisted on this server, duh.” Scar replied.

Zed grinned, and pulled a square-shaped item from his inventory. “Well, lucky for you, I have him right here on this i-pa- hi- hi-pad. A hi-pad, yes, that’s what this is.”

“Hi there, friends! Who’s ready to hunt some Hermitcraft ghost ass!” Skizz exclaimed from the screen, waving at his friends.

“Skizz!” Grian, Gem, and Scar exclaimed.

“Now that you’ve all assembled, I can tell you my spooky tale.” Zedaph said mysteriously, handing the hi-pad to Impulse. He pulled a campfire out of his inventory and set it down on the ground between them. “It was a dark and stormy night. I was up late, finishing up wiring my newest zedvancement trophy display. I came out to stand right in this very spot, on this ledge, looking over my hole, when something flew past my face!”

Gem gasped as Zed leapt forward, wiggling his fingers at his audience. Grian rolled his eyes. Scar was looking at the dangling animals, clearly not paying attention.

“It was glowing green, and this thing fell directly into the water feature around my bed!” Zed continued, pointing down into the hole, where his bed was. Around the bed were small streams of water, clearly so Zed wouldn’t take fall damage getting down. “I, of course, scrambled to get a lead, thinking it must be dangled at once.”

“I don’t like that your first thought when seeing anything is ‘can I wrap it up in rope and dangle it’, Zed. I would hate to psychoanalyze you.” Grian said.

“But when I got down there,” Zed continued, still acting like he didn’t hear Grian’s comments, “the lead went right through it! It was translucent, clearly a ghost! A green ghost of a man covered in chains! He gave me such a fright, speaking to me with a frankly grating American accent about pinball machines and other odd things. And then he left, floating up into the air and away! And all that was left behind was… this mysterious ghost substance.” Zed finished his story, holding out the bottle of glowing green liquid.

“Mysterious ghost substance?” Impulse asked.

Skizz gasped. “Dude, maybe that’s like the ghost’s sweat, or his p-”

Impulse muted him before he could finish.

“Scar, I dare you to drink that.” Grian said, pointing at the glass.

“Okay.” Scar said, and took the glass from Zed’s hand, popped the cork, and downed the whole thing in one gulp.

“SCAR!” Grian, Impulse, Gem, and Zed cried.

“Grian, why did you dare him to drink it?” Gem asked, smacking Grian’s arm.

“I didn’t think he actually would do it!” Grian cried.

“Don’t lie, you knew he would.” Impulse said, shaking his head. “Oh, sorry Skizz, did you want to say something?” He unmuted Skizz again.

“Is Scar okay?” Skizz cried. “And also, what does it taste like?”

They all looked to Scar, who was smacking his lips thoughtfully. He looked up at all of them. “Why is everyone looking at me?” He asked.

“You just drank ghost bath water, dude.” Skizz said.

“Ohh…” Scar said, looking at the empty glass. “I zoned out, sorry. So this was the ghost evidence?”

“And you drank it, yeah.” Gem said.

“This tastes familiar. I know where the ghost is.” Scar said. “Follow me.”

He took off, leaving Gem and Grian to stare at each other in disbelief, then follow, followed by Impulse thanking Zed for his help before taking off too, holding Skizz on the hi-pad. The ghost-hunting group followed Scar all the way to the middle of the ocean, to a huge pinball machine that lit up the night sky. They landed on the top, looking around.

“Why are we at Joe Hills’ place?” Grian whispered.

“Because that’s where the ghost is.” Scar said, pointing down at a glowing green ghost on the pinball playfield, moving around, placing blocks, trailed by chains. “It’s the Beetlejoest, it’s what Joe Hills turns into sometimes. Bit of an odd guy, but he still bleeds if you use the right arrows.”

“Wow, a real ghost! On Hermitcraft!” Impulse exclaimed. “Let’s set up our ghost hunting equipment, get as much information as we can! Quick, someone grab the parabolic mic!”

“So are we just going to ignore the part where Scar knew what Joe Hills’ ghost tastes like?” Grian asked. “Was I the only one that heard that?”

[greenleaf4stuff]

Of Convenience 7.2

(all previous parts of "Of Convenience")

Adar x Celebrimbor (silverscars) political marriage AU, 7th snippet, part 2. Celebrimbor finds a project to occupy himself with and makes another friend. He also happens to forget the time in the process. It leads to an unexpectedly intimate moment between the two husbands.

I originally planned to make this a short chapter of Brimby at the forges and Adar’s reaction to that, but then I had a sudden cute idea and well, the chapter grew to the point I needed to split it up (again). Oops? Like always, thank you guys so much for the likes, reblogs and comments, I love you wonderful people. <3 Still blown away by the support – and by the fact I have written this much. What an AU, what an experience! Now, enjoy!

Gurlak hadn’t lied when she told Celebrimbor that her forge wouldn’t be comparable to his elven one, the smith realized in dismay. His smithy had been expertly assembled to suit his needs, constructed by the most gifted builders and with only the finest materials. All this to hopefully bring about something that could, one day, enable him to create wonders which would rival those of his grandfather.

Gurlak’s forge was, in comparison, an oddly-shaped amalgamation of whatever the uruk had been able to get their hands on, with little leeway to consider quality or utility. From the bellows to the tuyere, the forge itself and even the fuels and raw materials used, it was clear that the uruk were reshaping, reusing and improvising much of what they had, and with limited resources in less-than-ideal conditions as well.

And honestly, the elf couldn’t fault them for any of it – as he understood it, the uruk had little natural resources of their own in what was now called Mordor. The area might be rich in charcoal after the eruption of the Orodruin, perhaps, but not much else remained of the fertile former Southlands.

He guessed that this might be how he ended up sidetracked so quickly; he’d started out working on some simple iron nails – which, to his credit, he did finish and which actually served to convince Gurlak that he might indeed not be lying about his smithing skills –, but after that, things had quickly taken a turn to him focusing on other things.

"I think the airflow could be improved upon," he told Gurlak as they stood next to each other, inspecting the tuyere. "Might be because your bellows are made from a patchwork of materials, or because the charcoal you are burning is not of good quality, but the temperature fluctuation makes it harder than neccessary to work with the metal."

She grunted. "Well, we take what we can get. S’not like we can trade for better parts, and the last trees we burned, we had felled during heavy rainfall," a shrug. "Sometimes we even burn wood from furniture and such. It’s what it is."

Celebrimbor felt his face pinch at her words, then turned towards her. His tone was careful. "Would you mind if I...tried to tinker with this?" he pointed at the forge itself, but mostly the aforementioned bellows and the tuyere. "Maybe I’ll be able to mitigate some of the problems."

She glanced at him much the same way as did her, but by now, her gaze was one of curiosity – and, dare he say it, perhaps even respect?

He felt weirdly accomplished to think that it might be.

"Don’t burn yourself – wouldn’t want Adar to have my hide for getting his favorite elf damaged," she replied, and then took obvious delight when Celebrimbor got ready to argue her choice of words, "Looks like you know what you’re doing. I’ll leave you to it. As I said, just don’t get yourself hurt."

"Thank you, Miss-," Celebrimbor tried, but she scowled him into silence.

"None of that ‘mistress’ stuff. Makes me feel weird. The only one here who has a title is Adar – we are all equal, otherwise."

The elf nodded. "Understood. In that case, Celebrimbor is fine for me too," he replied. He turned back to the forge before him, and got ready to work.

"While you’re at it-," Gurlak spoke up again, and her tone made him pause. It sounded far too mischievous for his liking. "Out of curiosity. How is married life with the Lord Father?"

This time, Celebrimbor could not avoid a groan in response to her words. Her resulting laughter seemed loud enough to shake the walls of the shed.

Time, as it so often did when he was in the middle of his work, ended up slipping away from Celebrimbor. He was somewhat aware of it when Glûg, visibly bored out of his mind, came up to him and insisted they’d have to return to the tent now or they’d risk going against Adar’s wishes.

But with how much good progress he was making at improving the forge, it was just too easy to fall back into old habits – he waved the other off and said, "I just have to finish this one thing first, Glûg. You can go and tell him I’ll come back to the tent later, if you’d like. That way he won’t have to worry. You know where I am anyways, and it’s not as if I’m alone, or unarmed for that matter."

He pointed at the variety of weapons in the smithy – a topic that he’d already begun to discuss with Gurlak. While the smith was awed by the ingenuity the uruk possessed when combining swords, axes and various tools to make new weaponry for the soldiers, there were things that could be improved upon in that as well, and she’d been quite content to go over materials and their advantages with him.

There was just so much Celebrimbor could do – from working on the forge itself to helping Gurlak with various projects, the smith was truly giddy about his craft for the first time in what felt like weeks, and he was loathe to stop now that he was allowed to partake in it.

Glûg had tried to argue about the elf not even knowing the way back – to which Gurlak had snarked that she knew the way just fine and could go drop the elf off later – and then finally thrown up his arms with a frustrated, "Fine, then!" and left in a huff.

The smith had no idea how much time had passed since then, only that when all too familiar steps walked up to him, the hour wasn’t exactly midday anymore.

"Glûg tells me you asked him to leave you here," Adar’s smooth voice called out from a little distance away. Celebrimbor couldn’t help but think the uruk was deliberately announcing himself. Which was a good thing, because even so, he startled out of his work and then turned around in confusion to face his husband.

It was still astonishing to see how the other uruk visibly deferred to their leader when he walked among them; some inclined their heads or even bowed in respect, multiple took a step back as he walked up to the smithy, and even Gurlak seemed to stand straighter as she watched him approach.

"Adar," Celebrimbor said, and then realised he’d completely forgotten the uruk and his request for them to meet for supper. He felt himself blanch in shame at the realization. "Oh no, I am so sorry- I missed our meal, did I not?"

The uruk was tilting his head at Celebrimbor, gaze questioning, as he took in the other uruk and the forge, before his sight settled back on the elf. "You did. I was...worried." He seemed to almost be surprised at his own words.

"I- I appreciate that," the smith replied, and definitely was surprised at his own words. Or how sincerely he meant them.

Another look about the smithy from Adar. "What happened? Did someone rope you into a conversation you couldn’t escape from?" His words were mild, questioning instead of accusing. But it was clear Adar was confused by the circumstances of why Celebrimbor had chosen not to come back to the tent.

Celebrimbor was quick to reply, "No, no, your smith has been most kind in answering my questions, in fact – it was I who got far too involved in my work here and forgot about the time. It...happens, sometimes, when I am in the middle of work. My apprentices always-, well it doesn’t matter now. I should have gone with Glûg instead of making you worry. I apologize. It won’t happen again."

It was a bad habit of his, Celebrimbor knew that. Even more so now, when their circumstances were not exactly peaceful, despite the rather successful negotiations so far. He shook his head at himself.

Adar stepped closer towards him. "At least you sent my lieutenant to tell me. Though knowing you were without a guard did not exactly put my mind at ease," the uruk said pointedly. Celebrimbor rubbed the back of his neck and looked ruefully at Adar from beneath his eyelashes.

To his surprise, his husband dropped the issue. "So you’ve discovered our forges, hm? What do you think – grandson of Feanor? Not much like your great forges in Eregion, I’d presume?"

"Yeah, Gurlak suspected much the same thing," Celebrimbor couldn’t help but remark, glancing sideways at the uruk smith who seemed undecided between trying to inch away from her leader and the elf to leave them to their business, and remaining rooted to the spot to watch how things would unfold.

"I think your people did well with what means they have, but there are still plenty of ways to better the conditions that haven’t been made use of yet. Gurlak has actually been kind enough to let try my hand at some things."

A moment of silence, and then Adar hummed. "You are aware that this would give the uruk an advantage, if the greatest living elven smith helped them with their craft?" Celebrimbor could hear Gurlak suck in a breath at that. He guessed he ought to speak to her again, once he had made sure to reassure his husband.

"I mean- Eregion is technically your city just as much as mine due to our marriage, so technically, your army is mine as well," Celebrimbor started, but made sure that his tone was humorous. "Mirth aside, I know you care about your children. And we are hoping for this to be a long-lasting alliance so yes, of course I’d want for them to have a chance to improve their craft. It’s going to benefit everyone, isn’t it?"

Which was, he supposed, what it came down to – trying to right some of his wrongs and make things better, to give them a fighting chance against the evil that had taken hold of Eregion. He wasn’t a fighter, he couldn’t hope to kill Sauron on his own, but he could help the people who did.

The smith had seen Adar look at him with a vaguely mystified expression more than once now, but it still sent a thrill through him whenever it happened. He supposed it made sense; the uruk as a whole hadn’t gotten a lot of aid from the other races over the centuries, so perhaps this was just a natural reaction to finally getting it. Which was a rather depressing thought, all things considered.

Celebrimbor would do his best to change that.

Finally, Adar nodded and cleared his throat as he looked around the forge once more – it almost seemed as if he was uncomfortable, though the elf hoped he was just reading the other’s reaction incorrectly, before his eyes settled back on Celebrimbor.

The uruk jutted his chin out at the smith. "You have something on your face, by the way."

"Oh, I do?" Confused, Celebrimbor reached up and rubbed his fingers over his cheek, only to remove them and realise that his hands were still covered in soot and he’d likely smeared more of it onto his face now. "I- oh bother, that isn’t-"

"Here," Adar said and suddenly, he was standing directly in front of Celebrimbor, close enough that the elf could marvel at the length of his eyelashes. "Let me-"

They’d gotten more comfortable touching one another without asking for permission each time; handing each other dishes during meals, hands next to each other pointing at something on a map. And so Adar didn’t ask and Celebrimbor didn’t move when the uruk reached up, and tried to draw the edge of his sleeve over the elf’s cheek to wipe off the black smudges.

His gaze was wholly fixed on the spot, but Celebrimbor felt his breath still in his lungs and couldn’t look away from the uruk’s face. The way he looked as he performed his task in concentration was arresting. Celebrimbor had never noticed the blue-green color of his eyes before, and found himself searching his mind for gemstones that would fit their shade.

After a moment, Adar pursed his lips, and then held the back of Celebrimbor’s head with his gauntleted hand as he released his sleeve and began to smooth his thumb over the smith’s cheek instead.

Both the feel of the gauntlet in his hair and the touch of Adar’s thumb on his face made the smith fight to not suck in a breath lest Adar would stop what he was doing, and instead continued to hold very, very still as let his eyes drink in the other’s face.

Even with the scars, the pale skin, Celebrimbor could admit Adar was quite beaut-

Wait.

This time, Celebrimbor did suck in a breath.

Adar’s eyes snapped up to the smith’s, and then widened slightly as they stared at each other.

But they did not move. Both remained, motionless, staring into one another's eyes.

Celebrimbor felt warm all over, the way he’d done when Adar had asked after his wellbeing, when he’d saved him from Damrod, when they’d been wed and k-

‘Aquamarine,�� the smith thought, faintly. ‘His eyes look like aquamarine.‘

His attention couldn’t seem to settle between Adar’s thumb on his cheek and the way he was watching him.

There was an embarrassed coughing sound from the side, and Celebrimbor looked over to see Glûg stand close to the shed, stepping from foot to foot while visibly, tensely uncomfortable.

Slowly, Adar stepped back from Celebrimbor and removed his hand – though not without one last swipe of his thumb. "There, I think it’s gone now," he said. His voice came out rougher than the elf had expected. It almost made him shiver.

And then Adar had turned to Glûg, taking the warmth of his touch with him, and Celebrimbor felt himself deflate where he stood. "What is it, Glûg?"

"Galadriel has returned to the camp, Lord Father. Says she has brought word from the king – looks like he wants to come in for talks himself next time."

Celebrimbor felt his eyes snap open wide in surprise at Glûg’s words, just as Adar said, "These are indeed unexpected, if welcome news."

He turned to Celebrimbor, and beckoned him over. "We should go and greet her, see what else she has to report. Will you come along, too?"

Celebrimbor quickly looked at Gurlak, who made a shooing gesture. Her face was going through some weird motions that made it look as if she was doing her damnest to fight down a wide grin. The smith turned back to Adar and nodded with a smile. "Of course. Maybe we can still have a meal together, after?"

There was the faintest quirk of a smile on Adar’s lips. "If it would please you."

‘Yes,‘ Celebrimbor thought as he walked to his husband’s side and the two began to walk back to their tent together, Glûg in tow. ‘I think it would please me very much indeed.‘

[exodusrpg]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐒 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐖𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐄

In the 25th century, Earth is a distant memory, a lost relic of the past. Humanity has mastered the art of space exploration, weaving through galaxies with the grace of seasoned travelers. Among these cosmic voyagers is the ship Apeiron, a vessel carrying the last precious plant specimens from Earth, a fragile hope for cultivating new life on untamed worlds. When an urgent distress signal echoes through the void, a special force is assembled, driven by a mission of profound importance: to retrieve Apeiron and its invaluable cargo, a beacon of life for a new homeland. Yet, beneath the surface of duty lies an amalgamation of personal stakes and hidden motives. Each member of the rescue crew is drawn by more than the promise of salvation. They seek answers, redemption, and the unraveling of mysteries shrouded in the silence of the drifting spaceship. In the vast expanse of space, where stars whisper secrets and shadows hold the past, their journey intertwines destiny with the echoes of lost worlds. EXODUS is a 21+ literate sci fi roleplay inspired by the three body problem, interstellar, 1899 and love death and robots. Join a small crew of 13 people aboard the Exodus to uncover the mysteries left behind on the Apeiron. This game will include interactive mechanics and be played on discord.

[ ∅ REBLOG FOR EARLY GAME DOC ACCESS ∅]

[lowlydogs]

PROMPTS. (cod dudes and shenanigans)

Some weird amalgamation of prompts, drabbles, and headcanons all at the same idea. This threeway may not quite be the best idea. Varying from sfw, crack to nsft. Gender neutral.

> PETNAMES. (and pets.)

Ghost: Petnames are not his suit. Dear, darling, it's words that simply don't come out of his mouth. Likewise, not affected by pet names. It's not about the words that matter, but the cadence, the intent, the intonation. Distant and cold, or respectful and playful? You'll need to get a master's in Ghostology to discern those small, imperceptible changes. The slight pause before he drops a name, the loudness of his restrained voice, the most fickle of reserved affection.

His true weaknesses lie not in the words, but in how you speak them. Softly, gently call him "Simon" in the morning for the desired effect. (Blatant black cat who knocks over mugs. Could present him with the most luxurious bed and he'd be found sleeping in a moldy box. Looks utterly uninterested when given affection, but wait for you the entire day when you go to work)

Konig: This man. This man is a raving hopeless romantic and an obnoxious clinger. A severe case of "Baby's first serious relationship", he's launching all romcoms he watched onto you with the boasting energy of ten suns. For a long, long time, prior to meeting you, repression was a good antidote of his. In the face of failure, in losing things for devoting himself to his career, he jarred those fears and strode with silence.

With that gone, he comes to feel. And boy, does he feel. The man clumsily, enthusiastically, impulsively showers you in love. Schätzchen, Schnuki, and of course, Liebling. Would try to learn endearment from your native language if you’re foreign. Even amidst the honest blunders and overbearing presence he has, certainly, you won’t be in any short supply of loving talk around him.

However. You’ll need to learn some restraint around him. One simple endearment, even something stupid as bae, would have him explode on the spot. Buckling knees, gleaming eyes, near heart attack from dopamine hyperdose. Treat with caution. Lovingly. (Octopus. The big majestic sea beast with knack for vengeance, but deep down, in his most authentic self: A dumbo octopus. Would cling to you for hours on end with those big, dumb eyes looking at you reverently the entire time)

Roach: Would call you pookie. (Cockroach with a bow tie who somehow has an personality and follows you around) (I just love him, he deserves an entry)

> ALIENLOVERS.

It's a flying saucer! It's a green blob with sexy abs! For a game of switcheroo, this round, you're the monsterish, ghastly alien this time. Various scenarios toying with this idea, described below.

1. You are an alien. An alien who, out of all things, takes the shape of a broom. A simple broom with a wooden handle and a hay head.

You may not speak or harbor sentience in your form, but one thing could be certain: You're a smoking hot dreamboat. Ghost is suddenly very adamant about janitorial duties. Soap leans against you, tilting you against his shoulders, asking if you come around often. Konig sensually holds you down and lowly murmurs to you about the time he got beaten with a broom when he was a kid. The entire team that retrieved you can't help but bend a knee, and the only one spared of your charring good looks is Price.

In the tiny tinfoil hat that protected him from whatever mind herpes you seeped, he is very stressed and disturbed, trying to ensure no man-on-broom action happens on base. Crack, can nearly include everybody on the list. Potential crack smut.

2. You are an alien. You are big and grotesque, a pulsing form of lifeform assembled of veiny, thick tentacles, resembling the mythological werewolf- And, yeah, yep yep, you fuck.

Think you understood where this was going the second I dropped the word tentacles. A different scenario, where the team sent to retrieve you gets poached one by one, until there's only one man left standing.

Each different soldiers get a different last standing. [ Saucy content and Dubcon on forward. ]

Ghost would defy till the end, keep running till he's literally slammed down by the throat. All "last moments" bravado, spatting venom and clocking even his empty rifle, all unit; a tentacle ram down his throat. Heavy Dubcon, lots of fighting, blood kink and fuck-and-die situation. Eventually, it lasts for ends and Ghost's adrenaline fades: Orgasm torture sets in. Where Ghost wilts from an unshaken, respected serviceman to a convulsing, jolting, fucked out mess on the floor.

Konig on the other hand, similarly fights, but not to the sheer ferocity Ghost does. Mostly because he's shaken by the death of his crew, and the fact that he, a nearly 7 ft tall man, is held down like he's a frog. His stature had assured him the comfort of leverage, where any one-to-one scuffle leveraged to his favor. But now, even the simple act of turning his head and looking up at you is revoked.

He's chest-down against the floor, wrists bound behind his back by tentacles and so much more over him. He can't even breathe. The sheer futility, the complete constriction of his form. You can see where this goes. Heavy Dubcon, bondage, and potentially, oviposition/breeding. Potential tears and choking included.

Many more examples and characters would've been written (Keegan, Roach, etc), but for the sake of not stretching this section too long, I'll cut it here.

---

It’s 2 in the morning and for now, have these thoughts that’s festering in my mind for a month. Would come back next morning to fix this up, since you could probably tell I wrote this sleep-deprived.

Except some of these tangents to be expanded into an actual full story someday, or get an electric boogaloo to this post where I explore other characters I missed instead.

Entirely feel free to hijack some ideas and write them: The only thing I'd ask is you to tag me so I may read them.

[anonymouspuzzler]

Im curious, as someone who monster woman oc's, i gotta ask,

What would monster versions of your oc's would look like ?

i LOVE!!!!!!! weird monster Guys (gender inclusive) but am not necessarily the best at translating to Designs and Ideas For Designs so to answer this i assembled The High Council Of Monster Lovers (read: my friends jay and jake who are So damn smart and wise) and they gave me permission to share their thoughts. jay also did some Fucking Killer Original Designs as he is wont to do and That i will leave to his discretion to post or not but i Did get permission to share the discussion points from The Council

for buck: ideas included some manner of amalgamation type creature or Construct. elemental themes of rock and ice. dragon was proposed, specifically something "barroth-esque", with some kind of visible damage such as a docked tail or cut-off wings - some outer part of him torn off despite heavy armor. minotaur was proposed as a more "traditional" type of monster, both for the themes of monster of circumstance/monster as victim/monster as cursed and spurned by his own family, but also more importantly Fat Milkers Titty Joke.

for davey: cyborg was discussed right off the cuff as an easy answer, so naturally we decided to focus more on the deeper cuts. siren was a big agreed upon point, specifically something with influence from creatures like dolphins or sea lions - animals with a public perception of being friendly and cuddly and carefree, but that are, at their hearts, Large Carnivores. alternatively, influence of deep sea animals or gulper eels - something strong with bright, hypnotizing eyes. water as an elemental theme generally came through strong as a concept for him.

for minnie: Armored Creature of Some Kind was the prevailing theme. construct, amalgamation, what have you. themes drawn from hermit crabs, something carrying a heavy armor but also at constant risk of outgrowing it, themes of Growing Wrong. some kind of protective "false face" got brought up too. medusa was brought up as a more "traditional" monster type, for reason of "just vibes".

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Unsinkable

Chapter 39: Awakening

Characters: Din Djarin, Sabine Wren, Grogu, The Armorer, Fenn Rau

Summary: Din makes his decision and a declaration 

Words: 3965

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

. . . . .

For an hour, maybe two, Din walked.

Away from the camp, away from the covert, he walked.

The land appeared flat at a distance but the plains inclined subtly, smoothly, building to a bank which sloped down the other side, rolling down to a vast expanse of tall, undisturbed grass gently breathing like an ocean. Standing on the crest put the rest of the world far enough behind him that he couldn’t hear or see anything but the land.

Dusk fell into twilight and soon the sky turned indigo, stars unabashedly appearing in droves, joining the twin moons as if called to assembly. The air was cold, there were no clouds, and the wind wasn’t going out of its way to fight; it came, rustled the grass, and then settled languidly. Winter was still too fresh a memory for the glow-bugs to come out of wherever it was they sheltered during the frost-bitten months, but a small gathering of crickets kicked up a slow, quiet chorus.

Din left his helmet off. 

As aware as he was of the tribe’s proximity, he needed to breathe the air without a filter and see the world—this world; his world—without a visor’s tint.

Really, he should be back there, sitting down with his clan—that strange amalgamation of Vizslas, Wrens and Djarins. He should be eating, too, but he hadn’t the stomach for any of it.

He had sought Fenn Rau’s counsel, expecting guidance and advice to the tune of who best to include in his party when he went to confront Kryze, perhaps some insight into how best to approach her, what to say, how to initiate a fair and final duel. He knew, of course, the ancient methods of seeking justice through single combat, but he wasn’t so up to speed with the potential amendments and loopholes she may present and going into this with even a shred of ignorance could get him and anyone with him killed.

But Rau’s advice hadn’t steered in any of the directions Din anticipated.

As difficult as it was to swallow, the more the matter churned over in his mind, the more he listened to Rau’s reasoning as it replayed in his memory, the clearer it all became.

In truth, there were many roads he could take, many choices he could make, many different ways this could go, but to end this ordeal, once and for all, there were only really three options.

Give someone—anyone—the blade.

Let Bo-Katan come, kill him and take it.

Or stand up and claim the throne himself.

The first one was most enticing: just bestow the blade on someone else and instantly be unburdened, let it become their problem. 

Technically, the second option was the easiest of the list: laying down and dying took no effort at all. But he had a responsibility—to his tribe, to his clan—to live and, if not to rule, then to ensure whoever did rule was worthy; such a quest for a better candidate should take time—it wouldn’t be right to transfer the blade and all the duty that came with it flippantly, just for the sake of freeing himself. And he had already determined that Kryze should not have the throne again—though unaware of the history and scope of things, as far back as their first meeting he knew she was the last person in the galaxy he could ever be prevailed upon to follow.

Being Mand’alor was not what she made it out to be; it never was. 

In Basic, they let it be translated to king or queen but that was only because there was no direct translation for what a Mand’alor truly was. It was something else, something outsiders had difficulty grasping and Mandalorians had difficulty explaining in foreign tongues. They spoke of thrones but, truly, there was no such thing, no seat elevated above the people. True Mandalorians didn’t have societal classes, and ranks and titles mattered little, so their leader was not a figure arrayed in finery and revered as something nearly divine: they were still a vod, still a warrior, they had responsibility and expectations and duties, they had the final say, yes, but, come the hour, they would be on the battlefield with their brothers and sisters, not tucked away somewhere safe and decadent. General or chief was a more apt word but they gave the impression of a smaller group to care for; the Mand’alor was the chief of all the clans, houses, tribes and factions combined.

In her resistance against the Empire and even in her loyalty to Death Watch, Bo-Katan had been on the ground with her troops, but she had been formed and grown in a castle, her concept of rulership distorted by her house’s insistence on installing a royal family, her ego fanned with titles such as duchess, princess, and heiress, conferred on her at birth, the ascension framed as essential. Mandalorians of different walks were not Mandalorians as far as she was concerned (and she as a bit too quick to label ones she didn’t understand or agree with cultists and deviants). She could form the image of a Mand’alor of old but her blatant sacrifice of their principles and disregard for the lives of others revealed a thirst for power which no true Mand’alor should ever entertain.

She should not rule.

But should Din?

His knee-jerk response was: no.

Out here, standing in the field, far enough away from all living things that he may as well have been adrift in the vacuum of space, he severed his feelings from the issue and rephrased the question.

Not should he lead; could he lead?

Well?

Could he?

Objectively, yes.

He had been trained to lead squads all the way back in the Fighting Corps.—that was part of basic training. Though he hadn’t graduated, he had used what he learned out in the field, working with mercenary crews. More recently, he combined all his training and experience in organizing various peoples into armies—everyone from non-combatant farmers to warring desert tribes to jaded guerrilla fighters and even skeptical New Republic Rangers.

He could direct and guide and organize, he could delegate and distribute, he could mediate and problem-solve and trust.

He could lead.

All at once, his life—the years already lived, the experiences already inked and sealed in history and memory—spread out before him like an intricate tapestry and he saw, for the first time ever, how the threads had woven, what he had become.

Every day was a lesson, every battle fought and won or lost had shaped him—his strengths, his abilities, his skills, his perspective. The people he loved, the people he lost, the ones who failed him and the ones who came back, they had all left an indelible impression, a slice or a cut or a piece that ultimately sculpted him. Every situation, every trial, every quest, every road travelled, every corner he got himself backed into by accident, by poor decision, by miscalculation had pushed and pulled him into place, the place where he was, the place he needed to be.

Sorgan, Mos Pelgo, Morak, all the jobs, quests, missions, and rescues in between had served as training grounds, forcing him to test his mettle in real-time. 

He could lead because he had led before.

Still, it seemed wrong that he should be here, that he should be this.

Who was he?

Dinar Djarin was the son of simple healers, born on a nowhere world skirting the fringes of Wild Space. He was not of noble birth, his family was of no great means, his home and his life, all he knew was small.

Din Vizsla was the foundling son of a scout. He was half-deaf and skinny, ill-tempered and impatient, but, for some reason, they decided he would shape up well in the Fighting Corps. and he did, he excelled, he grew, he was their most promising, if not most unconventional student.

Mando was a Mandalorian and that was all anyone could say for certain. He hated droids and few ever heard him speak but what he lacked in conversation he more than made up for in reputation: he was the Guild’s shining star, the cream of the crop, the best in the parsec.

The Silver Mandalorian was a modern-day legend, springing to life with stories of saving this village and that town, of felling dragons and taming beasts, rallying armies and leading them to victory after victory—the most bizarre thing about it all was that every story, tall as it sounded, was true.

But Dinar Djarin died in a cellar when droids attacked his settlement. Din Vizsla vanished just a week before graduation. Mando threw it all away for a child. And the Silver Mandalorian? Well, wasn’t he, from the start, just a story?

Din was all of them.

He was a child of Aq Vetina. He was a Vizsla foundling. He was a bounty hunter. He was a Mandalorian. And, somehow, he had become a legend.

Here he stood now, in the fields he was grown, under the first sky he ever saw, wearing the armour and the scars he had earned in a life beyond this air, holding the memories and the lessons he had spent his whole life gaining, running from and then back to them.

Everything he was, everything he had been was still a part of him—it always would be. 

But now he was being asked to become something new. 

He could run.

He could forfeit.

Or he could take all that he was, all that he had been, all the stories and the twisted paths and the unfinished, ill-fitting pieces, put it all together and become what he needed to be.

He didn’t feel ready.

But he had trained for this.

His parents, his buir, his instructors, his tribe, his friends and his enemies—they had all prepared him for this.

The night was well along but it was not late when he returned to the camp.

The meal was finished and the tribe had gathered together in the open air, collected around a steady fire, the warm glow casting glints and flickers on the beskar-clad crowd. Every now and then, something in the fire cracked, sending a shy spray of sparks shooting up as if aspiring to join the star-flecked sky.

Sabine was, of course, easy to spot, her bold colours standing out brightly amongst all the faded paint.

(What if it was restored? What if they stayed out here, above ground, and showed their colours proudly? What if they never had to hide again?)

Her helmet swivelled and her posture straightened subtly as Din wove his way through the gathering to join her. Nevermind that she wore her helmet, he could picture that soft smile she always gave him so freely.

He came and clambered down to sit beside her on a woven mat: less serving for comfort and more as a barrier between them and the dirt. Most sat on similar mats; some, mostly older ones like Ba’Buir, sat on crates. 

Grogu was soft in Sabine’s arms, heavy blinks gradually but surely slowing. His ears lifted when his father joined them and he raised his arms, asking to go to him. Smoothly, Din took him and let him snuggle into his side.

“All good?” Sabine asked, voice low as she leaned close to him, a hand resting on his arm and squeezing softly.

“Yeah,” Din breathed out, putting his arm around her shoulders and dipping his head down to touch his helmet to hers. It was a very small gesture but it went some way towards settling the mad fluttering in his chest.

When they parted, she tilted her head to the side and he suspected she sensed something was up with him but a sharp ting-ting rang out before she could ask anything further: the distinct sound of beskar on beskar interrupted all present.

All heads snapped up, visors fixing on the Armourer standing before the fire, framed by the flickering light. She had rapped her hammer against her chest plate to draw the tribe’s attention. As she awaited a wave of silence, she held the hammer aloft.

Beside Din, Sabine groaned softly.

“Oh, don’t tell me that’s the talking hammer,” she muttered, sounded dismayed.

Din frowned. “The what?”

He didn’t get an answer as the tribe hushed like a sea receding and Ursa began speaking, her voice clear and regally controlled.

“By now, you are all aware for the reason for this most recent relocation. Our covert was discovered by an outsider of ill intention and thus compromised. As distressing as another move is, we have ample cause for celebration on this occasion: all have been accounted for; none have been lost.”

Duly, a chorus of clangs rose into the night as the tribe banged their vambraces together in the Mandalorian equivalent of applause. Ursa did not rein them in, rather, she joined in their expression of relief and jubilation; though she did not wear vambraces, she rapped the hammer against her chestplate enough to produce sound, not enough to self-injure or warp the beskar. 

In that moment, the grief and anxiety was muted, utterly drowned out.

They were here.

They were alive.

Ursa waited for the metallic clangs to fade before setting her shoulders back and raising her head.

Now for the bad news, Din and likely most in the gathering surmised.

“However, we are not safe yet, nor can we remain here indefinitely.”

The words stunned no one.

Permanency, stability, security—these had all become such foreign concepts to the tribe. It was with subdued acceptance they heard the words.

“We have been offered temporary refuge by the governor,” Ursa said, aiming to soften the blow, “but we will need to arrange a scouting party to find a suitable place to dwell long-term. Tonight, we rest; tomorrow—”

“Pardon me, Alor.”

Din wasn’t so sure where the steady voice came from: his heart was a frantic animal thrashing against his ribs like the bars of a too-small cage, more concerned with freeing itself than whatever wounds its madness was inflicting. Yet his voice came, the words slipping past all that and meeting the air without shrinking or crumbling or fleeing.

Ursa turned to him, sharply. Like her daughter, her head tilted quizzically. Firelight slid along the sea of visors drifting and setting on him and he could feel their gazes as much as their puzzlement.

Din passed Grogu back to Sabine, mindful not to jostle the little one though he was not asleep. Then, drawing a breath, he rose and crossed the distance. He extended his hand and waited, holding his tongue in the interim.

Either Ursa would pass him the hammer and he could speak freely without fear of interruption or she would refuse and he would have to sit back down. It was a convention he had only ever seen utilized in the Nevarran covert and, after Sabine’s clip of a comment, he wondered if it was Ursa’s own invention: a system she had used to curb rowdy family discussions with her own children.

He felt the weight of the hammer’s handle settle in his grasp before he registered her granting it to him.

She held onto the head of the hammer for a drawn out moment and he expected her to push, to question him, but then she released, bowed her head and drifted away, swiftly taking his vacated spot beside Sabine.

For a moment, Din stood there like a thing abandoned, nevermind the fact he had come here of his own volition. He glanced over the tribe, the weight of the hammer and the right, the expectation to speak pulling on him.

In a fraction of a second, uncountable by any physical metrics, it occurred to him that he knew these people better now than ever before, having properly lived among them for the past few weeks. He could, for the first time in a long time, name everyone present. Perhaps he didn’t know every single story yet but he knew more now than before.

He knew that the majority of this tribe was made of foundlings—he was not the odd one out; he was just like so many of them, having been born to a different life, destined for something else but victim to the twists and turns of events that brought them here and transformed them into something new.

Few were clan-born, even fewer had ever set foot on Mandalore itself and only a small handful of the older ones could recall the time before the Divide: that point in the Civil Wars that saw Mandalorians fractured like never before. 

Some had fought in the Siege.

Some had fought in the Purge.

Some, like little Ayisa, had only ever known the aftermath: the hiding, the silence, the shelter and seclusion.

All of them had lost something, somewhere, someone.

Din couldn’t fix all that.

But maybe he could stop the losses from mounting any further…

“The Alor has spoken truth, but there is more to the story you deserve to know,” he began, evenly. “The outsider who uncovered the covert was a bounty hunter. He came for me. There is a price on my head and he came to collect. He has had a hand in ravaging other coverts in the network and our tribe would have been attacked in due course.”

He breathed.

Not one word had slipped or stuttered, but the very real fear of missing or mutilating a word pushed him to pause.

His hand on the hammer handle flexed, the leather of his glove creaking as if in protest—the camp was so quiet, he heard it as loud as a crack of thunder.

The visors were still angled towards him, the gazes sheltered behind the tinted transperisteel or the fine, darkened mesh locked on him, watching, waiting.

He found Riel Rook among them. There were some other Rooks but he sat apart from them, apart from everyone, ostracising himself. There was a brittle rigidity to his posture that Din knew all too well.

He did not blame him.

It was a moment of weakness, of naïveté, and his guilt was penance enough; Din saw no reason to make any further point of it before the tribe. After all, the root of the problem was still him, not Riel.

So far, he had given them some extra facts but hadn’t given them a reason for those things to hold any great significance or relevance. It likely came as no shock that he had a bounty set on him: most of them had been on Nevarro, they knew about his rift with the Guild, they knew he had more enemies than friends in the galaxy.

He stood now at a crossroads, at the point of no return.

This was his last chance to back out of all of this.

He could say he just wanted them to know he was the reason they had to move again. He could go back, sit with Sabine, rest tonight with everyone else, perhaps volunteer for the scouting party and find the tribe a place to settle for who knows how long. Perhaps he could take a detour on the way and drop the Darksaber in a blackhole or in the swirling clouds of a toxic maelstrom, permanently and forevermore placing it out of Bo-Katan’s reach. 

He thought such things, but he had resolved otherwise.

Privately, away from all eyes and ears, essentially unknown and unrecorded by the rest of the universe, he had made a vow.

A vow to try.

His trying was not feeble attempting with the goal of barely expending effort so he could give up, throw his hands up and say, well, he gave it his best shot.

No. 

His trying was a thing fuelled by blood and sweat. His trying was breaking his back and pouring out his heart until there was nothing left and still carrying on. It was marching to the ends of the galaxy alone, year after year, driven by the belief his work was keeping the ones he loved safe and well, that he was buying them another day. It was faith, it was hope. His trying was a dogged, endless, insatiable thing because even when he reached a summit he didn’t stop climbing.

If he could do it as a beroya, if he could do it as a father and a husband, why couldn’t he do it as a leader?

He had vowed.

Now, it was time to follow through.

“Bo-Katan of House Kryze set the bounty on me,” he declared as he transferred the hammer to his left hand and reached with his right behind his back. “She did so because she desires this.”

He unclipped the Darksaber hilt from the back of his belt where he kept it discreetly hidden behind his cloak at all times. He held it aloft and ignited the saber without hesitation.

The paradoxical black and white blade bloomed to life with a gentle, almost negligible weight—so familiar and intrinsic to him it had become. Its song, like echoes in a crystal cave, rose and wavered as he swung it in a short, swooping arc, ensuring all present saw it and believed.

A wave of soft gasps rippled through the camp and a palpable astonishment gripped all.

But Din wasn’t finished.

“Tarre Vizsla, the founder of House Vizsla—my house—forged this saber. It has since become a symbol of the Mand’alor. It’s been lost and won many times throughout the centuries. Bo-Katan Kryze last laid claim to it but lost it in combat to our enemy, the Butcher of Mandalore, Moff Gideon.”

Suddenly, the thrashing and pounding of his heart steadied, like a ship reaching the calm waters of a port.

He paused and drew a breath, his shoulders squaring. He let his arm rest down at his side but he did not extinguish the blade; it hummed softly, certainly at his side as he continued the story.

“I fought Moff Gideon and won the sword.”

Some were whispering things to their neighbours, just low enough not to let the words spill out to the rest of the camp. Casting a measured glance over the gathering, Din found Rau.

They locked visors and the older man bowed his head in approval and encouragement.

Purposely, he turned and looked to Sabine. 

She was leaning forward, her hand clutching her mother’s arm. She looked like she was in suspense or like she was about to stand and march right over and stop him—he wasn’t sure which was reality and which was his perception. Either way, she had not been expecting this.

Neither had he, to be honest.

But, alas, this was where life had taken him.

You always go where you belong.

One more breath.

One more heartbeat.

“And I am now, officially, laying claim to the throne as rightful possession of this sword grants.”

Silence.

He closed his eyes.

Nothing felt real. Some voice in his mind shouted, insisting this was happening, that he was here and all around him was true and tangible, but he couldn’t believe it.

Until he heard the first clang of vambraces.

Then another.

And another and another until a chorus of beskar rang out, thunderous, pulsating, undeniable, the tribe seeming to multiply a hundredfold.

He opened his eyes to see all the Mandalorians rising to their feet. 

“Oya manda!” someone shouted, sparking an eruption of exclamations, travelling through the tribe like a chain of explosions.

Din Djarin was and had been many things.

Child.

Foundling.

Bounty hunter.

Warrior.

Father.

Husband.

And now, tonight and henceforth… Mand’alor.

To quote Sabine from Head Above Water:

“Every two minutes, it’s something else with you. I’m getting whiplash here.”

. . . . .

🎶chapter playlist🎶

My Kingdom — Alan Doyle

Awakening — Yellowcard

Declaration — David Cook

Believer — Imagine Dragons

Glitter & Gold — Barns Courtney

Silent Majority — Nickelback

Set It Off — Skillet

[the-blossica-fan]

Feeling #blessed in this Walmart tonight (saw the 2.2 and 2.5 announcements) so have some fun things:

To promote better suitcase harmony (Vertin asking them to get along), certain Arcanists engage in group bonding exercises based on their shared abilities. (Similar kits)

The Fire Quartet (Ulu, J, Isolde, and Spathodea) all do metal work and blacksmithing together. They stick their hands in the fire made by Ulu to make sure it's hot enough (and to scare people)

The Poison Party (Tuesday, Sotheby, Jessica, and later Willow) all drink tea together that may or may not even be tea, but a strange amalgamation that is drinkable to them (but extremely dangerous to others)

The Academic Assembly (6, 37, Windsong, and Getian) have some of the longest discussions ranging from mathematics, literature, philosophy, and interestingly landscaping. (Marcus has read several books, 6 and 37 use math, Windsong leylines, and Getian uses instinct honed by his culture)

Team work baby 💪💪

I don't think Isolde would be too useful during the blacksmithing progress considering her health, but during this progress she brings them drinks and watches the progress from a safe distance.

Ulu as the fire, J as the teacher, Spathodea and Lopera (She's burn too right?) are his students. They all come out sweaty, dirty and with funny looking swords and weapons, they're proud of their work.

And their wobbly sword made through team work.

Poison team would be the creepiest to encounter because they'll sit around a pot and place whatever the hell is poisonous to create the most concerning beverage on earth.

Kanjira and Jessica wouldn't be placing anything on the pot since Kanjira's poison comes from Punji and Jessica's poison comes from the experimentations they did on her (I think)

But Tuesday, Sotheby and Willow would be placing plants with names that sound as unique as they look. They all take a sip and if one of them starts to feel sick then it means they found a new low.

And if they see someone walking by their witch's pot, expect to see them in a hospital bed with Sotheby explaining the symptoms.

The academic assembly is the most peaceful of the bunch, only 37 would ramble about mathematics for hours on end while the others do their work and say some important theories about said topic.

Especially Getian, whose knowledge is ancient, so conversations get an interesting twist when he points out the differences between this and the past.

Unless you're Regulus, their commentaries and theories are very interesting and informative.

[julesofnature]

The quietude and outer simplicity of the lichens hides the complexity of their inner lives. Lichens are amalgams of two creatures: a fungus and either an alga or a bacterium. The fungus spreads the strands of its body over the ground and provides a welcoming bed. The alga or bacterium nestles inside these strands and uses the sun’s energy to assemble sugar and other nutritious molecules. As in any marriage, both partners are changed by their union. The fungus body spreads out, turning itself into a structure similar to a tree leaf: a protective upper crust, a layer for the light-capturing algae, and tiny pores for breathing. The algal partner loses its cell wall, surrenders protection to the fungus, and gives up sexual activities in favor of faster but less genetically exciting self-cloning. Lichenous fungi can be grown in the lab without their partners, but these widows are malformed and sickly. Similarly, algae and bacteria from lichens can generally survive without their fungal partners, but only in a restricted range of habitats. By stripping off the bonds of individuality the lichens have produced a world-conquering union. They cover nearly ten percent of the land’s surface, especially in the treeless far north, where winter reigns for most of the year.

[artandtheirstories]

The Spanish Series: El Dos De Mayo 1808 - Francisco Goya (1814)

"There was an insurrection in Madrid on May 2. Thirty of forty thousand persons assembled in the streets and in houses and fired from the windows. Two battalions of fusiliers of the Guard and 400 or 500 cavalrymen brought things back to normal..."

Letter by Napoleon Bonaparte to his son, 6 May 1808

In the French emperor's view at the time, the 2nd of May was a disaster for the Spanish rebels. He would quickly learn that it was in reality a disaster for him. The ensuing Peninsular War became the disaster before the disaster of Russia, the straw that only fractured the camel's back.

One particularly interesting aspect of Goya's painting is the amalgamation between the rebels and the French soldiers. It is somewhat difficult to tell which side will emerge victorious, as one can see both French soldiers and Spaniards lying on the ground in pools of blood. The painting is chaotic, disorderly, and almost overt in its graphic depiction of gore.

Perhaps what Goya truly wanted to do was paint a very real form of war at its worst. The battles of the Napoleonic Wars were often painted with a more orderly manner of warfare, in which Napoleon sat on his horse, victorious above the fallen soldiers of the Coalition.

[360degreesasthecrowflies]

I’m afraid I’ve come more and more around to the opinion that Rowling is the kind of author who simply doesn’t think. So to look for an analytical interpretation of anything in the series is probably an exercise in frustration. She paints what is intended as impressive word pictures — essentially vignettes — mainly on the basis of how they are supposed to push your buttons and make you feel, without ever considering how they are supposed to fit together. This sometimes produces a considerable emotional impact, if you are at all sensitive to that kind of jerking around, but it doesn’t necessarily make sense. And sometimes they just plain backfire. Quite a few of these issues are still slowly coming into focus. And one of the sharpest is the awareness that the world Rowling assembled is simply a lot bigger than the narrow-focused, smug, anglo-centric view of it she gave us. Because when you come right down to it, it becomes clear that she never really intended to build a solid secondary world to put her story in. She simply didn’t do the groundwork. Instead, she has ended up with this weird amalgamation that she threw together — which is highly detailed in some areas, and only vaguely sketched in elsewhere with several great gaping holes where you least expect them, to fall right out of the story through. But, back when she first assembled this pretend world, she used the best possible materials available. She mined folklore, and classic (written) tales that have been pretty fully absorbed by the culture, as well as ancient myth, and symbolism that has been around for centuries, she mimicked the authentically traditional “tropes” of how stories are put together and how they work, and she did it with a free hand. But I’m no longer convinced that she did it all consciously. I think she slung a lot of them together because they just “felt” right together. Sure, sometimes she tweaked them before she deployed them, or renamed them, or trivialized the hell out of them, but she hardly ever invented anything new. Most of her elements already existed. The only thing in the Potterverse that is really original are some of her combinations. And, of course, the Dementors. Consequently, as I say, she ended up with something that is a lot bigger than she is. And which upon first encounter comes across as a lot more erudite than she probably really is too, because all of the elements she used to build it came already equipped with their own baggage, and a whole pre-existing collection of associations which all originally led someplace. And most of them are so widely known and/or so universal that even with a 2nd or 3rd-rate education, you are able to recognize them, and are at least somewhat aware of what those particular elements usually mean. And the components are all thoroughly documented, so you can readily find out what the original source meant if you are at all curious. But that doesn’t mean that she ever intended to use any of that material. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. It is certainly bigger than the shallow, petty, and mean-spirited viewpoint that she keeps pushing into the foreground and expecting us to use as a lens.

via Red Hen's restrospective review of Deathly Hallows, 2008