#and its strikingly accurate

[polygamousfistingchaos]

Nate < Light < Mihael < L is my honest take on the intelligence debate

[zombzgutzz]

Ok im notmal again. i should probably draw the rest of the lords or something idk

[starlitscars]

Made of ice

Jackson era! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: One stormy night in the safety of Wyoming, it occurs to Joel that even though life has turned his heart into a slab of ice, there's a soft, melting spot buried deep inside... Only reserved for you.

Word count: 5.2k

Masterlist

Tags/warnings: MDNI, NSFW, implied age gap, canon-typical violence, Joel Miller needs his own warning, protective! Joel, soft! Joel, angst, fluff, smut, finger sucking, fingering, pet names, praise kink, language, no use of y/n, soft dom! Joel, negative thoughts, dea*h wish, self-doubt, self-confidence issues, Joel is a sweetheart here (but he doesn't think he's worthy of peace), rain, lots of rain, lightning, stormy weather, kinda established relationship, let me know if a tag has gone unnoticed.

Author's note: This is my very first attempt at writing for Joel Miller. I've had the idea in my mind for a few weeks now and it's hard to resist when it comes to him (did I say Pedro Pascal?) So I hope the details are accurate and if you decide to read this one shot, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing it. If you want to be mutuals, I'll be more than glad <3

Divider by: saradika-graphics

Made of ice

You should've seen what you made of him.

The calm, slow beats in his chest are strikingly different from how he remembers them. In fact, he vaguely recalls the way those racing, dreadful patterns had carved themselves into his memory. With a rigid heart made of ice, it was nearly impossible to find the pulse in him, even at his most frightened, disappointed state. 

Joel used to walk into the face of danger with a rifle clutched in his dying grip, a life to save and thousands to destroy, and in all those moments any sign of life was nonexistent in him. There used to be rage, hatred, regret, and frustration... Oh lots of frustration, running through the veins in his body. He used to walk, talk, and breathe. But he wasn't alive.

Now he doesn't find it in himself to call it miracle. But somewhere between the lines, you happened. You happened and fuelled the dying fire in the far corner of his heart. He used to keep it empty and dark, like a deserted house with no furniture, a perfect place for the noises in his head to become loud and maybe help him stand the never-ending days of what everyone called life. 

You entered his life and now most of what he feels in these old veins is warmth, safety and attachment. Yes, he doesn't call it miracle, because his past doings are too  stained and unforgivable to deserve a miracle. To deserve you. The real miracle. The fathomable idea of what it feels to be alive.

Joel feels alive.

Some days, it feels like his wretched past is clawing its way back into his mind, calling those demons to end his days of peace with you. Some nights, he's restless... So terribly restless. What if you get injured on your next patrol? What if the Raiders attack you when you're out of the gates of Jackson? What if something bad happens to you the moment his eyes close? What if these damn what ifs come to life? This old mind tricks him into seeing pictures of what has never happened and probably never will. You always assure him that you'll be careful. He trusts you and your abilities, but he does not trust his fears. Because if life is too good, it scares him. 

It scares Joel Miller, way more than it would if he was trapped in a dark room with all of his fears and demons creeping on the cold hard floor towards him. He'd rather spend every day fighting off the Clickers and Raiders and every nasty threat out there, instead of pacing around the room and waiting to see if your patrols end well or not.

So he has no choice but to either convince Tommy to pick him as your patrol partner every damn time you have to do it – which he makes sure is as limited as possible – or occasionally keep an eye on you from a distance and let his thoughts consume him at the same time. Just like what he's doing now. 

His persistence in being close to you tends to earn him annoyed eye rolls and "She's more capable than that, Joel." comments from his brother... almost all the time. But he simply can't help it, and he thinks that you know it. Because you never complain nor haul him over the coals for his instincts and worries and the immense amount of care his rigid heart feels for you. He's silently thankful for that understanding.

You are safe here, he thinks. Even though he feels restless, his heartbeat has never been this calm. He sits and watches you on nights like this and there's only one thought ringing in his head. All the scolding is worth it. You're sprawled out peacefully on the bed. His bed. It must be straight out of a fucking impossible dream. You're here, in his atmosphere, in his menacing, guilty, dark presence... And you have chosen it knowingly. It's all he can ever ask for. 

The dim moonlight is swimming in through the curtains, casting a soft, silvery shadow over your face. Your hair is falling all around you like you're knowingly doing it... Posing for an artist just to paint this delicate beauty on a canva. 

Despite his bitter mood, a content smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Tearing his gaze from you, he downs the remaining whiskey and silently places the empty glass on the table, deciding that he needs a short walk to free his troubled mind. One morning, Maria woke up and decided that Joel needs to stay behind and help Tommy in fixing the issues in the town's only library. So you should have another partner for your patrol days for god knows how long. He fucking hates being told what to do. He fought tooth and nail to prevent that, and if you weren't there to stop him, he would as well turn the mess hall into another ruin that needed to be fixed – which only meant more time away from you. 

So it's going to take only two weeks, at worst. Only a terrible fortnight before things go back to normal. It's almost unbelievable how you have managed to awaken a sense of normalcy in him that he hasn't known in decades. Your absence is an instant threat to this normal life.

Maybe it's about time he gets used to it. He's not that weak. He shouldn't let his angers and worries run him. More importantly, he shouldn't ruin your much needed sleep with his usual problems right now. You've still got the weekend. He'll take a walk and be back here before you as much as stir in your deep slumber.

Oh. The damn library.

...

Jackson is eerily quiet in the middle of the night, enveloped by darkness and as isolated as it can be in this corner of the world. It's a stark contrast to how busy the whole community is during the daylight – bustling with happy greetings, careless jokes, movie days, small parties, and lots of work to do. It all asks for social interaction and he deeply hates it.

He hates when every passer-by's attention turns to you every time you step out in the open. He hates how prying eyes rove up and down your frame every time you walk into the bar. He hates how... He shakes his head, almost rolling his eyes at the loudness of these thoughts. Joel has to remind himself that he is the one you hold onto and introduce to everyone in every social gathering. The proud gleam in your eyes always placates him. There's no need to break a jaw in this town... Perhaps.

Lights flicker by the porches and the sound of his boots on the ground is the only sound that disturbs the silence. The sky is clouding over, distantly promising another stormy night in its gloomy wake. Occasional flashes of lightning light up the road and before Joel knows it, he's passing by the Tipsy Bison. It's 3 past midnight, no wonder why its doors are locked and closed. Either way he comes to a halt, letting the gears turn in his head as he opts for a very familiar path.

Your house. It's a short walk away from the bar.

Joel still recalls that day. How long has it been? Five, six, seven months? It feels like yesterday to him.

He'd had a terrible conversation with Tommy, not at all the way he'd planned it on his first day in Jackson. Things got heated up pretty quickly, leaving a bitter taste of rejection lingering on his tongue, the burn of the whiskey only worsening his mood.

"Just because life stopped for you, doesn't mean it has to stop for me..."

The words were ringing in his head as he stormed out of the bar. Shrugging his jacket on, all he wanted was to walk as far away from that area as possible. This affronted, begrudging, irrational sting was boiling in him and in that moment he was more than ready to leave the gates of Jackson even if it called for more danger. Life had really ended for him years ago, but to hear it from Tommy right after the hell he'd went through to find him... It really hurt. 

The pain was resurfacing in rapid tides.

If his boots could dig deeper, get stuck in the snow and propel him into the cold biting blanket of the earth, he'd welcome it. If life had really ended for him, he had to make it make sense by ending himself as well. This... There was this distant melody echoing in the air and cutting through his troubles thoughts. The wind was harsh against his ears, and each step brought the melody closer. 

It really could be the last song that played before his funeral.  

Joel was surrounded by all the colors, and all he could see was white, eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't pay much attention as he bumped into someone. He barely lifted his head to apologize, and then his gaze settled on the crackling fire on the left side of the road. 

Red and orange and yellow hues. It was a fresh contrast. His eyes were hurting from all the white snow.

He came to a halt, mindlessly waving at the person he'd bumped into. A dozen of kids had gathered around the burning logs in a barrel on the porch, rubbing their hands together and listening to the same melody he was entranced by. The same melody that he thought would be his burial hymn.

Joel's eyes followed their excited faces, wondering who they were looking at. He saw you mirroring their hopeful gleams first, and then he registered the guitar on your lap. 

To make the matters worse, you had tilted your head, shooting him a funnily quizzical look. He might've looked weird back then. The town's newcomer, with a permanent scowl on his face, maybe plotting murder as well (considering that it was the main topic in all the words that already flew around about him).

He didn't answer, still dead in his tracks as if he was immobilized by some invisible force. So you shifted in your seat, silently offering him a spot among the children as if to say "You can come over and join us."

He had two choices in that moment, either a polite decline was on the table or a dismissive frown. He looked over his shoulder at the bar and finally opted for the third choice – or so his mind created another choice for him – and he nodded, joining in on your little gathering without as much as saying a word. He really wanted to hear that song.

He never asked whether you knew the words to that song, but that night when he lay in bed and his thoughts were far from the idea that he wanted to bury himself in the snow, he vaguely remembered the lyrics. And it hit him hard, like a punch to the gut.

Yeah, I don't want to hurt

There's so much in this world 

To make me bleed

Stay with me

Let's just breathe

Stay with me

You're all I see

He wanted to ignore how the words affected him in the middle of the night. It was the first night he could feel some semblance of peace, not sleeping with an eye open in case someone attacked them. Ellie was safe in another room. So he really considered that. He considered the possibility of staying. He was relatively new to the community... And so damn unaccustomed to the whole arrangement. He almost woke up the next morning and started packing before he remembered where he was.

Stay with me

Let's just breathe

Those words stuck with him.

And his first encounter with you was a harbinger of different things to come.

One day of patrolling with you led to another, one night of inviting you for a drink led to another. One peaceful afternoon in the stable led to another. One gloomy evening in the clinic did not lead to another. He was way too protective of you to let that happen again.

He truly feels lucky. You could be anywhere else, better off if you picked anyone other than this grumpy, old man. And yet you still want him. You silly girl. You've melted his heart with your warmth. 

But he's like a lake, deserted in the middle of a haunted forest and engulfed in coldness. Even though the center is warm and gooey, he keeps the surface frozen and rigid and menacing. Hard enough to keep his instincts sane and alarmed. Cold enough to let everyone know that you're his and he will not fucking share. 

Lightning strikes again in the sky.

He lifts himself up and off your front stairs with a heavy grunt. An hour has passed since he left for a walk. The clouds have fully gathered in the sky and he thinks that he should be by your side now.

Joel really cares little for the details, always asking Tommy and Ellie to spare him the explanation and get straight to the point. But with you, it's hard to forget a couple of things. One night, a few weeks ago, you were pulling him past the threshold of your house. So adorably drunk and inviting. He was still a little pissed by how the rainstorm had ruined your nightly walk. Despite your complaints about sharing a kiss in the rain, he'd dragged you back to the nearest shelter possible, because he just didn't want to get fucking soaked. Joel didn't find it romantic at all. He was frowning, still pinning you against the wall for a begrudgingly needy kiss. You giggled into his mouth, playful fingers pocking at his chest. "Come on Joel. Let yourself enjoy it... All these neverending drops on the roof, the fresh earthy scent that comes after it... It's just really beautiful. One of the few things that kept me sane before I came here..." 

He's not really against the idea. But the changing weather doesn't bode well with him. One day is sunny, and the next is rainy and it just goes to show how he has no power over the situation.

Hell. A part of Joel is really terrified of the changing weather. One day it was scorching hot, and the next his boots crunched against the white blankets of neverending snow, reprimanding him for his carelessness. Time would pass whether he wanted to or not. He is still terrified, wishing he could stretch the time he could spend with you. God knows he wants an eternity with you. 

He has seen enough rain for a lifetime. He hasn't seen you enough. How could he enjoy getting soaked in tiny drops of water when all he wanted was to bury his face in the crook of your neck and stay there for a while – maybe forever and a little more?

But he has considered it since then. If there are a few things that keep you happy and rainy days have to be one of them, he'll give you that. He'll get used to that. There's no pattern with the rainfall in here, and the weather forecast is pretty much nonexistent. He has promised himself to tell you whenever it rains, even though he despises the idea of you catching a cold after minutes or hours of dancing in the cold, letting droplets of water wash over you without a care in this wretched world. 

He also despises the idea of waking you up.

But he knows you'll like it. You careless, adorable girl. He lives to see that excited gleam in your eyes. Everytime you show it, this old heart pounds impatiently in his chest and it all feels like the first time it has happened.

He's back home in no time. 

So, kicking his boots off as silently as possible, he trudges over and settles down by the edge of the bed, suppressing a low groan. His knees still ache from all the never-ending effort he's put in repairing the library over the past few days. Jesus, he just wants it to be done as soon as possible. It feels like he's losing so much time when he's away from you. Now that you're still pretty much asleep in the same position he last saw you, all Joel wants is to lie down by your side and melt in your warm embrace instead of having to fight with his thoughts and the world to not take away yet another precious piece of him. He can't afford to even think about losing you.

Each flash of lightning illuminates the contours of your beautiful face and he can't help himself when he lifts a hand and lets his knuckles gently stroke your cheek. Your lips are parted ever so slightly and you look so innocent in your unconscious dream. He almost backs down, part of him hoping that it rains throughout the day, just so he doesn't guilt trip himself for the pout on your face if you miss it. You need to rest.

As if you sense his hesitation, you stir in bed and lean into his touch. A low hum escapes you, and Joel is too weak to deny himself the softness it brings. His wounded knuckles are soon replaced with a calloused thumb and he wonders what's so interesting about these hands that never ceases to catch your attention.

One night at the bar, Joel had caught you actually staring at them and when he teased you a little about it, you just shrugged and grinned mischievously. "I mean... I just like them so much. Your hands are always warm, and... and that's all."

He shrugged it off that night. Ellie had also considered it a flex for him to have warm hands even in the coldest days of winter, but with you and the way you looked at him... It was different. He knew it was more than that. 

And when the nights he shared with you went further than his sinful thoughts had planned, you showed him that it was more than that. It was more than the warmth you found there. If anything, your helpless whimpers were an indication of how capable and strong these hands were.

Heat blooms in his chest. It simply is endearing. The way you always seem to recognize his touch and send his head spiraling with the idea that you want him to do more. You've never been afraid of him. You've never pushed him away. You've never judged him for the horrible things he's done. Jesus, it should terrify him. Joel should've pushed you away at some point, because he knows you'd be better off without him, but how could he muster the strength to do so? Since that fateful moment on your porch, your presence keeps on inviting him for more. More than simply existing. And God, if you knew how he wants to do more than that every second of the day... Only if the world lets him breathe a little.

There's another bolt of lightning and raindrops finally begin to drum against the window pane.

Joel shakes his head to get rid of those worrisome ideas. Propping himself on one elbow, he leans over ever so slightly and lets his thumb trace its way to your chin, up to your jawline, and then back to the soft skin on your cheek. He draws circles over the blooming flush and then his thumb is traveling down to your lower lip. Your mouth parts just a little more, breathing even and content and if he gets a grip on himself, he may notice that there's a ghost of a smile in there as well.

"Baby..." He whispers softly, his gaze drifting all over your adorable face. You really are a piece of art, tangled in the sheets, in the safety of his house, and your innocent hums are doing something to him. Some obscene voice that silently pleads for more. More and more... Just to give you more. 

You stir a little more.

He leans over and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, the sweet, fruity scent he's come to like a lot about you engulfing his senses. He watches every little movement with amusement. "My sweet baby... You want to see what's waitin' for you outside."

"Joel," you mumble sleepily, voice drowsy and laced with a hint of confusion as you rub your eyes and stretch your arms before looking around the dark room with a quizzical expression on your face. It doesn't take long for the realization to hit you and the familiar gleam in your gaze makes him smile. You stare a him, wide-eyed. "is it- again?"

He chuckles and gestures at the window. "Yes, a heavy one at that."

Again, there's that hum of delight as you follow his gaze. The pitter-patter of the rain cheers you up like a lollipop would do to a child. It's maddeningly adorable.

You should be running to the backyard by now, but instead you stare at him for a while. It's his turn to be confused. Your smile gets broader by each passing second as your delicate hands trace his face and run over the salt and pepper patches of his beard. When you playfully ruffle his hair, your eyes are still droopy and dreamy and so damn kissable that he just can't help himself.

His other hand fondles with a loose strand of hair beside you on the pillow before twirling it between his fingers. You bite your lower lip and lift your head just enough for a brief peck on the tip of his nose. He chuckles, letting his fingers draw a line over the column of your neck, down to your chest, and at last they disappear beneath the sheets, settling comfortably on the warm expanse of your belly. 

Joel assumes that his presence is not too close to lock you in place, and yet not too loose to let you drift back into unconsciousness. You just have the perfect moment to escape. For goodness sake, rain is the one thing you choose over anything else. The thing you like a lot.

But you're still here, dazed eyes flickering all over his face and it just gives him a second thought. A new idea to test your patience. Seeing you still pinned under him and unmoving, was not really in his list when he decided to walk back home and wake you up. He chortles with amusement. If you want what he thinks you do, he could give you that... "Come on sweetheart, what's stoppin' you?"

His fingers drift lower, exploring the bare flesh of your thigh, right where his mouth was hours ago. Still as warm as he remembers, maybe a little bruised too. "It's all rainy outside. Ain't that what you wanted?"

"I know..." You mumble, an undertone of need sewn in your voice as you look down over the sheets that cover every movement of his hand. It's too dark for you to see anything anyway. He could easily toss the covers aside, but it's wickedly satisfying this way. "I'm- um, just feeling a little under the influence...and it's- uh, it's distracting."

His hand caresses its way to where he knows you need it the most, and you barely repress a shudder when his fingertips glide over your folds. But he barely feels you, a ghost of a touch hovering there as a smirk threatens to flicker at the corner of his mouth.

"Wonder if my hand's makin' a good influence or a bad one. What d'you say, baby?"

It pelts down steadily outside, but you don't seem to care the slightest about it. Neither does Joel. A low gasp emanates from you when his touch becomes proper, rubbing circles and spreading the slick over your clit as slow and unrushed as he physically can manage. You're still indecently wet after he'd brought you over the edge again and again before you dozed off... and the fact that some of his cum might be gathering in his hand is fueling his lewd thoughts.

You naughty girl.

"A very bad one, I see." He tuts, feeling your chest heaving up and down beneath him. It's easy to rile you up this way. Desperation is written in your expression... and he hasn't even started yet.

"She needs fixin', doesn't she?" Joel asks, bringing his movement to a sudden halt. You're too distracted by everything he does to form a coherent thought. He lifts an expectant brow, now actually waiting for an answer.

"Yes- yes Joel... need it so bad... so bad it hurts." You breathe, a helpless pout forming on your lips.

"I know baby. I know... Jus' lay down and let me take care of it, hm? How's that sound?" He demands again, but this time he doesn't give you a chance to respond as he pushes two fingers past your weeping hole, burying them knuckles deep within your warmth. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, eyelids heavy as you grasp his arm, squirming like a helpless, needy girl.

What a cruel man he is.

"Not off to a good start, angel. I know you can be more patient."

You nod quickly, biting your lip in an attempt to stop yourself from wriggling and twisting on the bed. For a split second, Joel considers pulling out to nuzzle his face between your legs and let the heat consume him. A perfect place to brave the cold, restless seasons. 

But his fingers aren't shy either. He starts with slow thrusts, effortlessly sliding in and out before picking up the pace. He makes you adjust to his rhythm, and when you let go and open up, the obscene moans and chocked out cries are all that fill the silence of the house. Jesus, he lives to hear them every day. He rewards you by curling his fingertips to hit that spot that makes you see stars.

You shudder particularly hard at that, more arousal pooling inside you and soaking his fingers. You're losing your grip with reality, and he can sende it as your legs begin to shake and your knee brushes over the denim of his jeans, but you still remember to abide by his "No squirming" rule.

You're so pliant and obedient in his hands that it does nothing but to spur Joel to give you more. And so he does.

"I like these sounds," He adds a third finger, tilting his head to whisper in your ear. "I dream about them all the time."

You whimper and tighten your hold around Joel's arm. When he feels that your orgasm is creeping impossibly close, his thumb joins and rubs rapid circles over your bundle of nerves and that's your undoing. You clench around him, walls tightening and squeezing his fingers deeper – if that's even possible – as waves of white-hot euphoria crash over your worn out body and take over your senses. Your back arches involuntarily into him. A sound between a groan and a curse escapes his throat.

"That's it. Atta girl... that's it, so fuckin' beautiful."

His touch is unrelenting as he talks you through it with a string of sweet nothings. 

Only when you come down and rest back on the bed he slowly pulls out. You're panting heavily, face flushed and heated and so effortlessly seductive that Joel is sure no fucking artist could ever capture it in words of a poem or colors of a painting. Joel is the only one to witness this moment and it swells his chest with pride. He wants to drink it in, let it run through his veins like never-ending liquor.

He lifts his hand, smirking as you gape at the way it's glistening under the dim light. You're in awe. He softly places the tips between your swollen lips and you waste no time in swirling your tongue around them, licking the slick off as if it's a delightful lollipop. And the hazy look on your face says that it's more than just a sweet treat.

His own breathing hitches when you open your mouth a little wider and take him fully in, sucking and humming and driving him absolutely crazy. He shakes his head slightly, catching the playful gleam in your gaze.

"Hm. Still a very bad influence."

When you're fully recovered and satisfied, Joel lifts you up in his arms and walks towards the backyard, chuckling at your confused expression. You give a squeal and wrap your hands around his neck to keep yourself steady, at the same time trying to gauge what his next plan would be. You really have forgotten about the rain, haven't you?

He comes to a halt, making sure the blanket he'd just picked off the bed is not leaving any part of your body uncovered. The rainstorm has eased off considerably over the past hour, but he doesn't want to risk it. Keeping you warm and safe in the cold is and will always be his top priority, no matter if his back or knees protest from how much they ache. Hell, he aches for you and that content smile on your face. Nothing beats it.

"My girl still wants to go out, hm?"

Your eyes flicker between him and the half-open door, filled with excitement and delight and a tiny flicker of doubt. "Yes Joel... but...you sure you want to join in?"

"I don't know," He feigns innocence, pretending to think for a short while before his face lights up with an idea. "Do I get a kiss for it?"

You laugh and lean up to press your lips into his in a soft, lingering kiss. It's so tender and reassuring that he has to pull back before changing his mind and taking you back to the bed.

"Then it's settled."

It has been settled for a long time.

Maybe he can get used to it. Maybe you get a better idea of what you've made of him with your presence at times when he easily complies with things that make you happy. A heart made of ice, molten enough to experience the world with you all over again. Even if he gets soaked in the rain, he's alright with it. You kiss him and all the discomfort is forgotten.

He should give it time and learn to breathe again. Learn to stay, to settle. To let you know that you're all he sees.

Yeah, I don't want to hurt

There's so much in this world 

To make me bleed

Stay with me

Let's just breathe

Stay with me

You're all I see

The words are carved in his head. He chances a glance at the living room before walking past the door. Your guitar is placed on the couch. Maybe one day he'll bring himself to play his melodies for you too. He think that he's got a lot of time for it now. He wants an eternity with you, and in this wretched world, eternity lasts as long as you'll have him.

One, two... Ten droplets fall over him. He kisses you again, harder and longer. His ice-cold heart melts just a little more at your careless laughter. Just stay with me.

[kartonkartonski]

ONE PIECE Pirate AU

What if OP world had real pirate vibe / What if our 1700s had people strikingly similar to OP characters + magic

DISCLAIMER i have the opposite of Same Face Syndrom + cant draw women lol yes the faces are real human ispired

LUFFY - Brazilian / Caribbean kid from a random ass poor village Hat, vest, pants, sandals - made more historically accurate (mmha)

ZORO - Japanese but raised abroad in Turkey or sth idk Hair - green hair dont exist lol Shirt, pants, boots - mmha Eyepatch - a piratey touch

NAMI - Swedish but adopted and raised in Spain or Italy or idk Clothes - mmha + made her more tomboyish Head cloth - piratey touch

USOPP - Italian mum + African father (unthinkable!) (european colonies in South Africa or sth) Clothes mmha The prankster he is, he carries fake prosthetic hook and peg leg and a fake swordsheath. I bet he has a fake parrot and an eyepatch he doesnt use. The gun is real and replaces slingshot

SANJI - French cook in the Mediterrenean Eyebrows - curly eyebrows dont exest stupid Hair - mmha Suit - mmha Cigs - replaced with a pipe Golden tooth - he got scurvy on that stranded island

CHOPPER - Canadian reindeer (caribou) General look - now he look like a real reindeer huh. No wonder why he was feared by the peeps Hat - early american settler-like Pants - mmha + piratey stripes

NICO - Russian originally associated with mafiozo Krokodil The dress is how i imagine her to dress like when working with Krokodil Hat, boots - mmha + more piratey Riding suit - she looked like cowboy in early OP so i gave her riding clothes

FRANKY - American, self-made clockwork cyborg who uses word "super" quite often (it was a thing in early 1700s!) Hair - Cyan hair dont exist idiot + made it cool and epic for 1700 standards Metal nose - screwed to skull Shirt - mmha Underwear - yes its underwear mmha Robo parts - clockwork coz no steam engines back then + wooden doll-looking Peg leg - hides a gun

BROOK - Austrian musician, his crew died hit by a plague Hat - mmha Afro - no afro in 1600-1700 sorry Justacorps - 1600s-ish coz he old af Yohoho

JIMBEE - Now a real FISHman, a real WHALESHARK and a real INDIAN (Oda said hes indian) yup thats about that FOLLOW FOR MORE

[iiseult]

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐹𝑜𝓊𝓇: 𝑀𝓎 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒲𝒾𝒻𝑒

CWs →  BALDWIN OILS HIMSELF UP, angst, love letters, themes of war and death, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism

Wordcount: 3.3k

Note: This might be my favorite chapter. Please let me know your thoughts, and pay special attention to the cross necklace. You'll see what I mean. <3

It was not so dramatic, the way his illness progressed, but progress it did. The Holy Disease was inevitable, and he’d always known that. Six months and he was losing sight in his left eye, his peripheral vision effectively ceasing to exist. Twelve months and the eye was becoming clouded and sapped of its color, like something bleached by the sun, only a baby blue now when it used to be so much deeper. Eighteen months and everything through the eye was covered in an indispersable layer of silver mist. And then there was his little finger, the poor little finger on his left hand which he could no longer feel, and when he commanded it to move, it was as if a phantom were possessing it. If it weren’t for the fact that he could see it moving, wiggling back and forth, he likely wouldn’t have any idea whether or not it was really happening. Often he frowned at it in concentration, exercising his will over it and forcing it to move, desperately trying to feel something. Every time he was forced to give up, frustrated. However, the majority of his skin and all of his features were still perfectly intact, and for that he was grateful. 

That September he fell ill with fever. Forty-two days and nights he laid in bed, watching drowsily as the sun made its daily voyage across the heavens, warming his too-warm skin and blinding his aching eyes. In periods of occasional lucidity his thoughts lingered only on you. He would see a flash; then the fullness of your lips, the sweet curve of your neck, the shape of your back, and were you wearing your sapphire today? He could picture it clearly, lying against the firm softness of your full bosom, gleaming like a winking eye. Ah, sick mind. Shameful thoughts. He redirected them. What of the kingdom, his kingdom? What of his sister Sybilla, and her son, his baby nephew Baldwin V? They did not come to visit because Sybilla claimed she couldn’t bear the sight of her beloved brother in so much pain. And then his mother was dead, a few months buried. Nobody left to come visit.

He continued to read during this time. He was brought books on war and strategy, classic and ancient tales of love and romance, history, and Greek literature, of which he had always been very fond. Perhaps it was these such books that gave him his next brilliant idea. 

He sent for ink and parchment, lots of parchment, and when he felt well enough he sat up in bed and took up his supplies and got to work. Pages upon pages he produced, many times rambling and repetitive in nature because of his fever-addled mind, but always strikingly sincere. From his very heart he wrote, hours each day, and he didn’t share his work with anyone. When Raymond visited he would conceal everything under the covers, or else slide them under the bed. 

It was a woman, always the same woman, that he wrote about or wrote to or described in as much detail as he could. Each time he painted a picture of her with his words, a new facet of her beauty was revealed, a new angle, a new reason to love her. And he knew that he did love her. Completely enchanted. Utterly enraptured. Such tender feelings, such longing! He found himself writing cliches while trying to adequately express the extent of his feelings. And each one of these pieces of writing was addressed to you. 

“By chance, I met you in the library. I was playing chess. Raymond likes to cheat when I look away from the chessboard because he says the battlefield is just like a game of chess, and in a real battle you must never look away because your opponent does not always play fair. But I would forfeit all my knights and rooks for you, so I looked away from him and towards you instead. 

“And when you looked at me, my heart leapt in my chest and a feeling like warm water cascading down my shoulders overtook me and I could not speak. I held my hand out to you and did your bidding, and then I could stand it no longer so I went away. The warmth was becoming unbearable. I was overcome. As if I were a cauldron of boiling water, I burned and then softened and turned pink as something bubbled up inside me. I know all this happened for you. And when ever I thought of you and your exquisite beauty for the rest of the day the same feeling came, tingling in all my nerves. I thought then that it was not unlike having a fever. 

“But now I know better, and now that I know with refreshed memory what fever is like, I can say that it’s nothing like you. This fever is harsh and unrelenting. This fever is painful, not pleasurable. There is a heat threatening to overtake me so that I never cool down. But what is this feeling that comes when ever I see you? Dearest Lady, I suspect that this must be love.”

But those were the good days. Those days he could think clearly and articulate properly. So many more of his days were spent too sick to stay awake, drifting in and out of this mortal plane, tangled up in a haze of confusion and stale bedsheets, having long since sweated through them. 

His birthday passed. Sixteen, finally, but he didn’t know it until days later, when came his next period of lucidity. His sister sent a gift– fresh, new robes made of silk to soothe his raw skin, embroidered in rich, gold thread. Raymond brought him a quill made from a peacock feather, blue and green and shimmering. It made him laugh when he saw it. Raymond was referencing a joke between the two of them, where the peacocks in the garden often interrupted their conversations with their awful, hideous squawking (for such magnificent looking creatures, their calls were surprisingly grating). And from you, lying on the bedside table, was a parcel of brown parchment tied with a thick white ribbon. He knew that ribbon, for he had seen you wear it in your hair once. 

He pulled it loose and placed it aside, intending on keeping it on his person at all times so he might always carry a piece of you wherever may go. He peeled back the paper, sliding it off to reveal a mahogany box. It was unremarkable, but his heart was beating wildly in his throat as he flipped up the delixate metal latch and opened the sleek lid. Resting against the silk-lined interior were two things; a large glass jar full of an amber-colored liquid, sealed with a cork; and a delicate chain with a plain gold cross hanging from it. And then, under the jar, he saw something else– the corner of a folded piece of parchment. A note! He snatched it up and unfolded it hungrily. It was written in your pretty feminine hand, which sent a fiery gust of heat blasting through his veins. 

“Your Majesty, happy sixteenth birthday. I know this is but a meager gift for a king, but I fear I cannot match your wealth or creativity. The necklace is one of the only things I brought from home. I wore it round my own neck every day then, and I do believe it has served me quite well, given my current position as queen. I am giving it to you in hopes that, God willing, your condition might improve. The oil is what I use after my baths to soothe dry skin, especially in these coming winter months. Perhaps it will help you in a more practical sense. Many birthday wishes, and prayers for a speedy recovery. Sincerely, your wife, Y/N.” 

He pressed the letter to his chest, almost as if he were trying to become one with it. Then he took the delicate gold chain between his fingers and unclasped it, draping it across his neck and securing it again. It fell against his collarbones and glistened handsomely, feeling very cold against his feverish skin, and yet his heart warmed when he thought of you wearing this very chain, day in and day out. What had touched your skin was now touching his. The very notion was enough to make him shiver. 

He did not take the necklace off again, not even for his bath that evening, or after it when he retired to his chambers for the remainder of the night. 

Baldwin shrugged off his bathrobe and layed, completely nude, on his silk sheets, where the jar of oil from you was waiting. He savored the feeling of its cool glass against his hands, still rife with fever, and then pressed his cheek to its surface, deeply inhaling the rich scent of the night air which drifted through the open window. To know that your hands had touched that very jar made him pulse with excitement. That you had thought of him with some amount of tenderness, that you had thought of him at all, touched him. 

Carefully he pulled the cork from the mouth of the jar with a gentle “pop,” and set it aside. He brought the jar up to his nose. It smelled sweet and flowery, very fresh. Clean. Comforting. Smelled like you. He sucked in another deep breath through his nose, letting the gentle fragrance wash over him and sink into his pores. Then he dipped two fingers into the jar and spread the thick liquid along his forearm, coating the skin there thoroughly. It was silky and cool and left a gloss in its wake. His dry, parched skin drank it up greedily, plumping up almost immediately. It was delicious. 

He poured a dollop of the stuff into his hands and rubbed them together, relishing the feeling of his slick palms sliding against each other. Languidly he massaged it into his chest, his arms, and his robust shoulders. He threw back his head and slowly worked the pads of his fingers into his delicate neck, feeling the tendons there roll beneach his touch. A small sound escaped his throat. Then he moved his hands lower, not neglecting a single inch of flesh. He splayed his fingers out over the white planes of his thighs, well-toned as they were, and then slid lower, past his knees and to his ankles. It was pure bliss. 

Once he was satisfied, he popped the cork back in the jar and leaned over, placing it on the side table, then blew out the candle, laying down finally with a sigh. His body sunk into the cloud of his mattress, his aching limbs met with instant relief. Beneath his pillow was your letter and ribbon. He slid his hand under it to feel for them, just to make sure they were still there, and once he was convinced, he slipped right under into a dreamless sleep. 

The very next morning, he woke to find that his fever had miraculously relented, leaving his forehead cool and dry. Amelia immediately informed you of his recovery, and though you were relieved, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from your shoulders, you couldn’t help but wonder how he had recovered literally overnight. It seemed nobody knew the answer, not even the physicians that came to examine him throughout the rest of the day. But perhaps it was better not to question it. 

Baldwin had but a few days to enjoy his renewed health before he thrust himself urgently back into work. During his prolonged illness, the ever-fickle political state of Jerusalem had become alarmingly unstable. The Saracens were threatening to wage war, led by the wise and formidable Saladin and his army, rumored to be made up of some 20,000 men. So Baldwin was faced with a harrowing decision, with thousands of lives hanging in the balance. Should he send his men to battle despite their meager numbers, where they would inevitably be met with death and destruction? Most of his knights had already been laid to waste, leaving behind largely unskilled fighters, and only 4,000 of them at that. And could he fulfill his kingly duty to fight alongside them, or would his frail body betray him? Such questions made him wonder if he was even worthy of his title. 

Self-loathing ate at him over the coming week until finally, he was forced to take action. Reynald de Châtillon had been pressuring him incessantly to fight, no matter the risk, arguing that it is God’s will and therefore Jerusalem could never fall. Baldwin wasn’t so sure. But deep in his heart, he knew he had no more time left to waste. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The morning was fair and the early sunlight mild, falling through the trees in pale yellow streaks. The trees had been turning all shades of red and orange for the past month, and now they were withering brown, falling, falling. The smell of smoke and chill was perpetual, and very pleasant. The month of November. Autumn in its prime. You woke up that morning not to the melodic calling of birds, which you had become accustomed to, nor the gentle rustling of leaves stirred by the wind, but the muffled cries of Amelia as she came to rouse you from your slumber. Though she had stuffed a handkerchief against her mouth to dampen the sounds, it was no use, and she could not stop it. You had woken up before she even made it to your bedside.

“Oh Amelia, whatever is the matter?” you asked, sitting up in bed with alarm and looking at her, concern heavy in your gaze. You’d seen her upset before, and it wasn’t an uncommon thing to see, but never had she been so outwardly aggrieved in your presence. The poor girl’s shoulders shook with every breath she took. As gently as you could, you got out of bed and guided her to sit on the edge of your mattress, where she promptly collapsed. 

“Oh, Your Majesty,” she wailed, looking up at you through tear-filled eyes, “the most awful, terrible thing has happened!”

Her bottom lip trembled, and her cheeks seemed to be flushing darker by the second. In fact, she seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, sensitive soul that she was. 

“What? What’s happened, dear girl?” you urged, wiping a runaway tear from her chin. An anticipatory panic had begun to build up inside you. All you could think was that somebody must be dead. Suddenly you were very worried for Matilda, whose frail, brittle bones would likely not survive an accident, which was a very real possibility. In her line of work, what with all the manual labor, you often feared for her health, though she always insisted on being fine. But those thoughts were soon completely dashed from your mind. 

“The Saracens…they’ve come! They’re here to take Jerusalem!” 

You were stunned into speechlessness. You did not quite know the full gravity of such a thing, of how dire this could be for your whole way of life, and that of your mother before you and of her mother before her. How much would change, were the crusaders to fall! But Amelia’s next words gave you a relative idea. 

“They say they’ve brought 20,000 men to Montisgard, to match our army of 4,000. Oh, Your Majesty, we are lost, lost!” she wailed, burying her tear-stained face in your shoulder. For a moment after that she continued talking, uttering those same words over and over again, “lost, lost,” as if trying to understand the meaning of them. But to you the message had been clear enough, and your heart dropped all the way down to your bowels and all you could think was; Baldwin. 

Baldwin, the sweet fair-haired boy who’d kissed your hand like it was a holy relic on your wedding day; the one who’d known you well enough from a scant few glimpses here and there to know which gifts to buy for your birthday– and, for the record, they had been the most thoughtful gifts you’d ever received; the one who, unbeknownst to you, prayed for you every night and every morning; the one who had loved you since the beginning. That one, going to fight in a war he was doomed to lose. 

And then you were crying too. Great, fat, burning tears glided down your cheeks and into your mouth and onto yours and Amelia’s dresses as you clutched her to you. Your breath could come only in heaving gasps, ripping through your chest painfully. So great was your pain! You could not see that boy die. Then came an image of his broken body lying alone on the muddy battlefield, indistinguishable from all the others in death. Snot dripped down your nose. You cared not. 

Matilda opened the door and came in quietly. Your eyes pleaded with her not to deliver to you any more bad news. Her face, drawn into a solid, impassible mask, revealed nothing, except that it looked wan and much older. In her hands was a towering stack of parchment, so tall that it obscured her entire chest from your view. 

“Your Majesty,” she called demurely, much softer than usual, “before his departure this morning the King instructed me to bring these for you.” 

Rather violently, you wiped the tears from your eyes and wordlessly took the stack into your own hands, taking great care not to drop any. Everything was blurry but you flipped through the pages nonetheless, sinking further and further into a state of hysteria as you did so, realizing with a pang of horror that each and every sheet was a letter from Baldwin, addressed to you. There must have been a thousand of them, enough for one every day since your marriage.

Three years worth of love letters. 

You clamped a hand over your mouth, trying in vain to abate the new volley of tears welling up inside you. Never had you known such love and devotion from another human being, and you couldn’t even say thank you.

Or goodbye.

As you flipped through the pages, you became grave and still. 

“My Dear Little Wife, you were beautiful today. I could smell your rose-scented oil from down the corridor. How I love that good smell…”

“My Dear Little Wife, would that I could take you out to the city on my horse, that your beloved arms could wrap tightly around me as we gallop across the orange earth…”

“My Dear Little Wife, as the imminence of war falls upon me, I know that my time may soon come to an end. If I could wish for one thing in all the world, it would not be to cure myself of this accursed affliction, but to have more days to spend living in bliss under the same roof as you. To know you is to love you, my dear. I am sorry if we lose this battle and you are stripped of your queenly title. I am sorry for all that might happen then. Understand that I fight for you, ma cherie. With all the love and tenderness one man can hold in his heart, I bid you goodnight, as your faithful husband, Baldwin IV.”

Yes, that was it, the last letter in the stack, dated only yesterday, and presumably at night. You promised to yourself, and whatever else was listening, that in the event that he did not return, you would read and cherish each and every letter. But you could not dwell on that thought. He would come back. He must. Because you needed him. 

“Heavenly father, if you would bring him back to me, I swear I will spend every last day by his darling side.” 

//taglist: @lzsia @eatmeandbirthmeagain @likeanecho344 @lunargraveyard @yoursoulisinyourkeepingalone @stickparrot

if anyone else would like to be added, please comment to let me know!

[queenburd]

The use of color in The Stanley Parable: HD and Ultra Deluxe (with honorable mentions to the Demo)

dedicated to @squuote who needs more TSP analysis to rotate

A little over a year ago, I (only somewhat jokingly) lay out the argument that while The Stanley Parable is notorious in its use of yellow, the color yellow is not actually associated to the Narrator. The color most associated with him, I argued, was red. [1, 2]

I've had plenty of thoughts regarding color and TSP in the interim and I want to go over those thoughts today in as much depth as I can manage. You know, for fun. None of this is to argue about creator intent, but it's a fun way to stretch the critical thinking and literary analysis portions of my brain. It's also super cool if you don't agree with my readings, since the point is to get you thinking about these things and studying them to interpret for yourself.

Anyway let's gooooooo

(note: all images are embedded with a link to the source page I pulled them from. For those on mobile, be careful with your scrolling and tapping!)

Yellow

Okay let's start with the “obvious” one. Yellow is seen as one of the main colors in the game, it's the color of the main office and the primary assets associated with the Parable. We see yellow PRIMARILY in the beginning of the office, before the two doors room. It lines the cubicles and the walls are often interpreted as yellow (eh, they're more of an off-white. They're actually absorbing color from the brown-yellow carpet, and they do the same in the lounge).

It's the color of the Line(TM), it's the color of the cargo lift in the warehouse, and, most strikingly, it's the color of the SKIP Button.

We'll get to you.

Okay, so yellow is a color with conflicting interpretations, which is par for the course for all of them, we're not going TOO insane on color theory and color psychology we will be here ALL DAY and I was an ART student. So let's just look at the most basic reading. Bright, oversaturated yellow is a color that can exhaust the eyes easily. It grabs our attention like a highlighter and burns our retinas.

It can be a color of excitement, but it can also be a color of sickness. I've been thinking about the short story The Yellow Wallpaper the past couple days. Or maybe I've been thinking about it for longer. It's just that I haven't reread it in actual years, but every time I saw someone talk about the wallpaper in TSP, I thought about the story. Here's some passing thoughts on the short story in comparison to TSP. [3]

Sickness, and madness, and beginnings, and infinity. In the end, yellow, to me, is the color of the Parable grabbing the player (and by extension the Narrator) by the nose and saying “let's get moving. We have a story to play. Play the game, and keep playing.” Notable to me is how the SKIP button is almost scathingly yellow in contrast to the room it's in, and as the room gets darker the glow gets more foreboding. The Parable did this. The Narrator might think he made it, but he doesn't control it. Yellow isn't his color, and it never was.

Red

“Stanley walked through the RED. DOOR.”

The use of red in TSP is probably the most interesting and fun to analyze for me. It's used extremely intentionally and it's commonly associated with power, anger, and passion. We see red in the Boss's Office, in the Countdown ending, as the door to the Starry Dome, and a TON in the TSP2 Expo. There's red doors and signs in the Escape Pod Bay.

So I've joked that the color red is the Narrator's color, and while it's still a fun interpretation, it's not one I'm married to. I think it's more accurate to say red symbolizes control. The Zending Door is you letting him control the story. The Countdown screens are him taking control from you. And TSP2 is the Narrator trying to exert control over what the developers have made. It's a response to New Content and to the SKIP button. I have a million trillion thoughts about the TSP2 Expo but I won't get into them here.

Anyway, red feels very obviously to me associated with the Narrator trying to take control, or things only being possible when he has control. I'm thinking about the signs in the Escape Pod Bay telling you that it won't work without him. (I'm thinking about how the same door asset for the Zending is used in the Escape Pod Bay. No. shhh. Staying on topic.) So I don't have much more to say on the matter because I feel like I've tread this ground before. Red is about control, and it is held in direct contrast with blue.

Blue

Oh, blue. Soothing blue, sweet relaxing lounge and ocean paintings and boss's bathroom and blue door that leads to broken textures and an irritable Voice.

If red is the color of control, then blue is the color of rebellion. Small rebellion, sure. Rebellion that means nothing in the scheme of things. Blue is the stepping stone to bigger deviations from the path. I mean, the lounge is only the first step to the right, and you can still get on the “correct” path. The blue door you have to go through repeatedly, you have to make the choice multiple times, for it to lead to the Games ending. The boss's bathroom doesn't GO anywhere until after the epilogue. These are “rebellious choices” in a game where you don't really have a choice, and it's the closest you get to defiance.

I like to make it Stanley's favorite color for obvious reasons.

(Hey, fandom, why you keep associating it with the Curator? The only blue in the Museum is in a couple assets on display.)

Green

I gotta admit, while there's definitely something to green and its use in TSP, a clear meaning for it is eluding me, and I've been thinking about it on and off for a couple days now. It's a fairly infrequent color in TSP as a whole, but it does make an appearance. Besides being the color of plants (such as the ever important fern, the potted plants scattered through the office and the ones in the TSP2 expo, and of course the growth in the SKIP button room), it's also the wallpaper in the Demo, and the same wallpaper is used in the Boss's Office in the Real Person Ending. Thinking further, it also appears in the small room before the stage in the Press Conference Ending, and it's the color of the carpet in the HL2 Office that is found under the Games ending. (It was also brought up by my pal glitch that green is the color of the cursor on Stanley's screen, the first thing you see before gameplay begins. Good catch!)

Thinking about it, it's hard to find a throughline. There's something familiar about the green. Not necessarily safe, but it usually comes before something much bigger. Maybe this is a bit of a stretch, though. Let's say for now green is associated with the familiar in the face of the unfamiliar.

(There's possibly a thesis here about green being associated with gifts and surprises. The Narrator makes the Press Conference ending something that teases but also praises Stanley, the Green Room in the Demo is the space where the Demo is meant to be revealed to you, and that alternate Boss's Office is supposed to, in the Narrator's mind, be the first step to a wonderful story made just for you.)

White

Most people, when they think of white in The Stanley Parable, immediately think of the Museum. And they're right to! It's one of the most prominent environments that uses white. With that in mind, we can't forget the other places it appears, since it's best to keep everything in mind when trying to formulate a meaning for it.

So, other places where white is prominent: We have the out-of-bounds ending, and the Art ending (aka play that Baby game for four hours). We also have a massive part of the TSP2 expo.

Honestly, there is a lot of white in the rest of the office, but it tends to be absorbing the colors of the environment in ways that make it less noticeable. White's really good at that, which means the times where it's by itself as the outstanding color are outliers and feel intentional. So what do these things have in common?

Well, they kind of show the seams of the game? Take this with a grain of salt, but the Museum is designed to show you some of the design process for the game, effectively taking you out of the setting to give you a top-down perspective (hehe, literally in the case of the diorama of the office up to the two doors), and the out-of-bounds ending is a joke about breaking the map, falling out of the world , which can break immersion in other games. The TSP2 Expo is the Narrator showing off all the features for his sequel idea, giving a “sneak peek” of what will be included.

The Art ending doesn't fit with this thesis, but it does involve the... revelation, I suppose, of the “character” of the Essence of Divine Art. What I'm trying to get to is that white is a color of revelation and display.

Gray

Gray is not a color that tends to stand on its own merit in The Stanley Parable, and that in itself is intentional. Gray is used as a texture of “unfinished” things, things the Narrator doesn't want you to look closely at, and would prefer you move past Right Now Right This Second Please.

It's the walls of the Broom Closet, as well as the walls of the maintenance room. It's also the walls of the room right outside the Starry Dome—the hall that leads right to the stairs. (Honorable mention, @chirpbudgie brought up that the desks in the office are gray, which is also an implication of the way Stanley's coworkers seemed to disappear with work unfinished. There is a sense of “wrongness” in how they've all vanished. Nice eye, bud.)

You're not supposed to dwell in these places. Go back to the story, please!

Black

“Blackness, and a rising chill of uncertainty. Was it over?”

Last and least is black, less used as a color in its own right and more a use of shadow. It really stars primarily in the Mind Control Facility, dark rooms with a sense of foreboding. Honestly, what is there to say about black?

Only, I tell a lie. You see quite a lot of black in this game, don't you? After all:

It's the Loading screen.

Blackness is uncertainty, and mystery, like the game tells us, because anything could be hiding in the darkness, and anything could happen when that screen is finished loading. It's white's opposite not just in value but in meaning. You don't know what's going on, you just have to wait and see. Any time you might have an answer, or an ending, here comes that loading screen to wipe the slate clean and say “hey, what haven't you found yet? What haven't you tried? What tricks does this game still have up its sleeve?”

(And now I'm thinking about the Figurines ending, and how the Narrator shouts to stop the loading screen, to go back and stay in the familiar please!! Because the fellow hates uncertainty, really he does. But that's a thesis for another day.)

(We also can't forget that Ultra Deluxe's Setting the Time is also set on a black background, and there's always, to me, a sense of foreboding and uncertainty there too. What happens after this is the game, right? Is this for something? Is this doing anything? Is it changing anything?)

Silver

It's a bucket :)

Okay that's the end of this post. There's probably plenty more to say about this subject, this isn't exhaustive by any means. Color is an incredible tool, and visual storytelling and color interpretation is not in any way a science. As I posted bits of this in my server for extra feedback and examples of color, other folks brought up an entirely different interpretation of the color green. And I didn't even bring up Mariella being dressed in full green!

Anyway I didn't bring up orange because there's only a couple instances of it in the game but its always about unfinished things/assets (Baby game, just a lot of Games ending things) but it also shows up in the TSP2 Expo (Button That Says The Name of the Player Playing The Game (Jim)) for features that uuuuuh. Aren't done. So that's funny.

Like I said, there's almost certainly more to say about color theory and the game, but this thing is hitting 4 pages long and that's not including images oops.

I hope this was a fun read! Some of this stuff has been percolating in my brain for a while and it's good to finally get it on the page. Talk to me about TSP I love this game.

[lailoken]

What are your favorite pieces of media that you think accurately represent magic and spirit work? Movies, books, even music..

This is an interesting question, but one that requires a lot of thought, as I have read and watched an inordinate amount of books and movies. Plus, even really good fiction with pagan themes that I've read/watched is generally inaccurate in most ways, with some realistic aspects of magic woven in here and there. Some of my very favorite media relating to the subject can't really be included, simply because of how inaccurate it is overall, but there are a few that have caught my notice.

I'm sure I'll end up missing ones, which bugs me, but I'll do my best to recount some examples that I can think of:

The Love Witch (2016) is a movie that I think presents a strikingly realistic portrayal of what magic can look like. It manages to show some of the ways one might use magic to great effect, without actually skewing into fantasy at all. Clearly, the magic shown isn't going to line up with every paradigm, and its not exactly a heady or spirit-based story, but I think it's a very real look at how ritual and magic is/can be approached by many folks in the modern day.

The Witch (2015) is, above all else, a great slow-burn horror film and an excellent period-piece. However, it also portrays quite an accurate conception of folkloric beliefs about Witchcraft in the 17th century, which inexorably inform the realities of modern Witchcraft traditions. It does just barely skew into fantasy horror, but the actual folkloric information being presented is quite sound.

A Dark Song (2016) is a film that portrays ceremonial magic realistically in many ways. Ultimately, it is still a supernatural horror film, but the bulk of the magic in the movie is based directly on the Abramelin Operation, which was interesting to see. A lot of the ways that the magic "takes shape" in the film feels real enough to me, too (though it certainly takes it to extremes at points, as horror movies are wont to do).

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson is a horror novel I much enjoyed when I read it a coulple years ago, but I also remember that it happens to contain small, but meaningful, instances of sympathetic magic within the story that I appreciated as a practitioner looking in. This one has been made into a movie as well.

Cunning Folk by Adam Nevill is one of the more realistic looks at magic—including the uncanny side of it—that I've come across. It's still definitely a horror story, first and foremost, but there's an oomph to the ritual and magic described therein that a lot of other similar fiction lacks—even when the ritual act being described isn't necessarily accurate in terms of historicality or my personal experience of the Craft.

The White People by Arthur Machen is a Welsh short horror story from the turn of the century, which I think is worth including here. There are elements and aspects of the story that feel surprisingly real in terms of Gloaming initiation and the Gloaming Spirits—though, of course, it takes creative liberties informed by the paranormal beliefs and trends of the time (1890s).

The Craft (1996) is a movie that I'm sure a lot of pagans have of nostalgia for in one way or another, myself included. I struggled with whether this movie should be here or in the Honorable Mention section, but I included it here in the end because a lot of the ways magic and ritual are presented in the film are accurate enough. I also think it did a fairly good job of capturing how it can feel to discover, revel in, and then become overwhelmed by magic. However, since it is a supernatural horror film, a lot of magic shown is portrayed more fantastically than the real thing, and there are aspects of the magic (rituals, entities, etc.) made up entirely for the sake of the story.

As implied above, there are also some pieces that, while largely inaccurate or too far into the realm of fantasy, still manage to succesfully capture some essence of realistic feeling magic in them. I will list those here as Honorable Mentions:

Practical Magic (1998) is another movie that I'm sure a lot of Pagans have nostalgia for in some way or another. I won't claim that it's a genuinely "accurate" representation of magic—and it certainly strays into outright fantasy at times—but there are little things throughout the movie that managed to ring a bell for me, as someone who grew up with magic in my family. I know this was originally a book, but I actually haven't read that as of yet, so I can't speak to it.

Pan's Labyrinth (2006) is a movie is squarely in the fantasy-horror genre to me, but even still, I include it here as an honorable mention because a lot of the lore depicted is drawn from real lore, and the overall ambience it manged to evoke strongly reminds me of some of my own experiences with chthonic journeying.

The Good Witch franchise isn't one I have ever actually watched any part of before, but I include it here because, oddly enough, multiple practitioners have mentioned to me that they think the magic is surprisingly realistic for a Hallmark series. As I understand it, the main character is a sort of local Wise Woman who helps the folk in her little town using things like folk-knowledge, remarkable intuition, and an uncanny ability to seemingly sway people and circumstances. Since I haven't seen it myself, my take on it may be somewhat lacking, (which is why I listed it as an honorable mention), but based on the description, it actually sounds like it may be one of the more realistic interpretations of magic on this list.

I know this is a strange addition, as it's not exactly magic, per se, but much of how Stephen King writes about psychic abilities like clairvoyance and healing throughout his works manages to touch on something all too familiar for me. I think, sometimes, that he may have known someone with the Sight and/or the Touch in his real life, as it comes up a lot in one shape or another in his writing.

As I said, I'm sure there's stuff I'm missing, but this at least a serviceable overview. I encourage others to share any other media that they think deserves a mention, too!

[freshmangojuice]

In 1993, Danny John-Jules wore this iconic costume in the Red Dwarf episode 'Gunmen of the Apocalypse'

It's such a beautiful costume, I wanted to know where it came from. So I did some digging. This is what I found out... (long post)

To preface, this post is about Mexican cultural dress and design. I am not Mexican and I have no Mexican connections so my existing knowledge is very limited. So although this stuff is new to me, it might be really obvious in general. If you happen to have more insight, please share!

Firstly, there is no information about the Riviera Kid costume itself other than the fact it was thought to be too small for Danny (it was, but luckily he looks good in tight clothes), and was rented for the shoot, which means it was not the work of our beloved Howard Burden.

But whoever made it must have gotten the idea from somewhere, the costume is clearly Mexican-inspired. But do we get that sense because of Hollywood, or is it legitimate cultural dress appropriate for the time period the episode was trying to represent? WELL! Let's see!

To start with, the image below is a gorgeous mariachi suit designed by contemporary Los Angeles tailor Jorge Tello.

Note the four symmetrical faux pockets with embellishment surrounding them, and the same continuous pattern bordering the edges of the jacket as well as patches on the upper arms and going down the side of the pants. And of course the big floppy bow tie. Excepting the details in colour, fasteners, and the decoration, this is the same as the Riviera Kid in terms of shape and style. Okay so it's mariachi dress!

I also found out that this specific suit is called traje de charro and is the traditional dress for horsemen in Mexico, now worn mostly by mariachi performers but also anyone for heritage events like festivals. And its origins come from Salamanca in Spain, though the evolution has brought it a long way from the 16th century. More on that later.

To back this up there are also a lot of results for cheaper costumes that actually have similar designs to the Riviera Kid with the squiggle appliqué.

But these are recent designs, with Tello's from around 2013. Gunmen of the Apocalypse was supposed to represent the 1880s (or thereabouts), is there anything older? Where does the squiggle design actually come from? WELL! (again)

Tracing back the decades, I managed to find some strikingly similar pieces. Including this jacket made in Mexico and worn by Alice Cooper in the 1970s. Yes, the rockstar Alice Cooper.

This jacket is VERY similar to the Riviera kid, down to the four corner knot motif on the arms, the squiggles, and even the fasteners are done in the same braiding technique. Clearly this is the jacket that inspired the one worn in Red Dwarf. Or was it...?

This one was worn by the actor Guy Williams in 1958 and was likely designed by Hollywood costumer Chuck Keehne. It is exactly the same as the one from the 70s. Like, exactly the same. Which leads me to believe the Alice Cooper one was copied from this design.

However, we have to look at the context. The jacket above was made for an actor in a movie (The Sign of Zorro) in the 1950s, and if it was indeed Chuck Keehne behind it, that guy was born in Missouri. Not much there to legitimise the design as Mexican. Nor is there much to suggest historical accuracy since the movie is meant to take place in the 1820s and they looked like this in it.

(Guy Williams and Britt Lomond in The Sign of Zorro)

I can tell you right now that yes the military uniform is pretty 1820s. The details are off, but the silhouette is there, the cut of the jacket is there, the right buttons are there, the right pistol is there. We are in the 1820s. So I have reason to believe that the military uniform, for which I have many references for, is just as historically accurate as the flashy charro. Surely, right?

Eh, not quite. Because after digging some more I'm sorry to say I doubt the squiggle design and sharp cut of the jacket is as old as the 1820s. That just isn't realistic for how fashion changed over time, and I have also found things like this photograph.

Taken in the 1860s, the two men look fabulous, but the man on the left is wearing what appears to be a suit that will eventually evolve into what we see later on. The decorated legs, the length of the jacket and gap in the closure is about all the similarities I can find. So obviously 1820s is very optimistic for what we're talking about.

Which are suits like this!

These lovely ladies were photographed in Mexico c. 1918–29 and they're wearing the squiggles! The jacket of the lady on the right has vertical pockets which is so fascinating to me, but the lady on the left has exactly what I've been looking for all this time. She has the squiggles, the four pockets, the round decorated collar. It's stunning. And it's the earliest version of the design that I can confirm. All that's missing is the four cornered knots, but I'm assuming that comes in 1950s and may even be a celtic reference.

Unfortunately, that's the end of the 'I'm pretty sure this is accurate information' thread, but I've also found other vintage jackets that have been sold online.

The two on the left are listed as being from the 1940s, and the one of the right is listed as a women's matador jacket from the 1920s. How true those claims are I cannot know, their provenance is not given.

Though it would seem that the design that inspired the Riviera Kid is definitely more 20th century. And it's surprising to me how common it actually is! So although it may be a fabrication for the time period, it is very true to life for actual traditional dress and it's not completely made up!

TL;DR

The Riviera Kid costume took inspiration, along with other costume work, from actual Mexican fashion that originate no earlier than the 1910s, although those fashions can trace its roots to around the 1860s, which can trace its roots to Spain in the 1500s.

[eretzyisrael]

By Lucy Williamson & Rushdi Aboualouf

Desperation and war are eroding social structures in Gaza, and Hamas control is not what it was.

Four-fifths of Gaza’s population is displaced, often moving between temporary shelters.

And law and order has broken down in places, partly as a result of Israel’s policy of targeting Gaza’s security forces - not just the official Hamas internal security service, but also the community police responsible for street crime.

As control has waned, criminal gangs have thrived, looting neighbourhoods and aid convoys; and private security companies - some run by powerful local families - have emerged.

One staff member from an aid organisation operating in Gaza described "absolute chaos at street level" and "a state of anarchy", saying that civilian order had completely broken down as a result of the Israeli policy.

Israel’s prime minister has repeatedly vowed to continue the war until Hamas’s military and governing capabilities are destroyed.

But some aid agencies - in both northern and south areas of Gaza - have also reported regular checks on their activities by local Hamas officials, and videos are frequently circulated of unofficial Hamas security forces shooting and beating those caught looting.

One well-placed source told the BBC that dozens of people had been killed by Hamas in bloody score-settling with other local groups, after Israeli troops withdrew from one area.

Fear of criticising Gaza’s leaders might have lessened, but it hasn’t gone, so it is still hard to accurately gauge, beyond individual testimony, how far support for the group is shifting.

Some, like 26-year-old Jihad Talab, still strongly support Hamas.

Displaced from the Zeitoun area of Gaza City with his wife, daughter and mother, and now sheltering in Deir al Balah, he said the group was not responsible for their suffering.

“We must support [Hamas] because it’s the one working on the ground, the one who understands the battle - not you or I,” he said. “Empty accusations only serve the Occupation [Israel]. We’ll support it until our last breath.”

A regular poll carried out by a West Bank-based think tank, the Palestinian Centre for Policy and Survey Research, claims that most people in Gaza still blame Israel and its allies for the war, rather than Hamas.

The latest survey in June said that almost two-thirds of Gazan respondents were satisfied with Hamas - a rise of 12 points from December - and suggested that just around half would still prefer Hamas to run Gaza after the war ends, over any other option.

Glimpses through chinks in the media blockade around Gaza can never give a full assessment of the situation. International journalists are barred by Israel and Egypt from reporting on the situation there first-hand.

What is clear is that Hamas remains very sensitive to public opinion.

Strikingly similar messages regularly appear on certain social media platforms to justify its actions, often apparently in response to criticism at home.

A source familiar with Hamas told the BBC there was an organised international network to co-ordinate social media messaging for the group.

After Israeli families released a video showing the moment female soldiers were kidnapped by Hamas units on 7 October, some in Gaza questioned whether targeting women during war was in line with Islamic teaching.

In response, several pro-Hamas social media accounts put out similar messages insisting that soldiers - male or female - were justified military targets, and saying the unit had been involved in shooting Gazan protestors during demonstrations six years ago.

Criticism of Hamas is growing sharper, and long-buried divisions over Hamas rule in Gaza are becoming clear.

Out of the destruction left by Israel’s battle with Hamas, a new war is emerging: a battle for control of public opinion within Gaza itself.

[lyledebeast]

Disney Villains, Disney History

For some reason I've resisted comparing Colonel Tavington from The Patriot, who is often disparaged as a Disney villain, with Captain Rouchefort in The Three Musketeers (1993), who actually is a Disney villain. Well, fuck that! There are too many fun comparisons to not make a post about them, and as I've thought about the two films more, a lot of other comparisons have occurred.

Both feature main characters who are based on and share the names of historical figures but reduce them to a handful of egregiously exaggerated qualities. Cardinal Richelieu was a powerful 17th century man who probably did engage in some shady business to maintain power at some point, but he was hardly the campy stage villain Tim Curry plays. General Cornwallis made some costly mistakes during the American Revolution, but he was hardly the buffoon Tom Wilkinson plays.

Both films also ask us to suspend our disbelief where the heroes' violence is concerned. In The Three Musketeers, the titular characters set Richelieu's carriage aflame and roll into a camp occupied by Richelieu's guards, causing their powder supply to explode into flames that engulf their tents. Guards are fleeing as this is happening. In a film intended for adults, some of them would be on fire. Yet in The Patriot, the militia blows up a supply ship anchored just a few yards away from a courtyard full of Loyalist civilians, one of whom mistakes the explosion for fireworks. These scenes are so strikingly similar that it's hard to believe one is from an R-rated film historical drama shown in high school history classes as an accurate reflection of the time.

That the middle of The Patriot is so cartoonish gives Tavington's burning of Pembroke Church with its congregation inside a particularly savage punch. One might say the only parts of The Patriot that would not be at home in a Disney movie are the war crimes. Both Tavington and Rochefort are very much aware of being the villain in thejr respective stories, and they are both having an absolutely marvelous time. Rochefort takes such relish in ironically evoking the musketeers' motto that Richelieu reprimands him for trying to cause a riot. It's the only villain line that could threaten Tavington's "And indeed you may (be forgiven), but that's between you and God" at the top of my list. The crucial difference between these scenes is that the swords Rochefort collects from his former fellow musketeers and the uniforms he burns all magically reappear in later scenes. When he gleefully menaces the king, who is also a teenager, with his rapier, the musketeers come to the rescue before he can stab him. The civilians Tavington orders locked inside their church, including women and children, die.

If we consider the extent to which The Patriot is a Disney movie, the problem does not lie with its villain. Tavington is exactly the kind of scenery-chewing, queer-coded, elegant villain utilized in varying forms from Sher Khan to Ursula to Jafar. The character who does feel out of place is the hero, Benjamin Martin. Not only does he fail to stop any atrocities that do not involve his own children (and Gabriel still up dead at Tavington's hand later), but he commits some of his own. I don't know if the solution to The Patriot's myriad problems is to give plot armor to characters besides the hero, but it's interesting to see horrific things happening to innocent people set as a standard of adult-friendliness. Apparently, grown men can abide Disney movies if they contain buckets of blood, none of which belongs to the hero.

I am aware of The Swamp Fox in which the titular character is based on Francis Marion, officially making it Disney's The Patriot. I don't remember seeing it as a child, and I haven't made much of an effort recently to see it because I think it would make me more insane than anyone needs or wants!

[heraclitizer]

"Theorist Grégoire Chamayou has described the contemporary paradigm of drone warfare as having instigated a “crisis in military ethos,” transforming the terms and terrain of engagement altogether as it proposes an unstable approach to acceptable targets. In an era of the global war against terror, Chamayou writes:

Armed violence has lost its traditional limits: indefinite in time, it is also indefinite in space. The whole world, it is said, is a battlefield. But it would probably be more accurate to call it a hunting ground. For if the scope of armed violence has now become global, it is because the imperatives of hunting demand it.

In this description, the remote killing characteristic of drone warfare is not just a safe or expedient means of carrying out war as before—this technical innovation corresponds to a new and rapidly shifting geographical model, where violence is no longer limited to demarcated combat zones but simply licensed by the presence of an enemy prey, “who carries with it its own little mobile zone of hostility.” State sovereignty and territorial integrity are contingent features of this model of warfare, and can be violated at will by an imperial hunter whose technical power and jurisdiction operates vertically.

The geopolitical layers of this methodology are many and complex: for example, the MQ-9 Reaper drone that killed Soleimani was likely launched from Qatar, but operated from Clark County, Nevada, where self-proclaimed “hunter” pilots proceeded to attack a diplomatically protected target visiting a third country with whom they were not at war—at least nominally. At the very least, this is novel; but the legal ramifications must be known.

As noted, Israel’s assassination of Arouri strikingly coincides with the anniversary of the Trump administration’s killing of Soleimani, which was justified in turn with reference to Bush Jr.’s extralegal innovations. But these Republican presidencies flank the drastic expansion of jurisdictionally ambiguous drone warfare under President Obama, whose office presumed authority to use lethal force outside of legally defined combat zones on an unprecedented scale during a “global” war on terror. These policies drew heavy criticism from international legal observers, as the Obama administration authorized more than 500 drone strikes in Pakistan, Somalia, Yemen, and beyond—locations where the situation, however grave, could hardly be described as one of armed conflict between organized groups. Lacking such criteria, the years of drone attacks around the world appear not only deadly, but illegal.

Even so, lawyers love an ignoble cause; and this remote assassin’s paradigm keeps many of them entertained. Legal scholar Michael W. Lewis argues that the application of international humanitarian law to the transnational deployment of drones constitutes an unacceptable constraint, where “it would effectively grant sanctuary to and confer an important strategic advantage upon unprivileged belligerents,” themselves apparently excepted from the protections of the Geneva Convention.

These are the sticking points of any legal theory of the drone, and the cause for which apologists must seek a portable state of exception, adhering to individual targets as they move about the world. Jonathan Horowitz and Naz Modirzadeh describe the seemingly contradictory situation of a “transnational non-international armed conflict,” where the law of armed conflict is analogized to a cloud, hovering above the head of an itinerant prey."

– cam scott, "israel's drone age"

[vanilla-blessing]

qb's top 5 anime of 2023

This list is coming out in July 2024 because I needed to finish mygo first and also I needed several more months to write it that's my excuse

#1 Uma Musume: Pretty Derby - ROAD TO THE TOP

In order to explain why I put a gacha mobile game anime adaptation in the #1 rank I need to explain why Uma Musume Pretty Derby had a bad start. There was a flash of wild inspiration in the core concept, that this is a place where real world racehorses are, instead of awkward animals, awkward two-legged girls who do a victory song and dance when they win, and it accommodates this absurd gimmick in every part of their setting with humorously large phones and earmuffs and carrot burgers, but it lacked the confidence that this premise was funny enough on its face and frequently dumped dramatically less good comedy on top of a basic sports anime formula. There was a spark of something fun there, but it was ultimately covered up by too many bits that were tedious and unremarkable, and the anime didn't stand out from other sports anime in execution. Thankfully, Uma Musume Season 2 got a strong upgrade in animation and began to prioritize the simple but effective drama of competitive running, building a more coherent narrative around the real-life events that happened to these horses. Most importantly, it took itself more seriously (which is much funnier) and steadily accumulated memorable moments and running bits, then paid off everything in the bombastic final episodes that sprinted to the top of my 2021 anime list.

Uma Musume: Road To The Top further refines the formula of Uma Musume Season 2 into four lighting-quick special episodes with no wasted time and even more commitment to the bit that anime girls yelling their heads off while running is simultaneously thrilling and really, really funny. Road To The Top is pure gas the whole time, entirely composed of over-the-top highlights, and utterly confident that it can go as hard as possible on tragic drama and ferocious action, buoyed by the fact that all of this is inherently hilarious no matter what they do.

The 2024 horse movie Uma Musume: Pretty Derby - BEGINNING OF A NEW ERA seems to have inherited this momentum and accelerated to ludicrous speeds, so it's my most anticipated anime and I need it as soon as possible. There's something to the fictionalized drama Uma Musume as a franchise has built on obsessively accurate results of horse races that is compelling in its authenticity, enabling Studio KAI to capture the feeling of the messy but true stories that get passed down naturally and retold among fans of any sport, but starring anime horse girls with profoundly stupid names. This is the highest compliment I can give in the sports genre.

None of this bizarre franchise should work on paper, but it does anyway, its momentum keeps growing, and it shows no signs of slowing down.

#2 BanG Dream! It's MyGO!!!!!

BanG Dream MyGO!!!!! doesn't come up in the first page of results of any anime database when you start typing the title, it's something like the 4th or 6th entry in the BanG Dream gacha mobile game anime franchise, none of the other seasons are particularly notable aside from putting SANZIGEN on the map as one of the two rock-solid CG anime studios; the point is nobody really expected a lot from this show. MyGO!!!!! has the same core staff from the other seasons, it even shares some of the same characters as other seasons (although it's intended to be watched standalone). However, despite everything being stacked against it, MyGO!!!!! forced its way into many top 10 anime lists by word of mouth, where it was praised widely for its exceptionally powerful writing and lyrics, strikingly competent CG animation, and unique style that could only be pulled off on a TV schedule by a team that was supremely confident in their ability to execute the previous two things.

The personalities that make up the titular wildly dysfunctional band range from deeply unpleasant to generally infuriating, but MyGO!!!!! strikes a careful balance, endearing them as people without giving an inch in portraying how frankly awful they are to each other. Seeing these messy, manipulative musicians clash, break up, and unwillingly come together again over the course of the season reaches heights of drama I've rarely seen before, it's as though you're watching a house made entirely out of tires burn down.

The way the show's tangled relationships converge around the immovable object Tomori, who's inability to read a room or pick up on signals just so happens to cut through their collective drama like a hot knife through butter, is such a compelling way to utilize a character unambiguously on the spectrum that I haven't stopped thinking about it and I'll need at least a few more watches to fully appreciate. She's the X-factor that makes the entire show work and episode 3 rigidly forcing you to inhabit her first-person worldview isn't only a directing stunt uniquely suited to CG, it's a blunt declaration of the core mission of MyGO!!!!!.

Halfway through 2024, everyone's talking up different band anime about girls who are more than friends, but MyGO!!!!! will be known forever as the definitive band anime about girls who are closer to mortal enemies.

#3 Pluto

Pluto's my favorite manga and the anime took so long to come out we thought it was fake. My only major complaint is that the CG is unmistakably strange and evokes the feeling of observing an alternate history of animated special effects development that is more goofy and endearing than bad, but it's a consistent distraction from the all-timer material.

#4 Scott Pilgrim Takes Off

Totally unexpected drop on Netflix in the middle of a season, this caught me off guard and handed me a full platter of New Scott Pilgrim which I didn't know I was ravenously hungry for.

#5 Oshi no Ko

I adore the manga for Oshi no Ko, especially the more sicko it gets, but the anime is objectively better thanks to smart pacing decisions, an unreasonably powerful character designer, and better planning than most seasonal anime (everyone knew this would hit like an isekai truck so they just didn't stop after S1). S2 is airing now and it's already powerful in the ways I just said.

Heavenly Delusion and Apothecary Diaries were also pretty good. Expect my next 2024 anime list in 2028 - friend of the show qb

[the-celluloid-correspondent]

Society of the Snow Review

In 1972, a Uruguayan flight crashes in the remote heart of the Andes, forcing the survivors to become each other's best hope for survival, even resorting to the extremes to stay alive. 

The saga of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571, marked by tragedy and miracle, has found its way to the silver screen in various adaptations. While previous renditions often emphasized the spectacle of survival, “Society of the Snow” courageously delves into the horrors accompanying the miraculous event. 

Internationally renowned as a miraculous tale of survival, the narrative unfolds as a tragic flight where the majority of passengers met instant death—either crushed or thrown into the unforgiving Andes Mountains. Soon the survivors, beginning to starve, resorted to cannibalism to stay alive. At one point, the survivors were buried under an avalanche for several days, which claimed the lives of several members. Then as the winter’s bite begins to thaw, two survivors made the treacherous journey across the Andes mountains to Chile, seeking rescuers for their fellow survivors. 

Director J.A. Bayona fearlessly confronts the grim realities of this extraordinary event. The depiction of the plane crash is strikingly accurate and chilling, resonating with the sounds of crushing metal, shattering bones, and human screams. Bayona meticulously portrays the crash with all the terrifying details one can fathom. The horror intensifies as the survivors find themselves buried alive in the confining fuselage of the shattered aircraft for several days, subjected to multiple avalanches. Their muffled screams, stifled by the encroaching snow, evoke a profound sense of horror. The cinematography adeptly conveys the claustrophobic and uneasy atmosphere as the survivors endure their harrowing ordeal. Yet, when bathed in the radiant sunlight, the cinematography transforms into a beautiful yet desolate portrait of the haunting magnificence of the Andes Mountains. Despite this horrifying spectacle, it is not the center of this story.

At its core, "Society of the Snow" revolves around the indomitable human spirit's resilience in the face of adversity. The survivors, confronted by a relentless series of tragedies, remain steadfast in their mutual commitment to survival. Their awe-inspiring and powerful will to endure becomes a masterclass illustration, emphasizing that survival transcends mere physical strength and encompasses profound psychological resilience. Moreover, the film navigates the complex theme of cannibalism with utmost respect. It portrays the survivors grappling with their faith as they reluctantly engage in an act deemed unspeakable. The narrative sheds light on the compelling reasons behind such actions, all framed in a manner respectful to the survivors and victims of this tragic event. The spirit and internalized conflict surrounding cannibalism are expertly conveyed by the ensemble cast. Despite not all characters receiving ample screen time for thorough development, the audience can still comprehend and empathize with their struggles for survival. The film skillfully captures the essence of these characters and their collective journey to overcome the odds.

While the narrative of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 has seen various adaptations, "Society of the Snow" distinguishes itself as the first to authentically capture the horror embedded in this tragic tale. This emotionally charged cinematic experience explores the profound resilience of the human spirit amidst unimaginable challenges. The film pays due respect to the victims of this tragedy by vividly portraying the true horror of the event. The impact it leaves on viewers is profound, and one can't help but think that its power would be even more palpable if experienced beyond the comforts of home.

My Rating: A

[saintsenara]

bunch of questions for war of roses: obviously i have my own thoughts about the blood motif that is present in the chapter. what was your intention with it? i know you wrote an entire post about why this is called the war of roses. but i am most curious about roses being walburga's favourite flower, and her watching the undulating roses in mourning clothes. It is such a striking image - and it appears in two of your fics. thoughts?

thank you very much for the ask, pal! it seems that chapter one of the war of the roses can be summed up pretty accurately by dear old film!ginny...

and the answer, as you are becoming familiar with via our conversations in the deathly hallows bookclub, is that both the theme of blood and the characterisation of walburga are driven by my belief that the way the series presents the body, illness, and disability fucking sucks.

why is there so much blood?

obviously, one reason for the motif of blood is as a visual metaphor for the social context: the wizarding world is obsessed with class, heredity, and lineage; sirius spent his youth trying to escape those forces but has been shoved back into his childhood home, made to confront the fact that half the people trying to murder his found family are his blood relatives, and face being reminded constantly by his mother's portrait that his decision to turn his back on his parents' blood supremacy is considered to be a stain on his entire line. the blood being leached daily from him against his will when he brushes his crumbling teeth and spits onto his mother's expensive porcelain is one way of showing the effect this is having on his mental state...

but something which will also be a prominent theme in this story is the fact that twelve years in azkaban must have been physically ruinous for sirius. all too often, the harry potter series dismisses or minimises the concept of physical illness or disability - all injuries are easily healed; all physical disabilities, such as moody's loss of his eye, are rendered obsolete by magic.

the series' main focus when it comes to illness or disability is the impact of these things on cognition - and on how the series understands cognitive function to connect to magical ability. [think lockhart, the longbottoms, ariana dumbledore, etc...]

the series also - even though it does purport to think that the soul and the will are separate things [voldemort's horcruxes do not diminish his extraordinary power or intelligence] - connects cognitive function to the soul, as we see in the fact that the dementor's kiss causes something akin to brain stem death.

azkaban, then, is set up in canon as something which primarily impacts the cognitive state of its inmates - especially by forcing them into a state which mirrors the symptoms of major depression and which has them constantly worrying about their souls being eaten. but it also clearly damages them enormously physically too. both sirius and bellatrix are described as 'gaunt' after their escape - and while the prisoners' loss of appetite may be caused by the psychological force of the dementors, starvation is also a physically damaging process. the fact that the prison is frequently described in canon as being poorly maintained and in the middle of a freezing ocean will also have a physical impact on the people confined there - in terms of making them more susceptible to respiratory illness, circulation problems etc. - alongside its mental one.

physical decay and injury is rarely shown in the series - which is strikingly resistant to gore of any kind - but the war of the roses isn't. sirius is losing so much blood - in his urine, from his gums - because his body is a wreck after his time in prison, and his experience of what can be meaningfully described as chronic illness will be a key theme of the piece.

[what's wrong with his leg remains to be seen...]

why is walburga transfixed by the image of roses?

one of the things which i think it's crucial to bear in mind about the canonical walburga - and, indeed, something which is the central theme of a planned in defence of walburga black meta i have sitting in my drafts - is that her primary purpose in canon isn't to be a real person, but to be one of the amalgamation of various different gothic literary tropes which make up grimmauld place.

indeed, the walburga of order of the phoenix and deathly hallows isn't so much a character as she is a piece of worldbuilding. she's a spectre haunting her son. she exists exclusively to increase the sinister atmosphere of grimmauld place and, above all, to hammer home the point that the house is a semi-sentient prison which is driving sirius slowly mad and which is the direct cause of the depression and restlessness which will eventually lead him to disobey the order to stay put, go to the department of mysteries, and meet his death. [except that hasn't happened here!]

this is - of course - the same purpose served by lots of other women in gothic or quasi-gothic stories. walburga is like rebecca de winter - who exists only as a memory designed to torture others. she's bertha rochester, rattling around the attic and attempting to ruin the man-of-the-house's happiness.

which means that my reading of her has always been heavily influenced by those texts which can be used to challenge and/or recontextualise the figure of the woman in the gothic novel. above all, charlotte perkins gilman's the yellow wallpaper, in which a mentally ill woman becomes obsessed by the pattern on the wallpaper in a room to which she is confined. as i've said in the notes to lamentation - the other piece of writing on walburga which uses this motif - i really don't like the fanon of 'black family madness', and i much prefer to think of walburga as someone who suffers from depression, which would be treatable if anybody cared enough to help her.

why roses specifically? well, the flower has an extremely prominent role in the english imagination - especially as a symbol of nobility and of feminine beauty [the english rose archetype]. it seemed a good choice for someone who is clearly so profoundly affected by the twin pressures of class and gender.

[why she constantly wears mourning clothes remains to be seen...]

[calciumdeficientt]

Headcanons for my oc before I.

(Up for interpretation 😒)

I’m so glad i got my claws into you about her i actually adore her.

REBECCA BRIDGERS HCS

Rebecca is… something. Shes much like Lola in her lifestyle, boy crazy and more than eager for any sort of fun she can get. She gets a kick out of having these affairs publicly, its just so much fun to appear on a different boy’s arm near enough to every day, wether its to piss of her dad- a hopeful in the race to gain bullworth’s senate seat- or wether she just likes to watch boys tripping over themselves to be the ONLY boy she appears out with. A key factor in this boy-induced mania is likely her time spent in an all girls private school, she’s been away from boys for so long that she’s really just making up for lost time. What’s a girl to do when faced with more boys than she’s got shoes? Trust me, she’s a prep. She has way too many shoes.

Becca is very up her own ass, she thinks she’s the pinnacle of god’s creation because her daddy paid to fix the school roofs and do up the plumbing. This show of her father’s power and influence makes her (at least in her eyes) immune to the rules. She can smoke openly on school grounds, cut class and generally treat everyone else like dirt because just as quickly as her daddy paid to improve the infrastructure at Bullworth, he can take it all away. Rebecca Bridgers is the queen bee, solid Teflon. This attitude also extends to the aforementioned boys, she gets her pick of the litter, and they all trail after her like zombies because she’s a channel for daddy’s pocket change. She feeds on the attention, it makes her stronger. Like some sort of male-validation vampire

Absolutely, truly and wholly in love with herself. Shes as conceited and swallow as they come. Her makeup takes literal hours, its a painstaking process, but if she looks anything less than perfect she will not let one single atom of her person leave her room. She either leaves perfect, or doesn’t leave at all. Shes strikingly beautiful, huge doll eyes, shiny hair that is always neatly styled, tailor made clothes that fit her absolutely perfectly. Every stitch is designer and every pore is nonexistent. Shes so perfect that its uncanny, she looks like a wax figure.

After she gets settled, and a few flings have passed, everyone (rightly) gets the picture that Becca is a whole lot of bad news. Shes needs to be steered clear from and avoided like the plague, or more accurately: avoided like herpes, chlamydia and HPV all diseases that apparently Becca has and is willing to spread. This vicous rumour is nothing more than that, a rumour, but it serves its purpose in making the bullworth newcomer less popular. A fact that gives her hives, she’s powerful and she deserves to be treated as such. I think of her as having a Nero complex, not sure if such a thing exists, but it does now. You either treat her like God, or you suffer. Because believe you and me, she can make people SUFFER. Enjoy those scholarships while they last.

While still instated as a high level prep, she meets Lenora. (Shameless plug for my own OC, with definitely no agenda whatsoever) well its less that she meets Lenora well its more like Lenora crashes into her mid-skateboard trick and gets a faceful of concrete for her troubles. Becca is rightly pissed that a dirty, ghetto piece of equipment was in her general vicinity and even more pissed that the rider ATOP the damned thing landed on top of her and ruined her hair. Shes seen Lenora before, usually bleeding or badly maimed, and seen her name in the school paper. However… She’s middle of the page news, Becca is the front cover

Eventually, she has to face the consequences of her actions, gets a good hard telling off from daddy- and a compete freeze on her credit card- and gets the boot from the preps, I mean, even Nero had to die sometime, its the natural order. They banish her from wearing the signature aquaberry blue that ties the whole clique together, and its the biggest insult she’s ever experienced, its so FLATTERING! Shes stuck in the signature green of the non-cliques, still aquaberry, just custom green. They can pry the diamonds out of her cold dead hands. Its the pits, its barely existence. She literally cannot bear to leave the dorms, she’s a lot worse than she was now she’s a bottom feeder like the rest of the school. Neither high nor mighty any longer. Epically funny for everyone, but especially…The Greasers. They get a real kick out of seeing her so low and waste little time before they begin rubbing it in her face.

Lenora and Becca get closer and closer, she’s got no friends in the preps anymore, and she seems strong enough to carry shopping. They hit it off well because Lenora lets her talk and talk and talk and doesn’t ever butt in. And, Lenora can drive. While she doesn’t appreciate the music she plays WHILE she drives, Becca keeps Lenora around for the car, and the carrying, and those triceps… no. Focus. Focus focus focus. Lenora is a confidante and nothing more, no matter how pretty she is when she’s stoned and laughing at an anthill, or how good she looks when she sprints.once they reach a certain point, Lenora starts inviting her to things, and since she’s not got much else to do, she goes. Usually, its track meets. Hours upon hours of track meets… but sometimes it’s parties. Dingy, scary warehouse parties full of horrible, smelly poor people getting drunk and fighting each other. After every party, the sober Becca plays nurse for a very intoxicated Lenora who once again tried to play all macho and start a fight and once again got the ever loving shit kicked out of her. Becca is too scared to drink and Lenora is too poor to be sober. They make the perfect couple pair . Lenora is able to foster some positive change in Rebecca, and Rebecca in Lenora.

Eventually the dust settles and bullowrth’s resident hero JImmy Hopkins fixes yet another trivial personal issue from yet another more than capable student. Rebecca’s name is cleared, her dad gets his senate seat and world peace was achieved at long last. Hooray Jimmy! Now with no other choice, Becca is back in with the preps and living the high-life. All the purchases backed up on Becca’s credit card come through, she’s at least moderately liked within the clique. Shes right on track to starting at square one. There’s just one thing she has to come to terms with first. Deep in the complet trenches, she has to realise that she’s actually… never been into guys all that much. She can’t claim to know what love is, she’s far too rich to have been in love young, but she knows that what she feels for Lenora is in STARK contrast which what she felt for Derby. It’s all encompassing, never ending. Its not just pining for attention. Its endgame. The journey will be long and hard, but she’ll do it. Let’s go lesbians.

[swagtastic-bougie-pompadour]

Ooc: @hoopa-is-hoopa blog owner here. Here's my writing prompt. Clive trying to help hoopa getting better at imitating him

//Your Hoopa is so fun to write! They're just a silly little guy. Thank you for the request!

“Oh, so close, Hoopa! It’s more like a…”

Clive mimes slicking back his pompadour one more time, far more confident than any 50-something-year-old man should be in such an action. Luckily, nobody has to know how many times he’s rehearsed that in front of the mirror, as a teenager and again as a middle-aged man. The mythical laughs joyously at this action, as he has the past five times. 

“Okay, Hoopa thinks Hoopa understands what to do!”

The little one runs their hands over their tiny ponytail, face smug and body swaying in midair just a little. 

“Do I… actually sway like that, little guy?”

“Yeah, a little! Don’t worry, Hoopa thinks it’s cool!”

The old man under the disguise grimaces a little. Okay, maybe it’s time to lose that part of the “swag”. Even a man like him can tell when something’s run its course. 

“Nah, nah, you can drop that. No need to be ‘try hard’ about it.”

“Ooh, are the air quotes part of being like Clive too? Hoopa can do air quotes!”

Hoopa, with his free hand, excitedly mimes air quoting at his conversation partner, missing the context of mockery that comes with them. 

“Hoopa thinks air quotes are ‘super cool’!”

Clavell, for his part, tries to imagine exactly how sarcastic he should expect a small genie that hops from world to world to be. Eventually, his mental math settles on “they’re trying to be nice”.

“...That, um… no. You don’t need the air quotes.”

“Aww…”

The little genie crosses his arms and grumbles, though he doesn’t seem genuinely mad. 

“Oh, oh! Does Clive like donuts?! Hoopa can try to copy how Clive eats donuts!”

The ‘student’ chuckles. It’s a pretty thinly-veiled excuse for Hoopa to bring out a box of donuts from their rings--something that still intrigues Clive every time he sees it--but from the way his stomach growls at the sight of them, Clive decides to reserve any snide comments. 

“Sure, little guy, I could go for some donuts! Pass one over here.”

Hoopa throws, and Clive catches. With only a little bit of fumbling between his hands. Pretty impressive if you were to ask him. Then the man stops. How does a ‘cool guy’ eat a donut? …Leaning against a wall? Sure. Leaning against a wall. 

Clive leans so far back he nearly trips over thin air, before narrowly saving himself. He points at Hoopa with a grin, like it never happened, and tries to nonchalantly take a bite of his donut. Crumbs spill all over his borrowed school uniform. 

Hoopa again laughs in long, loud peals that he takes a few seconds to calm from, and Clavell’s only a little insulted. Finally, Hoopa pumps their fists in excitement, and tries their own imitation. It’s strikingly on-point: the initial swagger. The fall from grace. And finally, the recovery, still tinged with a little embarrassment. So accurate, and so vivid. 

“How was that, Clive?”

“That was great, Hoopa! Never do it again.”