#and then found those same shapes again on the same tile

[sodacowboy]

I never think the autism accent is like a real thing until I hear an autistic person speak and I realize they speak like I do

[nervousalpacahologram]

The Fish Theory

I'm Making this post so I can either be proven right or wrong when the DLC Comes out.

In Elden Ring, there's a suspicious hole in the story. That hole is perplexingly mermaid-shaped.

When Godwyn is found in game, something's happened to him. He's become gargantuan, twisted, stuck in the pose of his death and staring listlessly out into the darkness of the Deeproot Depths.

He's also a mermaid.

Why?

One could chock this up to a cool design decision, invoking the Ningen and the other aquatic imagery associated with Those Who Live In Death (Boats, Scales, Fins, Stagnation, Flies, etc). His head resembles a clam, and his hair is matted like it's wet. He has a tail, scaled and mermaid like. This could all just be a cool design.

But Fromsoft, the ones who put staggering amounts of detail into random pieces of iconography, building techniques, and even the road tiling to denote who created it and why, are not one to toss something into a game for it to look cool.

There has to be a reason Godwyn looks like that.

I personally believe that Godwyn was always this fish monster, and never a regular Demigod.

My Evidence:

1: Godwyn's face is never shown.

"But there's paintings of most characters!"

Not Godwyn.

"But the Statue of him cradling Miquella and Malenia!"

There's no confirmation that this is Godwyn. it may very well be Messmer, given his relationship to fire, his descendancy of Marika and/or Radagon, and his neat fit into the Butterfly Theory (Miquella=Nascent, Malenia=Aeonian, Messmer=Smoldering). Again, no confirmation.

"But we see him in the Intro and the cinematic trailer!"

That I will give you, however there is precedence on how this could be subverted. In the shot of him dead:

His face is obscured by shadows and hair, purposefully keeping him anonymous. And yet, a power of the Golden Lineage, demonstrated by Morgott and Mohg, is to project versions of themselves elsewhere:

(Godfrey even displays this to a lesser extent, with the golden clone of him in Leyndell.)

I believe that images of Godwyn and his appearances in the Lands Between are projections of him.

In every shot of Godwyn, you never see his face fully or his legs at all. Both are obscured, and even the shot of his eye only shows the barest hints of skin, which could be the more alive version of his clam-head skin. His forearms, where the fins grow out of in his Prince-of-Death form, are even suspiciously covered up. The skin of the Prince-of-Death is even the same as the head, so no contradictions in skin color there.

My final piece of evidence is this:

All of Queen Marika's children are cursed.

I'm talking specifically of Marika, and not the ones descended from Radagon taking charge. Morgott and Mohg are Omens. Miquella, Malenia, and Messmer are cursed or appear to possess unnatural features (Eternal youth, rot, serpentine characteristics). Ranni, Radahn, and Rykard appear perfectly fine.

So why does Godwyn appear normal, when none of his borthers or sisters do?

I think Godwyn was born as this mermaid-thing, or at least partially. He was born in the Age of Plenty, a time close to the Crucible, and may have inherited inhuman characteristics. But perhaps they were more easily covered-up, or perhaps he could project a version of himself that was more human, or maybe he simply wore a Mimic Veil.

This could explain his alliance with the Ancient Dragons, also creatures of the Crucible. It could explain why Deathroot confers aquatic features on those it effects, instead of the more avian features already associated with Death in the form of the Twinbird: Godwyn, already cursed, is the source of these appearences.

Godwyn doesn't look like that because of the Deathroot, Those Who Live In Death and those infected by Death look like that because of Godwyn.

[nessihow]

Heartbeat. 1.- Ice, ice, baby.

Jessica remembers how she and Wade met. She ends up unconscious, and probably on her way to a Romanian human trafficking. We tell you about it, after the commercials.

She went through her dominoes again looking for the one she needed. She hated dominoes, she had never played until Al taught her. She didn't have any tiles that had a number two on them, she would have to take one from the pile. She sighed as Al used one of her dominoes, she suspected the older woman was cheating. It wasn't possible that they had played six games and she had lost five."Al, tell me again how the fuck you see the tiles if you're blind. With all due respect," she smiled as she snapped one of her checkers into the row on the table. She had three chips left, the old lady had one fucking chip left."I can feel the roughness of the chips girl, didn't they teach you in that white school that Braille exists," she threw her chip on the board and laughed in the girl's face, she had won again, she was the fucking master."Fuck you, you and I both know you have no fucking idea how to read Braille," she rolled her eyes before pronouncing herself with that mocking tone. -Another beer? -the woman just nodded her head. Jessica got up and headed for the kitchen as she thought about how surreal the situation she found herself in was. Playing board games with an elderly blind cocaine addicted woman while waiting for her mutant friends to return from sowing evil (cleaning up trash for TVA). She had no complaints either, she liked the lady, she was kind of like a bad influence grandma. She met Al the same day she met Wade. Wade had opened the door to his apartment after 20 minutes of trying to get the key in, he was so stoned. Normally, his body's regeneration factor eliminated substances in mere minutes, and even though it had been almost a quarter of an hour since he snorted his last drag. He could still feel the tingling in his throat, he was still on the peak. Adding to his intoxication was his excitement, or lust, call it what you will. He had taken that pretty girl home from the skating rink, an absolute victory. He had seen her from afar at the ice rink, it was Christmas and all the families in the neighborhood were getting together to skate. Wade didn't even have enough money to skate, he was just going for chocolate, they sold them at those stands and they were much cheaper than at the supermarket. He had been sad all week and missing Vanessa, he needed sugar, chocolate, gluten and a lot of calories that would hopefully give him another cancer. Most people were teenagers and didn't know how to skate, so she stuck out like a sore thumb. She moved fluidly, with balance, making pretty shapes and moving her legs like she was dancing tangos on ice. Wade swallowed hard, let's be blunt, the first thing he noticed wasn't her eyes, or her hair, or the discipline she must have had to skate like that. The first thing he noticed was that she was hot. She was really hot, dark hair and green eyes with that figure that showed all the strength she had in her legs. Wade was a slut, he was one of those guys they called "simps" on social media. 

He lost sight of her as he waited for the line to move forward, HOW LONG DID IT TAKE TO MAKE A FUCKING CHOCOLATE? He could entertain himself watching that girl, though he felt like a dirty old man, times of need created men in need.  He looked for her with his eyes, but he had missed her completely, well, he turned his attention back to the tail and as if it were a game of terror, she appeared there. His breath caught in his throat from shock, he watched her stand in front of him. Excuse me? Had a teenage girl just cut in front of him in the chocolate line? Yes, he wasn't allowing it."Excuse me, pretty girl, can you get in the fucking line?" He grabbed the woman's forearm so she would turn around to look at him, Jessica was immediately startled, she was wearing her ice skates in her backpack, her shoes untied and her cheeks flushed from exertion and the cold. She was going to apologize quickly, she hadn't meant to steal anyone's spot, she just hadn't seen Wade. Before she could utter herself, a blond man with a grim-faced face stepped in her way."Jessica, I've been calling you all fucking week, what are you doing here?" the man shouted at her in an aggressive tone, his eyes red, almost bulging out of their sockets, he was also gesticulating a lot. It took him a while to become aware of Wade's presence. " Who is this guy, are you such a whore that you're already with someone else?" at that moment things got serious. The strange man grabbed the shoulder opposite to the one Wade was grabbing, Jessica was paralyzed, unable to do anything, she just stammered.

"ALREADY? WE CUT OFF TWO YEARS AGO JOHN, LEAVE ME ALONE" the girl broke free from his grip as she moved closer to the stranger. John again made the pretense of physically confronting Jessica, but at that moment Wade stepped between them."Hey, hey, hey. Put the brakes on, my Aryan friend. I know people of your ideology like to hit girls, but it's not 1930's anymore." The blond boy's eye, flickering with anger, gritted his teeth before yelling again."Listen, I'm sure you're a respectable war veteran who lost his face to save some kitten," he said alluding to the burns on Wade's body, even though he was wearing the hair prosthesis, his face still looked haggard, "But Grandpa, let me talk to my girl."Jessica stood behind Wade, ready to tell him that she wasn't his girl and that if he didn't get away from her she was going to call the police. The older man stepped forward. " Well, I know you're hurting for losing a woman like her, but don't worry, size doesn't matter, you'll find another one that will accept you with that micropenis." Now, kid, let me have a chocolate with your ex girl" the mercenary's words went deep inside the boy. Not even five minutes passed when John connected his knuckles against his nose. It was a hard blow, John had been competing to enter the army, he was not a scrawny man, however, little did he know that he had a mutant in front of him. Wade wrinkled his nose before putting it back on with an unpleasant sound. It was his turn to hit him, but with only a punch to the temple, a punch that managed to knock him out in the middle of the crowd." T-thank you? I guess... How did you do that?" asked Jessica, amazed at the strength of her savior, who had knocked her ex down with a single punch."I throw good rights, don't I? Who is this Nazi anyway? I'm Wade, do you want a chocolate? "Wade rubbed his knuckles as he smiled at Jessica, maybe the man's interruption could even be useful."That was my ex, we broke up a year ago, but he still haunts me."-"It's completely normal, I wouldn't get over a girl as pretty as you either."Wade felt rusty himself, how embarrassing, he had spent so much time crying over Vanessa that he had forgotten how to conquer a woman. 

"Well, if you had a restraining order like him, you might think twice," Jessica laughed, a little flushed and uncomfortable at the same time. She wasn't used to men hitting on her. "Well, the laws are there for me to break them, by the way, I have to confess something, I'm diabetic, I was looking for chocolate to kill myself. But after seeing you, I think I can live another day, do you want a drink? " the girl scanned his whole face while he was talking, his scars could be seen very well up close. Just looking at them hurt. Jessica felt an impulse to run her fingers over the volume of them. They were strangely striking. She thought about his proposal, she had nothing to do, so why not? " Come on, I just hope you're not a hit man who acts without morals because of some kind of trauma and makes jokes about Nazis to cover up his insecurities."

...

They both sat up to rest their backs on the bed frame, Jessica cursed under her breath, that mattress was hard as fuck. She could feel the spring marks on her ribs as Wade pressed her against the bed. Still, it's not like she could focus on it much, she was exhausted, trying to catch her breath, failing pitifully. Wade seemed more serene, as if the sex had brought down the effect of the drugs."Sorry I snuck in the chocolate line"  joked the brunette before deciding to reach for her underwear. -Hey, hey, hey, hey, where are you going? What kind of fuck is this if you don't read me a story afterwards?" immediately jumped a very shocked Wade. He was coming across as a really weird guy, but Jessica liked him, the only thing that had shocked her was the collection of stuffed animals they had had to throw on the floor when they got to bed. "Do you have some kind of problem with your father? ""I just fucked a girl almost 20 years younger than me, are you seriously asking me? Of course I do " Jessica smiled at him as she watched him get dressed, her eyes widened when she saw his unicorn panties. She began to seriously ponder, maybe the few drinks she had had throughout the night had gotten her too drunk to see the dangerous situation she had gotten herself into. Was it worth risking her life by sneaking into a stranger's house for a little mind-blowing sex? Probably, her life had been pretty boring lately. 

"Shouldn't you have asked me my age before you took me to bed? " she said, already dressed and ready to go. Wade got out of bed still in his underwear, he might be completely burned, but the man was strong, you had to admit that. She followed him to the kitchen, where he handed her a glass of water while he drank his as well."I'll be cool as long as the FBI doesn't knock on my door," he rubbed his face tiredly, he really didn't want Jessica to leave, but he'd had enough luck getting her home, he couldn't risk it."I'm going to cancel you on Twitter for having a Leonardo Di Caprio complex" Wade snorted in disgust at the mention of the actor, he was probably Leonardo Di Caprio's biggest enemy, in that house they supported drug use, first degree murder and many more strange things.  But disrespect to Lady gaga was not tolerated. "WADE, THE NEIGHBOR ASSHOLES ARE FUCKING AGAIN. I'M GOING TO TELL THEM TO SHUT UP" an older black lady came out of another room with glasses on in the wee hours of the morning and a cane.  "No Al, uhmm, it's not the neighbors, this is Jessica. Jessica, this is my roommate Al the Blind" it was kind of cute to see him embarrassed, Jessica smiled at the shyness in his voice as he confessed. She herself felt terrible, she didn't know anyone would hear them, she thought she would live alone."Good evening Blind Al-, Al." She regretted almost using the lady's strange nickname, the lady was going to say something about it, but first of all Wade spoke."Before you complain, look what Santa Claus brought me," he held out a bag full of what the girl assumed was cocaine. She had seen Wade go to the bathroom four times and come back with bloodshot eyes. He hadn't said anything so as not to offend, but his jaw movements had made him look like a character in The Walking Dead. 

"Merry Christmas," was all the woman said before retiring to her room. How hard was the life of an addict. "Well, I think I'm going to get going..." Jessica walked slowly towards the door, with Wade following her with a pout. The woman walked through the door, and there was an awkward silence when she was in the hallway outside the apartment, not sure whether to run away or go back inside and lie down on the bed to sleep. "Wait, I know it's weird, but if you want to go another day for a chocolate" he said just before the girl ran out. "Sure, sure, yeah," Jessica stammered nervously, "Wait, weren't you a diabetic?" she asked in confusion as she watched Wade smile and close the door right after he laughed."Eeeeh Merry Christmas, doll."

...

"We're not playing any more games, I'm sick of you cheating," she said as she extended the third beer to Al. Then she took the TV remote control and zapped, Wade had to hire some streaming service, she was tired of watching the TV store. 

"What a generation of wimps, you can't stand anything..." she complained in a typical old woman's phrase. Jessica took a sip of beer, with no other topic of conversation to bring up.  A light bulb went off in her head. 

"Al, is it just me or have Wade and Logan been gone a long time," she frowned as she thought about it. Maybe she was drinking too much. 

"You're really hooked on those two, aren't you," Al teased her, Jessica wondered if behind those glasses their eyes were open or closed. If they were directed at her or not. Even if she couldn't see? Did she feel their presence somehow? 

"You know my relationship with Wade didn't come to anything, we only slept together a couple of times..." sighed the brunette taking the opportunity to pet Dogpool, who had crawled pathetically to her lap while his owner was away. Wade had that dog in his arms ALL DAY LONG. It could be considered animal harassment. 

"I'm not so much talking about the big mouth fucker, I meant Logan, I've been listening to you at fucking 4 in the morning laughing along with that deep annoying Canadian voice"

"So? You heard me laughing, not moaning. We're just friends, just like with Wade. " she said, opening her eyes, though she didn't know why, because his companion couldn't see me.

“Don't fuck with me, you don't talk to him like you talk to Wade's asshole.”

“It doesn't make any sense, you're using too much, I'm going to open the door, it's probably them." She warned that she was leaving so as not to leave the poor blind woman talking to herself, it wouldn't be the first time it happened. 

“Password? You're late for our movie night..." Jessica sang with false melancholy in her voice, opening the door just enough to show the left side of her face. However, who she found outside was neither Logan or Wade, two men dressed in jeans and black shirts pushed the door open with a bang. Hitting her head hard in the process. One of them took advantage of the woman's dumbfounded expression and kneed her in the forehead. 

After that, Jessica saw all black. 

[genesisgijinka]

Do you have any tips for drawing backgrounds? Yours always look so nice

aww thank you! As for tips...

Tip #1:

Find references. I sketched the cover for chapter 4 three different times, because the first two didn't evoke the majesty of the Prism Tower in the way I wanted it to. And then I saw this

I think you can see how this translated into the cover

Tip #2:

Do studies. Be it from photos (your own or from a royalty free website like pixabay, but watch out for AI garbage bc the perspective is usually wrong) or from real life. It's not cheating, it's encouraged, and it's industry standard. Idc if you have photographic memory, get something from real life in front of your eyeballs and draw it. Try and keep your reference close to your drawing so that it's easier for your eyes to flick back and forth between the two. This is how you can train your eyes to really see what's going on in an image. Compare angles, shapes, sizes, and distances.

I use clip studio paint for Genesis, which has perspective rulers and they're super handy for speeding up the process (first image) and again, is not cheating. It's a tool to use in your arsenal. A little tricky to use, but once you get it down, it's fantastic. I also really recommend using other mediums, like a sketchbook and a sharpie (2nd image) or dinking around in Paint (3rd image). Limiting yourself in challenging ways is a great way to grow fast. Experimenting like this is also great for finding a style or technique that you click with

Tip #3:

Be aware of the cone of vision. This is a technical skill, but it's one of those things that you don't necessarily have to draw out every single time (tho I'd recommend doing it at least once to burn it into your memory better). If your drawing is looking wonky, the cone of vision being breached is a likely culprit. I'll link a video to someone who can explain how to do it better than I can.

Tip #4:

Learn how to draw things the same size in perspective. This is probably the thing I use the most. For example;

You have a tiled floor in a room. The lines going to the vanishing point are easy to do.

But how do you do the horizontal ones going across the floor?

Step 1: draw two horizontal lines, and put an X in one of them, going from corner to corner

Step 2: Going from the center of the X, trace a line back to the vanishing point

Step 3: from one corner, draw a line that goes through where that center line hits the tile edge

Step 4: at the end of this new line is where the next tile will start

Step 5: Rinse and repeat as needed

Ta-da! You now have tiles that are all the same size

This also works for vertical things like windows or telephone poles

One of the most useful applications I've found this trick for is making sure that everything is the right size. Sticking a person in a drawing is an instantly recognizable way to show scale

Whilst sketching the cover for ch 4, I'd accidentally made the doors way too small in the buildings in the back, so I slapped some people down to make sure they were the right height (This is in 3-point perspective, so the trick still works, regardless of if it's 1-, 2-, or 3-pt perspective owo b )

[goodluckclove]

Leitmotif no. 1 (New)

Migration Patterns Interlude

So for those who haven't read Blind Trust, I like do to a thing in Songbird books that are like chapters that aren't chapters. It's like a prose B-plot. In the first book it was the Etudes, in this it'll be the Leitmotifs.

I'm posting this because I'm really proud of it. It's a story that's told over a few Leitmotifs throughout the book, so while it is a spoiler it's part of a spoiler towards a thing that already happened even before the events of Blind Trust.

TW: Child Abuse (Maybe not, but just to be safe)

I encourage people to comment if they can after reading. This isn't something I usually say, but I'm going to be on heavy painkillers for most of today and I'd like to see how Drug Clover reacts to seeing internet people give feedback/theories/whatever.

Enjoyyy

Drawing his breath, in and out, focusing on cultivating silence within himself as his mother instructed, young Scott Skylark Kaufner found footing on the floor of what his father only referred to in his notes as The Other Place.

He opened his eyes, The area around him was indeterminably vast. If he focused he could pick out individual colors and shapes, but Scott struggled in getting used to having to focus.

After rubbing his hands against his eyes he felt a little more grounded. Something about the pressure, the sensation of such a familiar action. He took a deep breath and tried again.

The shapes were – things, maybe. They looked like fragments of something that would make sense if Scott could see the whole thing at once.

He remembered, then, the motion his mother taught him before he set out to reach this place. The motion taught to her by his father. So Scott raised his palm, fingers tight together and pointed horizontally, and carefully pushed towards one side.

The world around him shifted. It reminded him of turning the knob on a kaleidoscope, with the results being startling enough to make his stomach lurch.

Scott dropped focus and let his hand fall to his side. He twisted his hair in his hands, suddenly anxious.

What the fuck do I do now? He thought to himself.

It was then he heard the whimpering. The noise came from behind him and prickled the hairs on the back of Scott’s neck. He straightened up, hesitating to look while also certain doing so was inevitable.

He turned.

And there was Eddie.

When people asked Scott would claim he didn’t know exactly how long had passed since he last had the vision of Eddie lying in bed with him. That was a lie and in the back of his mind he was sure everyone knew that. It was four years, nearly on the dot. Scott held the increasing weight of his dear friend’s absence with honor and bravery, just as any knight should.

Always loyal. Only occasionally crying himself to sleep.

Eddie was older now. Their hair was still cropped short, barely long enough to curl. They were standing upright, allowing Scott to see for the first time that they were still both around the same height. The angle in which they stood, though, was slightly off, with their arms hanging limp like a rag doll held at an odd angle.

It was Eddie. They were together again. It hardly felt real.

But it isn’t, Scott reminded himself. It doesn’t feel real because it isn’t.

Still, he approached. The sounds of his footsteps were odd, like walking on hard tile even though the ground beneath him displayed no tangible material. At the sound he saw Eddie freeze and their breath start to quicken. Scott still couldn’t see their face with the way they kept their head low, so he stopped.

“Eddie?” He called out.

Eddie let out a noise between a huff and a groan. Slowly, they raised their head and looked at Scott.

They looked afraid. And then they looked confused, like they didn’t recognize what they were seeing. Scott couldn’t decide which reaction hurt him more to see.

Still, he maintained a comforting smile. “Hi, Eddie,” he said. “Remember me?”

It didn’t look like they did at first. But after some time something changed. Eddie’s brow twitched and their stare turned distant. Then they focused back on Scott, blinking unevenly a few times.

Their lips curved as if starting to smile. That didn’t last long. Their large, enchantingly brown eyes welled with tears.

“...Scott?” They managed, voice cracking. “Skylark? I – I...oh god.”

Eddie slumped their head again and began to weep. Scott sighed and came closer, raising Eddie’s chin so they were eye-to-eye again.

He felt nothing when he did that. When rubbing his eyes he recognized the feeling of skin touching skin. When touching Eddie he could only see, not feel, that he was in contact with another physical presence. Scott tried not to think about that as he brushed the tears from Eddie’s cheeks.

They still had some of the same youthful, boyish features Scott remembered so fondly. But it was clear puberty was changing things. They had the faint and clumsy beginnings of facial hair above their lip and at the bottom of their chin. More facial hair than Scott imagined he’d be able to grow, even with the hormone treatment. Eddie’s once round cheeks were a little flatter, but they still had some softness to them. They looked like they’d feel wonderful to cup his palm against and really feel.

He tried not to think about that either.

“It’s okay,” he assured them. “No hard feelings, yeah? I promise.”

“Y-You…” Between their sorrow and fear Eddie could barely get out a full sentence. ‘What – what are you doing here?”

“Just visiting. Same for you?”

Eddie’s face twisted in another sob that they were only able to restrain at the last possible second. They held their breath and shook their head.

Something in Scott began to tense up. “What do you mean?”

“I...don’t think I’m going to be able to leave, Skylark,” Eddie breathed shakily.

Scott stepped back. He took in Eddie’s posture again and realized they really weren’t standing at all.

They were hanging.

He took one step, and then another, inching around behind Eddie. He could see the front of them, and then in profile, but once he stepped where he should’ve seen their back Eddie suddenly vanished.

What? Scott hummed in Tone Speech.

“Is – um,” he could still hear Eddie, even though he could no longer see them. “Is something wrong?”

Scott raised his palm and shifted the world again. He found nothing revealed in the space where Eddie should be. He turned to the side again and found Eddie’s profile. Or, part of Eddie’s profile. When he focused as he realized he had to do here constantly, Scott saw the way Eddie appeared to…

End? Disappear? None of those words felt right. They implied something far more uncontrolled than what Scott knew he was seeing.

It’s eating them, Scott thought, stunned and dismayed. This place is eating them.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Eddie said. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but...yeah. It doesn’t really feel...like anything.”

There was a certainty in Eddie’s voice. A dull acceptance Scott despised. He circled back in front of his friend, grabbed both of their hands in his, and pulled.

“Scott, what are you – Scott,” even with everything going on Eddie still had it in them to laugh. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“No.”

“Yes. I’m really smart, Eddie. I’ve learned a lot since I last saw you.”

Eddie smiled weakly. “I’m sure you have,” their eyes lowered down Scott’s body, taking it in. “You look good.”

Don’t fucking blush, Skylark, Scott demanded of himself. Now is not the time.

“You’re really handsome, Skylark,” Eddie spoke warmly.

Finally Scott allowed some of his own inner glow to reach his features. He smiled graciously, lowering his eyes. “Thanks. I...started testosterone when I turned thirteen in March. It’s pretty crazy how fast things start changing.”

“Right,” Eddie murmured. “I’m sure.”

They stared at each other. For a moment, just a moment, it felt close to how it felt when they technically shared a bed.

But then Scott remembered where they were. He remembered what was happening. As soon as his eyes started darting for any other potential solution, Eddie spoke up again.

“It’s not worth it, Skylark,” they said. “Even if you can make this stop and wake me up, I’ll still be in Shreveport and you’ll still be on the other side of the country. You can’t – I don’t think you can fix this.”

No, Scott hummed. No, Love. No no no no.

“It’s okay,” now Eddie was the one smiling, the one trying to comfort Scott. “I’m just glad I got to see you. T-To remember…” Eddie trailed off, unable to finish that thought.“Who knows? Maybe you’re proof that – that whoever they’re giving me to isn’t so bad.”

Rage swirled, unstable, through Scott’s body. He struggled to level his breathing, to push back the poison and fire until there was nothing but smoke and ash and ache.

He got close enough to Eddie to wrap his arms around them. It was the closest thing to their first proper hug, only it left Scott’s hands tucked awkwardly into dead air.

Eddie’s breath hitched. They were crying again.

“Oh,” they managed. “That’s really nice. I – I wish I could feel it.”

They stayed like that for a long time. The only thing that willed Scott to separate from them was a voice – or, more accurately, a ghostly chorus of several voices speaking in unison.

Have you come to see me, Birthright? It said.

Scott pulled back. He stayed looking at Eddie, trying to figure out if they could also hear the voice. Then it came again, and when it spoke a second time Scott became aware of a massive presence that loomed all around them. Like dropping a tray of plates in a crowded restaurant and suddenly feeling everyone’s eyes on you.

You may ask for my favor, it said, speaking carefully. You may discuss an alliance – after I finish my feed.

Eddie’s eyes widened and their hands began to tremble terribly. Then they clenched their eyes shut all together and hid their face again. Scott was left with his anger.

Fix this, he hummed to himself. Fix fix find save love love love Save my Love.

-

songbird taglist hop on off off bby

@kuebiko-writing @cartoonghosts

@atlasthecactus @aroaceghosties

@booksntea6982 @xarrixii

@mushroommanchanterelle @whoevenknowswhatimwriting

@fukurouonthesea

[thathomestar]

so hey, Dragon's Dogma 2! let's take a look at the new trailer.

on first glance i thought this was Gransys again, but this is most certainly not the case. we are in a different part of the continent! the ruins in the background look like the Bluemoon Tower, and while it'd be interesting if this new land was directly bordering Gransys, they are likely unrelated.

a bold move to put khajiit into Dragon's Dogma lol. now my comparisons to The Elder Scrolls make more sense! i wonder if they're playable. DD didn't really have demi-humans, you could shape your character to look like an elf or dwarf, but they were technically still human.

some shots of settlements. the buildings bear a striking resemblance to those found in Gran Soren, down to the red tiles on the rooftops. is this just a common architectural style in the continent or is there something else going on?

this sort of dynamic interaction in combat is the cornerstone of Dragon's Dogma, and i'm very glad to see it taken to the next level in the sequel. environmental hazards were a thing in the first DD, but they were few and far between, so having more of that and having it factor into combat is a big thumbs up from me.

i'm really hoping the new pawn system is good. it was a really ambitious mechanic that ultimately needed to be duct-taped together to work on a base level, but if you really dedicated yourself to training your pawn you would see the dividends. more in-the-field interactions like this is a welcome change, since in the original, if you wanted to change your pawn's inclinations, you'd either sit them down in a chair to change one (1) inclination a day, or force them to chug potions that cost a secondary currency that is somewhat annoying to obtain in the early game.

seeing grigori looking exactly the same as he did in the first game was kind of a surprise, and really begs the question whether or not we're stuck in a cycle again.

ultimately, i wonder how many ideas from the original vision of Dragon's Dogma are going to be explored here. are we gonna go to the moon in this one finally?

[willshipanything-blog]

Breaking the Rules- Chapter 20

Sorry for the delay!! I was on holiday, but I finally got back into it for real recently! Still hoping to finish by year's end (2 more chapters and a lil' epilogue).

Dove wants to move on from the horrors she saw yesterday, but Al has a plan that she might not like...

Full tags, as well as the fic if you prefer, is on AO3 here. As usual, minors please DNI!

Full Tumblr chapter index can be found here.

Hope you enjoy lovelies! 💜✌️✨

Chapter 20- The Best Laid Plans

Wake and sleep sparred with each other, and you undulated between the two as if on a wave of a vast, dark ocean. The fall, and you sank into the Stygian depths of unconsciousness, where nothing mattered, nothing existed. The rise, and you began to decipher faint sensations: a tinny, shrill ring of a phone; the shape of a body drifting between the slits of your barely-opened eyes; something warm and wet touching your cheek- a towel, or a kiss perhaps.

The sensations were there, but they were half-felt, fuzzy and faraway. As if you were swaddled in a protective cocoon that drowned the real and the tangible, allowing the abstract and the incorporeal to assail your mind and body, choosing to bring the ease of unconsciousness rather than face the reality of the situation. If you’d have fought harder, maybe you would have stayed awake. Whenever you did wake that day, sleep came again soon enough. The urge to drown in the vacuous ether was too alluring.

Even so, your sleep was hardly free from nightmares. The things you’d seen that day revisited you, a haunting specter stalking your sleeping hours. Apparitions of basements and locked doors and graves and packed dirt projected back at you, made worse by the dreamy haze that distorted the images; stretching and disfiguring the memories into unnatural shapes like reflections in a funfair mirror. Your own strained imagination added even more grotesque details you hadn’t even witnessed in that second basement: bloodstains on the stone tile, small rivulets of red slithering across the basement floor; the Grabber’s mask growing nearer, a menacing smile and muffled laughter behind it as it grew larger in your vision; Al’s pocket knife slick with blood, warm and wet against the cold steel of the blade.

A gasped inhale, and you jerked awake with a start. It was just a dream. That hadn’t happened. Well, it had happened, but not in the same vivid, nightmarish way as you’d dreamt. At least, not for you. Maybe you should have shuddered- at the fact that it had ended that way for the others- but you were changed now, corrupted and defiled. Living with that guilt was the price of allowing yourself a life of happiness with Al. Allowing yourself no pity as you remembered your own wicked resolve from that morning. Those horrors were in the past, and would never be forgotten, of course. But your will to stay with Al was as unyielding and strong as a bolted steel door. 

The warm light of golden hour, along with your still-heavy eyelids, invited sleep again. 

A brief reprieve from your nightmares as you woke once more, to darkness this time. Still sluggish, you moaned and raised your head from the couch pillows, surveying the living room. A thin strip of moonlight, silvery and sharp like a knife’s edge, shone through the gaps in the curtains. It carved an illuminated path upon Al, who was sitting across from you in his armchair, watching you. It reminded you of the time before, when you would wake on the mattress to the mask staring coldly, blankly at you. No mask now, but that was little comfort when his eyes looked so doleful in the cold starlight, and the small flash of teeth, that hint of a smile, felt performative. 

“Not time yet, little dove. Sleep a little longer, huh?” 

Even through the lethargy, you discerned a sad tinge behind the assuaging words of that gravelly voice. There was no time to ask questions (time for what?) or work out what was laid out on Al’s lap (something white and indistinguishable in the corners of your fading vision) before you lost the fight with your own consciousness. You reverted to your usual state of obedience, and followed his orders to sleep. 

When you woke again to a room aglow with morning light, the distant birdsong -the coos of the mourning doves and sharp trills of the juncos- announced a new day. Bright and clear, to match your mind; the foggy somnolence of the previous day had all but dissipated. You sat upright and let the blanket tumble to the carpet. 

Al wasn’t here, though you could still make out a slight Al-shaped indentation in the armchair across the room, could see an ashtray on the table beside it filled with cigarette butts he’d discarded, noted the blue cardigan he’d once gifted you laid out on the arm of the couch for you to wear. Funny, how everything you noticed was in relation to how Al had interacted with it. But then, whatever path your thoughts took, no matter how winding, always ended with him. All roads lead to Albert Shaw. You slipped the wooly cardigan on and thought, naturally, of Al.

For the most part, you didn’t think your feelings towards him had changed. Not really. Despite the truly atrocious things you’d uncovered yesterday, how much of that was really a new revelation of his treachery? 

Those graves- shocking as they were- weren’t some random bolt from the blue. Those deaths were no secret. It was just a matter of the grisly details, the procedure of what had come after, that Al had kept you from knowing. Those actions, so unforgivable and vile, were a shared, complicit sin between you and Al now. No one might believe a monster such as the Grabber would feel remorse for his actions. But you know Al is appalled by the things he’s done. That remorse isn’t enough for real justice, but it was enough for you to stay. 

And the little plot of earth that had been destined for you? You’d known the Grabber’s initial intentions for what he’d planned to do with you at the start of your captivity. But that wasn’t Al. He’d likely never stop apologizing for the things he’d inflicted on you, would never think himself enough atoned for them, despite your reassurances. 

Perhaps they weren’t enough to make up for his transgressions. Perhaps you weren’t sane enough to leave. It had become an emerging theme of your relationship- not being brave enough, strong enough, good enough. But maybe they could be just enough for the two of you, even if they fell short of other people’s margins for morality. 

As those thoughts solidified themselves like setting mortar, binding your resolve, Al appeared from the kitchen, breakfast tray in hand. He strode over silently, placing the tray on the table and handing you a plate of microwave waffles. There was no reply to your quiet thanks, and he sat down beside you without a word. Despite your assurance that you loved him last night, despite the ordeal of that second basement, you supposed he still worried that the things you’d found would be the final nail in the coffin, and you still might go. You spoke on the contrary as you picked at the food. 

“After breakfast, I’m gonna get a shower. Then, if you want Al, we can look at that box. The one you said had their things in it? We can decide what we want to do with it.” Placing your plate on the arm of the couch, you reached for the two mugs of coffee in sunshine-yellow mugs, turning to pass one to Al. His fingertips grazed yours as he took it. Maybe it caused a small static shock, because he finally responded as he gripped the cup.

“Sure, dove. I think breakfast and a shower will do you good.” 

If he didn’t want to discuss the other thing you’d mentioned, you weren’t going to push the matter. You simply gave a small smile, and tried to give Al (what you hoped was) an understanding look as you brought the coffee mug to your lips. Al didn’t reflect the same reassuring expression on his own face, and your stomach folded just a little with worry and an unknowing sense of dread. Hopefully that would soon pass.

Al had followed you into the bedroom, but had stayed behind as you headed to the bathroom. If you had images of him joining you in the shower, slow hands rubbing the grime from your body, massaging their way through your hair, they stayed imaginary. You washed, sloughing off the sweat from your foggy state, scrubbing the dirt of the basement floor from your legs where you’d crumpled in a pathetic heap, clearing your nail beds of soil and splinters from your attempts to erase the alternate reality that might have been. Each rivulet of brown water that dripped down your body was a reminder, but it was a release, too; the brown sludge departed down the drain, giving way to a clear stream. It was over. You just needed to remind Al that the two of you weren’t.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Al appeared lost in his thoughts, his back hunched and head bent like a beggar as he sat sideways on the bed. That signature nervous tic played on his hands as his thumbs paced up and down each fingertip in turn. His hurt wrist, chafed and red from his victory with a pair of handcuffs, had your eyes flicking to the bed posts for just a second. A missing slat on the headboard was the only other evidence of his fight, but he’d cleared away what you knew would have been a wreckage only 24 hours ago. 

You situated your body between his open legs. The towel around your body loosened, and it fell with a muffled thud on the floor. Al stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on your bare stomach, unmoving. Looking, but not seeing- as if trying to look through you maybe. Or past you. You didn’t want him looking past you; you were his present, his forever. Leaning forward, you took one of his twitching hands in yours, bringing it up to cup your breast. This invitation, you hoped, would be another proof of your desire to stay. That nothing would shatter the intimacy and love of what you’d made. Your other hand took his chin, and as you lifted his head, those devastating blue eyes finally met yours.

“Please, Al.” His name fell from your lips on a quiet breath. 

At your plea, his eyes softened whilst the hand at your breast pressed just a little tighter. Another hand clamped around your waist as he pulled you down gently beside him. Just one moment of Al staring at you with that uncertain look he’d worn since you’d woke. But you inched forward, and that first electric kiss sent a charge through both of you. A tangled embrace, suddenly, and it all became an abstract blur of fingers and mouths, bedsheets and moans. Maybe you were still delirious and half-asleep, for how quickly the scene passed; Al shirtless now, your mouth on his scarred chest; a hand woven through your locks; a hand slowly guiding apart your thighs before Al’s descended.

His tongue was gentle then fierce, that perfect mix of opposites that he so skillfully tightroped between. Which would this end up, you wondered. Al coaxed you close to that precipice before finding a less sensitive spot to tease, building up your pleasure so slowly, eking it out more than you ever thought he’d done before. You repeated your pleas from before, and unable to deny you no longer, Al took your throbbing clit in his warm mouth, sucking hard until you roared in ecstatic pleasure. Still in the midst of your high, Al climbed the bed, moving both of your bodies until he was above your prone form. An exhausted exhale and your eyes opened, finally coming down from your bliss, to see Al’s face inches from yours, observing you with an inquisitive look, as if he was studying the expressions and noises and features- every part of you- in that moment. 

“Wha-at?” you laughed, stuttering from the flurry of pleasure still giving your body those last few blasts of delicious chills. His thumb swept slowly down your cheek and along your jawbone, as if he was delicately tracing the pattern like an artist might memorize the shapes and outlines of their muse.

“You’re just perfect, dove. And I-” he paused, his expression a little too serious again “I just want you to know you’ll always be perfect to me,”

And then he was inside with push, echoed moans from his mouth then yours. His face vanished as he burrowed into your neck (tongue and teeth playing that game of pain and pleasure in turn), but with the feel of him completely sheathed inside of you, the imagined vision of him was enough to draw out another climax with each thrust.

“Right there, Al. I’m coming- Al, I’m yours!”

Perhaps his own growing climax didn’t allow his usual response of ‘mine’, but that thought was lost as you came undone. A hazy half-awareness that he’d done the same a moment later, holding your hips as he emptied his own pleasure inside of you. 

He flopped down beside you on the bed, where you were scooped into his arms, cocooned in his strong- yet soft- warmth. 

“I wish we could stay like this.” It was the first time today that Al had begun a conversation, and you craned your head to respond.

“We can, Al.” His head shook a fraction before his reply. “We can’t. I have to show you something.” So he wasn’t about to shy away from that final relic of the Grabber’s reign. The wooden box, which Al had said held some of the boys’ things. Perhaps he wanted you to help him decide what would be best. Or at least, what wouldn’t further desecrate their memories. 

A soft kiss on your temple before Al was up, rummaging through dresser drawers quickly before tossing you a few items onto the bed. You screwed your face as you picked up the pile, noting he’d tossed you an old t-shirt of his, along with a pair of his boxers. Though, looking across as his frantic scrabbling, you supposed it wasn’t deliberate and his mind was still reeling. Understandable, really. After you’d slung on the clothes, you realized Al was nearly dressed too, but had put on a rather more formal outfit compared with your half-naked ensemble. And familiar, too. His black flared trousers and black shirt, buttons opening like a wound, revealing the blood-red turtleneck underneath. The outfit he’d worn when you first met. That random scrabbling for clothes felt suddenly deliberate, but you rationalized it in your mind, reasoning an excuse to the disharmony of your outfits. 

“Do you have a magic show today?”

“No.” The too-short, flat response did nothing to ease the worry in your gut, swelling to give you a faint nauseated feeling, as if you’d inhaled noxious gas from one of his black balloons. Still, when he held out his hand with a quiet ‘c’mon, dove’, your still in-tact trust allowed you to be led through the house. 

The plain wooden box might have looked innocuous laying there on the kitchen table. That is, if it weren’t surrounded by other paraphernalia that had your heels rebelling against the rubber linoleum floor. Al continued forward; if he’d noticed you’d stopped, he paid no mind, and dragged you to the table. Near the edge stood the box. But behind, sat four things you weren't expecting- the pieces of the mask. The exaggerated grin and alabaster grimace sat side by side, just behind the other two fragments; the blank mouth and devil horns had been assembled together, ridges slotted to form a gruesome whole. It always was the expression you liked the least. And beyond the mask, some mess of papers you couldn’t quite make out. There was no puzzling what things were or why they were here, not right now, when Al directed your attention to the wooden box. 

“Their things,” he said, flipping the lid of the small box and taking a step back. Pushing aside the cold tone in which he’d spoken, you stepped tentatively to the table’s edge. Avoiding the silent, eyeless stares of the masks beyond, you bowed your head to look at the box. 

About the size and shape of a small jewelry case, you thought- before a morbid idea a half-second later pulled the corners of your mouth downwards into a grimace. It did contain treasures- trophies that the Grabber thought, what- interesting? amusing? to keep. You swallowed the disgust. Al (and you now, too) couldn’t make things right, of course- but at least this was something. Something to confront head-on, and then to move on from. Of all the wrong options you had, that perhaps seemed like the most right. Would you throw it in the trash? Burn it? You repressed the thought of burying it- that idea too much like an open wound in your mind after yesterday- and began to unpack.

Each item you plucked out, no matter how gently, still felt like a violation, as if you were shredding a piece of flesh from bone, a vulture pecking at carrion. 

A baseball card, slightly yellowed and scuffed round the edges from where it’d been handled and shuffled. Timeworn and well-loved, you surmised, from before the months spent stagnant in the basement. You placed it flat on the table, with a reverence it probably hadn’t seen in its frenetic, carefree trading days. A choker necklace emerged next, brilliant turquoise and woven from leather, a small daisy-embellished bead sitting in its center. Then a pack of bubblegum, its paper wrapper ripped in a curl a third of the way down, the remainder of the pack left forever unpopped. Finally, something cold as you reached in, pulling out a familiar object- the bike lock that had been a near-permanent fixture on the front door for months of your time here. It had belonged to one of them, then. A small, sad collection of memorabilia, and a sliver of a thought sliced through you, wondering what trinket might have been the Grabber’s souvenir of you. 

Looking down at the four items aligned in a row on the table felt too much like looking at those four piles of earth in a crooked row across the street, but you made yourself look all the same. A long silence before you inhaled deeply, and put the items back just as gently as you’d retrieved them, closing the box on its small hinge with a final quiet snap. 

“What are we going to do with their things?”

“You don’t need to worry about that, dove.”

“Al, I’m with you for this, I-” your speech trailed off as Al moved suddenly, stalking around the table to the end farthest from you. He scooped up the papers before marching back to you, thrusting the half-dozen or so sheets into your hands.

“Wha-”

“Just read it. Please.”  

The somber, reflective unboxing followed by this sudden rush of commands was jarring, and you took a second to catch up with what was happening. Still unsure of Al’s plan which he’d clearly formulated beforehand, you held the papers out in front of you. A jumble of ink and words vying for space on the page, the cramped handwriting slanted as if written in a desperate haste. You scanned the first few lines, barely taking in the message, racing through Al’s writing with a disbelieving, unblinking sweep of your eyes. 

My name is Albert Shaw….

 I am the Grabber….

I kidnapped and killed….

You scrunched your eyes tightly, as if suddenly being blind to this collection of words shattering your world would make them go away. You shook your head, trying and failing to calm your thudding heart punching against your ribcage, before looking Al in the eyes. His jaw was clenched and, with his hands by his sides, the familiar nervous tic had reappeared. He wanted this even less than you. So why did he think this was any sort of good idea?

A signed confession. It made sense, and the pieces slotted into place like a complete puzzle. Why you’d been so in and out of sleep yesterday- he’d given you something so he could prepare all this. The clutter of items on the tabletop- it was evidence, or would be soon enough, if Al’s lunacy allowed this plan to unfold. You wouldn’t let that happen.

“Al. What-”

“You know what it is, Y/N. My confession. Will you please just read it all? Please, dove. I need you to read it. You need to hear it.”

As much as you were ready to reject his argument, shred the paper into confetti rather than allow it to see the light of day, a small part of you did want to read it. To see that good person behind those layers of darkness and immorality, even if you would forbid him from actually going forward with such an insane scheme. You took a quivering breath, and began to read the confession of Albert Shaw. 

The note had been written in an obviously heightened state. Ink blots and smudges stained the page, and some grooves had embedded deep in places where the pen had pressed hard into the paper. Despite that, it was surprisingly coherent. Sections had been given to each of the boys. Not too much detail, but enough. About the items he’d kept, and about how he had ended each life. 

After four stomach-churning paragraphs, he’d written about you. Somehow, it was worse than having seen your own damn would-be grave. Your apprehension and fear of reading the confession turned into a heated fury as you read.

It was short. Too short. There were descriptions of how he’d taken you, the things he’d done to you in the beginning. But then, the language morphed into a vague series of sentences, outlining in imprecise terms how he’d decided to keep you alive, built up trust to allow you more freedom, how you’d been manipulated into believing you were attracted to him. So much of your story was left unwritten; nothing about your true feelings for each other. Nothing about your shared promises. He’d barely even mentioned your name, giving the whole thing an impersonal tone, which made it all the worse for its clinical coldness. It painted a picture of captivity, fear, violence and coercion. The Grabber and a captive. Not Al and his dove. 

Having read the final line, you curled your fists, the paper bunching in one of your hands. 

“No. You’re not doing this, Al. Maybe writing this was cathartic for you, but this is as far as that letter goes!” 

That made you sound truly monstrous. You didn’t care. You’d fought tooth and nail, pushed past so much horror, to find yourself capable of loving this man, and to hear that he loved you too. And he was going to throw you away, hand himself over just like that?

“I have to do this, sweet. I don’t know what else to do.”

“This?!” you waved the papers in front of his face, crinkled in your clenched fist. “It’s bullshit! Lies!”

“Did I make up those crimes?”

You faltered. The first half of the confession had been the honest truth. He had done those things, and you weren’t denying that. Committed unquantifiable harms. Nothing penned on that confession was an outright lie. But he’d omitted things later on in his note, those sinful secrets the two of you shared under the bedsheets. You already knew Al’s stance: secrets were not the same as lies. You were desperate, scrambling to try and find a loose thread in his argument to unravel this knot, unspool Al’s oh-so-perfectly made plans to fucking ruin everything.

“I’ll tell the police the truth. About us. ” 

“And what, just get yourself in trouble for no reason? It won’t change the fact that there’s four bodies over there in a house with my name on the deed.”

“But- Max! He knows how we feel about each other!”

“Like it says in there,” he nodded towards the papers still concertinaed in your fist. “Coercion. Persuasion. It’s not far from the truth.”

When your palm made contact with his cheek, his head barely moved, despite the force with which you’d slapped him. He twisted it back slightly, sucking his teeth but otherwise inert to the pain. 

“It’s a long fucking way from the truth, Al!”

You weren’t some mindless doll, a puppet forced to dance on strings manipulated by Al’s hands. You’d been sickened, then confused, then conflicted. But it was real, had become real, for both of you. You knew that much. 

“Why did you write it like that? It reads like you forced me to love you. That’s not how it happened!”

“Wasn’t it?” His sapphire eyes looked pained, but his voice had an almost bitter, spiteful quality behind it. As if confessing to being the Grabber was bringing out that cold-blooded monster. “Can’t you see, Y/N? What you feel- it isn’t love. It’s not real.” 

Your head shook violently, denying the words. No. He had never manipulated you into falling in love with him. He wasn’t going to trick you into believing it was all a lie now. 

“I chose to stay Al. You gave me that choice, and I stayed because I love you. Don’t you DARE tell me my feelings are not reality.”

“It’s all been an illusion. Just a magic trick.” A hint, just a hint, of that eerie, lilting voice behind the words. The Grabber’s voice, lurking in the shadows of his throat. 

“Stop.” It was hard to speak suddenly, your mouth dry and vision blurring. “Stop lying. You’re not going to convince me my feelings are wrong,”- though Al’s assured tone told you that perhaps he’d convinced himself of those lies- “Don’t you love me, Al?” You managed to center yourself enough to give him a hard stare as you asked that question. 

“Aw, I do love you, dove,” that mocking condescension had taken center stage now, “But it’s irrelevant. Monsters' feelings don’t count at all.”

“If they don’t count, then why do you get to admit you love me, and say my feelings are untrue?”

Al gripped your arm, guiding you roughly towards the kitchen bench before pushing you to sit. Your body and mind were still reeling from the shock of the confession, your uncooperative limbs easy enough for Al to maneuver, even if he wasn’t far stronger than you. 

“Because, little thing,” he snarled, close enough to your ear that you felt the hot breath and spittle as he spewed his vitriol, “I’m the one who’s in charge, remember? I took you, Y/N.  Locked you away in the basement. I hurt you. I raped you. I almost killed you,” the abhorrent pictures Al described crowded your head with such ugliness- all too much, but he didn’t let up. “And then you thought I’d changed, right? Making cute promises to make you feel safe, making it all feel daring and exciting, no? I even fucked you exactly how you liked. If I said you were mine enough times, you were eventually going to repeat it.” 

You were only-half aware you were shaking your head, trying to hold onto the grain of truth in your soul, a truth that still existed with the faintest radiance, despite the black thoughts Al was pouring into you. It was real. He was saying all this to lessen the blow. If he kept up this charade, convinced you that these lies were maybe true, it would hurt you less to be apart. You heard someone bellow ‘No!’, realizing a beat later the voice came from your own mouth. Your wobbly legs tried to stiffen, to stand yourself up, but heavy hands on each of your shoulders slumped you back down onto the seat. 

“Enough fighting, love. It was all just an exploitation of your emotions. You did what you had to to survive. Played my mad games. Leaned into the illusion that you were happy and safe and loved a monster like me. But it’s over.”

It wasn’t an illusion. Was it? A voice, somewhere deep in the depths of your own mind, a voice you’d locked away in a basement of her own, asked that question. Like Al, you had another self you’d locked away- but was she the voice of reason, the girl who was scared and disgusted and wanted to get away all this time? 

Your chest constricted, the room tilting as if on an axis. Did the kitchen seem small, claustrophobic? Or impossibly vast? You were numb, barely cognizant that the papers still in your hands were being taken away, Al bringing them round the side of the table and smoothing the crinkled pages on the flat tabletop. He reached for the object beside the confession, and you watched in paralyzed horror, knowing what step of his plan came next. 

Even after all that, she hadn’t quite accepted the confession Al had written, and had still argued against him taking this final leap. Finding out that he intended to admit to everything, hand himself in, had broken her. The gruesome details had surely haunted her, but nothing seemed to shatter her more than his attempt to convince her that what she felt was a duplicity, nothing more than a coping mechanism for her helpless situation. 

Al thought his words had almost hit their mark, would hurt and bleed her enough for her to realize she was better off without him. But he knew she was holding onto hope with everything she had. He hadn’t swayed her, not quite. Still, he had to forge ahead with his plan, whether she wanted this or not. It was just another choice he’d have to snatch away from her. In time, she would see that what he would do today was for the best. 

He was the Grabber. He’d played the part of ‘good man’ Albert Shaw for long enough. The best months of his life- because he’d spent them with her. Even if he no longer felt the urges he once did, Al did feel real remorse for his crimes. To finish this once and for all, he’d slip back into his old self, inhabit the role of that monster one final time. After he affixed the mask to his face, he strode towards her with purpose, her eyes popping open wide in horror. One last awful act he’d inflict on her, before she’d be free forever. 

[prof-ramses]

Ramses Recommends : The monsters of Rodrigo Sousa's "Playground" trailer

This is gonna be the first of a new bred of post around here called Ramses Recommends, where I give a brief, spoiler free argument on why a piece of media deserves more attention before doing a deep dive into a particularly notable aspect of it for those who are cool with spoilers.

Our first subject is a proof of concept video on you tube titled "Playground I trailer", meant as a way for the short's France based creator to pitch the setting for a potential series or film and possibly a video game in the future, which, I'm happy to say, has worked.

Sousa's been contacted by a group willing to produce an animated.... something in the Playground world. The full project is still in early stages, but Rodrigo has confirmed he'll show more as soon as he can.

Spoiler-free Synopsis: We get several peeks into the struggle of kids in a monster filled ecosystem in a massive, liminal, jungle-gym like structure.

If what you've read so far peaks your interest, check the short here. And going further, the behind the scenes can be found here.

SPOLIER SEGMENT AHEAD

Now, for those who came back, or just decided to read on, let's get into the real meat and taters of this thing, the monsters populating this world.

I'll give my 2 cents on each design and give them a name, for convenience in discussion, if for nothing else.

Scuttleface

Off to a fairly typical start, two siblings (who we follow for most of the short) are hiding in a large dragon(?) statue and as one looks out the mouth/balcony, this critter comes by and open his main peepers.

Not much to say about this thing, among the more tame designs.

Stoplight Man

As the thumbnail, this guy is somewhat of the de facto mascot of Playground.

Stalking a tunnel maze, this ghoul spins his face in his skull to reveal a glowing grinning grimace. Any kid caught in the light best not move until the face spins again. Otherwise...

...Yeah

Blanket Eel

The kids hide under a "sea floor" of blankets while this blushing fish listlessly glides over them.

Nothing special, but I like it's little nose and scraggy hair, they add some character.

Pool Noodle

What else was I supposed to call this guy?

The same siblings who seemingly escaped the eel are now on a freaky duck floaty boat and starring down this lovely fellow.

Noodle doesn't actually move, but his intestine like namesakes slink through the waters of his tiled domain.

Also, his face vaguely looks like a dick tip and I can't tell if that's a "peeing in the pool" joke.

The Ballpit Babies

This sole shot is all we get of these eggs, but they're clustering together evokes a ballpit and reminds me of Muncher Marathon from DKCR, which is a good thing for any horror media.

Night Lights

The siblings get a moment's rest as they watch this precession of cutesy crittters.

My absolute favorite is the little shrink-wrapped lizard. Does it grow in water, I wonder?

Blanky Banshee

This madam wanders an extra decrepit party place. The glow in the dark stickers littering the place fitting her eye motif.

Weirdly, her abdomen seems to be made of exposed guts and her nose resembles the Blanket Eel. I can't help but ponder the possible connection.

And a brief moment of silence for the kid who shined a flashlight on this thing.

Big Bad Baby-Bat-Barfing Bug-Bat Beast

The least uncanny/liminal monster, not that that's much comfort.

The siblings barrel towards this thing in a fish shaped minecart, as the older kid bats bats out of the air with a mallet.

This particular domain seems to be the most foreign to the rest, meaning that I'm really excited to see more of it in the full Plaground.

Jim Jungle and his Shape Pals

This isn't actually how we meet Jim, but I love his spidery behavior matches his monkey bar abode.

When we see him chase the siblings, he unleashes the three shapes on his stomach as smaller arachnophobia generators to catch them.

I'd say he ties with Stoplight Man for iconographic value.

Cuddly

Still brandishing the mallet, the older sibling jumps off a trampoline towards this creepily baby like kraken.

And we get this:

RIP

The Monster Under The Bed

We don't see anymore of this little doofus than this shot, but it feels oddly... Friendly.

It doesn't feel righ to imagine this guy to be one of the boogimen here, despite his complexion.

And lastly,

Uncle Krampus

Even though his lore probably doesn't exist yet, I NEED IT!

Despite being dragged away by him, the younger sibling doesn't seem be wiling to put up much of a fight. Is he just a strict but still benevolent presence, one that keeps kids save here?

His fanny pack, bells and realistic, relatively unassuming pitchfork create the impression of a knowledgeable guide through this strange place.

Definitely the monster I want to see more of the most.

So there you have it, the first Ramses Recommends. I hope you loved it and loved it's subject, until next time, play safe ;)

[diverging-tides]

Hunter, whenever he has a particularly triggering nightmare, will stress bake/make desserts until he’s tired again, or passes back out. (as opposed to training until he passes out on the mat, which is no longer an option because Macaque locks the dojo now)

The things he makes are random and depend entirely on what’s available, ingredient-wise, as well as the quantity (ranges anywhere from ten to two hundred in those terms), and Macaque has found Hunter passed out on the kitchen tile with counters full of different desserts on several different occasions. While Hunter sleeps off his bad dream, Macaque will set aside a few treats for himself (Hunter doesn’t particularly like sweets, and has specifically requested to NOT have any of his late night confectioneries saved for himself) and send the rest off to Pigsy’s to be sold off as a kind of dessert special that actually makes a decent chunk of money

When Jack first experienced this phenomenon (he sleeps over sometimes), he legitimately thought he was still dreaming because he walked into the kitchen to find several counters full of different flavors of pudding with Macaque sorting through it all, and a cat sleeping in the middle of it all with the same coloration as Hunters hair (this is actually the exact incident that Jack learned about Hunters ability to shape-shift)

Needless to say, Macaque now sets aside dessert portions for Jack too whenever Hunter has a bad night.

[annlillyjose]

dairy whiskey – update 05 – i finished the book!

[image description: on a background of large, green leaves, a white serif font reads “dairy whiskey – update 05” / end id]

feels so weird to say this, but this is the last update for dairy whiskey – the litfic novel for messed up people (aka me and my pals)

the stats, the facts:

i finished writing this book on 28/06/2023 around 4:00 am

the first draft rests at 76,684 words

this book has ten chapters and ten vignettes

i am deeply sorry to dinah for all the pain i’ve caused her

i miss this book so much already that i cannot sit a minute without thinking about it

i am officially a wreck. a proud one regardless.

i also have a few goodies for y’all!

the dairy whiskey playlist

redeemed by ransom – the dairy whiskey chapbook

unsplash collection

if you think i’m obsessed with my book, yes, i am. i very much am i most likely will be for a long time (if not the rest of my life).

fun fact: i finished writing it a day before my twentieth birthday, so it’s officially the book i wrote through my late teens. gonna be super emo and say, “i grew up with this book!”

so, again, welcome to the final update for dairy whiskey, covering the last three chapters and vignettes.

excerpts and taglist under the cut.

disclaimer: this is an original work of fiction. plagiarism of any kind will not be tolerated.

TWs:

chapter eight – mahalath leannoth

i’ve got two excerpts to share from this chapter. they’re super no-context, you know the drill.

The door to the room had been open, so I stumbled in, rosary in hand. Safety pins were scattered on the bed, some of them bent from pressure. The windowpane and the tiles next to it were covered in talcum powder. On the dressing table were two glasses of black coffee, its dry stain in rings on the bottom of it. It smelled of sweat and American body mist. One of the two pillow covers had been burned with an iron box, leaving an eye-shaped hole in the middle. Curly hair patterned the floor. Among those, like the promised silver lining in a dark cloud, I found it – a white strand of hair, thin, wavy, and membraned in cobwebs.

welcome back, grandma. bye again.

the next excerpt is another one of the thousand melodramatic emotional experiences that dinah goes through.

Nothing made noise. Every lone thing that had been alive and blooming in the village had died. Every land was barren, every river was flooding, every beautiful thing had turned to dust. Every face only a blur and every sound, a cry for help. Everything bleak and bleached, everything lost. Everything was gone and yet, the lives of everyone else remained the same; remained unchanged. Every family untouched but mine. All of them fortunate but mine. Everybody in their nests but me, a raven, flying about the village with a song in its head. It had come from nowhere, cutting through my silence, and it would stay forever as a muffled hum. A somber cry.

it actually runs a bit longer but yeah. that will be it for now.

vignette eight – lover’s vengeance

no excerpts from this chapter. enjoy the silence.

chapter nine – womb stain

teeny tiny excerpt from this one because i can never really shut up.

Mist covered the plantation and the road to the house. It rested in like a chiffon skirt.

vignette nine – vortex of wrath

we’re back with austin vignettes and pretty pretty prose for this pretty pretty boy.

Austin has been both abyss and mirrorball, but today, he is reborn in dirt. He is human more than he is boy. More than an accumulation of lessons and silences forced into place. Today, he is free, his wings unclipped, his fire unleashed. Today, he is lover. His ribs are knives sharpened against the metallic ring of revenge. His hands, mapped with fury, make love with sin. Today, he is man more than he is son. He is tide. He beats against the shore. Today, he takes in a sweep.

this goes on for another half an hour (more or less) because austin is everybody’s favourite and he deserves the world.

chapter ten – wine hearts

only one excerpt from this chapter too.

I woke up in the afternoon with pain piercing through my head. I sat up in bed, clutching chunks of hair in my fists. I buried my head in the pillow and groaned, but the pain remained. I got up and went to the bathroom. I turned the shower on and stood under it, the water, cold despite the sun, falling on my skin. My skin melted under it like a glacier, heat escaping every pore that had trapped it in. I lathered shampoo into my hair and soap onto my skin. I washed myself clean, brushed my teeth, and dried my hair with a towel. I wiped my body with another and changed into a fresh pair of clothes – an olive-green T-shirt and a creme long skirt.

also runs longer and talks about more things dinah does that are… ahem… unfortunately relevant to the (no) plot.

vignette ten – the beginning and the end

so, this is a vignette i might actually take out. i like how the story ends without it and kinda feel like this doesn’t fit that well, but we’ll see about that next month when i sit down for edits.

until then, that’s it! that’s my book! big thanks to everyone who supported me throughout the process of writing it. hope y’all get to hold this in your hand real soon!

– ann.

general taglist (ask to be added or removed)

@shaonsim @heartfullkings @vnsmiles @dallonwrites @sienna-writes @violetpeso @flip-phones @rowansghost @ambidextrousarcher @zoe-louvre @writing-with-l @magic-is-something-we-create @femmeniism @frozenstillicide @wizardfromthesea @rose-bookblood @coffeeandcalligraphy @rodentwrites @saltwaterbells @snehithiye @at-thezenith

[enby-wrights]

i have not written marble hornets fanfiction in almost four years so let’s find out if i still enjoy writing it :D this is some mid season two masky and hoody interaction, i plan on making another shitty 1am thinkpiece about these two clowns but for now have some projection :) all you really need to know for now about my interpretations of these scrunkly motherfuckers is that masky is mostly not tim and is semi verbal, where as hoody is is mostly brian and is completely non-verbal. please enjoy maybe :)

content warning: weird religion stuff

“brian,”

brian looked down from the grooves in the brick wall he had been staring holes into for the past fifteen minutes, and his gaze locked onto tim, who was gazing blankly at the dark sky. 

“brian,” again, with a slightly different vowel shape.

ah. brian was familar with this game. tim was lying on his back at his feet, adjusting his mask so that the bottom edge of it sat on his chin and the eyeholes lined up with his line of sight. brian looked down at him patiently and listened as he felt through the words.

“brian. jury. observe. above”

this was something that tim did a lot, whenever he was out in the woods with brian: reciting a series of slow, muffled words that he deemed comfortable in his mouth. 

“raise. angel. beneath, beneath, below, aside.”

brian had even begun to notice the patterns in these moments. usually, it was a string of between twenty and forty words (the furthest outliers in brian’s memory were a case of fourteen and two separate cases of forty six). usually, the words were only one or two syllables. usually, a word or two would repeat. usually, the series would begin with brian’s name.

“flood. tile. slip. bark. kite. lake. see.”

usually, brian’s name would appear a few times.

“exe- exce- except?” tim recoiled at that. that one must have been wrong.

“excerpt. exodus. ark. lace. brian. tide, tide. excerpt, tide, excerpt.”

it was easy to tell when tim was nearly done with the game: he would begin to repeat himself without any changes in shape. just the same words repeated exactly the same way. 

“leave. excerpt, tide. exodus. angel. angel. angel. angel.”

there was a silence. sharp black eyeholes turned in the general direction of where one would assume brian’s eyes might be. brian knew what it meant.

well, then?

as usual, brian didn’t have a response. tim was asking him for his thoughts, and he didn’t quite have those. not the kind that translated into words or sentiments. he mostly just had an ache settled deep in the center of him-- warm, throbbing, and dripping where it sat.

the ache said, i am much more than an angel.

the ache said, i am so far beyond divine, and yet so far below it.

the ache said, i am the ocean and the exodus and the word. i have the blood of a lamb and the teeth of a snake and i have lain in the lord’s soil with his very son.

brian looked down at tim’s mask, still worn incorrectly so that he could look straight up at brian. the night was silent and still and uncharacteristically empty. they would be found soon, and when the morning came, tim would not ache like brian, but he would at least hurt, and then they would have one pain in common. tim would hurt, and he would look toward brian for help, through two wide, black holes in a cheap plastic mask so ill-fitting that he had to crane his neck just to see straight through the eyeholes.

if brian were someone else, he probably would have laughed.

[sarcasticdolphin]

todolf conservatory au request.. can’t wait to see them scramble to deal with rudolf’s (and tod’s??) disappearance I’m like the yes ha ha ha yes meme

"Missing"

The beginning of the aftermath. Colloredo's POV. Under the cut for length and the fact that Colloredo has thoughts about Mozart that College Deans really shouldn't be having about students ....

The receptions after graduation ceremonies were Hieronymus’ most and least favorite events to attend, depending on the day. Who would say no to alcohol on the college’s dime? Then again the swill that was labeled champagne barely made the cut.

Normally he wouldn’t stay long - enough to offer a toast to the new graduates and not raise eyebrows, but no longer. That all went out the window when the Chancellor’s son was one of the students graduating. Hieronymus was now on his fifth glass of whatever was in those little plastic cups, and instead of a pleasant buzz, all that he had managed to grant himself was the beginnings of a severe headache. 

He wasn’t the senior administrator - what with the Chancellor here and all - but somehow that just made it worse. Awkward moments came and went. He congratulated students he’d never seen before, avoiding the few who he’d had the occasion to meet under earlier less joyful circumstances. 

The minutes felt like hours, but gradually the crowd thinned and Hieronymus found himself standing next to the chancellor, offering congratulations on the graduation of his son through slightly gritted teeth. He couldn’t say he was sad to see Rudolf von Habsburg leave, what with the whole mess with Tod. The mess Hieronymus had never really gotten to the bottom of. 

Franz accepts the thanks gracefully enough, but his brow furrows. It’s getting late, and the reception is almost over. Wherever has Rudolf gone off to?

Hieronymus glances around, not seeing the boy who had vexed him far more than most. Franz has his phone to his ear when Hieronymus turns back, waiting patiently through the rings, until it goes straight to voicemail. He tries again, but nothing changes.

“Odd.” Franz’s brow is furrowed more properly now. “I swear he’s glued to that thing most of the time.”

He tries once more to no avail before muttering something under his breath. 

The cold click of heels on the tile announces Franz’s wife. “Elisabeth.” Her arrival brings a smile to Franz’s face, even if the worry never left his eyes. Hieronymus felt the odd urge to duck his head before the icy statue in the shape of a woman. She always had that effect, or so his predecessor had said.

Franz’s wife was beautiful, or perhaps it was more that she had been beautiful. The Botox was well done, but the lack of lines in her face seemed to Hieronymus more unnatural than youthful. Franz had aged gracefully. His wife seemed content to spend obscene sums of money to avoid the same, but in Hieronymus’ view she was worse off in the end.

“Our son is being petulant.” Franz sounds resigned more than anything else. “Would you?”

The young woman who accompanied the Chancellor’s wife - Hieronymus had been introduced to her once, but he couldn’t recall her name - dutifully pulled a phone from the purse she carried and handed it over to Elisabeth. Even the simple act of carrying her own phone was evidently beneath the icy goddess that Franz had married. What he saw in her, Hieronymus would never understand. 

The rings came again. Straight to voicemail. 

“He hates this sort of social event. He probably headed back to the house, and his phone is just in another room. Or he can’t hear it over the piano.” Franz’s words ring hollow to Hieronymus’ ears, like the Chancellor is trying to convince himself most of all. 

The Chancellor and his icy Empress depart together, and Hieronymus for his part slips off into the night. He needs something stronger than the swill from earlier.

—-------------

He dreams of his composer, of the pretty thing coming to heel. Accepting guidance. Because Wolfgang Mozart was a diamond in the rough, so incredibly talented but without the discipline to use said talent. No matter. Others - Hieronymus - could provide the needed guidance. And the young man would look so pretty on his knees.

Dream-Mozart was nothing like his real counterpart, all platitudes and doe eyes. So submissive, and so willing to learn. To please. 

So no one could blame Hieronymus for the storm of curses that erupted as his phone pulled him from his dream. 10 am already. He squints enough to see the caller ID. Franz. Fuck.

“Colloredo.” Hieronymus’ voice sounds hoarse even to his own ears

—------------

There’s not really much he can tell the officers. Yes, Rudolf had attended graduation. But the reception had been so crowded, and Hieronymus hadn’t seen Rudolf there. He’d been busy. The detective coldly scribbles notes. 

The questions are mostly generic, and Colloredo’s clouded brain gives automatic answers until the last one. Is there anything else they should know?

He swallows. Because there is. God on high, there certainly is. 

“He was quite close to Professor Tod.” An understatement if ever there was one. But that’s all his muddled brain can conjure for now. Thoughts dart back and forth - close wasn’t the right word. But he couldn’t think of another. 

The detective thanks him and Hieronymus offers a brief prayer that Rudolf is simply hiding out at his erstwhile advisor’s house and avoiding his father. It seems in character enough. 

Advisor. Because Tod had been Rudolf’s advisor in the end. Hieronymus would be lying if he didn’t find the circumstances more than a little suspicious, but there was nothing. Infuriatingly, there was nothing save perhaps the echo of smirk as Tod had ever so graciously offered to step in at the last minute, and as Colloredo had forced a thankful acceptance of said offer through clenched teeth, thinking all the while that it would be what the department head would have wanted. Of all semesters this would be the one the man was on sabbatical.

Arco emerges with a file for the officers. Tod’s address, hopefully. Then this can all be over. And perhaps Tod might even just step far enough over the line. The fraternization rules were stricter than most. And part of Hieronymus was all too happy to envision that conversation, much as he usually hated them and found talking to Tod more than a little unnerving most of the time. Because that was the sort of conversation that ended with a resignation if the professor had any idea what was good for them.

And then Hieronymus would be free of his accursed doppelganger. Yes, perhaps this whole affair, inconvenient as it was, would have a positive outcome in the end.

[visxionaries]

who: @omerflorent​ where: the kingdom of the reach, cedric’s former quarters before he took the regency and basically before everything. he isn’t quite sure as to how he ended up back here this evening, but kit remains laid up in a corner beside a hearth, and the man finds himself at a table with a tower of books regarding the possible beginnings of the citadel. 

it had been years since the king of the reach had found himself in this corner of the sprawling grounds of highgarden, the smaller-cottage like building that was his primary place of rest in the days before he took the regency from his brother. back when he was insistent on separating his personal life from the antics of courtly politics, where his silver tongue could drop, and where he could find a moment to reflect on his actions of that day. 

in whatever matter his father and his older brother had wished for him to discuss with those noble houses of the reach he was able to converse with better, his conversation more free-flowing, as though there was no motive or veil behind his words. he was used in that regard, used to build connections that felt so utterly fake and false; as though each smile meant absolutely nothing. and as night turned into night, and the matter continued, and whatever information they required seamlessly returned back to them, it began to feel natural. natural for everything to be false. 

for words to mean nothing in truth.

to step within these rooms again felt as though the lines of time blurred, and he somehow felt as though this was just another night either thirteen or three years ago; when he stood on the very edge of teetered change. the candles were lit again, and the presence of any servants were dismissed after the hearth had been crackling and a solitary dinner had been had - and not an inch of him felt alone. he felt as though he needed, no, wanted to be alone. if only for an hour as he slouched upon the velvet recliner, hearing the sound of kit’s bushy tail swishing against the tiled floors beside the fireplace. 

one could assume his interest in the citadel would be a result of his own personal interests - but no. perhaps once he could have admired the establishment of great majestic learning for what it was, and yet now, there was another voice in the back of his head that spoke to him of something else. spoke to him of the dangers of one establishment being able to write, or shape, a narrative in the history books. gone were the days he could find simple, innocent fascination in it. 

he heard a knocking at the, admittedly, rickety door. and he heard the sound of the brightwater accent cursing what sounded like some part of it falling off. “what?” cedric called, remaining in the same position, knowing all too well who it was. his whirlwind of a cousin, who admittedly had the biggest heart in all the realm. 

[thepinkwriterr]

Capricorn Season Chapter Twenty-Eight

Table of Contents  

Word Count: 3.5 k

As the lights dimmed Gwen found herself standing at the base of the stage, her neck craned to catch a glimpse of Ozzy. Smoke filled the sides of the stage, creeping onto the tile of the club. The lights came on in a flash, bathing the stage in a purple glow.

They began with the usual set: Paranoid, which turned into Black Sabbath, then went into Iron Man. These were among her most liked songs by them. N.I.B was heavy and guitar-driven, so naturally, it was her all-time favorite. War Pigs was a close second.The main set came to a close with Wicked World.

The band took a small break after this, which consisted of Ozzy guzzling water and the rest of the band having a smoke. She trekked backstage to join them. They were delighted to see her-- smiles and greetings abound whenever she entered.

"Good set so far, guys!" She was full of vitality as she spoke to them.

They were more than happy to hear her praise. Any publications that spoke about the band were lambasting them for their dark lyrics and "satanic" imgagry. This particularly irked Tommi, who was the main songwriter. He wanted to give all those journalists a good beat down.

"Thanks, we're really givin' it our all tonight!" Geezer shouted as he patted his face dry. "Leavin' it all on the stage!" Bill said with a laugh.

He was perhaps the sweatiest. He looked like someone drenched him in water. His shirt was soaked with large stains under the arms. She could smell him from across the room but tried to ignore it. It was a familiar scent; the guys wore the same perfume every night. It wasn't a pleasant smell but did signal a victory. It was an unsavory testament to their passion, a tactile reminder of how hard they worked each night. "Hey, Gwen, did you like what I did out there?" Ozzy asked, out of breath and full of glee. He sounded like a child, asking for the adoration of their mother. She laughed and nodded, telling him how cool he looked.

"I loved when you pulled that move and it flipped your hair everywhere. You looked awesome!" She said.

He shouted excitedly, shaking his head. Sweat from his hair shot out in all directions, making contact with her skin. "Here." Tommi offered her a small towel. She grimaced and wiped her arms clean.

The group was dizzy with all of the energy from stage. Ozzy was spun from headbanging. She filled a few more frames with them sitting around. It was a perfect shot. They were all pushed together, sitting impossibly close. She wondered how they could do that with all of the sweat and heat that radiated off of them. It wasn't long until the manager came by and knocked on the green room door. He told the group they had five minutes left of their break. He was a large Jewish man with white hair a U-shaped hairline, much like an old man. He wasn't as tall or rotund as Peter and not nearly as intimidating. Gwen thought he seemed like a good guy, one who was good with business. She followed the group into the hall, where Ozzy grabbed her arm before they went out to the stage.

"Right, so when Electric Funeral begins I am planning on doing something pretty cool. Can you be sure that you're ready?" "Yeah, I can do that," she began to stifle her laughter, "can I see your move first?"

He nodded and moved back, his spine almost hitting the wall. He jumped up, spinning with his leg in the air. The fringe of his jacket spun with him and his cross necklace slapped against the cement wall.

"Ah, fuck, that wasn't it. Let me try again." He groaned.

He attempted the move once again, moving more gracefully this time -- until it was time to land. His booted foot hit the wall with a thud. That was the sound of the heel on cement. "Fuck!" He shouted, crumbling to a pile.

She held in more laughter and sunk down to his height. "Are you okay? That was a nasty fall."

He nodded and sat up, not looking embarrassed at all. Whether it was feigned confidence or the actions of a bumbling mad man, he simply stood and walked on stage. She was left bemused holding a camera that needed a film change. Electric Funeral would be coming soon so she needed to hurry. Panic set in as she rushed to finish the ritual. She unloaded the current reel with haste, discarding it her bag after she put it in the plastic tube for safekeeping. She busied her hands and was on the floor in no time. When the familiar marching of Electric Funeral began she pulled the Nikon to her eye and waited for Ozzy to move. He performed his patented spin, this time not falling to the floor. She chuckled as she clicked the button, the sound of the shutter drowned by music.

- When the show was over the band coaxed her into staying with them. She was hesitant at first, remembering the first shows after-party. They promised there wouldn't be a big party this time. Their begging smiles were only a signal to their partial lie. The party wasn't large, just a few women and other bands. She was still overwhelmed but the sounds, sights, and smells were mild. It wasn't long before she'd had her fill and told the band that she was leaving. "Oh, c'mon, you haven't even met Santana! You would love them." Ozzy pleaded with her to come and meet friends of theirs.

She thought for a moment, interrupted by more pleading, and decided to go. It was like having another Bonzo around, just less bitter. She was quickly introduced to the members of Santana. She'd heard of their performance a year earlier at Woodstock but had never listened to them. They were unkempt and high, just as everyone else she'd met in the last three months. But they had one thing no one else did: Carlos Santana.

Their guitarist, Carlos, was an attractive man with dark facial hair. Upon meeting her, he was charming and alluring. He took his hand in hers and kissed the top of it, causing her to blush.

He was immeaditly attracted to her and he could tell the feeling was mutual. He took note of the way her eyes glittered at his compliment. "I am flattered, but I feel I should tell you, I do have a boyfriend." Her voice was girly and giggly.

"That's no problem."

She laughed again and retorted, "The fact of the matter is that he's Jimmy Page." His expression changed. "Well, that is a problem, then. But I'm sure we can find a way around that."

They shared a laugh and another member introduced themself. His name was Gregg, the lead singer. She was pleased to find he was less forward. He gave a smile and handshake. Then she met Gus, the bass player, and Roy, the drummer. After introductions were over she made casual conversation with them. They spoke easily and openly, making her feel more comfortable and less out of place. Carlos asked why she was there. She told them about her job, relating it back to shooting for Sabbath.

"Oh, wow, you should come shoot for us sometime! We're actually looking for a photographer." "If you'd like, I can get you in contact with my boss and we can arrange some time." "That would be great. I'll hand it over to my manager when we get back to our hotel. That is...if we ever do," he chortled.

She thought his laugh sounded nice.

Gregg's ears pricked up at the knowledge that she was in the business and began telling her about the new album they'd recorded. She nodded along as he told her about the influences used on the new album. She was intrigued and told him she would love to hear it when it came out. Ozzy interrupted their social hour to tell Gwen that they were leaving, off to have another adventure. They were going to hit the town. He asked, insisted rather, if she wanted to come. She had no choice but to say yes, of course.

"Are y'all coming?" She asked, looking to the members of the other band. "Y'all? I love her, man!" Gregg laughed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He pulled her in with a tight squeeze. She could smell the booze on his breath as she laughed.

"Yeah, sounds like a plan." Carlos nodded.

"Let's go!" Ozzy yelled, already making his way to the elevator. He was lively and animated, more awake than she'd ever seen him. She figured her was on cocaine. They piled into the car, Gwen smooshed between Carlos and Ozzy. Bill, Geezer, and Roy had decided to stay back, which Ozzy berated them for. But there was no changing their minds as they settled in for bed.

She felt at peace knowing she wasn't totally surrounded by Brits. Carlos, Gregg, and Gus were Mexican-American. Their accents were a comfort to her. She could feel her identity as a Yankee fading being with Zeppelin most of the time. They were also California natives, an additonal comfort. "How are you enjoying your tour?" Carlos asked.

"Oh, it's great! I get to take photos every night and just hang out. It's a great job, really helps me avoid responsibility."

He really was an attractive man. He was tall, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Jimmy, and had a large tangle of dark curls. His hair wasn't dark or meandering as Jimmy's, it was chestnut brown and coiled. His voice was deep and smooth, very different from Jimmy's buttery soft tone. Carlos was not feminine and demure, unlike Jimmy, but direct and brazen. He still had a gentle stroke inside him, one you needed to be a musician. He told her about his love of tour and music. He went into detail about his influences and his upbringing of Mariachi music. She found another point of contrast between him and Jimmy. She scolded herself for even attempting to compare them, to think of another man in the same way she did him. But she couldn't help it. His initial greeting sparked something within her. Perhaps it was the knowledge of being wanted, the chase, that was alluring. The moment of difference was his tone of voice. It was so electrifying, so enticing to be in such proximity of a man who showed immediate attraction to her. It seemed she had a penchant for lead guitar, a fondness for the callous feeling of fingertips on her skin. "We're playing a show in a couple of days, if you can make it. We'd love to have you." "That would be great. I'm always looking for new artists and experinces. I've been thirsting to break out of this repetative box of white blues that Zeppelin plays. They're talented and I love them, but it gets a little old after a while, y'know what I mean?" She continued as Carlos nodded, "That's why I jumped on the opportunity to shoot for Sabbath. I heard them and was amazed at the sound. The world is shifting and the music is really showing that." Before Carlos could respond, having been very intrigued and delighted by her deep thinking, Ozzy screeched, "We're here!" He was out of the car in an instant and the two were left to look at each other in quiet amusement. He was like a drunken toddler, screaming and bumbling about. They had arrived at their destination. Before them stood a loud club. She grumbled at the thought of being surrounded by sweaty people who had too many substances in their systems. The group did not stay very long. Ozzy and Gregg took a few shots, Tommi watched over them, and then they were on their way.

-

"Do you want some of this?" Carlos asked, producing a joint. They were on the pavement, exposed to the warm California air.

A grin graced her features and she nodded.

"See, you get me. I don't want coke or whiskey. I want weed." "I do, I do get you. That other stuff just fucks you up too much. This is mild, healing. I need this, man." "It's a magic herb. It's always the answer." They laughed as he lit it up. The wind blew the flame of his lighter but it was too late. It was already lit and ready to be smoked.

"You guys sound like such fuckin' stoners," Gregg mocked.

"Well, we are," she retorted.

"Fair point, I suppose, but you don't have to be so annoying about it," Tommi said.

They had barely finished their joint when they came upon a tattoo parlor. Ozzy got that look in his eyes again and pulled everyone into this tiny shop. Art lined the walls, mostly colored pieces of pin-up models and animals. She was slightly disgusted at the lewd depiction of women but the drug in her system washed away any care she carried. The shop owner walked into the lobby, seeing the group of drunkards. He laughed to himself and asked what he could do for them. Ozzy took the lead and told the man they wanted tattoos. He nodded and told him they came to the right place. They all looked at each other, not knowing where to go now.

"Everyone who is ready can come back with me." He walked away into the back room. "Well, who's comin' with me?" Ozzy stumbled forward. The group looked at each other again, everyone silent.

Gwen and Tommi stepped ahead of the group and looked at each other. They followed Ozzy down the hall with apprhension (the only way to follow Ozzy in a decision). The room was lined floor-to-wall with artwork, just as the lobby. This art was prettier and less tawdry. This calmed Gwen's nerves but she was still frayed and nervous.

Why had she agreed to this? Was it too late to back out?

She looked around at the menacing faces of tattoo men.

"My art is in these books. You can pick out what you want." The artist pressed a wrinkled finger into the laminate page of the open binder.

"Um, I have an idea of my own. Can I do that instead?" Her voice was meek.

"Depends on what you want.

What do you want

?"

"Just a simple orange."

"Here." He flipped to a page of different fruits. Some were colored and came in various sizes. She pointed to an orange with two leaves. She asked if he could surround it with flowers. He asked where she wanted it then dissapeared.

He came a few moments later with a drawing. It looked good and she told him so. He disspeared again, coming back with a purple stencil.

"Let me get these guys taken care of and we'll start the process." She was left in her chair, sitting next to Ozzy, wearing a face of total fear. She wasn't often afraid, not in this way. It was just a needle. People get these things everyday and they're just fine! . Her legs shook and turned to jelly, signalling to her that she should have run out of the room. She felt like she was going to die. Oh, how she wished Jimmy was here to save her. There was no backing out now. The artist was coming back, tattoo gun in hand. She looked to Ozzy and smiled a thin-lipped excuse. He nodded his head excitedtly, holding up finger horns and smiling. He did not catch her intense fear. The artist stuck the stencil on the back of her arm, where she requested. It was cold and she winced. He turned on the machine, which made a terrible buzzing sound. As he pressed the needle to her arm she could feel the buzzing rattling her bones. A searing pain filled her, travelling up the length of her arm, into her brain. She had to push through. Even when a blinding white pain wracked her body, she just gripped the chair for dear life and continued. When the process was finally over her arm had gone numb. Her skin had screamed itself to sleep, lulled into a gentle hum of pain. "You can look at your new ink in that mirror over there." She did just that, inspecting her badge of bravery. It looked wonderful. It was simply colored, a bright and eye-catching orange. The leaves were solid green and styled nicely. It matched her hair as well.

Ozzy presented his tattoo-- his own name on his knuckles.

She laughed. She hoped he wouldn't regret his druken stupidty in the morning They went to the lobby and paid for the tattoos. Her's was only twenty-dollars. Ozzy's was thirty, having had to pay a fee for being unruly, and Tommi's was ten. He got a small fish for his Pisces sun sign. They showed off their new ink to Carlos and Gregg. Carlos thought her tattoo was the coolest, saying oranges were his favorite fruit.

She could tell he was laying the charm on thick. She didn't mind. She would revel in this, the same way Jimmy revelled in women fawning over him.

- They made their way back to the car after Tommi told the group the night needed to end. Ozzy was starting to get tired and would need to sleep. Tommi didn't want him to black out again and wake up with a terrible hangover. This was their nightly routine, she learned.

Ozzy protested, exerting that it was Gwen's last night with them and they needed to spend more time together. "Don't worry, I'll come back and shoot you again soon. But I think Tommi's right, we need to get back to our hotels. It's getting late," Gregg said. "Bullshit! C'mon, you want to have one more drink with me?" Ozzy asked, turning to Gwen. "Why don't we just go back to my hotel? I can make sure you're all taken care of and we can party with Robert." She proposed.

Ozzy liked this idea, telling Tommi he was going no matter what.

- When they got back to the hotel Jimmy and Jonesy were in bed. Robert, Lorelei, and Bonzo were up. They gathered in Bonzo's room to party. "Carlos, this is Lorelei, Lorelei, Carlos." They shook hands and started chatting.

Gwen was delighted to find Carlos did not speak to Lorelei that way he had to her. She was special. "Gwen, you got a tattoo?" Robert gasped. "Yeah, I did! Ozzy convinced me. It's my little tour momento." "Jimmy is gonna have a cow!" Bonzo said garishly. He was too drunk to remember any threads of a lingering fued. Gwen tried her best to ignore him. She was sober enough to remember her anger. "No, he won't. He'll love it."

As the night went on Robert could see the spark between the two. Carlos hung around her, staying close to her side. He smiled when she spoke and he looked at her even when she wasn't. He also noticed how much of a liking she took to him. She stole glances when he wasn't looking and blushed when he looked into her eyes. She had been judging him for his exploration of other people when she was desperate to engage in her own. He pushed these thoughts aside and tried to have a good time with his girl. This would be one of their last nights of careless fun. They would be off to Hawaii soon and she would have to leave. He shrugged the thought off and downed another drink. It pained him to think of her tear stained eyes.

He drank like a fish to avoid the barage of thoughts that he was a bad guy.   "Okay, I think I need to sleep. I am so tired." Gwen sighed, flopping onto Bonzo's bed.

"Awe c'mon, we're just getting started!" Bonzo whined. His protesting only made her want to leave more. She was still angry with him and his antics. "Yeah, c'mon, don't drop out so soon." Carlos protested.

She sighed. He was so beautiful, but it was a pipe dream. She needed to stay away from him. He was far too tempting. All the pleas of the wrong people propelled her into the safety of her room. "No, no, I have to get up early tomorrow. I can't sleep in, unlike these guys." "Okay." He sighed. "It was lovely meeting you and I look forward to working with you." She shook his hand, wishing him a goodnight. She tried her best to shake off the nights events by washing her face. When she looked in the mirror she only saw how tired she really was. Being on this tour, she had worked herself to the bone. She had split herself open and exposed all the sensitive and emotional parts of her fleshy heart. Now it was time to rest and try to recharge. She slipped into bed with Jimmy, who stirred only long enough to wrap his arms around her, and quickly fell asleep.

----

Taglist:

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[poisonedepths]

Vitalis is my favorite RPG of all time. The Isometric game just had a really- in my opinion -cool spell crafting system. Core, Shape, and modifiers.

That is what caused me to obsess over the single player experience for years, though the game had tons of replayability. I may or may not have played through it fourteen or fifteen times, one for every 'class' of magic...I do have a problem and I'm not ashamed about that fact. But just that wasn't what gave it so much replayability.

It utilized a new 'story teller AI', something which took the game's history and took the general three endings possible and filled in the blanks based on how you built your player, what actions you took, and where you went. Two PCs could even illicit different reactions from the same NPC for simply looking different. Some of the funniest were when your character was small and you had a massive might stat or when you made your character extremely threatening looking but chose kind dialogue options- or at least in my opinion again.

Anyways, the plot was that...I think it was five years ago at the game start? Anyways, a number of years ago a breach in the ground enabled humans to go into what is essentially radioactive caves for magic. There many treasures could be found and mages could be born and learn arcane secrets. The end result for a vast majority of the playthroughs for everyone was for the world to end, but the other two endings were finding a solution to the end of the world or keeping a small pocket of humanity alive through some method.

Those endings were rather difficult to achieve, I naturally got the 'survivor' ending with a few characters, but the 'savior' ending I had to spend nearly three weeks of playing, save scumming, and restarting. I only did it for this stupid achievement...tomorrow I will take a break from Vitalis, now that I've finally 100%ed the game.

I wake up in the morning, colder than I should and less comfortable in my bed than I should for how early it is. Padding over to the window, I yawn and look outside. Unfortunately for me, I didn't notice that my room looks far less modern than it should and that the floor is now a hardwood rather than tile of my apartment. The view which is suddenly not a busy city though, I do notice that.

[haymarketvtubestuff]

Bo

<mentions of death, including that of children>

He was, in that moment, not a pharaoh. He dared not even call himself a god. No ... in this moment, he was a father. A man. A man who gambled against an unfamiliar god. A man who did not anticipate this alien god's whims or means.

The other gods could be readily appeased. The priests of old found ways. But this god? This god could not be appeased. This god wanted one thing -

His brother had mentioned it repeatedly. "Liberation." His pride prevented him from granting the wish. His authority was absolute - and if it was found to have weakness, he would be cast to the whims of the Nile. No, he had to stand firm.

That firmness cost him his preferred heir. His only heir.

He wanted to blame the alien god. He wanted to blame the slaves who worshiped this god. He wanted to blame his brother.

No.

The blame is squarely, painfully on him like the weight of all the stones that would make his father's tomb.

This night was his own tomb.

He could have other heirs, but they would never be his first child.

His wails joined those across his kingdom, his sobs echoing in the palace walls.

And in a moment of quiet, he heard the sound of leather sandal on tile.

His eyes, clouded with tears, could still sense the shape of his brother. His brother, once blessed with strange magic, often accompanied by his cousin ... silent. Alone.

He wiped the tears from his eyes to see his brother barely standing, using the same accursed staff that tainted the Nile with blood to hold himself up. The brother's face spoke volumes. It was twisted in horror.

I didn't mean for it to go this far.

The two brothers remained silent, their breathing the only sound breaking the veil.

The pharaoh could only sniffle, his skull seemingly filled with tears and mucus and adding to his growing fury. At last, he spoke.

"Leave ..." His pause was only to gather himself. "Take them with you."

His brother remained still - shock? Defiance? Asking for more? The pharaoh didn't care. He had more to say from his soul -

"If we meet again, brother, I will kill you as your god killed my son."

He could not say more, or else he would start to scream and chase. He had neither the energy nor the wish to do either one of those. He lowered his head and waited for the sounds of departing feet before allowing himself another chance to sob.