#and then having a good ¼-½ of it unusable

[caseuoiseau]

Please allow me to jump in with a 4th point, because I learned a lot of different fiber arts and craft stuff as a kid, and when you're a kid you tend not to care as much about your lumpy first project because every first thing you've ever done to date has been lumpy, and you tend to lack a general idea of what failure is and focus on the "Yey-I-did-it!"

But the first craft I tried as an adult was spinning, which had the triple threat horrors of being:

a) ...thoroughly unlike any other fiber craft I had ever done, despite being integral to each one (sewing, knitting, crochet--all require fiber to be spun before anything else can be done).

b) ...the first skill I had to pay my own hard-earned, fresh-out-of-college pennies to learn, and

c) ...another one of those things like playing guitar where everyone else before me had decided that the difficult part to be managed by your dominant hand was actually the complete opposite of what I thought.

So my one or two private lessons didn't amount to anything remotely usable, until a few years later when some big-name blogger started posting her spinning. And I got pissed off because I took one look at it and I thought to myself "That's barely better than mine was, and she's getting all these accolades from her followers??? I bet I could spin yarn like that with my shitty wooden-toy-wheel spindle." And man oh man didni sit down and spin.

Now, I didn't start writing this story to tell you that Spite Will Fuel You To Perfection, so don't get ahead of me. Because my fiber had been compacted over the years and I was over-twisting it and I didn't technically understand that "single ply" doesn't actually work with handspun, and I wound up making some pretty wretched curly rope. Totally unusable. But it was the age of LJ, and I nevertheless showed my craft friends my awful attempt so they could have a good laugh at it, and that's where I got the actual best advice I've received as an adult learning a craft.

My friends who spin simply told me to save it. Hold on to that yarn-that's-barely-yarn, put it in a drawer somewhere and just...check in on it from time to time. Because every time you spin, you get a little bit better at it, and it really, really helps soothe your mind to take a look at that first project when you think you haven't improved.

And my next yarn--arguably a bulky two-ply from some high-micron Shetland, still iloverspun and the texture of rope, but definitely more yarnlike. The next was a very uneven two-ply made by plying merino pencil roving back on itself. Overspun in places, but much more reasonable as handspun--if I'd told someone it was supposed to look like that with a sufficiently confident tone, they would have bought it. That was the first handspum that actually became something:

A little tea cozy that I had to alter pretty spectacularly, since I had only spun about 90 yards out of the 50g I had.

And so it goes, each project getting a little bit better than the last, and noticeably better than the first. I either threw out that yarn or I have it packed away in the attic somewhere, but I used to bring that out at the end of my first night of the drop spindle basics class I used to teach. This is what I made first. These are the next three skeins I made. And here's my most recent.

It's a hell of a way to get people to think more fondly about the kitchen twine they think they've been fighting with for the last two hours.

So, to end with the advice I used to give my first-time knitting class: this isn't like being at work. You aren't expected to be an expert in something you learned 5 minutes ago. You have my permission to suck at this.

I hope all new fiber artists know that the "slightly misshapen" object they made that they're stressed about not looking good:

1. Happens to every fiber artist always, you're too zoomed in to its every detail because you're the one who made it and most people would think it looks normal, or at least much less misshapen than you do, stand 20ft away from it and look at it and then see how you feel (true about all art tbh)

2. Gets better and more uniform each time you do anything

and the *very most important*:

3. Can be made Significantly Less Misshapen by just grabbing the fabric and stretching it in a few directions

I keep helping new fiber artists who are like "but my thing looks so bad :(((" by like, taking their object and stretching it sideways and horizontal, and handing it back, and they're like "????? Magic?????" bc it looks perfect.

Trust the process. Trust the stretchy process

[running-with-kn1ves]

Your Private Dancer

A/N: Everybody say thank you Tina Turner; man I really am just a mixture of everything I’ve seen and heard. 

CW: Dancing for money, sex work/ prostitution mentioned, using money as manipulation, Reader wears makeup n' heels lmao

Synopsis: You work at the downtown peep show dancing for quarters, trying to get out of the rough patch you’ve fallen into. Seemingly, a man out of your usual customer regulars has business with you.

Tonight, a habitual fear bobbed its way inside your head, just as it had the night before. The idea of your boss’s beige, neatly ironed trousers becoming ever-so visible from under the slowly rising black curtains was making an appearance, his aged face slick with sweat, with desire behind the see-through plastic shield.

Again, the same scene but with a distant friend on the other side of the decaying plastic that separated you from your… clients. They’d be popping in the coins you worked for-- mere quarters, often giving you barely enough to buy a drink for the night.

This line of work could be greedy, could sap all energy and self-worth you had-- but for some, it had led to better lives; ones where they could purchase groceries for their kids or nice handbags if they decided to skimp out on dinner that week. 

Never you, though. How long has it been since you started working at the peep show, two months? You barely made enough to cover rent, and that was primarily paid for by your office job handling phones and directing clients to your bulging boss’s office. 

Taking a swig of some bottom shelf vodka you so sneakily hid into a mug, you drank the thoughts away, waiting patiently for the electric blue lights to come on. If you had any less self respect, you’d dare to sit on the yellow tile beneath your studded heels, legs aching from standing ten til’ two waiting for some man or another off the street to feed your coin box something of substance. You prayed for whoever came next-- if anyone-- they wouldn’t try to shove another piece of gum or arcade coin in as a cheap ploy. You thought they did it more to fuck with you and get a free show than a true lack of being able to pay for their lust. 

On the brink of lighting an unused cigarette left next to your mug, the lights of your five-by-five room soon became illuminated by the cobalt blue lights of the client room across from you. Velvet curtains rose to show a pair of black slacks, left knee impatiently bouncing. The blue never bathed the entirety of your small room; it was just an illusion for the paying customer, making everything in front of them turn an electric shade that used to burn your eyes; now, you wished you were doused in that blue, instead of witnessing the yellow stains on the walls beside the see-through window, the dirty circles formed on the green walls from put-out cigarette butts. 

The curtains rose to his neck, and you knew it was time to start dancing. You were by no means a professional-- hell, you never moved this much unless it was in this room. But you were pretty good at making yourself consumable, as if the men on the other side could have you-- could taste the way your hips gyrated and how you grabbed at your chest, stroking and fondling yourself in a desperate attempt to keep the money coming. For some of those who worked the peep show, it was liberating; no man could touch them, and they could rake in all the money they’d need. For you-- it was just a step above demeaning yourself to being touched.

You started slow-- sensual. He was looking at you, of course-- but he hadn’t even gotten his pants down yet. You rarely get these kinds of men, the ones who just liked to stare, maybe smoke a cigarette and put the rest of their quarters in their pockets to leave with a frown of boredom.

You let your hands rise from your hips, gracefully dancing up your stomach, to your chest. You circle around your shapes of hard and soft, letting each curve flow beneath your fingers as if it were his hands touching you. 

You hadn’t gotten a good look at the man, watching him from the corner of your blurry eyes as he brought a hand to his mouth. He stroked his jaw before bringing the cigarette between his fingers to his lips. He scrutinized, a small line creasing under his eye as his gaze traveled the intimate way you swayed your hips. 

He occasionally took a drink from an engraved scotch glass saved for VIP members, those who made monthly payments in cash that the owner hoarded in his liquor cabinet. Not many paid such a hefty price unless they routinely took clients or coworkers here-- and even then, the existence of powerful businessmen in such a grimy part of the city like this, with a less than clean business-- was so rare you were suspicious. 

But your suspicions were buried as soon as he left your dancing cell, your mind quick to focus on electric bills and the next few nights of eating dry pasta and watching bad reality TV, slaving away at the office and more early mornings at the peep show. It almost didn’t surprise you to see him at your dance room again a few days later-- until he started showing up multiple times a week. Like clockwork at 11:02, he was sitting across from you with a cigarette or an indulgent glass. Sometimes, he’d merely watch. You had a few regulars, but none like him… not ‘this’ regular.

Even with keeping your eyes glued on your own reflection, you’d catch the dark blacks of his own trained on you, his face bathed in blue and zoned in on your expression. He never unbuttoned his pants, never lingered his eyes on one area for too long, even if he scanned you up and down with a sultriness.

You couldn’t deny that you felt like you needed to impress him, to make him react or find a reason to keep seeing you; he was allowing you to afford paying rent, putting coins in to last for a 30-minute session before he’d disappear into the night. But you never spoke to him, never had any kind of interaction besides that unspoken ritual. 

Another month at the peep show passed, and you found yourself fixing up your makeup in the vanity, trying desperately to get a thick layer of eyeliner right. A thick knock rapped against the dressing room door, a foreign sound; none of the workers knocked, finding no reason to. Your boss stuck his head through the gap, his receding hairline shiny and his thin silver chain looking  dull from the overhead light. For such a sleaze, he was kinder than most when it came to treating his employees fairly. Maybe because he was keen on avoiding complaints and federal eyes. 

“Got a visitor for ya.” He chewed a thick wad of gum, talking in a voice lower than you had ever heard him speak in. “This one’s a big fish, alright? Don’t do anything to piss him off-- he’s the reason you’re getting such a good payout tonight.”

Payout? You didn’t get paid in anything other than quarters once the night ended, unless someone was looking for further services of which you were not interested in providing. 

Your boss leaves the door open a crack, his mumbles traveling in as he spoke to someone outside. The door was knocked on again, but no one came in.

“It’s open.” You say, a little thrown off by the way your voice cracks a pitch higher. 

The door opens fully, closing behind the stranger as he moves forward. You look in the mirror to see him, but are forced to turn around to believe your eyes. 

“It’s you.” 

You look at him-- nice suit, pressed and finely tailored, with even a small handkerchief in its breast pocket.

His hair isn't dark like you had imagined under the blue light, but rather a gold brown, deep and cool-toned. For being so young, he had deep creases below his eyes, as if he had been worried since birth.

“I’ve paid for your shift tonight. “ He stares at you, direct but with some underlying, concerned thought. “Your manager says there’s a room upstairs, where we can be alone-- privately.”

You’re disgusted by the mention of anything above the underground cells you’ve danced in, recalling the thin walls of faked moans and foul dialogue you’d tried to avoid. 

“I’m not a prostitute,” You say brusquely, watching the stoicism on his expression falter. “You can have your money back, I don’t want it if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“I’m not.” He says, sounding a bit off guard and adjusting his tie almost habitually. “I want.. To talk, If you can believe that,” His hard gaze shifts to minute worry, as if this wasn’t how he expected it to go. “This isn’t… I want to help.”

You’re more so puzzled than offended now, staring at the pool of his ink-like eyes, no traceable ounce of debauchery behind them. If you said no, it almost seems like he wouldn’t care less, besides for another crease layered under his eye. 

“What for?” You question, guarded and fiddling with your absurdly short low-rise shorts; the discomfort was part of the appeal, supposedly. 

“I have a proposition for you-- a deal. You don’t have to accept it, of course. Just listen to what I have to say.” 

He lifts his eyebrows, trying to gauge your reaction, your potential interest. You continue to squint at him, realizing now you were near past the start of your shift; You were losing money as you sat here. 

“Maybe this will convince you; I already let your manager know not to bother us.”

 Like a true businessman, he rummages through the inner pockets of his suit in an attempt to find something hidden. Finally reaching into the left side he pulls out a thin, blank envelope. 

With two hands, he brings the envelope towards you with unnecessary formality, and you waste no time taking it. Besides overdue bills and unpaid bank statements, you rarely opened any other kind of unmarked envelope.

It wasn’t even closed when you tried to open it, the top un-licked and sticky. You looked inside, not needing to take out the content to understand what was in it. Several fifties were lined against each other, scarce in their numbers but large in what they equaled together. 

“What… is this for?” The shock you gave with your agape mouth almost made him grin a bit, fascinated. He rarely felt pleasure in the wide-eyed stare his clients would give him at the same sight, but you weren’t them. Oh no, you were far from them. 

“Just a talk. I can pay you more afterwards.”

Your gut senses danger-- perhaps he took pleasure in luring unsuspecting victims from low places with money, killing them for sport. But, he looked too clean-- too unmotivated.

You should say no, should turn away and finish putting on your makeup and tell him you aren’t looking for a pimp. 

You pocket the money, crumpling the envelope and putting it on your vanity. 

“I don’t do anything under the clothes; I can give you a lap dance at most and that’s it.”

You lead the man out of the dressing room, not bothering to close the door. 

He leads the way upstairs, watching the grimy pictures decorating the walls with feigned interest, some in black and white, others grainy and full of half-naked women. You kind of wish you had led the way now; atleast then you wouldn’t feel like you’re following an omen to your doom, farther deep into the velvet hallway.

“My name is Dakota.” He utters, quiet and firm. 

You brush past him, getting in front to open the door at the beginning of the hall. “What, no last name?”

 You still wonder if you should turn back, even if it means losing your job. But you persevere, holding a dramatic hand towards the now opened room as if you were a doorman.

“I imagine you aren’t interested in my last name,” He stops to take a short view of the client room before settling his eyes back on you. “And regardless, I’d much rather know yours.”

You open your mouth to speak, but are quick to be cut off as he walks past you into the creaky, red-pink room.

“I know you won’t tell me, a part of the show-room code, or so I’m told. but it doesn’t matter; I already know.” 

He reads your mind again as you barely get a moment to protest.

“I’m accustomed to going through unnatural ways to find the information that I need, but don’t bother asking for why or how, I won’t tell you.”

Your body tenses as you shut the door behind you, the red lowlights of the bedroom making your heart pound just a little louder.

“You can’t just say something like that and not expect me to want to know-- it's my privacy damn it,” You’ve forfeited any sexy walking as you come closer. “If you’re some kind of creepy stalker--”

“I guess I could be labeled as that.” Dakota slumps to sit on the edge of the bed, sinking into the dipping mattress. He almost relaxes, shoulders drooping along with his eyes, uncharacteristically so.

“I’ve come here to offer you a chance for safety,” He loosens his tie, watching as you stand there, tensing your back and one step directed toward the door. 

Dakota wasn’t blind to your hesitation, your unease. But you were wrong to think he’d let you go just because of a little fear; you had a lot to learn about him.

You watch him look at you, waiting expectantly for him to go on. But he doesn’t and you realize he’s waiting for you to start-- to do something of which he paid copious amounts of cash for. So, you do what you do best, and what you feel safest doing, where no man can touch or stroke you.

It’s not as extravagant of a dance as when you’re in the coin-operated cell, but it's intimate enough. 

You keep your eyes to the floor, only looking up at Dakota to egg him on, letting your feet drift you in a rhythm. He looks entranced for a moment, offering a stare that was far from innocent-- but not as hungrily disturbing as you had expected. 

“Your co-workers won’t be given the same option, this is an opportunity directed at and intended only for you.” You come closer, small struts as Dakota completely unties his tie. “I’ve got a variety of apartments across the city, most of which are rented out or used as a small place to come back to when I've got business farther out. And no-- I won’t tell you what kind of business I do.” 

You almost grunt in frustration, keeping your eyes on him. 

You’re nearly toe to toe with him now, watching from above as he puts his hands back on the bed. 

“One of these apartments is not too far from here,” He squints his eyes, deliberating. “A few blocks away, I'd say.” 

Your hands slow as you drop them to the front of your hips, Dakota’s eyes following them. 

“It can be yours. If you’d like.” 

“What?”

You stop, dropping your arms and watching the pink glow from under the bed cast a shadow up to Dakota’s cheeks.

“Some people call this kind of an arrangement “sugar babying” but that’s a bit too crude for my tastes.” His eyes are still traveling from your wrist to your forearm. “You’ll be on an allowance, of course. But it means you won’t have to work here anymore.”

The way he said ‘here’, it was clear what he thought of it.

“You can quit that desk job too; or keep it, if you want. But I can’t imagine it being much fun. Either way, you won’t be working here anymore. Not with the kind of men who are looking at you while I’m away.”  

Dakota’s gaze finally met your own, his tired hand coming up to stroke his curved jaw. 

“You’re not actually being serious, are you? This is some kind of sick joke?” You let out a short laugh, lacking in humor. 

Even with him dressed to the nines in a suit that no creature who stepped foot in this place could afford, you wouldn’t allow yourself to believe it. You shake your head in ridiculousness, taking a step back.

“Sorry, I have other customers to attend to; I can’t be dealing with this shit right now.” 

You turn to walk away, feeling less safe than you ever had; if he was delusional, or some kind of sick sadist who thought he could buy your life-- he had another thing coming.

“Hold on,” Dakota grabs at your fingers, almost desperate in his grasp. His eyes were void of anything other than concern. “I’ve booked you for the whole night, I don’t recall asking for you to leave.”

Booked? You were under the impression you just received a little extra bonus from this stranger. Just how much were your manager’s morals worth? Did he care AT ALL what he might’ve ‘sold’ you for?

Dakota held on, even with you hesitantly shuffling back to where you stood. 

“You don’t have to accept what I’m offering-- just consider it,” He stays seated, bringing your hand palm-up towards him. “Though, I’ve been told I'm quite persuasive.”

“Look man, whatever you’re selling, I'm not buying. I’ll have you know I’m perfectly content with my job, and I’m not looking for some kind of ‘savior’ if that’s what you’re trying to be.”

You could feel your own lie cutting deep into you, and by the looks of it Dakota didn’t believe it either. He looked at you, a kind of benign glare leaving from his oaky eyes. 

“Call me by my name.” He says, barely above a whisper.

“...Huh?” 

“I’m not just some ‘man’. Call me by my name.”

Dakota ran his thumb down your palm to your middle finger, keeping your hand hostage between both of his own. He looked to you, then back down to his grasped treasure. He looked like he didn’t really know what to do with it, but that it was something intimate he didn’t want to let go of. 

“Wha--okay fine. Dakota. This isn’t some kind of game,” The name felt weird coming out of your mouth, but watching who it belonged to’s reaction was even stranger. 

He shivered. Physically shivered at the guttural hearing of his name, of the consonants and vowels sliding off your tongue. 

Dakota looked down, avoiding your gaze as he memorized each line and indent in your fingers. You wanted to pull your hand away, to recoil in disgust and fling him off like some kind of bug. But in a way, he looked small sitting there, head down and entranced at the details of your fingers, the ridges of your palms, the shaking pulling at his shoulders as he asked you to say his name again. 

“Dakota.” You mutter, wondering if this was some kind of kink.

With the way he stopped a groan midway from slipping, you were sure you weren’t too far off. But whatever he was into, now was not the time for discovery.

“This is, just ridiculous. Were you listening to me, at all?” You tilt your head, trying to catch his eyes to see if you could see what the hell he was so captivated by.

His thumb pressed hard against your palm, short nail digging just slightly to leave a crescent shape. 

Without the response, you were starting to get fed up. You pulled your hand away, sliding smoothly out of his warm, dry grasp. 

At this, his head shot up, watching you with a kind of look as if he had come from out of a panicked daze.

“I’ve wondered what my name would sound like from your mouth-- I could never hear anything from the other side of the glass.” 

“...Right.” You aren’t sure if you should still be worried, but his fascination with you made you feel a little concerned. 

Dakota propped himself up again, seemingly realizing his recent lack of finesse. 

“Take my business card.” He seemed to say all of a sudden, searching blindly in his inner-jacket pockets like he did to give you your payment for the night. He seemed a little scattered, padding up and down to look for his cards before finding one in his breast pocket. “Here.”

You grab it, finally getting an inkling of answers to who he was besides the money and his name. 

Unfortunately for you, the card didn’t offer much else from what you already knew. There was his name in ink-black font, ‘DAKOTA--VERIDIAN FIRMS’ and a small phone number, barely readable beneath. 

“That’s my personal number. Day or night, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll answer.” He looks at you with an inappropriate level of intensity.

“Okay.” 

“Now that that’s squared away--” He sighs, relaxing backwards again, watching you hold the business card. “We can return to business as usual;” He keeps his eyes on yours, displaying a kind of tension and expectation. “I believe you were dancing, and I was enjoying your company.” 

You can’t imagine spending the rest of your shift solely dancing for one man, in this dreary far-too cold room that had seen too much. You don’t move, not ready for the rest of tonight to continue.

Dakota brings out another small envelope, this time with ease. Looking at it expectantly, he then looks back to you. 

You began to move your shoulders to the rhythm of the thumping music from downstairs, using it as a way to distract your thoughts. Dakota puts the envelope on the bed, letting out a sigh as he voyeured in novelty, watching you gaze at the heart-shaped headboard behind him. 

You tried to keep your thoughts empty, but it was near impossible. How much could you be bought for, and how much more would it take for you to agree to be his? 

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What--"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are -- you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is-- fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent -- or he's been at it for hours -- Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon--

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are-- messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and--

That is to say-- finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before -- clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well-- Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but-- it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed -- not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B--" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is-- a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in -- through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air -- and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say -- whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[parker-artio]

So I’ve said it a couple times, but I come from a huge family, which is mostly foster family. But I’m from a small town and live in a five bedroom house (one for my mom, one for my brothers, one for my younger sisters, one for my older sister since she’s 18 and can’t share a room w/ foster kids, then mine.)

But rooms aren’t anyone’s hiding spots- Yk what I mean, when you need to destress and get away from everyone but your room is too obvious- so, it got me thinking.

The Wayne manor is massive, all of the bat kids definitely all have that spot. The hiding spot.

So here’s what I think all of them are!

Dick: He had three. The one he lets everyone know about, the one he only lets his siblings know about, and his secret one. He trusts them to only come annoy him in the first one, because he only ever uses it when he crashes out (it’s his best past-time). This one I think would be an ‘on the nose’ place, like his bedroom closet, in the ceilings, on a random chandelier, on the roof, somewhere where they would think to look (they being Bruce and the other adults.) The second is more likely a not so obvious place, but everyone would consider thinking about it. Like, the guest room next to his room- but not just the room, like the closet, or under the bed in there, maybe the shed in the backyard. But his place- the place he tells no one about, that’s the attic. He’ll go up there and hide under and behind a fortress of boxes and pillows and blankets he’s slowly added to since he was 9. No one questions when he goes into the laundry room with a full tote of blankets and pillows or carry’s around cleaning supplies upstairs.

Cass: She hides in the pool house. No one knows. No one finds out.

Jason: When Dick told him about his hiding spot(s) he immediately scoured the library for a hidden spot, his logic was: it’s an old house, there’s gotta be a hidden room somewhere, right? And there was. So when he disappears into the library for three hours and someone goes in after him and doesn’t find him anywhere, they assume he’s escaped through the library in the window.

Tim: He grew up in an old house, he knows all of the hiding spots. Which is how he knew there was a hidden door under the left stairs that led to a panic room, which’s he’s officially transformed into a safe haven, and no one but him can get into or out of. He’s gotta pad lock with a code he can’t even remember. Good thing for patterns.

Duke: When he moved into his room (pretend Bruce is fostering him and he doesn’t live w/ his cousin okay?) He always heard a weird sound coming from his closet. At first he thought it was haunted and refused to put anything in there, but one day when it actually happened during the day and not at night he decided to inspect it, and found a small vent, just big enough for him to crawl through. He obviously went into it, he found himself in a small room where all of the vents connected, just above the batcave- which is where the noise came from. He added a few battery powered fairy string lights, and a small beanbag with a blanket and chair.

Damian: He insists he doesn’t need one despite everyone saying it would be beneficial. But if anyone claims when he goes missing for hours when the barn lights are on, he denies it all. But as he gets older, he doesn’t keep hiding the fact that the barns his hidden space- and a room where he hides the animals from Bruce when he first smuggles them into the house. But no one knows where that is.

BONUS:

Barbara: She used to have a hiding spot in one of the many hidden cliffs in the batcave where she has a very nice fluffy pillow and her baby blanket with a fluffy blanket to accompany it. Her backup-laptop a very strong charger, and a couple books for her college classes. But she can’t get up there, so it’s kinda a hidden relic stuck in time. Now she hides in an unused room back by the back door with enough space for her to move around in her wheelchair, but no one knows where it is.

Steph: She went into the batcave once and saw a door that was labeled ‘Batman only’ so obviously she went inside. The room was empty beside a small door and the shelves of backup generators. So obviously she went into the small door and found herself in a small cozy dark room. She’s managed to decorate it like her room, and even put a lock that can only be opened by her phone. Bruce definitely noticed the room was tampered with when he went to go get a generator, but he didn’t ask about it. He knows everyone has a hiding spot.

Harper: She doesn’t have a place, but she will go into the upstairs bathroom next to the upstairs living room and lock the door and sit in the tub. It’s very therapeutic.

Luke: He’s not at the manor or batcave enough to have a hiding spot, but at his mom and dads he’s got a small section of the basement where he terraformed into a small ‘man cave’ but in actuality he just sits in there on the gaming chair he took from his sister and listens to music or relaxes.

That’s everyone I can think of right now, I might add other characters in a pt. 2? Like maybe Maps, Tiffany, Kate, ect.

[beatlblog]

#my mans was ready to do his and his trepanning#he would've been dead or arresred by like 25 if paul didn't have impulse control (via @pauls1967moustache)

#deserves more praise for his John-handling abilities (via @exhausted-think-bucket)

#only crime was extending his micromanaging to george (via @melllotune)

#i didn't choose the dogboy john life the dogboy john life chose me (via @eveepe)

#get that bitch an enclosure 😭😭😭 (via @loureeddyke)

#john is such a feral dog he need to be put on leash#who was it again that described him as a dog with rabies 😭#yoko and paul are actually v similar#micromanaged john’s life#while also sorta using him for achieving their target#im not saying that its a bad thing btw#reminds me of john’s be my baby cover#‘we’ll make them turn their head every place we go’ (via @lennon666)

#sighing the deepest sigh#he should have just been a leather pup (via @themagicalmysticalboy)

#the thing is#John doesn’t just let anyone ‘control’ or ‘manage’ him#quite the opposite#when yoko did it he became a walking skeleton who got on heroin#Paul was really the only one to have done it that I’ll agree was good for him#but Jesus fucking Christ can we pls as a fandom stop acting like paul is perfect with no flaws ?#it’s actually a bit concerning how many people flirt with the idea that John was nothing without him#and never forget that they are BOTH insane#Paul fortunately for him#knew how to handle and control his shit better (via @lennonsfag)

#Hamburg beatles would beat early Beatles (63-65) up (via @fearlessechoes)

#so fed up with beatles posting#but with the operation I’m running on this blog it seems like lying by omission to leave some gay stupid shit like this out#pride is OVER (for the beatles specifically) (via @iamsigningmylifeaway)

#what the fuuuuuck#John Lennon literally Paul’s bitch#who said that (via @80yearoldmanmoodboard)

#should have micromanaged even harder (via @protovulcans)

#he needed to be muzzled fr (via @spinnach)

#¿perdón? qué??????????????????? (via @biatels)

#John should have had a legal guardian#and I think for comedic reasons it should have been just a random guy named Steve (via @paulic)

#the way that this is Also Nashby. (via @lookoutjoe)

#prev in many ways nash and mccartney are the same person (via @tweeterwilbury)

#100% true#he had zero real world skills#just like gillian anderson btw (via @delinquentchoirboy)

#turns out John was putting himself on the leash already#wonder what kind of ‘show’ he put on#oh to have been a fly on the wall of that bar#J&P engaging in public petplay in the year of our lord 1960 (via @oneofthebeautifulpeople)

#being a beatles fan is being the“well actually...” person always (via @friends2go)

#they shouldve brought this back in 1969. that wouldve solved everything i think#beatles#also that john put the leash on himself and gave it to paul...... ok (via @unusable)

#yeah but was he a kitten or a puppy that’s the important question (via @austinedition)

#omg bastian was right (via @demon-donkey)

#and not even that worked (via @paulpropaganda)

#of course they'd do this in germany (via @normalbrothers)

#every new thing i learn about the beatles has me shaking my head like excuse me he did what#head in hands (via @angelontheatrain)

for me it tends to be I FUCKING KNEW IT

sorry but john lennon did indeed need to be micromanaged and people need to stop scorning paul for doing it like the second there were too many enablers around he started doing heroin

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

69 nice / 600 words / an extra unused scene to establish Shadow!reader's (Soap's soulmate) relationship with her boss Graves; takes place before part 1

...

The soft green petal of your sniper rifle’s laser aim rests on your mark’s temple. You’ve waited the better part of an hour for Graves’ signal.

You’ve been stationed in this desert, in Al Mazrah, for 16 days. Eight of those days you’ve spent waiting for your target to appear. Now he’s here. In the enemy encampment a few hundred meters away. Your ticket out of the heat. One twitch of a finger and you could end it early. Your stomach twists with hunger. Your tongue rasps against the roof of your dry, sandy mouth.

But you wait.

"Alright. Cleared to take the shot."

Graves’ voice. The only sound besides the scrape of sand on rock in the Al Mazrah desert. That and the encampment some two thousand meters in front of you.

You take the shot. It lands. You watch the encampment through your scope as fear and cold panic spread through the others. Your interest in them wanes.

"Nice shot. Helluva shot. You're on top of your game tonight." Graves’ voice crackles again through the radio in your ear. "Must be why I pay ya the big bucks."

You pull back and lean the sniper against your shoulder. "Wouldn't say no to a pay raise, sir."

"And give you even more of a reason to be a smartass?"

"Get more kills, get more money. Isn't that how it works?"

"With what I'm paying you, you better be workin' your ass to the bone as it is."

You scoff. "When's the next job, then?"

"I'd have to check the books." Which is a lie; he knows the schedule front to back. "But I got somethin’ cooking I think you’re gonna love. Can’t give you details, though. Classified and all that."

"You got us a new contract?"

"You bet your ass I did. This one is big."

"Ah. Lucrative?"

"Enough to retire on."

"That's an interesting thought."

"Ain’t it? Retire." He rolls the word around in his mouth like a fine wine. “Doesn’t sound half-bad, does it?”

You reload your rifle idly. "Doesn't sound half-good either."

"Oh, don’t gimme that. You gonna spend the rest of your life runnin’ around, takin’ bullets till you bleed out in a ditch somewhere?"

"If I'm lucky."

"Attagirl. Come on back to base. We'll get you debriefed. Oh, and I’m thinking about sending you up for a promotion." He says it as if it’s an afterthought. "I hear the brass on this next job is looking for people a bit more qualified for contract work. I think you’re one of 'em."

"A promotion?" You hear uncertainty lapse into your own voice. "You're recommending me to work for someone else?"

"For a heretofore unknown stretch of time, yes," he says. "You’d have a fancy rank and a fancy paycheck. And you’d get to tell the boys to kiss your ass if they’re givin’ you orders. Trust me, you’ll love that part.”

"I'm not interested."

"You didn’t even let me finish. Come on. You’re not even gonna let me talk ya into this one?"

"No, sir."

"Why not? It’d be good for you. You’d be makin’ money. Doin’ yourself a favor," he says. "I’d like to see you gettin’ promoted and up outta the field. Makin’ something of yourself." Not that he’d ever admit to having a soft spot for you.

"Thank you, sir. But I don't want to work for some desk jockey. No offense."

"None taken. You sure?"

"Yes sir."

“Then don’t be comin’ back here complainin’ about not makin’ enough money, soldier."

You sling your rifle over your shoulder and begin the long walk back to the truck. "No promises."

"Smartass."

...

more Graves / more Shadow!reader :)

[bookwyrminspiration]

🌟🎉Keepblr Wrapped 2024 🎉🌟

thanks for your patience and contributions! i've tried my best to get a good overview, but if I've missed anything you feel crucial, please do add on :)

this year was quite eventful. here's a few highlights (not in order):

Fintan Pyren won Keeper sexyman for the second year in a row

Sal (worldsunlikemyown) created a script for the Enlightened language!

Shannon announced we'd have a 9.5 instead of book 10, to mixed reviews

Unraveled's cover was revealed, and everyone tore into it. Is Keefe actually attractive? The world may never know

Tam cam. featuring months of about 10,000 different fake blogs, detectives, and accusations--to the point it needed it's own separate tag

wiityispb won the best kotlc quote bracket!

we started translating wiityispb into several languages (Punjabi) (Arabic) (Nahuatl) (Hindi) (French) (there's more, too)

people started making bingo cards for Unraveled

a handful of people tried to get kotlc trending, absolutely flooding the tag and rendering it unusable for a day or two

Lavacake (marella x fitz), and the ship name arguments it started

Roisin (camelspit) hosted a skribbli.io session!

abscourse, the neverending debate about whether Keefe has abs (he shouldn't), which also dragged asscourse back to light (whether fintan pyren has a fat or flat ass (it's flat))

Lady Cadence won the 2024 Keeper Sexywoman bracket!

the Fairy Tale AU Exchange! featuring 54 lovely works you should peruse <3

a second event, the Keeper Big Bang 2024! find the works under the ao3 collection and by perusing the keeper big bang 2024 tag!

kotlc and keepblr were added to Fanlore by Catherine! (everliving-everblaze)

there were also several themed weeks, such as Ancients Week and Tiertice Week 2024!

the infamous Anti-Keefe Rant by Stria (the-way-astray)

Hethen, Elwin x Gethen, which also sparked ship name arguments

we tormented @/do-you-ship-this-book-couple with a million kotlc ships

Fitz Vacker won the best keeper character 2024 bracket!

During said bracket, Quil (bookwyrminspiration) developed a severe, ongoing loathing for Watson the Dog, which people torment it about to this day

We got brand new official art by chrissabug!

like half the fandom was accused of being Katie (myfairkatiecat)

Roisin (camelspit) hosted another year of Roisin's Reading Rumble!

Strieefe, the pairing between Stria (the-way-atray) and her least favorite character, Keefe Sencen. Now with 21 (and counting) different fics, 8 artworks, and 2 songs!!

A few Unraveled scenes leaked, sending the fandom into a panic--half from the contents of the leak, half from the scramble to avoid said contents

Quil (bookwyrminspiration) drew krocs, which Fin (fintan-pyren) actually made

Unraveled, book 9.5, was officially published!! (Quil, bookwyrminspitation's, notes from the tour) with canonical queer characters!! the fandom took this very well.

They did not take the timeline well. There were many debates about when the series takes place given pop culture references in 9.5

Finally, we started transing several characters genders again! Notably, Laith Vacker

This brings 2024 to a close, leaving us all still riding the high (low?) of Unraveled. Jesus fuck, y'all. what a year. can't wait to do it again <3

[goatgoesmbe]

Being Valeria's sweet little gf wife. Who knew what she did for work.

It wasn't like Valeria kept it a secret, but she didn't outwardly told you about it either.

When you found out, you're not surprised. You grew up in Las Almas, so you've seen some shits, and came to get used to it.

Besides, you can't really judge anyone's occupation in this economy and this environment.

Most of them just didn't have the privilege of having a choice to choose what to do in order to feed their family.

Plus, working with Valeria provide them safety from gangs and the like.

You've seen how she cares about her men in a way, despite appearing harsh towards them.

She saw them as humans, not casting them aside when they got hurt in a fight against some militia- like they were deemeds unuseful.

Nothing about her men escaped her, so when she heard one of them have a sick child back home and was struggling to pay for treatment- she didn't hesitate to send the kid to a prestigious hospital away, free of charge (she didn't tell the dad about it and just straight up send someone to abduct take the child and told em to keep the kid safe, and it made him panicked, but still-)

You've always been someone who can see the good in other people after all, even the worst kind of people. That's the reason you're able to date her in the first place. That's one of the reasons that made her fall in love with you.

And so, here you are. With a tray of warm home-cooked meal in hands. Walking towards a room you know she used to take her.. "guests".

As you got closer, you can hear a loud smack followed by pained grunt, then a voice of your beloved shouting curse words in spanish.

Fidgeting on your spot, you looked up at one of Valeria's men guarding the door. "Can i come in?".

You could practically see gears turning in his head. The logical part is to deny, keep your sweet little self away from violence, but denying your presence to Valeria would be death sentence.

And so he knocked on the door.

"WHAT" her voice screeched, making the man jolted despite it being muffled behind the door.

And then your cute little face peeked inside, and her demeanor changed 180'.

You took in the state of the 'guests' she's keeping. Brits, from what you've heard, there are four of them all tied up, the biggest one with a skull mask chained to the wall, one with a full beard tied to a chair in front of your gf wife. Seemed like he was the one who let out those pained grunts before.

"Um.. i was just thinking that your friends must be hungry" And as your sweet voice broke the silence, all of their attention were on you.

She let you in, and gave you a tender kiss before letting you feed them. She even let you tend to their wounds as if she wasn't the cause of it.

That is, until she noticed the one with the mohawk shamelessly ogled you. She did her best to not snap in front of her sweet chica, and beckoned you over, making you sit in her lap as she asked about your day.

She looked at you like you're a precious flower. Playing with your hair before her eyes trailed to her hostages with a smug smile. An unspoken message, you're hers.

And people probably think that it's stupid of Valeria to show her enemies her weakness, you. They might take advantage of it, might hurt you to get to her.

But it's them who are stupid, for she would never let anyone- even the infamously ruthless one in the skull mask to touch a single strand of your hair.

[insanescriptist]

Okay, let's see how long my internet lasts this time.... also, everyone is eavesdropping on everyone. They're all rather aware of it to some degree or another. So it's fun writing that!

Flip the Expectations

Dinah Lance was many things, but she was not an idiot. She had taken risks for friends and family, some worse than others. Maybe she had married one, but she had married a human man. Show her a person who wasn't an idiot sometimes.

She had never met Jason Todd, but she had heard a lot about him. How he was once a cute little Robin who'd seen too much darkness, from Oracle, reminiscing about her time as Batgirl. How he was cuter and quieter than Dick Grayson, unused to the Titans' more bombastic personalities, but still able to support Wonder Girl -Troia- as she struggled to lead the Titans on a diplomatic protection mission turned disaster, from Roy. How he was reckless and increasingly violent, how that got him killed from the later Batgirl-chatter. How he came back from death but was missing his moral compass. How he bombed Mia's school and ran drugs. How he saved Roy, who's mercenary work the Arrows had not agreed with -but he had needed to do for funds at the time- nearly lead to his death. How he'd given Roy a safe space. How he had returned Lian to him, the teleporting power from Chesire now no longer keeping father and daughter separated. How the Gotham Sirens spoke fondly of him.

No matter what was said about a person from other people, she liked to judge them herself. To help them, if she could. If they'd let her.

She'd been a rising rock star, a femme fatale of a superhero and was able to bring down a house and more, if she really pushed her vocal limits. She'd had plenty of ups and downs, ways to relate to others. Still, Dinah considered herself to be a good friend, so when Oracle had asked, she hadn't hesitated to get herself to Vegas and one of the Birds' safehouses with Roy. Lian and Mia were off having a girls' day out, Conner had Star and Dinah could make the time.

And it was only after she was there, in the little suburban house with a privacy fence that Dinah asked Oracle why she was there.

Stupid of her maybe, but she felt it spoke more to her character.

"Okay, O, why's he got Bat problems?"

"Beyond Batman's many issues?" Roy snorted behind her, as he settled in with some groceries, also tuned into one of the Bird's frequencies through his own tech. The coffee pot sounded like it had finished; it got started the moment they'd walked in, coffee pulled straight out of the grocery bag.

"Going off of what I can see in the casefiles? B thinks he's up to human trafficking," Oracle, in her all-knowing way paused long enough for Roy to say 'bullshit' in the background. "Which isn't impossible, but would be so wildly out of character that I'd suspect Hood to be a victim of coercion or mind-control first."

"Hardly call returning Lian human trafficking," Roy retorts, setting a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the coffee table, as he picks up his own laptop. Dinah's not sure if Oracle is going to send Roy the details, or Roy's going to hack them himself. Oracle might be all-seeing and all knowing but when Arsenal tried, he was no slouch either. "Human liberation and libation to all free from a life of captivity."

That last part sounded like a quote from somewhere. Maybe not though. Roy could be poetic.

"How is Jason?" Roy asked. "Before I call him up myself to ask, if I need to."

"Suspiciously honest." Oracle answered. "Going to play a clip; he's with a new, uh friend. Meta. Dan Nightingale, last name is an admitted alias. He's visiting too."

Another complication, Dinah thought. Roy chuckled.

"More stalker fruitloop family trouble?" A midwestern accent asked, deep polished voice. A little rasp.

Dinah took note on that. More likely to have a higher economic background.

"Got a friend to help run interference. Knows things are complicated."

And that would be Jason's voice. He sounded casual, in a way Dinah knew wasn't. Hard to get that anywhere accent. He sounded young.

"Complicated he says. As if the asshole in the cheese suit's vibes weren't of the controlling asshole type. Good friends with your trouble. That's even more trouble." "Friends of a sort." Jason hedges. "Rich people friends, where they're useful to each other and cover for each others for dubiously legal hobbies. Up to and including the potential abuse and exploitation of their charges. Bet he's got a weird basement of a man-cave."

Oracle, again in her blessed wisdom paused the audio clip. Because this Dan wasn't entirely wrong. And Roy really was laughing.

"So why so much interest in you? And not your siblings?" Jason heaved a heavy sigh. "It's a bit of a story. Local rich guy picked me up off the streets after his first adopted boy moved out. He was lonely and didn't wanna admit it, and I wanted a place to call home again. He wanted his older boy back, since that bridge was burnt at the time. Which was fine when I was smaller, we noticed that less, but I got to high school, took control of my education, was passing my accelerated courses, taking AP classes on most of my subjects and doing a few college classes on the side? All that school work and I still found time to help out in the community. Food pantries and such. Meanwhile, he's now somehow thinking I've got the reasoning capability and motivations of an eight year old child, because I had recently learned my biological father had passed on ages ago, so we're obviously arguing about seemingly everything. Patronizing as fuck." "While you're in high school and taking college level classes?" Dan asked in disbelief.

Academic achievement was one of the barometers for healthy childhood psyche; same with community involvement and support networks. High achievement was fine, but this had the framing of using academics as avoidance. People didn't want to disturb someone studying or working on a project or who was busy. Stay busy enough and they learn to not bother you at all.

"Exactly. Not just STEM classes but literature and philosophy. Rhetoric. Getting the gen eds over and done with. On track to graduate high school before seventeen and getting an undergrad degree before I'd be nineteen. It was less about my dad being dead and more about rich asshole not telling me that my dad was dead. For years. Followed by the patronizing shit, because he's suddenly acting like I'm a small grieving child, not a teenager who was a caretaker to his mom when she was in and out of the hospital before he was double digits. I know how to manage my grief. Especially that of a parent dying. Dad at least died quick. Caretaking means you get to see the decline up close and personal. It's a crash course in adulting and I took care of her, the apartment and the bills because she couldn't. Not physically, nor mentally by the end. No matter the medication or the drugs. Did it suck that he was dead? Yeah. Did I already know so and got my suspicions confirmed? Also yes. If I could survive on the streets after my mom's death, I could survive the confirmation that he's dead."

Actually, that was so, so many red flags. Dinah wasn't a child psychologist, but even so, any psychologist took classes on childhood psyche and development before getting their degree. In short, there was no way Jason Todd wasn't a little fucked in the head before he had been adopted by Bruce Wayne. Parentification alone usually did that, but add on living on the street? Dinah loved Mia, but there were lifelong marks left on her health from doing so. Dinah didn't really know much about Jason's personal life, but she wondered how many habits he and Mia shared. Did he always look around warily before eating? Did he cut into his fruit? Smell anything before he consumed it? Did he sleep better on any surface but a soft bed?

"Broken trust, and grieving that more than someone who defined your life more by his absence than his presence." Dan pointed out, carefully.

If Dan didn't have some psych training or coaching, Dinah was incapable of doing simple math. That was insightful.

"Bingo. So now I'm thinking about pulling what my now older brother did and moving out early, before local rich asshole kicks me out and cuts me off, but I've got less friends than he did and those I had all had circumstances of their own."

There's a brief pause, so Dinah used that time to think. Circumstances of their own, sounded much like "shitty home lives," and his own low self-esteem. An unwillingness to reach out for upsetting whatever peace they did have.

"My best option for space had just been traumatically paralyzed. My second best option was my adoptive older brother, who was traveling with friends. They all pitched in on a place and were in and out on trips when they could afford it. On one hand, empty place to myself when they weren't there and on the other, a number of people I wasn't close to would be in my space, watching the local rich guy's adopted child drama play out, the sequel. The third factor there was I was still fifteen." Another pause.

Dinah was taking mental notes. Flight risk. Planning. So the constant arguments meant Jason saw his living situation as precarious. Something he needed to be prepared to leave. Resources he accounted for in preparation. Money was a resource. How much money did it take to cushion a Robin's nest? How far could someone used to being homeless stretch however much money?

"Laws had changed a bit, so I had to consider that, factoring in that I was younger than his first boy when properly moving out, instead of just lots of sleepovers at friends. A flag that people ignored because the older boy was just that outgoing. There's further consideration because rich men always have the money to bend the law to their side. So it was a waiting game if I went that way. Which couch surfing, short term it's not the end of the world, but it's annoying and better than the streets. Which honestly, the streets weren't that bad but it's the loneliness that gets to you and I wanted to keep up with the friends I had. Be there when and if I can. At least be an ear to listen." Yet another pause. With the biggest sigh yet. "So the local rich guy and I get into our biggest argument yet and I take a walk, talk to old neighbors and such. Scout out what I'd need to prepare for if I decided to take to the streets once more, couch-surf or get kicked out; whichever happens first. Then I discover my biological mother's actually alive; that I had been raised by my father and step-mom. Both had perished before local rich asshole picked me up. Local child services was absolutely a shitshow and still is, so running to the streets was the better option than that. Since the arguments between me and the local rich guy are getting worse, I reach out to meet her. Travel all the way over to the refugee camp she was a volunteer doctor at, because local rich asshole hadn't cut me off yet, like he had my older brother at one point. I get to know her for all of a few hours before she gets murdered and I get seriously injured in a terrorist attack. Local rich guy obviously thinks I'm dead. Later, after some serious veg time, surgeries and healing, I reach back out and he's been freaking out ever since. Which purposeful. Somewhat. Got pissed at where I'd been 'laid to rest,' for reasons, and how he had taken in another kid that looked similar but from a better economic class than dirt-poor before even a year was up. More impressively fucked is that he blamed me for dying, used it as a cautionary tale for the other teenagers he's amassed around himself when the point of a terrorist attack is to promote fear through death and violence. So they don't you know, run off either."

And that was an entire mine field of red flags. Dinah knew the narrative was missing details and was biased, but it was far far more honest than she expected from any Bat. And yes, she had had her suspicions that all was not wholesome in the Bat-clan, but yikes.

"Sounds like a genuine fruitloop problem." Dan elaborates. "Rich stalker, poor boundaries since he can't back off, controlling tendencies and manipulative. Sounds like a fruitloop." "Fruitloop?" "Nuttier than a fruitcake, each psychosis feeding into each other like a mobius strip? A complete and utter creep that others are blinded to because of their wealth and charisma? Also past experiences where he was less of a creep, explained his sob story and because he passed that charisma check, everyone close gets a negative modifier for their perception checks of him. Those pretty rose color glasses making all the flags look just like flags. instead of warnings." "Sounds like experience on your end." "A little. Yours is still ongoing. But you said you had place to crash?" "Yeah. Gonna crash with the friend of a friend; let her lie to the asshole that I'm not there if he happens to ask." "That'll work?" "It's plan A." "And plan B?" "Got more than just that."

"Wow." Dinah remarked at the end of the clip. "Wow." Because it needed to get said again. She was going to want to listen to that in full again. She wanted to take notes, but she wouldn't. "Roy, your take?"

"We ought to get more prepared. Jason's a lot more scared than he's letting on. He's being honest without being pressed, so he's going to clamp up here. Not sure how he's going to do that; he's adaptable and also whimsical. Dan's perceptive, potentially some sort of empathetic power as well and I'm going to put him at closer on the Wonder Woman level of enhanced strength, instead of could probably bench a bus."

Wonder Woman level strength. Lovely. "Any particular reason for that?" Another person with 'could probably evenly fight a Kryptonian under Yellow Sun,' level strength. Lovely. The things she did for friends.

"Looking at the cams of the cafe, how careful he was with his chair and movements. How he grabbed his shake. He didn't always have perfect control of his powers, probably still doesn't going by the hair, but he's got good habits to prevent messes, accidents and embarrassment in public."

Dinah added that to her mental profile. "O?"

"I'm still running through various data bases trying to find his real identity, along with coordination and identification of those at the ritual site. So far he's clear of the national data bases." Which meant clear of any criminal charges. Or at least not arrested for them.

Roy snorted. "Probably won't find him. Jason likes him and trusts him and while that's gotten Jason burned before, he has a type."

"What's that?" Dinah asked. Type how?

"Survivors."

Ah. Just fucking lovely.

Flip the Table

Casually eavesdropping on what should be highly secure frequencies, Jason sipped his beer in a sleezy saloon style sports bar somewhere on the Vegas strip, nominally watching college(?) football; he's a hockey fan because baseball's boring as shit to watch and he's never got the appeal about American football. Football to the rest of the world was at least worth watching for the drama. Something had the Justice League in a tizzy and Zatanna -the one who normally covered Vegas when it came to the costumed crazies- was off world; Jason didn't have the details exactly but it sounded like Zatanna was dealing with some magical planar stuff and was not expected back for at least six more days. Assuming all went well.

So like any reasonable person who's going away for a time, she turned on her home security, had the alerts wired over to a friend -in this case Justice League Dark- gave a list of what was needed to be done and when -the pick up my mail and mow my lawn equivalants- went on her trip, trusting that the JLD were watching over her city and it wouldn't be on fire when she got back.

Such glorious hope.

And thus something happened so when Jason pulled into Vegas proper to investigate a desperate -read last hope- lead on a missing person's case, Jason happened to spy one of the lesser members of the JLD losing their shit in the sky. And so in a moment of civic duty, Jason started spying on them.

Magic was not something anyone trained by the Bat really ever got comfortable about, but chances were magic bullshit was going to intervene in his case. Justice League shit spilled over everything, all the time. Ghost cultists tripping Zatanna's necromancy alarms or whatever they were, was not Jason's business. Not unless the presumed cultists -those that had survived- had the person he was looking for.

No, he was looking at a missing person's case and his lead was 1. cold and 2. a longshot and 3. in a city full of tourists and catering staff, where "seen anything unusual lately" could be "there was this trio of tourists arguing how sex with your best friend doesn't count as cheating," or "someone having a meltdown over the delayed shipping of organic blueberries to the hotel," or "Sarah Maria got murdered a couple weeks ago on the job, but I haven't seen any notice about her funeral stuff on her social media, why yes, I do know she's dead, oh, she's dead and I'm an idiot for expecting someone dead to post on their socials their funeral deets."

Point was, he could look and ask all he wanted, beat feet for days, but the chances of this lead panning out were basically so minuscule that Jason could treat this more as a hobby case while on vacation. He still did his due diligence, asked the staff a few questions, called the guests on the same floor during the time period of their stay about how they found their stay, ran into the dead end of shitty business practices -they recorded over their own records every two weeks- and so unless Jason got the ability to do magic and do a "point me!" spell, the case would turn cold. It sucked when it happened but sometimes the evidence wasn't there. Or wasn't noticed or was destroyed before it could be collected. Sometimes people just didn't remember shit until three weeks later, which with some follow up digging gave him the lead to the hotel. Which got him nothing after that.

As Jason Todd didn't gain an innate ability to do magic that he was aware of that actually counted as magic bullshit magic instead of a couple cantrips, all he could do was get a beer and some food in a Vegas style Texas saloon bar. Which not his first choice, but it was full enough no one really paid attention to anyone. Technically a sport's bar but also very much was not. It was also busy enough that Jason ended up getting asked if someone could set with him at his table -which real Jason said hell no to, but cover Jason did agree to-

Oh. Meta. Jason realized quickly. Oh no, he's hot.

His hair is on fire!

How did the server miss that? Most metas don't casually out themselves like that! Too many people willing to target them for whatever power.

That hair was flaming, tied back in a low tail; Jason blinked and the hair flickered color, looked like normal hair -black- and then back to white fire, then black fire, some tv static abomination of color, white hair and then black hair. Another blink and it appeared to be black flames for hair and yeah, Jason closed his eyes. Pointedly ignored the hair thing. If the meta asked, Jason was judging him for the stupid little goatee.

The rest of the meta was built along the same lines as Jason himself, tall, broad and built. Packed with muscle, which was something to make note of; metas usually were more durable and could hit harder, so Jason casually made note to not get hit if a fight broke out.

Which it might, or probably would.

That's just how Jason's luck ran. To shit.

Said meta also ordered food and a beer, didn't even get asked for ID -unfair bias- and judging by the sound, turned in the seat to look at the American football screen that Jason had been ignoring. His hair had at least settled to black flames instead of the glitchy hair.

Of course as this was Vegas, people gambled on outcomes of games too. Which is how Jason learned the meta was rich enough to blow a couple grand -not expensive in the world of supers- but more than what the average person would be comfortable betting.

There were better ways to piss away money than gambling on sports. Like on over priced burgers and onion rings with an order of mozzerella sticks. The burger was good, admittedly Jason's had better and then some party of guys was yelling at the ref on a screen. And yup, that's some altercation with another table but the barman broke it up with a couple of words.

His tablemate muttered something about the ref having made the right call if one of the players wanted to continue a career professionally and Jason used that as social leverage to get a name -Dan, no last name given- and a bit more in-depth explanation on what stakes were going on; he's a hockey guy, not a football guy.

Some time later, Dan had caught him up on the football drama -nothing compared to the hockey drama- and conversation had drifted significantly from sports, lightly touched on family -Dan had siblings he shared little about other than they existed, which fair, they could also be metas and at risk- much like Jason did -he had siblings that existed, no further details- and parents weren't mentioned. Instead a lot of engineering talk, a slide into ethics -Dan's opinion on killing super villains was very much that some people needed Ended- and some small talk about how Dan's high school English teacher cursed in classical book titles.

Soon the easy joy of potential friendship ended when his phone rang; that was the Batman ringtone and Jason felt no guilt hanging up on him. And again. And again.

Then Dick rang and nope. He was not dealing with their shit. Dick would just sweeten up whatever shit B wanted to shovel.

And then Oracle's ringtone rang. Oh, now that was serious. Justice League shit spilling into his life again. No fucking doubt about it.

"Uh-huh, so what's up? Because I gotta say, I am a couple drinks in and the whole bar is waiting for one of the football teams to fumble or foul up their next play so they can throw down."

"Jay-" She started because much like Bruce, she would rather go straight into the mission, and Jason absolutely had wrong-footed her. Because instead of making excuses to leave, Jason had absolutely stayed. So now she had to rephrase things on the fly because who knows who might be listening in. "Hey, it's on the news that the Justice League is showing up in Vegas; something about investigating something magical showing up."

"Uh-huh, that's not a surprise. There was some magic ninny flying in a panic earlier. I decided it wasn't my business."

"I hadn't heard that," -bullshit, she just hadn't double-checked that herself yet- "but what I did hear that some cult might have succeeded in bringing something over."

"Uh-huh. Well, no one's praying to Cthulu yet, there's been no troublemaking beyond the usual human malice and nothing's on fire."

"We were just concer-" And Jason hung up on Oracle.

He'd pay for that later, but petty was satisfying now.

"Sounded important."

"Was bullshit."

"So an entity summoned by a cult that tripped a bunch of magicians into a tizzy-"

Yeah, those sharp ears were not for show. Enhanced hearing check. "That's a bunch of incompetents panicking." Time for his good guess to hit or miss. "You're not going to decide to destroy Vegas, are you?"

"Done it before, doing it again seems pointlessly petty." Statements Jason wasn't going to prod further right now.

"And what if Wisconson University loses?"

"Might flip the table." Dan shrugged.

"More beer?" Jason asked.

"Sure."

[flipfliqyaoi]

Have you seen the storyboards for Part Animal? You should definitely see em if not, they’ve got some really fun Fliqs

YESS i love seeing the htf storyboards! I literally got screenshots of ones I thought were interesting/funny in my gallery hehe

Lots of unused ideas! Honestly loving we got access to these behind the scenes things

I know the acronym means "good Flippy" and "bad Flippy" but i literally read it as Girlfriend and Boyfriend at first HAHA.

[mysims-mod]

Unused Essences - Part 1

Seven(!) years ago I wrote about the unused Hedgehog essence and mentioned that there was one other noteworthy unused essence to write about at a later date. It is now later.

But in the seven(!) years since I wrote that post, I discovered a whopping six(!) more unused essences that were previously unknown! I won’t be saving those for later though, I don’t want to wait until 2032! 😩

I originally wanted to do this all in one post. But I hit the 30 image power post limit! So instead I am splitting this into two parts. Part 1 will cover two essences that were previously known but I hadn’t written about here as well as two new unused essences and how these new discoveries were made. Part 2 will cover the remaining four new unused essences.

This is still going to be a long one, so without further ado, here’s Part 1 below the cut.

So first up we have Wood! Just wood.

This essence itself isn’t technically unused. But it isn’t accessible like other essences.

When building an object in the workshop in addition to using essences as paint, you also have access to a “default” swatch.

This is treated by the game as an essence of its very own, complete with its own DEF file and a unique <IsDefault> tag not seen in other essences. 

By copying most of its properties over to a brand new essence file, it can be used like a normal essence!

The only things of note though is the flair model and the icons which are otherwise unused and never seen by the player.

The flair icon, strangely enough, is the same as the paint icons that can be seen in-game. The paint icon showcases an earlier style where they resembled actual paint pallets, as seen in some early footage.

The paint icon also showcases an earlier set of textures they planned to use. Unfortunately the textures for these no longer exist in the files though.

Fun fact about the wood essence model, is that it can be seen in some different early footage. Which is pretty neat!

Next up we have the Acorn, an actual unused essence.

This essence does not have any leftover data, and has to be reconstructed to be accessible in-game. Something that will have to be done for all of the remaining essences to discuss.

By copying and modifying an existing essence file, we can load it up in-game and see that it has a paint set! Sort of. The two patterned swatches work, while the flat swatches are pure white, just like the hedgehog essence.

There’s also a flair model leftover as well! Giving us a good look at what the Acorn essence would have looked like if it was finished.

These are the essences that have been known about already, in fact they have been on the Cutting Room Floor page for several years now. But these next five essences were completely unknown even to myself until just recently. But before I discuss the next few essences, let me explain how I was able to find them in the first place.

These new discoveries were actually made possible thanks to the Cozy Bundle, after “obtaining” a copy of the game, I was able to dump the ROMF, and look through all of the files. From there using Switch Toolbox, I could export all of the new HD textures to regular .PNG files, and amazingly enough, the original file names were intact!

Amazingly enough, all of the essences received new high-resolution textures, even though they are unused. Which is what I will be using for this blog post because seeing these in high resolution is just so much more pleasing to the eye.

Previous methods of dumping textures from the 2008 PC version of MySims did not retain the original file names. While all of the files necessary for these few next essences are inside the 2008 PC version, since the file names were unknown, they couldn’t be reimplemented, until now of course.

This little guy, called ‘applewood’, has a full paint set with fully working flat swatches unlike the previous essences, making it more complete than the other essences discussed so far.

There is also a paint icon leftover! But no flair icon to be seen…

Now internally while it’s referred to as ‘applewood’ the leftover text strings refer to it as ‘Light Wood’ instead, suggesting it was either an earlier incarnation of the final Light Wood essence, or had its original text strings overridden before a new entry made was made for the final Light Wood essence.

This next one is called ‘oakwood’, and with this one we’re back to only having two full pattern swatches and pure white flats.

But thanks to a leftover paint icon, we do know what they would have looked like. And it's brown and beige.

Interestingly this also has the same quirk as Applewood, where internally it is referred to as ‘oakwood’ but the leftover text strings refer to it as ‘Dark Wood’. Suggesting it was either an earlier incarnation of the final Dark Wood essence, or had its original text strings overridden before a new entry was made for the final Dark Wood essence.

Unfortunately This is where I have to cut off for Part 1.

Part 2 will have even more unused essences to discuss, and they get much, much more interesting from here.

You can read Part 2 here.

[esamastation]

Gamer girl gets transmigrated into a farm boy Chapter 4 [<<Prologue | <Chapter 3 || Chapter 5>>] Ao3 link

-

So, gambling turned out to be a bit of a bust. It's not a complete loss, though, Van did multiply his starting bid of five silver to seventy four silver pieces in total. Compared to using exploits it's nothing - Katie could've made that in her sleep, if the NPCs still worked like they do in the game. But seeing that it's still in the very early tutorial section… it could be worse.

And then there's the level up. Van's very first this time around. Cue the confetti…

[Farmboy] [Van] [Lvl. 2 Commoner]

It feels pretty good. And what's waiting below in the stats screen is even better.

[You have 2 unused Stat Points.] [You have 1 unused Skill Point]

The first ones always feel a bit special.

In Age of Tales you get two status points and one skill point each time you level up and can then allocate those points as you wish on your character screen. It's not the only way to get points - there are quests, special items and a couple of accessories that affect how you accrue points - but until you're making real money in the game, you're stuck with what level ups dish out. Which is fine - early levels until about lvl. 20 are pretty cheap.

Of course, Van doesn't have a class yet, and so no skill tree to assign his shiny new skill point to - but he can assign his stat points, if he wants to. Which brings up the question. 

What is he going to specialise in this time? 

Van's got the base stats for an easy start as a Paladin, obviously - but Katie just did a Paladin run, and while it was fun, she wouldn't say it was so great that she's eager to repeat the experience. Especially if this really is a transmigration isekai situation - which she's still not thinking about, thank you very much, that's an existential crisis that can wait until nightfall.

At any rate, getting stuck forever as a Paladin would be… well, it would probably be fine. It was alright, playing the goody two shoes lawful good himbo with a heart of gold. It went great with the whole cliché secret chosen one and the lost heir to a great house thing at least… not that there were more than, like, three characters in the whole game who even acknowledged the player character's class. Van got pretty much the same reaction from everyone regardless of whether he was a Rogue or a Wizard or Paladin - it was just the big black and white moral choices that affected those sorts of things.

Age of Tales is Age of Tales-ing, what can you do?

Anyway, going at it as a Paladin again would be easy… but boring. Katie would have to think about it carefully before committing to anything. Though she hasn't quite ruled out the use of cheats yet and is still hoping that Van might be able to use exploits to his benefit later, the gambler showed her that things are different here. Never mind the fact that some features of Age of Tales are just missing, like the passive Wisdom buff. What if she chose a class with features that just don't work anymore?

Yeah, Van's next class would take some careful consideration, and she wouldn't be assigning his status points until she knew, either. Class selection wouldn't be until Urgol's Camp in Chapter 2, anyway, so there's no point fretting about it now.

For now Van has some silver to spend and shopping to do.

He considers visiting the fortune teller first, just in case the duplication glitch is still possible… but he doesn't have a gold bar, and the glitch never worked with anything else, and beyond that the fortune teller doesn't really do much. Also, he has The Incident to prepare for, too, and a limited amount of money.

So, with a full coin purse in hand, Van turns his attention to the market instead. First things first - weapon and armour.

The smithy stands on the other end of the market square, with smoke chugging out of its chimney at steady puffs. There are some shields on display in the front and a big wooden sword on top of the building, advertising "Blakeley's Blades - in business for more than three generations!"

"Hello," Van calls, entering the place.

Inside the air is hot and thick, with the smell of smoke and metal hanging heavy in the room. In the background there's the steady clink-clink-clink of a hammer on an anvil - an apprentice, hammering out some nails in the back. 

"Welcome," an older teenager, eighteen at most, comes forward. "How can we help you?"

[Blacksmith's Apprentice] [Jaro Amagris] [Lvl. 15 Commoner]

"I'd like to see what you have for sale, please," Van says.

"Well, what we have ready is over there," the older apprentice says, pointing towards a table loaded with a number of wooden boxes and buckets full of different metal crafts - nails, candle holders, hinges… "But if you want something specific, you will have to wait until the master gets back - he's out on business."

"Thanks, I'll just take a look," Van says and moves to the table. 

Much to his delight, an Age of Tales shop menu pops up.

[Blakeley's Blades Blacksmith]

[Small Iron Nail - 10 copper pieces] [Small Iron Hook - 13 copper pieces] [Small Iron Clasp - 15 copper pieces] …

And so on, in a surprisingly long list from cheapest to the most expensive. It's a lot of small iron stuff, different types of nails, cloak pins, buckles and buttons, eating utensils, heads of farming tools, and so on and so on, ending with the most expensive items.

… [Cast Iron Skillet - 35 silver pieces] [Cast Iron Cooking Pot - 40 silver pieces] [Short Sword - 50 silver pieces] 

It's a lot more items than Van had been expecting - and yet, fewer weapons. There are plenty of knives - Cooking Knife, Lvl. 1, goes for a nice round 20 silver pieces while Whittling knife, Lvl. 1 goes for 25 - but there's no daggers or throwing knives or anything like that. There isn't even metal ammunition for a sling. There's just one short sword on sale.

And no armour whatsoever. 

"Do you not sell any armour?" Van asks, confused. 

"Er, no?" Jaro Amagris says, giving him a strange look. "We don't make armour, really, though I suppose we can give it a try, if you want to order some. Or you could try at the Madam Arbury's, they might have something."

Van blinks, confused. "Madam Arbury's?"

"The tailor," Jaro clarifies.

There's a tailor? "Oh, okay. Uh. Where is it?"

"It's just across from the church - big windows with dresses, you can't miss it," the apprentice says with a shrug. "I think they have some padded coats and stuff."

Huh. That's interesting. You could get some gambesons and the like in the game too, but all armour and weaponry was bought from blacksmiths. This is… different.

"What d'you need armour for?" the younger apprentice, a boy of maybe ten or eleven, asks from between his hammering. His eyes shine eagerly on his sweaty, soot-stained face. Van glances at the air above him.

[Blacksmith's Apprentice] [Denny Rivercross] [Lvl. 3 Commoner]

The kid squints at Van.  "Are you going to join the army or something?" he asks.

Yeah, eventually, unfortunately, if things follow game plot. "No, no, I just got a bit of money, and I always wanted to try it," Van says quickly and motions at himself. "I mean… I think I'd make a good warrior. What do you think?" He flexes an arm, just because he can. And because Van's biceps are massive.

The younger blacksmith's apprentice bounces a little, clearly full of barely contained kid energy. "Oh yeah! You could be a knight!"

The older apprentice snorts. "Yeah, I don't think size alone is enough to become a knight, Denny," he says, looking Van up and down. "Though it probably helps…"

Denny bounces again. "Jaro, can we make armour for him?" the kid asks eagerly. "I'm so tired of making nails!"

"Well, like I said, we could give it a try," Jaro answers dubiously, still eyeing Van. "If he can pay for it."

Van shrugs. "I might, I might not. How long would it take to make it?"

"Depends on what you want," Jaro answers, taking a hammer lying on a table nearby and swinging it thoughtfully. "Some things take longer to make. And whether you're fine with us trying our hand at it, or if you want a master to make it matters too. He'll be faster - but it will cost you more."

"Hmm… say I wanted a chest plate, a cuirass, and you made it - how long would it take you?" Van asks, rubbing his chin on thought.

Jaro shrugs. "I've never made one and we're pretty busy, so… maybe a week or two?"

… by which time, Van would be at Ulgor's Camp and Valthor's minions would've already torched Westbrook to the ground.

Assuming, of course, that events followed game plot.

"Hmm," Van hums, wondering. In the game there's nothing you can do to prevent the destruction of Westbrook and the Gylcross farm - no matter what choices the player made, a scripted event was a scripted event. But maybe here and now… maybe there is something he can do.

He'd know once the Rift was opened.

In either case, a week is too long - he needs the armour for the battle in town, and that's in three days - and after that, even if the town survived, he might not see Westbrook again in months, if not years. There's no point in ordering anything made here.

"Well, it was a nice dream," Van sighs, a bit disappointed. "I guess I'll try my luck at the tailor's."

"Uh-huh," Jaro the senior apprentice agrees, clearly unimpressed, and drops the hammer on the table. "Alright. Anything else we can do for you?"

With no weapon-worthy knives and the only sword on sale being prohibitively expensive with Van's meagre budget… "Any chance you might have any spears or something lying around in here?"

Jaro snorts at him, arching his brows. "Spears?"

"I just want something to practice being a warrior with!" Van says defensively. "Spears are cheap, right?"

The elder blacksmith's apprentice shakes his head, looking amused, and then thinks about it. "Actually," Jaro says slowly. "I might have something. If you're alright with the shoddy quality, I think we have some practice pieces left?"

He goes to rummage in the back of the smithy and comes back with three very rough looking spearheads made of pretty low quality iron, going by the little holes and pockmarks in them.

[Dull Spearhead, Lvl. 1] [Attack: 3] [Defence: 0] [Crafting material. Attach to a Wooden Pole for a Dull Spear Lvl. 1.]

Van studies the spearheads with interest. Huh. There was crafting in Age of Tales, of course - but the only weapons you could craft were different types of arrows, and those only if you played a Ranger. He'd never seen spearheads. Maybe with some crafting material, his crafting menu will unlock?

In the meanwhile, the younger apprentice has abandoned his nail and is coming to join them. "Jaro, did you make these?" Denny asks, poking at the spearheads interestedly.

"Yes - master was hoping to get commission from the Baron, so he had me learn how to make them," Jaro shrugs. "We didn't get the job, though, it went to a blacksmith in Elysia. Someone's relative." He rolls his eyes.

Denny bounces eagerly, looking up at him. "I want to learn how to make spearheads!"

"Figure out how to make straight nails first," Jaro snorts, pushing the kid back towards the anvil he'd abandoned. Then the elder apprentice turns to look at Van. "Anyway, you can have these for five silver apiece."

Van hums. They are pretty rough, but… they'll probably still be better than the tools back at the farm. "Throw in a sharpening stone and you got yourself a deal."

-

Things go a little better at the tailor. Emphasis on the little.

"Oh, dear me," huffs the very fashionable lady tailor holding the gambeson against Van's chest and tutting fretfully. "No, it won't do, this won't fit at all! I'm afraid it will never fit you."

[Tailor] [Alma Arbury] [lvl. 7 Commoner]

She's somewhere between her thirties and forties and quite pretty, as most female NPCs in this game are. She's dressed up like the NPCs in the crown city, in a multilayered, vaguely Victorian looking dress with many shiny buttons running in a neat line from her neck down to the very hem. She looks very much like someone who's well fit to catering for the rich and affluent.

It's pretty fascinating, since she wasn't in the game at all.

"Well?" Alma asks, squinting a little through her golden framed glasses.

Van looks down. Though the gambeson looks pretty legit, with thick quilting and metal clasps and everything… it also kind of looks like she's holding something made for a child, when compared to his torso. "Could you maybe… expand it?" he asks hopefully. 

"Oh, well," Alma frowns, leaning back a little to consider the issue. "I suppose I could add panels to the side… and the arms… and the shoulder…" she trails away and then tsks, folding the gambeson over her arm. "No, no, it won't do, it won't do at all, it would be a complete mess. No, the proper thing to do is to make a new coat from scratch. Yes, it will fit you perfectly and will be far less work for me!"

Van hums, watching her take the gambeson away. "Well, you're the tailor, I guess. How long would that take, though?" he asks worriedly.

Alma hums and waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, a day or two - it's not a terribly complicated piece of clothing to make, and I have some nice quilt ready."

Van sighs with disappointment. Yet another unexpected turn for realism, but at least it's better than a week or two. "I see," he says and mentally pokes at the System, in hopes that it might offer him a handy-dandy instant goods store.

It shows him the tailor's shop instead. 

[Madam Arbury's Boutique.]

[Handkerchief - 80 copper pieces] [Foot Wrap - 90 copper pieces] [Underwear - 1 silver pieces] …

And so on and so forth, all the way down to…

… [Men's Fancy Winter Coat - 67 copper pieces] [Fancy Evening Dress - 80 silver pieces] [Elaborate Wedding Dress - 1 gold and 10 silver pieces] 

Van mentally flicks through the store page with a sigh and then stops. What's this? Near the middle of the list there is, oh, is that A Leather Vest, lvl. 4? For meagre 20 silver pieces? Well-well-well…

He looks slyly towards the tailor. "You wouldn't happen to have anything else - like, say, a vest?" he asks and adds, leadingly. "Something that might offer a little bit of protection?"

"Oh, well," Alma huffs, adjusting her glasses, her lips pursing up in thought. "I suppose we can have a look at what I have in store, but I really don't think… no, maybe…"

She heads off, muttering to herself and leaving Van examining the boutique and the System's store window. 

It's interesting, and yet another proof of how much more… real things are here. While the building for this shop was in the game - and it had something like five identical clones in other towns and cities - it hadn't been something the player could interact with. Just window dressing, making towns feel more lived in.

Maybe it was in the cut content, and there'd been plans for a clothing shop NPC that hadn't been implemented. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, and there certainly were enough clothing items that there should've been a tailor NPC.

"Ah, here we go!" Alma calls. She's holding a brown leather vest up triumphantly. "Now, this, this is a tough piece of clothing, if I do say so myself! Nice and supple cowhide. Come here, let's see how it fits."

It doesn't, no matter how Alma tries to stretch it, the vest doesn't get anywhere near to closing properly. Van's chest is simply too big.

"Well, that's what you get for growing so big!" the tailor says, a little defensive, her face flushed with effort. 

"I didn't say anything?" Van mutters and then shakes his head, giving in to the inevitable and taking the vest off. Everything was so much easier in the game - because everything always fit the character perfectly. "I guess it was a bit much expect clothing to be ready made. Let's talk about the gambeson - how much would it cost to make it?"

Pretty much all the silver he has left, it turns it, and he wouldn't get the gambeson until the next time he was in town, but that's fine. He wouldn't need it until after the Rift, anyway. With haggling done - and belated introductions made - Alma moves to take his measurements

It's a bit of a new experience for Katie, who's never had anything tailored in her life. It's also somewhat eye-opening, because Madam Arbury's Boutique has something he's not encountered yet. 

A mirror.

"I'll get to work right away," Alma promises, pushing her glasses up again while Van stares at his reflection. "It will be ready by tomorrow evening, mark my words. Please extend your arm straight to the side."

"I'm sure it will be," Van says, tilting his head this way and that while holding his arm to the side. Katie spent something like two hours designing this face, but seeing it like this, in the mirror, moving when he moves, emoting when he does…

"May I ask what you need a gambeson for, anyway?" Alma asks. "I assume you work on a farm?"

"Yeah, the Gylcross farm - but I'm not planning to stay there forever," Van admits, making faces at his reflection. His teeth are so straight. And so white. Kind of weird.

"Ah, I see," Alma hums, thoughtful, writing something down in a little notebook. "Are you looking to join any military group in particular? Should I add heraldries?"

"No," Van says, shaking his head. "I just want some armour, no insignia or heraldry or anything."

"Very well. You can put your hand down now."

Van lowers his arm and tilts his head the other way. Damn, his jaw is… impressive. He's got comic book superhero levels of jaw going for himself. Which kind of makes sense - a certain farmboy superhero might've been an inspiration there, maybe. His hair is so much messier than he realised, though. Guess that's an effect of it not being just a thing made of polygons anymore.

Also, is that… a bit of stubble? A hint of a five o'clock shadow? 

Does he have to shave?

Alma finishes taking his measurements with professional finesse. Van pays for his order, signs the receipt,  weighs his now empty coin purse and then sighs. "Thank you very much, Ma'am."

"And thank you for your business, Mr. Van," Alma says, sniffing, and with a last slightly flustered glance at him, awkwardly waves him off. "Have a very good day now."

Shaking his head, Van heads out of the store.

So, instead of the usual armament of Long Sword, Reinforced Wooden Buckler, Studded Leather Armour, dozens of Draughts of Memory and bunch of healing potions on top of it, his shopping haul is… three shoddy spear points, sharpening stone and a receipt for an order from Madam Arbury's Boutique.

Yeah, Katie's usual approach to Age of Tales is not working here, at all, and reality is throwing some spanners in the works. Katie isn't sure how she likes it. Which is probably kinda ironic, after all the times she went on and on about how dumb and unrealistic Age of Tales was. 

She'd get used to it. 

-

"Ah, there you are, my boy," Mr. Gylcross says, spotting Van loitering about the marketplace, waiting for him. "Have you been enjoying your time in town?"

"It's been… interesting," Van admits, which it has. "All done with business, sir?"

"Yes, quite. I found a couple of buyers for our spring crops," Mr. Gylcross says, seeming satisfied. He's got a flushed look of a man who's had at least a couple of drinks and his moustache has somehow gotten bushier. Looks like he's had a good day. "And the doctor will come take a look at Geruth tomorrow," the landowner continues. "Now, go and fetch the cart, if you please - I've made some purchases, and it will be far easier to load them directly into the cart."

[Homeward bound, Lvl. 2.]

[Mr. Gylcross' shopping trip is drawing to a close and it's time to head back to the farm. Fetch Bell and the cart, and load Mr. Gylcross' purchases for the trip home.] [Quest reward:  20 exp, 3 Meat buns, 1 Bottle of Mead.]

"Right away," Van agrees and gets to it.

Together with Mr. Gylcross Van loads up the various sacks and barrels and other things the man had bought onto the cart, tying them down for a secure trip home. Then Mr. Gylcross takes a seat in the back again, now leaning against some flour sacks.

"Have you eaten anything, Van?" the man asks, rifling through his purchases.

"Ah, no, sir, I got… distracted," Van admits - and the moment it's mentioned, he realises that he's actually pretty hungry and thirsty. He hadn't even been thinking of food as something he needs, because, well… Age of Tales didn't have a hunger bar.

"Here," Mr. Gylcross says and hands him a clay bottle and a paper bag that doesn't quite fit the setting. "Eat up, my boy, it's a long way home."

"Thanks, Mr. Gylcross," Van says and peers into the bag - sure enough, meat buns. The bottle must be mead then. "I appreciate it."

"Got to keep my men fed, don't I, else you might run off to work for the likes of Drakner, and I can't have that " Mr. Gylcross chortles and settles down for the journey back.

Van hums, taking a bite of the meat bun and answering the System's prompt for [Start journey?] with [yes].

-

[<<Prologue | <Chapter 3 || Chapter 5>>]

Proofread by @nimadge

-

Reality is against Van but at least there's meat buns and mead

[crtter]

Pirating didn’t start out as stealing. It was just sharing copies of one single legally bought software. Companies called it stealing because “that’s one less person we could have sold it to!” but it was not much different than, say, buying a car then selling it to someone else. The company gets no money out of this transaction and, chances are that, if someone is buying an used car in the first place, they wouldn’t be able to count this person as a potential buyer for one of their brand new cars anyway.

But that’s not the case anymore. Not too long ago, you could buy a copy of Photoshop from Adobe, install it on your computer, and it would be yours forever. Was it cheap? Hell no. It was around U$ 700. But one could argue that, given that we’re talking about THE software that still is considered the standard image editing tool in every illustration and photography-related industry and it was a one-time purchase, it was a good investment. In March 2013, however, Adobe decided that getting 700 bucks every time someone wanted to install Photoshop on a computer just wasn’t cutting it for them. So now you have to pay them U$ 20 a month to be able to download and use Photoshop. That’s U$ 240 if you own Photoshop for a year. If you’ve owned it for three years, you’ve given Adobe U$ 720, already more than it used to cost to buy it permanently. And it’ll keep going on forever. If you skip one payment, it becomes unusable.

So now, it IS stealing. And it’s a matter of principle. If a company tells you to pay a monthly ransom in order to keep their product in working condition, show them that you’re more willing to find a torrent link of a cracked version of it that some dude posted on a YouTube video with dubstep blaring over it than giving them a single cent. An eye for an eye, motherfucker. Catch me if you can.

Ultimately, though, it IS a good thing that there are people out there making these kinds of step-by-step pirating 101 guides for beginners. Piracy has become increasingly more difficult to get the hang of as time went by. Mobile devices are more popular than computers now and stuff made by Apple Inc. is made purposely more difficult to download anything pirated on than, say, Windows or Android. Not to mention that companies are WAY too comfortable with selling subscriptions instead of products nowadays. More than ever, they have to be reminded that unreasonable prices equals getting your shit stolen instead of bought.

[binxdoesgaming]

Uh oh, guess who's on the A.I.M.E. brainrot again.

My girlie :)

[canisalbus]

*carefully picks you up and peeks into your conch snail shell*

Ehm... Sorry to bother, but... Could we, maybe, possibly... see Vasco's wife and her lover pictured by your hand? Sorry again, thank you for listening. Take care.

*delicately lays you back into the water to prevent any stress or dehydration*

Unfortunately I don't have her lover figured out yet, but I think Ludovica looks something like this:

[rebouks]

shrimbs.. 🦐