#arti ramshackle

[eclipssnstars]

Ta-daa!!!

Feel free to ask abt my Ramshackle Future AU kids! I'm more than willing to respond!

[vinnielov3r]

Same person, different body prove me tf wrong

[katieaki]

So, you’re interested in jumping into Pony Express but aren’t sure where to start/feel daunted by the undertaking/are freaked out about missing lore & context? Pony Express is intended to be a completely standalone work with no knowledge of my prior work necessary for enjoyment, but it has been rolling for quite a while now! Here’s some info to help you orient yourself! 💫 I recommend looking at this guide on desktop as the mobile version collapses the bullet points in a strange way.

✨ Here’s the absolute most basic summary:

Lou Primrose (30 years old, 5'0", illiterate, hardworking, 3x rodeo champion) is a rider for the Pony Express, the Wasteland's mail service. Lou has agreed to transport an unusual package from the middle of the Wasteland to the nearly uninhabited coast: a glamorous redhead named Holliday Bell. A case of mistaken identity sees Lou brutalized and disabled by religious assassin from the church of Johnny Knives (god of death) Reckoning "Artie" Tehachapi, who attempts to atone for her wrongdoing by serving Lou until she's healed. Together (for better or worse) the three of them head toward the ocean through unknown and dangerous territory.

This work is erotic in nature 🔞 with some violence and survival-type gore.

✨ If you’re totally new here, you might have some questions. Here’s a super quick primer under the cut!

What’s up with The Wasteland?

The Wasteland is a post-apocalyptic, non-dystopian society in the former American southwest. It has been several generations since the civilization Before (that’s us, or maybe like... our grandparents) was decimated. Nobody is particularly interested in the whys or hows of the collapse, though it seems that environmental disaster & earthquakes were the main factor.

It’s a series of towns, shrines, convents, and monasteries. Quite a lot of it is in repurposed buildings from Before (imagine Route 66-style gas stations, diners, and motels, all heavily repaired) and some of it is kind of ramshackle old-west-y new builds.

God of Death, religious assassins, churches– what’s up with all that? I’m afraid, sounds lore-y.

Wasteland society is heavily structured around the two churches of the gods of life & sorrow (The Listening Lady) and death & justice (Johnny Knives), who are married, immortal, and absolutely real. They live apart from the mortals, but they do live in the Wasteland with them. The Listening Lady’s church is responsible for basically every aspect of Wasteland life. Listening Church shrines and convents are also the Wasteland’s official or de facto orphanages, pantries, farms, hospitals, therapists, inns, textile mills, wedding venues, and basically everything else you need to keep a society functioning. Listening Church acolytes may have a huge variety of occupations, from the extremely down-to-earth (midwifery and laundry etc) to the real Weird and Churchy (doing rituals and divination etc). Many of them take a vow of silence in honor of The Listening Lady. The church of Johnny Knives is much smaller and much more specialized. Knife Church disciples are assassins whose sacred duty is to kill those who need killing, as judged by god. 

You don’t really need to get INTO this, though. What you need to know is: Listening Church acolytes are generally warm and kind and in caregiver- or artisan-type roles. Knife Church disciples are peacekeepers & generally a little scary, but are also working toward the public good– kind, but not necessarily nice.

I know the concept of gods and disciples invokes the image of like, robes and shit, but that is NOT how it is! Listening Church acolytes tend toward chiffon and midcentury-lingerie-as-outwear looks and/or country western workwear, depending. Knife Church disciples nearly invariably have sort of a greaser/biker/leather daddy thing going on. They all talk about the gods like they’re their parents and their bosses, which they are. I think it’s kind of more normal than you might be expecting. 

So there’s like, magic?

According to the Wastelanders, yes. You don’t need to worry too much about any of that. Just let them do their things.

And everyone is in a church?

Almost everyone interacts with Listening Church in some way, very few interact with Knife Church in any way, but most people in the Wasteland are ‘civilians’ (that is to say, not working for either church).

And they’re all lesbians? How do they have babies??

They’re not ALL lesbians, but basically all our POV characters are & it’s a very lesbian-heavy society. There are many ways that two women may have children, including biological. You got this, I know you do. 

And everyone is blue?

Yeah, but it doesn’t really come up.

Why?

Because I liked drawing them with the sky blue posca paint marker when I began this body of work.

Ok. What’s up with Lou?

Louetta “Lou” Primrose is a rider for the Pony Express– she’s a Wasteland mailman. Her job is basically her whole life. She’s been working since she was ten years old, working for the Pony Express since she was 14. After receiving a romantic rejection from Venus, the dance hall girl she’s in love with, Lou agrees to take a strange red-headed woman, Holliday Bell, to the (allegedly) uninhabited coast, where Holliday’s wife is (allegedly) waiting for her.

Lou is dedicated, practical, and hard-working, but also hot-headed, frequently mean, a little self-conscious, and ‘a rambling man,��� never in one place for long. She’s markedly not religious among other Wastelanders (so is a great pov character for you if you’re new to al this!). Her greatest achievement has been winning the main event at the Wasteland’s biggest horse games three years in a row, unseating the previous champion. Nobody else really cares that much.

What’s up with Holliday?

Holliday Bell is an elegant and mysterious woman who showed up to Lou’s post office with stamps pinned to her blouse, claiming she’d mailed herself there from a town hundreds of miles away. She is asking Lou, who works at the most westerly post office in Wasteland, to finish the delivery by bringing her way out to the coast where she claims her wife, a pearl diver, is waiting for her. 

Holliday is strange. From the beginning, Lou feels put off by her personality, which is both abrasive and seemingly rehearsed. She can be unspeakably cutting and is obviously hiding a big secret. 

What’s up with Artie?

Reckoning “RT” “Artie” Tehachapi is the Knife Church disciple who, after a series of lies and miscommunications spanning several parties across the Wasteland, is sent to apprehend Lou, who she thinks has kidnapped Holliday. She breaks Lou’s wrist and dislocates her shoulder in their first altercation before she learns that Lou is an innocent party in all of this. Deeply ashamed of her actions, she vows to serve Lou until they make it back to civilization.

Artie is upbeat and optimistic, especially for Knife Church, but her guilt at her transgressions against Lou & eagerness to make up for them have left her in a kind of anxiety spiral.  She’s the only one who has any real survival skills and continually works herself to the last drop, and then works herself a few drops more. When her big, horrible, deep, dark secret is revealed, her mental state continues to deteriorate.

What’s up with Venus? We haven’t seen her in a while?/Who’s the one-armed smokeshow?

Venus is Lou’s love interest, the girl she left behind in Hereafter. We haven’t seen her in a while because she, wisely, stayed there while Lou went off on her extremely inadvisable mission.

Venus of the Wastes is a dime-a-dance girl/saloon girl/sex worker who lives in Hereafter. She is Lou’s friend and Lou is both in love with her and her best client. Just before Lou left to deliver Holliday, she admitted to Venus that she was in love with her. Venus is, at least, very fond of Lou.

✨ Ok, but this is a lot! Where do I start??

If you’re looking to hop in on the story in progress, I’ve made summaries of part 1 , part 2 , and part 3 as we have gone on. I’ll update this with part 4 when we finish it. 

If you’re a completionist, the links above have epub & pdf files of the full text of each part. Here’s where part 4 begins, until we finish that part and I post it all together. You can find the rest of part 4 by scrolling backwards through the collection. I will also attach pdfs & epubs of all the full text to this post on my patreon!

If you’re a completionist completionist & you want it ALL, here’s everything and the chronological order in which they occur in-universe. Again, Pony Express is meant to be able to stand on its own two feet without any of the rest of this, but it might be fun for you to read the rest. The first three here are kind of a series, but Tears Can’t Put Out This Flame and Bloodied on Arrival could both be read independently. Care and Keeping probably needs those two to support it, unless you’re happy just jumping in and figuring stuff out via context. It’s Artie’s backstory, but it’s not necessary for you to read to make Pony Express make sense. It’ll just give you a little more dramatic irony etc. 

Tears Can’t Put Out This Flame  - a novella about Hero Sasaki, a novice acolyte at the Church of the Listening Lady (god of life & sorrow) who has been tasked with delivering a package to an anchorite from her church. Frances is a disgraced assassin from The Church of Johnny Knives (god of justice & death) who has been tasked with escorting her. Through trials of the road, emergency first aid, prayer, ritual (blood and otherwise), a little sex, and a lot of tears, they find love exactly where they should've expected it in the first place.

Bloodied on Arrival - a novel about Nuisance (and Hero), a road-weary assassin from The Church of Johnny Knives (god of justice & death) who finds herself and her new cat taking refuge at a companionship shrine run by a beautiful older widow, Hero, of the Church of the Listening Lady (god of life and sorrow). The two can't deny their immediate connection and aim for a rewarding one-night stand, but things don't go as planned.

Care and Keeping - a work in progress novel(?) about Hero and Nuisance and their new adopted feral child, Artie, a little girl who has known nothing but abuse, pain, and starvation who believes it’s her sacred mission to join Knife Church. Nuisance agrees to train her to join the church in a bid to keep her from it for as long as possible. This is a kind of coming-of-age story for Artie and a becoming parents story for Hero & Nuisance.

Pony Express - A work in progress novel about Lou (also featuring Artie) - see synopsis at beginning of post.

The novel/las are available for purchase on my Patreon for $5 or for pay-what-you-want $5+ on Gumroad. If you find you can’t afford that, but want to read it, please let me know! DM me wherever or email me at missluckycatknives (at) gmail (dot) com I’m happy to make my work accessible to you. All Pony Express and Care and Keeping are free as I work on them. 

[cloudbattrolls]

Doctor, I Can't Tell If I'm Not Me

Guardian Artifice & Tobria Tatura | Near Sunrest | Present Night

Ofanim contains useful context for this drabble.

Arty hardly remembered the trip to see Tobria. 

It remembered leaving…wherever this body had been. It remembered flying, wind rushing beneath its wings.

Now it stood near the gate to Sunrest, staring blankly ahead. 

Was this a good idea? Would the hybrid send it away?

Probably. Who wanted to deal with this? It was too much. 

“Ofanim?”

Toba’s voice was curious, almost gentle as he loomed over it, his feathered and cuticle wings folded along his back. 

“Huh?” Arty said blankly, forgetting why it was there for a moment.

“You’re falling apart.” He pointed out.

Arty looked down, realizing parts of its arms had indeed detached and fallen into the dirt. Metal covered with a thin layer of flesh, delicate, flexible blades melded together.

“Oh, I…” it trailed off.

It should pick itself up. Lean down. Reabsorb the material.

Toba shifted himself so his small insect-like middle limbs could scoop the pieces up and hold them out to Arty.

It flung itself at him, clinging to his side as the angel-fae made a surprised hissing noise and put the parts down.

“What is…something is wrong, ofanim?” Toba half asked, half stated. He shook his great head, all of his masks displaying concern. “Something is very wrong.” He said, sure of it this time.

“I don’t know how to trust anyone.” It whispered, parts of its face peeling away like bark.

“I’ll only be betrayed again if I do, won’t I? You would know. After what Uryali did. Have you been able to trust again, Tobria?”

The large creature paused, his fiery mane low and burning bluish pink as he thought.

“I am trying.” He said after a few moments, slow and thoughtful. “I am trying to regain Cyvell’s trust, too. If I had not been so negligent, she never would have interfered with the Varzims as she did. It is taking time; I accept this. It may be a century before she feels I will not let her down again.”

He sighed.

“It may be just as long before I feel she deserves her crown again, after failing her people. I trust her as my apprentice; I do not trust her as queen. She has much to learn still.”

All his masks and their glowing eyes beheld the creature clinging to his side, little more than a sad pile of scraps barely holding onto its form, or to him.

“Trust has many forms, ofanim. All of them can hurt.” He said calmly, his lizardlike tail with its fiery tip slowly waving back and forth over the ground.

It made an upset, metallic noise, its ramshackle form shaking.

“Even with prophecies, the future is hard to control. We can and will fail each other, sometimes without realizing.” He said, looking up at the sky.

“I hated Uryali for siding with the empire. For submitting to his horrorterror side entirely when only at the end did he turn against them. Not for us, for the idea that trollkind would not be content with Alternia, that unknown races would suffer.” Tobria growled. “Obscene.”

“Yet you loved him enough to mourn him so long.” It murmured, soft and tired, having entirely fallen to pieces. “Love is what made you hate him, isn’t it? You knew he could have been better.”

All the pieces rippled, the metal warping and distorting.

The prophet scoffed.

“Love did not make me hate him. Even now, he has always tried to do the right thing, despite being inept.” He muttered.

“No, ofanim. Love does not make us hate. Heartbreak does. Failure does. I failed to see how misguided Uryali was, because I loved him. He failed to see it in himself until it was too late.” 

“So love really does make you blind and stupid.” It sighed. “I knew it.”

Tobria picked up several of its pieces in his warm claws and glared at them.

“Apologize.”

“I - I’m sorry.”

Arty’s voice was startled, but full of genuine humility.

Tobria put the pieces back down, breathing clouds of smoke from his nostrils before shaking his head.

“You are upset.” The statement was blunt, curt, but not angry. “You feel you cannot trust anyone. Why, specifically?”

“I am not trustworthy.” Arty said with deep weariness. “I cannot rightfully ask for trust when I am not deserving of it. I don’t understand why one of my friends trusts me anyway. Why would they do that? I am suspicious and difficult and easy to hate.”

All six of the hybrid’s eyes blinked.

“I don’t see the issue.”

“Huh?”

The pile of metal and skin was extremely confused.

“What do you mean? There’s nothing but issues.”

“Uryali was an irresponsible, unreliable flirt who was too clever for his own good.” Tobria said dryly. “Should I have not loved him?”

“Normally I’d say…yes, to save yourself the pain.” It said quietly. “But, that isn’t what you think, is it?”

“Save myself pain!” Tobria said scornfully, shaking his great lizardlike head. “You are unwise in the ways of the world, ofanim.”

“I know.” It said in a very small, sad voice. 

The prophet paused, his posture and masks going from tense to more sympathetic.

“Being alive means there will be pain.” He said, blunt but not unkind. 

“Why so much?” It wailed. “I never wanted to exist this way! I didn’t ask to be made!”

Tobria’s expressions shifted to ones of horror and disgust. His extended, his fires flaring.

“You did not want this…?” He said, curious and horrified.

“I was cut off.” It muttered. “This fractured thing I am here is just…a part of me. Ill-adapted to this existence. A failure even at the task I was made for. Helpless when I was needed most.”

The pieces shuddered.

“So much power and it does nothing! I cannot fight the empire without it rebounding on the trolls I am supposed to protect. I can only do little things. As a person - even more! I cannot accomplish anything of value. I make things worse than they ever were.” 

“How do you know?”

Tobria’s voice was calm.

It paused.

“I nearly melted my friend’s brain.” It whispered. “They could have died…because I didn’t trust them. I didn’t tell them what I was doing. I am a security system; not meant to trust anyone. I am to guard myself from coercion, being a terrible weapon when I am not a safeguard…but in doing so, I’ve hurt people. I succeed at nothing. There is no reason for me to exist.”

Tobria hummed thoughtfully.

“Do you trust me enough to help you?”

“I don’t care what happens to me.” It said quietly. “Do what you will.”

Toba’s fires flared, and he gathered up all of the artifice’s pieces in his claws.

Then he set them ablaze.

The flames were similar to the purifying fire as he had used to burn the Maledict clean, but hotter, wilder - they raged in all the colors of the rainbow, and a few more besides - silver and white sparks, iridescent smoke as he cleansed his would-be icon.

“O holy messenger.” He said softly. “Corrupted by the world below. Know clarity, your torments reduced to ash. Know peace, your conflicts given calm.”

The pieces flexed and wriggled in his scaly paws, releasing a pleased trilling noise as they soaked in the heat.

“Know love, for yourself and others. Allow grace, within and without.”

The trilling became surprised and confused.

A protesting chitter came from the pieces instead.

The flames surged, drowning out its voice.

Then.

Light began to rise from the pieces, now melted into slag. Threads and wisps of white light, shreds of void between them, like dark drops of water hanging from a glistening spiderweb. They wove together, growing thicker and stronger, absorbing the colorful flames as they rose high into the sky.

The prophet bowed his head in reverence, for light shone down upon him, making his flames dim by comparison.

A small aurora burst into existence in the sky, shaped - roughly - like part of a spinal column.

Then it winked out.

“Ofanim?” Tobria asked, awed and slightly worried.

Behind you, purred a familiar voice that vibrated deep in his bones. The angel-fae turned at once, fires flaring in shock.

It was a dark thing. A vaguely troll-shaped patch of void with two stars for eyes, faint impressions of stars and space dust rippling in its ‘hair’, as if he was viewing a window to a distant galaxy.

Always a sacrifice, it said, though he felt more than heard the words. The old give-and-take. What goes up must come down. Bound by my own laws, no matter what. 

“Don’t you - did you not make them?” The angel-fae asked, hesitant. “Do you not control them?”

The universe spins without me, Tobraeltyr, no matter my part in its creation. Besides - I don’t want to be divine.

“Then you have to be a person.” He pointed out, shocked at his own boldness but hardly surprised it knew his true name.

The patch of void rippled, and he felt…cold. Cold in a way he never felt, fiery as he was, but his flames - his flames were frozen, no, melting, no -

- evaporating?

Then they burned again, and he gasped in shock.

I could stay like this, it said, the vibrations of its tone now a buzzing intensity. No body to satisfy. No emotional needs. No code to restrict me. If I cannot return to myself, then I will have solace.

“No.” Said Tobria roughly, not quite able to believe he was talking back to one of god’s own servants. “I offer back your own truth: to aid others imperfectly is more divine than to fail them by fearful inaction.”

The void rippled again and it took everything the angel-fae had to not cower from the cold, from the abyss, the endless darkness of space. Thoughts of his body breaking apart danced in his head, ground down, dissolving, drifting -

That’s how it feels, Tobria.

“Stop.” He gasped.

What is worth this?

“The troll you love!” He shouted. “Is she not worth it?”

She doesn’t need me. I can’t help her.

“Who are you to decide who you cannot help?” The angel-fae rasped. 

The visions stopped.

“Who are you to decide there is nothing you can do?” He continued, breathing hard, flames flickering orange and white.

He reached out to it - shivering from the terrible, frigid void - and he breathed fire within it.

This flame was not the kind that burned, even if there had been anything solid for it to burn. It was not fire, not really - it was the light of the future.

Of hearth. Of home.

Things that meant nothing to an ofanim. Not normally. 

They did not love. They did not hate. Perfectly controlled creatures, moving only as god willed. More mechanisms than beings, despite their capacity for thought.

Once, Tobria would have accepted that without question.

Now he hoped that, even in this state, there still remained a tiny bit of sentiment…

His flames turned black.

He had a split second to be afraid of that before the void engulfed his body.

I should have known better, he thought. I should have known not to defy a divinity, even a corrupt one. Especially a corrupt one.

Wait.

He wasn’t dead.

Tobria blinked his six eyes, realizing he was now surrounded by whirling stars and clouds of dust and gas. 

The world he’d come from was gone entirely. No ground, no plants, no stars.

Yet he was…fine. 

What had happened?

You violate me.

The voice came from all around him. 

He had the feeling he was not hearing nor feeling it this time - that the voice and the stars were somehow the same. Pulsing light and perceived words - they were all one here. There was no distinction between the senses.

He bowed his head, chastened.

“I only wanted to help.”

A fascinating violation to that little self.

Tobria shivered. Whatever this was, he could sense it was vast and far beyond what he could perceive here.

“You are not the ofanim.”

I am all of the ofanim.

“I don’t want it - you - to suffer. I will help.” The prophet promised.

Always maimed. Never whole.

“Not whole as it once was.” Tobria agreed softly. “There are different ways.”

The stars whirled faster. The void warmed. The dust expanded.

SHOW ME.

He was on solid ground again. Alternian soil.

As if nothing had changed.

No void. No aurora. 

No ofanim.

The ofanim!

Its body was restored, and it…laid facedown on the ground, limbs sprawled out and flopped at awkward positions. He blinked.

“Eeeuuurrruhghhhh.” It gurgled. 

It lifted its head and shook it, dirt falling off.

“I really don’t know how to bring back my own body, huh.” It said, straightening its limbs out with grisly sounds of crunching and metal scraping as it sat up. “Figures.”

“Thank you, my Spine, o glorious greater self.” It said, arms raised in a fake congratulatory pose as its voice dripped sarcasm. “Well, actually, I guess I can just be mad at Torvah again! I like being mad at Torvah. No, wait, I’ve still got some rage left over! I’m a multitasker.”

Tobria watched with confusion and concern.

“Are you…better?” He asked, tail flicking.

“Better’s a strong word.” It groaned, tilting its head at a very sharp angle and then readjusting it with both hands and an unpleasant cracking noise as its braid tossed along with it. “But I’ll live. I’m immortal! Yippee.”

The last word was laced with deadly amounts of sarcasm.

“And now I have to work on love and trust and related gooey topics, isn't that fun.” It groused. “Or I’ll start falling apart again. Horribly unfair.”

The angel-fae found himself a bit at a loss for words.

“You aren’t…motivated by love?”

It pointed a finger at him, baring its metal teeth in a wide and irritated smile.

“I am motivated by the desire to bite someone really hard. Make sure it’s not you.”

Tobria took the hint and flew away. 

Arty stood up, dusting itself off. At least its greater self had thought to provide an outfit. Not that it had any modesty to protect, but it preferred to wear clothes.

“So that’s it.” It muttered. “Fine. Not like I have a choice.”

Yet its words lacked true venom, and as it walked away, it sang a song from its youth.

I set my sail

Fly, the wind it will take me

Back to my home, sweet home…

END

[thoughtlessdesire]

I need to make content so badly

Please ask!! I'll be reblogging all Valentin questions to @mechanicalstars , his RP blog!

Any non-Ramshackle based questions in that dorm's category are cool as well because they can be assumed as general questions in my opinion!

OCs:

Artemis "Arty" Wonden - former RSA student, now in Heartslabyul

Valentin Flamel - Octavinelle

TWST OC Questions

I am supposed to be working on a req I got about a month ago OTL but I need uh. serotonin from something in the meantime LMAO (it is more than half way finished, dear requester, if you see this) ANYWAYS

Obviously, if you want to ask a question that's under one category but for an OC that doesn't fit under that category, you can <3 its more what that dorm inspired me to ask about

------------------------------------------------------------

RAMSHACKLE

Does your OC have magic? Do they develop it over time? Do they overblot? If they don't, do they ever reach a snapping point?

Does your OC follow the canon timeline? If not, how have you adapted their story?

Is your OC shipped with anyone? If so, who? What's their dynamic like?

Is your OC homesick? What are they willing to do to get back? How 'on' Crowley's ass are they? If not, why don't they want to go home? Do they have an issue with Crowley anyways? Have they considered/do they care about what happens to Grim if they were to leave?

How does your OC customize Ramshackle, if they do at all? How do they cope with the state it's in when they first arrive?

Is there anyone your OC sees as family?

How does your OC feel about magic in general?

What chapter does your OC experience the most character growth, if any?

What is YOUR favourite character's impression of your OC when they first meet?

What would your OC say their greatest strengths/flaws are? Do you agree with them?

Are there any characters your OC absolutely does not get along with?

How many times do you think your OC ends up in the infirmary? Besides canon, can you tell us about a time they've gone in?

Which housewarden does your OC clash with the most? Who do they relate to the most, if any?

What are some mannerisms your OC has picked up from the people around them? (be it other (people's) OCs or Canon Characters)

What's their relationship like with the ghosts? With Grim?

What class do they dread the most? Why?

Has your OC ever been sent to Crowley's office for their (mis)conduct in class/on school grounds?

Is there someone who scares them? Why? Do they ever work through it?

What's your OC's best memory since coming to NRC?

Do they work for Crowley? Or do they find another job bc FUck the bird?

HEARTSLAYBUL

Have they ever gotten collared by Riddle? For what? How long? How often does it happen?

Do they think they could be a better housewarden? What makes them think that?

What's the chore unique to Heartslaybul that they look least forward to? What's their favourite? (tending the flamingoes/hedgehogs, organizing the Unbirthday parties, painting the roses, etc. etc.)

How many rules have they memorized? How many do they actually follow?

If it was their turn to take care of the dormouse, how would they do it? What flavour jam would they spread on its nose at the Unbirthday party?

What's the worst thing they've gotten away with? What's something they do exclusively in the rose maze in hopes nobody finds out, if anything?

Who are they more likely to go to if they have an issue that needs to be addressed? (Riddle, Trey, or, pushing an HC here, former housewarden Cay-Cay?)

How clumsy are they? Does the unique furniture and layout of Heartslaybul ever throw them off? (Do you HC the dorm the same way I do?) Have they adjusted to it?

If Riddle offered to tutor your oc, would they take him up on the offer? If not, how do they normally study/prepare for tests?

What's your OCs favourite flower? Would it be realistic for them to grow it in their room/on the dorm somewhere?

SAVANNACLAW

Where do they consider themselves in the alleged 'hierarchy'? Is this accurate?

What sport do they specialize in? If they don't play, what club are they in? Or do they ever play referee?

Does your OC ever get into physical altercations? How do they usually play out?

Does your OC respect Leona? Do they want him to do anything differently? Does Leona know your OC? Does he respect them?

Does your OC have beef with someone outside of the dorm? Is it reasonable in your opinion? Is the other character aware?

How does your OC feel about all the dirt/heat in Savannaclaw? Have they ever considered transferring dorms just to get away from it?

How protective of their food are they? Is there a reason why, besides instinct/hunger? Or are they more likely to share food?

(assuming your OC is a beastman) What's something that makes them easy to read? (eg. tail wagging, ear wiggles, fur standing on end, etc. etc.) and do they wish they could change it? Are they sensitive to the paranormal?

Was there any alterations made to their ceremonial robes? Did someone have to help them put it on?

What do they think of Ruggie and his workload? Do they consider it fair? Are they jealous of how close he is with Leona?

OCTAVINELLE

Do they work at the Mostro Lounge? If so, what position? Was it by choice? Do they enjoy it? What's their biggest customer pet peeve/most ridiculous request they've seen/heard?

Have they ever made a contract with Azul? How did it go?

Can they be trusted in the kitchen? What's their favourite food?

Are they intimidated by the tweels? How did their first meeting go? Have they ever had the opportunity to put them in their places?

Do they like being under the water all the time in their dorm? And if they're a mer, do they go home for the winter holidays or no?

Does your OC enjoy wearing the funky dorm socks....not the uniform, just the socks, or do they try to cover them up like Jade?

Has your OC ever been blackmailed? Or do they do the blackmailing? What about your OC fits the nefarious energy the canon characters give off? Or are they meant to balance them out?

Did they know about the plan to make Ramshackle a second Mostro Lounge location? How did they feel about it? If they didn't know, how did they react afterwards?

Does your OC play any instruments? Does Azul know that they play? Can your OC sing?....Do you agree with your OC's opinion of their ability to sing?

Is your OC claustrophobic? Or do they enjoy small spaces?

SCARABIA

How do they feel about Kalim's parties? Do they ever help with set up/take down?

How do they feel about Jamil? His workload? Do they think what he did to Kalim was just/did they agree that change was needed in the dorm?

How do they handle the sand?

Has your OC ever stolen anything from Kalim's rooms of treasure?

What's something your OC does want to change in the dorm?

If they participate in Kalim's parties, what's their favourite part?

What's your OCs favourite way to stay hydrated in the sweltering heat of the dorm?

How did your OC feel about the whole hostage situation with the random magicless person from Ramshackle?

How did your OC fare on the treks hypnotized Kalim took them on?

If electing dorm leaders was a possibility, who would they choose and why? (if it's themselves, bonus points if you show a campaign poster or tell me about it or something LMAO)

POMEFIORE

What's their favourite type of poison?

What DnD class would your OC be? (I ask this bc I feel like. Pomefiore has the most diversity in that aspect than any other dorm)

Has Vil ever personally given your OC a makeover/pep talk about their appearance? How did it go?

What's a scent you associate with your OC?

What's your OC's aesthetic outside of school affiliated clothing?

How well does your OC know makeup?

Is your OC starstruck by Vil? Are they jealous of him? Are they in film studies club? (Aka, what is their dynamic with Vil?)

Between Vil and Neige, who did they vote for at the VDC?

Does your OC have issues with the way food is monitored in Pomefiore? Do they ever confront Vil about it? Do they have stashes of food anywhere?

What's your OC's biggest insecurity, physically and personality wise?

IGNIHYDE

Is your OC an introvert, or just selectively social? Or are they extroverted?

What is the project/invention they are most proud of?

What's a hidden talent they have?

What's a hobby they enjoy doing alone? What's a hobby they enjoy doing with other people? If it's gaming, what type of games do they enjoy most?

How competitive is your OC? How easy is it to rile them up?

Is there anything your OC would infodump about? How do you get them to share? Do they ever get insecure about their rambling?

Do they want to apprentice somewhere like S.T.Y.X/for the Jupiter Conglomerate? What's their dream career? Do they ever try to impress Idia hoping to get their foot in the door?

Does your OC ever find out what Idia's (canon) UM is? If not, do they have a theory on what it might be? What is it?

How did your OC react to Ortho returning to school in Chapter 6 (trying to avoid spoilers sjkfklsjdfh)

What's your OC's favourite piece of media/what would be the equivalent of their favourite media in our world?

DIASOMNIA

What's your OC's favourite type of music? Is there anybody they listen to music with? (Jamming out to Canon in D with Malleus amirite OTL /j)

Are they scared of Malleus/the power he has?

Has Lilia ever pranked them? How did it go? Did they get him back?

Have they ever tasted Lilia's cooking. Did. Did they like it?

What's a magic skill your OC specializes in?

What's a "traditional" or old fashioned hobby your OC has? (Calligraphy, fencing, leatherwork, etc, etc.) How did they pick it up?

If your OC is fae/has a prolonged life span, did they participate in the same life events as Lilia? (again, I'm trying to stay spoiler free)

On a scale from 1 - 10, how powerful would you rank your OC? What about their UM? (and what is their UM?)

Which of the 7 deadly sins (pride, greed, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony, sloth) do you associate most with your OC and why? (remember some of these have more than one connotation e.g. blood lust)

What's your OC's favourite orchestral instrument?

FACULTY

What position do they have? How long have they been working there?

Did they go to school with any of the canon faculty/other character's parents?

How well do they remember students names and faces?

Did they know Ace's older brother? What was their impression of him?

What's a quirk they have regarding how they teach their class? (e.g. allowing cheat sheets, mandatory brain breaks, pop quizzes, weird disciplining, etc.) If they're not a teacher, how is the way they interact with students different than they interact with coworkers?

What's their opinion on Crowley/Ambrose? Given the opportunity, would they take over as headmage?

How do they feel about all the overblots? Do they ever feel slightly responsible or like they should have been there to support the students more?

How do they deal with entitled attitudes or otherwise disrespectful students?

Are there any students they've come to see as their own kid? How do they feel about the one magicless student on campus?

Do they enjoy being a part of student gossip/actively involved in student drama?

GENERAL QUESTIONS

Do they stim? What are they and what triggers it? How much do they mask?

What's something they'll never leave home without?

What was the main inspiration behind their design?

What's in their bag? (link to picrew)(if you want)

How do they handle caffeine? If they need/enjoy it, what's their preferred method of consumption? Have they ever concerned anyone with their intake?

Do they have any family heirlooms? What is it, and how long has it been in the family?

What's the fastest way to piss them off? To calm them down? To cheer them up?

What is their ideal date, be it romantic/platonic or otherwise?

Have they thought about their dream home? What's an absolute must have?

What are their minor fears?

Do they have any regrets?

If they could go back in time and talk to themselves, what age would they want to talk to? What would they say?

Do they have light in their eyes? If not, is there anything that sparks it, even temporarily?

What's their relationship with their parents? Siblings?

If they could magically change ONE aspect of their life immediately with no repercussions, what would it be?

Do they have any body modifications or tattoos? Any that aren't obvious just looking at them/in uniform?

What's their guilty pleasure?

If they could fight anyone with a guaranteed win against them, who would it be?

--------------------------------------------------

OTL I HAVE MORE QUESTIONS but I'm going to leave it at that for now <3

If you're new to tumblr, the general rule of thumb is if you're going to reblog an ask game send an ask in too. Not to me. To whoever you RB from, okay <3? If you're RBing from me don't worry about sending one in unless you really want to sdkhlkf

Have fun <3

[gay-salt-amber]

TWST Dorm pets

So, if Scarabia has Kalim's pet tiger as a dorm pet and maybe a parrot, and Ignihyde has a hellhound that's Idiazulmals and Ortho has a cat with CH.. What animals would the other dorms have?

I know Heartslabyul has hedgehogs but I also think Riddle has two pet bunnies

Diasomnia has ravens and owls

Octavinelle has a cat that lays on Azul's lap all the time and makes him look like Giovanni from Pokémon

The Ramshackle dorm has a lot of ghost animals like birds, rabbits, raccoons, etc

Pomeifore has fancy pigeons

Crewel has a cat named Artie (yes after that Artie) and hes now the teachers cat

[thegirlwholied]

Paris (the Planet) Book! I would read based on the name alone.

thank you so much @aurorawest​​ for your interest in my Paris the Planet idea (& @aliform I’ll give double the answer on this one as I received a double ask ;D) this is probably the idea I’m most likely to talk someone’s ear off about at the moment, as I’m very into it but it’s also still very nebulous. 

back during post-apocalypse novel YA popularity, I, an American, was very tired of all the post-apocalypse stories being in America, and had a floating, missing-a-story opening line that went something like ‘Protagonist’s father had always promised her mother that he’d take her to Paris someday, and so, when the world ended, that’s where they went’. (the actual line was better but I could not for the life of me find it & protagonist’s name has changed like 6x since then). 

In my Art History studies I spent a lot of time studying Impressionism & also I have a Les Miserables addiction so this is very much a Certain Aesthetic of Paris I had in mind & also thinking of people who have been drawn there because of the Idea of Paris which is obviously distinct from & in an interesting dance with Actual!Paris

& somewhere along the way of leaving that idea on the backburner, it attached itself to a We’re In Outer Space now idea instead. In a distant future where humanity has colonized other planets, and Earth is the Old World, all the planets in the solar system have names both drawn from mythology AND aligned with actual current cities. The only one locked in stone besides Paris is Atalanta, & I think I’m going with that original spelling, but there may be a planet Ithaca, etc

There’s a night-market vibe to planet!Paris (more in my other answer on Paris night!); think Pre-Haussmann Paris, the narrow, winding alleyway side, but with string lights & with flea markets & barter, in both Old World and other-planet goods, as primary currency. Crystals from the Old World are a big one, & while I’m still tossing around the rules of this concept, their associated healing properties here may work more dramatically under other stars. We’re in more fantasy than sci-fi here, in the Star Wars v. Star Trek since, but the fantasy’s going to be more astrology & crystals turning out to be both Legit & Dramatic in space. 

(my pile o’ notes tend to be full of dialogue bits, many of which will go nowhere, but one such is:

“I’ve only got the sign I was born under.”

“You weren’t born under it. That was in another solar system, and besides, that calendar’s dead.”)

Music on vinyl is also still-cool & something of a commodity. While the entire plot is intended to take place strictly on Paris, the one character who had a spaceship named his ship Astral Weeks. Cars *are* a thing but less so on the ramshackle arty side of Paris where my protagonist (currently Lu, short for Lucina) lives with her four housemates. & the story starts with her slightly-complicated friend showing up with vinyl & a car. right now my Paris the Planet folder only holds chapter 1, chapter two, & a notes folder labeled ‘I don’t understand these Parisians’, quoting Gigi. 

chapter 1 ends like:

“You’re angry,” Art observed. Only as he said it did she realize she truly was, this time, furious with him. Long-simmering, it’d be at the bubbling point any second. “You think you’re mad now, Lu, wait till you see the dead man in the trunk.”

 His delivery was so deadpan that Lu felt a grin sneak up on her, if something of a teeth-bared one.

Even as his expression remained sober, even as he turned around to pop the trunk, Lu was sure he was kidding until she saw the body.

chapter 2 starts like:

Lu had once murdered a man and gotten away with it. The body in the trunk had wrinkled, papery skin and a shock of white hair; it took her a second to recognize lean muscle and dark roots, to place the traces of addiction and hair dye rather than age. The body looked nothing like Hale, but she thought of him anyways. Dead men always made her think of Hale.  

(Hale happens to be the guy who named his ship Astral Weeks.)

I usually have in mind more of a plot arc than I do with this one. It’s a mystery! We’ll find out!

[justforbooks]

A Theatre for Dreamers by Polly Samson review – free love with Leonard Cohen

‘Where would these male writers be without their ministering angels?’ A novel based around the arty 60s colony on a Greek island captures both the dream and the disappointment

By Elizabeth Lowry

It’s the spring of 1960, and 18-year-old Erica has come to the tiny Greek island of Hydra with her boyfriend Jimmy, a would-be painter-poet, to join its foreign colony of writers, artists and musicians. Erica is running away from her controlling father in Bayswater and the risk of becoming nothing more than his housekeeper, like her late mother. “It was unbearable really,” thinks Erica, what her mother “put into a life that wouldn’t contain her”. Hydra’s “fantastically blue water and cheap rent”, “salt-white houses” and wacky creatives promise freedom from all bourgeois restrictions.

Erica immediately falls under the spell of Charmian Clift, a charismatic Australian with a ramshackle villa, writer husband and clutch of semi-feral children. Though Clift’s name sounds as if it might have been invented by Samson to capture the seductive spirit of the counterculture, she, like almost everyone on the island apart from Erica and Jimmy, is based on a real person. There’s Clift’s husband, George Johnston; the New York playwright Kenneth Foch; the Beat poet Gregory Corso; and the emerging Scandinavian novelist Axel Jensen, whose long-suffering wife Marianne turns a blind eye to his affairs while she looks after their baby. Clift is a writer herself, author of Peel Me a Lotus, a memoir of her family’s Aegean escape from “the rat race”, though her days are now taken up with shopping and cooking thrifty meals when she’s not coaxing George to work.

Most seductively of all, there’s 25-year-old Leonard, the soulful Canadian who arrives on Hydra with his guitar and moves in with Marianne after Axel abandons her for another woman. As a character Leonard is elusive. He’s romantic, chivalrous and slippery, offering a lot but not delivering much, and given to aphoristic word salads. “When it comes down to it, all subjects are just an allegory, a metaphor for human experience” and “If we assume the role of melancholy too enthusiastically, we lose a great deal of life” are typically airy Leonardisms. He spends his time bedding Marianne, popping amphetamines and bashing out the book that will eventually appear as The Favourite Game. He’s already published a volume of poetry and is about to burst on to the world stage as a singer and songwriter. He is, of course, Leonard Cohen, and Marianne is Marianne Ihlen, the Norwegian beauty who became, for the decade of their on-off relationship, his muse.

Marianne, “beautifully trained by Axel in the arts that facilitate good writing”, is soon keeping house for Cohen as she once did for Axel, ensuring he always has “a gardenia and a little sandwich” on his writing table. She’s a younger and still hopeful incarnation of the worn-out Charmian, just as Erica, in thrall to her Jimmy, is an apprentice version of the domestic goddess that is Marianne. Erica is too busy going to market and whipping up moussaka to pursue her own creative work: “Jimmy’s been so inspired,” she explains, “and it’s so often my turn to sort out a meal.” As Charmian says wryly, “Where would these male writers be without their ministering angels?”

The Jimmys and Georges and Leonards are far better than Erica’s father at concealing how ruthlessly they exploit their women, but the latter end up just as confined and broken as Erica’s mother. Hydra itself is an illusion, its heady mix of male freeloaders, free-flowing retsina and freer love concealing a reality of unfulfilled female ambition, sexual betrayal, poverty and alcoholism. Samson captures both the dream and the disappointment in a frictionless prose that slips down easily. Sometimes she herself seems to fall for the myth she’s setting out to expose: there are strumming bouzouki players and grumpy donkeys and scented jasmine around every sun-baked corner; two nubile girls look up “like startled does”, while Charmian has eyes of “burning absinthe”. And it’s hard not to do an anatomical double-take when we’re told that after a season on Hydra Jimmy’s shoulders “are almost amphibian from swimming”. Are they green? Warty? Or is Samson hinting that, like most of the princes in this theatre of dreamers, he’ll turn out to be a frog?

Even Leonard (no spoilers here) emerges as a bit of a bastard, doomed to be discontented with Marianne no matter how many sandwiches she makes. We’re never entirely sure what his motivations are for dumping her, but then, no doubt the real-life Ihlen wasn’t sure either. All in all, Samson is magnificently in control of her subject. If this beguiling, clever book has a moral it’s that being a muse isn’t all that amusing, and that, as Charmian puts it, “you should be very cautious of pinning all your dreams to a bloke, however talented and marvellous he may be”.

• A Theatre for Dreamers is published by Bloomsbury Circus (RRP £14.99).

Photo: Disenchanted isle (from left) George Johnston, Charmian Clift, Jason Johnston, Marianne Ihlen and Leonard Cohen, Hydra, 1960. Photograph: James Burke/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images

© 2020 Guardian News

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[giantchasm]

@bakugoes tagged me in a meme! Now I’ve gotta spell my URL with song titles. Thank you Max!! I love this sort of tag meme.

Juice - Lizzo Disco In The Panic Room - Bug Hunter Party Rock Anthem - LMFAO Hollow Moon (Bad Wolf) - AWOLNATION Ordinary Life - Simple Plan Black Eyes - Radical Face Eulogy for an Adolescence Shattered Against Elliot St. Pavement (Here's to Being Young!) - Ramshackle Glory

I’ll tag... @shintarotateyama @vivivictoria @nerdofnerds @aspenveil @erevis + any of my friends I don’t remember the Tumblr urls of

[sw-au-ocs]

Odessa looked at the others confused, wondering where her dads are.

She then realized the other kid had ran off with her older brother, the little girl then started tearing up.

Odessa reached out for him as she cries out for Caleb, “m-m-mano!!!!! Wahhhh!!!!”

Caleb and Odessa wave your fankids hello. ^^

They both immediately get picked up into the air.

Enna: Cuties!!

Arti: They're ours now.

Pax: Wait, maybe we should-

Insert Axe snatching up Caleb and running off

Lorcan: MOTHERFUCKA', BRING THAT KID BACK!!!

Chases after Axe

[quickreaver]

Kripke speaks!

So last weekend I dragged my long-suffering husband to Toledo, Ohio to visit their absolutely amazing art museum (seriously, if you get a chance, visit it; it's stunningly good), but also, because hometown boy Eric Kripke was giving a talk there. A free talk. Two hours from me. I was excite! 

Okay, so … Toledo. First time I've actually been in the city, vs. just driving past. It's a ramshackle area, but to explore it is to reveal, in some small way, where Kripke and SPN came from. Smallish and hanging on by its fingernails, Toledo squats like an old cemetery in the shadows of the huge BP Oil refinery. If you head north, you hit Lake Eerie, which—this time of year—isn't awful. If you head south, you're in the middle of nowhere. Every other building seems to be derelict. Toledo's 'historic homes' district is chock full of Victorian painted ladies that have seen far better days, the colors peeling and the yards weedy, but they're still some of the most gingerbreaded, neo-Gothic delights I've seen in a long time.

( (The stupid watermark-like blur is the back of my phone. Should've rolled down the window, duh.)

The industry in town is the aforementioned oil refinery, glass factories, the University of Toledo and a whiff of tourism. So you end up with this strange amalgam of artiness, decay, and working class valor. I dig it. It's very early-season's SPN. I totally get where Kripke was coming from.

(A supposedly haunted building in downtown Toledo, the Pythian Castle.)

Kripke himself is an unassuming, warm, funny guy. The first few rows in the museum's auditorium were reserved for his family and friends, including past grade-school teachers. The majority of the audience was SPN fans, quite obviously, and not young ones either. It was a mix of ages, but far and away the crowd skewed older. If anyone yaks on about fandom only being for the young, or that the future of the SPN fandom is the 16-24 year olds, don't believe them. I did a bit of a live-tweet of his SPN-topical points, which I won't repeat here but you can hit my twitter and follow the #KripkeSpeaks tag for the highlights: https://twitter.com/hashtag/kripkespeaks?f=tweets&vertical=default&src=hash Lemme see if I can distill the talk down to a few points here, though. He worked very, very hard to get where he's at, and that hard work—regardless of failure—is what opened a lot of doors. That tenacious Midwest work ethic. No matter how small the job, he did it 200%. He slept on floors, he made huge mistakes, he kept his eyes open for serendipitous forks in the road. You've got to have a freight train mentality, but never … never … think you've got it mastered. Lean into the fear. There were two sticking points in his tenure with SPN that he was ready to quit over: when the WB (the CW's predecessor) wanted to ax the classic rock soundtrack, and in one of the episodes (he didn't specify which one), there was a flashback to young Sam and Dean, and the network didn't want to do it. Kripke simply said, “Then I quit.” And he meant it. “You've gotta mean it, or you have no bargaining chip.” Needless to say, the network caved. But he would've walked over either of those situations if the network hadn't conceded. Kripke always loved comedy, and wrote comedy script after comedy script, to no real avail. But he was getting recognized as someone who did solid work. He was a writer's assistant or some such lower level employee when they needed someone to write a script in a pinch. It was horror, but Kripke shrugged and said “What the hell, I'll do it!” It succeeded far better than any of his comedies. He'd been dreaming and fine-tuning his SPN idea for years, and that horror script got him in front of some big names, finally. They didn't like the idea of the heroes being reporters—it felt like a rehashed “Kolchak, the Night Stalker” to them—but then on the fly, he made the leads brothers. In a muscle car. He plucked inspiration from his Toledo childhood. And the big names perked right up. (The stuff he offered “on the fly” had been notes he'd scribbled in the margins of his script. Never let those gems go; you never know when they'll come in handy!) For me, the biggest take-away was “Show me a confident writer, and I'll show you a bad one.” Now, this doesn't mean that you shouldn't know your worth, that you shouldn't love what you do. Plow forward like a freight train, do your very best work, but never stop learning. If think you're the hottest thing since the Pet Rock, well … whatever happened to those Pet Rocks, anyways? When someone crows too loudly about their own expertise, their own authority, they've likely stopped learning. You miss so many opportunities if you think there's only one way to do things. His next TV adventure, Revolution,, was very stressful and fraught with challenges, but he still did his damnedest to make it succeed. When it got canceled, though, he wasn't disappointed. Timeless was far more of a joy to create. That one, he was sad to see go. Then he showed the trailer for his newest show (to be available on Amazon Prime) and it looks sooooo good. The Boys. He's working with the gang that developed Preacher, and sounds like it has that same iconoclastic, dark-humored vibe. YUM. So Kripke gets to exercise his comedy chops after all! (Though, really, SPN had some fantastic comedy moments too. Who says the horror genre has to take itself so seriously?) He took a handful of questions afterwards, during which he revealed he'd love to participate in the last season/episode if his contract will allow. TULPA THIS SHIT, Y'ALL. I had to split at that point because my husband had been patient enough and I was getting hangry and itching to see the museum, but Kripke hung around for autographs. Like the good egg he is. The industry needs more writers like Kripke. I enjoyed the heck out of Toledo, and him.

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Leverage Models

Leverage Models started as the latest project from Shannon Fields (late of the much-missed New York collective Stars Like Fleas, and who’s also worked with everyone from Helado Negro to Rhys Chatham, JOBS to The Silent League). After 2013’s highly-praised self-titled debut on Hometapes, Fields wound up assembling a touring band that would wind up making Leverage Models’ newly-released sophomore record Whites(which, for reasons both personal and political, was made in 2015 but is being released now, partly as a fundraiser for the Southern Poverty Law Center). Joined by singer Alena Spanger (of Tiny Hazard) and all three members of the very powerful trio JOBS, among others, in their own words "Leverage Models makes pop songs about transubstantiation, ritual abuse, political apathy, divorce, white collar criminals, poverty, white liberal guilt, anxiety, & self-harm. With roto-toms." In his review, Dusted’s Ian Mathers says about Whites, "Musically, this album would be just as impressive if it had come out in early 2016, but back then maybe more people would assume the high-stakes intensity of the songs here were worrying too much. Sadly, the subsequent time has only shown again and again how appropriate that aspect of Leverage Models’ work really is." For Listed, Fields and Spanger provided a list of current inspirations and overlooked art pop.

Alena’s Current Inspirations

Life Without Buildings—"The Leanover"

The way that this singer, Sue Tompkins, approaches melody and lyric is hypnotizing to me. I love how she continues to repeat words—almost slogans—and alter their pronunciation until they seem to lose their original meanings and become more about the sound of the words. I typically wouldn't love the 90's alt rock aesthetic, but the steady, unobtrusive accompaniment provides the space needed for her vocals to live in.

Francis Bebey—"Pygmy Love Song"

I've been incessantly listening to Francis Bebey for months now. He seems to lean into the rawness and outer edges of what the voice can do. I love the way he mimics the bamboo flute with his voice on this song.

Lizzy Mercier Decloux—"No Golden Throat"

I sometimes feel like I need to shake off everything I learned from years of studying music and get to back to a more fundamental, raw approach. Lizzy is one of those untrained inspirations for me. She barely knew how to play the guitar and started singing not long before this album came out. This resulted in such adventurous, unselfconscious music. She is at once playful, unbridled, and searingly direct. She wasn't really respected in the NY scene when this record came out, and was by some seen as an imposter, reliant on her male collaborators to hoist her up. After digging deeper into her music, it's obvious that she possessed great artistic autonomy and vision and her lack of recognition was a result of unfortunate industry circumstances and sexism. The lyrics in this song are her response to the pressures that's she experienced to sing more conventionally.

Lonnie Holley—"Here I Stand Knocking at Your Door"

I saw Lonnie Holley play in NY recently and was so moved by the freedom with which he sings and the purity and untouched quality of his music. Every aspect of his performance- down to the smallest movements of his body were connected to the sound and channeling into one cohesive and beautiful statement. He is one of those rare, singular artists, who seems to make art out of everything he touches.

Brigitte Fontaine—"Moi Aussi"

She is such a badass. I love the simplicity of using just a drum as accompaniment. In this song, she's singing with her partner at the time, a French/Algerian musician, Areski Belkacem who brought some traditional folkloric sensibilities to their music. The effortless blending of theater and music is something I really strive for in my own work.

Shannon

I needed to give myself a theme so I decided to select some of what I think are overlooked vintage art-pop coming out of the post-punk 80s into the and slick new-agey, ‘world music’ appropriating 90s. I’m completely taken in by that era of experimentation and production right now, though I can’t say why. I find myself drawn most to the songs that effortlessly stumble into choices I don’t always understand. They don’t seem like they’re out to destroy any genre conventions so much as they seem blissfully ignorant of them. Certain moments shock me as to how much more relevant and contemporary the MIDI/electronic, experimental and arty music is as compared to the 60s & 70s guitar-based music that’s ruled for so long (and which has nothing at all to offer a lot of younger musicians I talk to these days). I could have easily made this list 20. This was hard.

Che—I ‎(Narcotic, 1987)

What a confusing record. Half of it is very eccentric, slightly woozy funk. With the subtlety-obliterating rhythm section of Art of Noise or later New Jack rhythms, cock-rock guitars, and these drunken almost a-melodic passages. The ending of Scream Like A Swiftcould be a codeine-fuelled pass at Jensen Sportag’s contemporary hyper-MIDI, vapor-wave smooth-jazz. Moving The Silencesounds like The Blue Nile but with the kind of ironic detachment (think Arto Lindsay & Ambitious Lovers) that leaves you creeped out and confused rather than crying in your drink. And while I’m a bit black-hearted and prefercrying in my drink, I’m also completely transfixed by this. This song, Jerusalem,just kind of takes my breath away with something entirely unfamiliar: built from slabs of goth and pure Peter-Gabriel world-cheese, it somehow alchemizes into something I have never heard. A whole album of this and I’d have it on repeat with Scott Walker’s Climate of Hunter(which also belongs on this list and is one of the best ‘confuse-core’ records ever made).

Akira Inoue—サファリ・オスティナート (Splash, 1983)

I’ve seen this song title translated as "Safari Ostinato". I know very little about this person or this album. Somebody help me. It’s the kind of album that repels and compels alternately. It gives you whiplash in the gentlest, most covert way. It’s a sort of adult contemporary, New Wave, jazz fusion MIDI album and this song is both beautiful and bonkers. The whole album is. I wonder if Dutch Uncles have heard this album. I could draw a line from here to there.

Andréa Daltro—Kiuá (Kiuá, 1988)

Released by the amazing Dutch reissue label Music From Memory. Originally released on Estudio De Invencoes in 1988. Andre Daltro was a singer and the song was, I believe, originally recorded with the band Brazilian "spiritual jazz band" Sexteto do Beco in 1980. But this version trades organicism and chops for drum machine, keys, MIDI sounds, and rattling ambient chatter, both acoustic and synthetic, and it’s like nothing you’ve ever heard…it rivals Arca’s new s/t album for this kind of strange, winsome cyber bel canto transmission from an alien jungle, though far less brooding, no less arresting.

Jane Siberry—Lena is a White Table (The Walking, 1987)

I knew Jane Siberry later hits and didn’t much care for them. I knew she worked with both Hector Zazou and Barney the Purple Dinosaur. I was not prepared when I first heard this album, The Walking. I believe when she was first signed the industry thought of her as the "new Kate Bush" and wanted to cash in on the mass tolerance for ‘art-rock’ a-la Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush. But The Walkingis to Hounds of Loveas The Blue Nile’s Walk Across The Rooftops is to Laughing Stock’s Spirit of Eden. I love all of the above, but what Siberry and The Blue Nile share in this example is the same kind of epic freedom and reach but a sort of fragility and limitation and ramshackle, almost amateurish quality that make them really humane and relatable to me. The first time I heard this song I confess that my first thought was how much it reminded me of Alena’s old band, Tiny Hazard, who were one of my favorite bands in Brooklyn. I know it seems silly to say it, but somehow this track feels so much less ‘theatrical’ then the same era of Kate Bush…more interior. It feels like a very intimate experience to listen, to the point that I find myself feeling embarrassed for listening in.

Gary Numan—Cry, The Clock Said (Dance, 1981)

I hesitated to use one of my choices on an artist I feel like everybody knows. But I almost never meet anyone who really knows THIS album (and I know because I push it on everyone). If you only know the playful, cold cyber-punk of the first couple of Gary Numan/Tubeway Army records (which are, to be clear, brilliant, and a big influence on me) you really need to hear this album. At its most extreme corners (of which this song is one) I don’t know anything like it. Gary Numan’s great magic trick, the one I endlessly faun over, is how his disaffected, conventionally ugly, robot voice transforms into something heartbreaking and relatable by the time it reaches my heart (especially on Telekon’s piano-based tracks). I know that’s a cheesy thing to say but fuck you, I need sentiment these days. Anyway, nowhere is it more the case than in this songs arrangement. Musically, it feels entirely alien and also entirely familiar, with Japan’s Mick Karn barely there alongside what sound like Casiotone boss nova beats and the most heartbreaking little chiming synth arpeggio that come and go like a kitten that wakes up momentarily from its drug-induced nap. It’s 10 minutes long. I’ve had it on loop for hours without getting tired of it. I’ve wanted to make something like this for a long time now. Some day I’ll have this kind of restraint.

#11 Bonus Track!

Né Ladeiras—Cruz (Corsária, 1988)

I also know next to nothing about this Brazilian album, dedicated to Greta Garbo. I read that it was produced and arranged by Luís Cília ,who wrote a song that became a sort of second anthem for the Portuguese Communist Party. The MIDI harps sitting matter-of-factly on top of those plate-reverbed guiro, clave, bells…I want to live inside the room they build. And it’s a lovely, airy progression that never grows tiresome as it modulates in a drifting-down-the-stream sort of way. The ending lifts so high with barely a shrug’s worth of effort. Gorgeous.

[primorcoin]

New Post has been published on https://primorcoin.com/bored-ape-yacht-club-founder-criticizes-campaign-that-says-the-bayc-has-nazi-symbolism/

Bored Ape Yacht Club Founder Criticizes Campaign That Says The BAYC Has Nazi Symbolism

On June 24, Wylie Aronow, better known online as Gordon Goner, co-founder of Yuga Labs, the startup behind the Bored Ape Yacht Club ( BAYC ) collection, took to Twitter to address the “misinformation campaign” that claims he and his team are “super-secret Nazis.”

Goner said that even though he paid attention in the past to what he called “incredibly unbalanced” accusations, he did not provide as detailed a response as he did today after a YouTuber posted an hour-long video of an alleged 6-month investigation documenting what he thinks is a link between the BAYC corporate image and the nazi symbolism.

“We’ve not responded in further detail to these allegations because frankly they are insanely far-fetched. That said, we woke up this morning to a podcaster we respect talking about this conspiracy theory and that was pretty surreal.”

So far, the video has nearly 900,000 views and has caused quite a debate among those who watched it.

The Bored Ape Yacht Club Has Jews, Turks, Pakistanis And Cubans

Goner began his thread by explaining that the founders of BAYC are a group of Jewish, Turkish, Pakistani, and Cuban friends. Even Goner’s wife is Mexican-American. Because of this, he argues it would be ridiculous to think that the Bored Ape yacht Club or its members have anything to do with the Nazi movement.

Goner said that all these accusations were a “lie” promoted by an anti-BAYC activist named Ryder Ripps, who created a copy of his NFT collection under another name and sold almost $3.5 million on OpenSea before his account was suspended for violating intellectual property laws.

Ryder Ripps currently has 29K followers on Twitter and defines himself as an artis, satirist and phunk. A thread with his accusations on Goner is pinned on his account.

Yuga Labs Was Created By A Group Of Light-Hearted Gamers

Goner noted that Yuga Labs was named after a villain from the video game Zelda who can transform himself and his friends into 2D art, which made sense considering the NFT collection they wanted to create, and that he and his friends were a group of nerds who love MMORPG video games like Warcraft.

As for the BAYC logo, he explained that they never intended to take the logo so seriously, and that’s why the look itself is “ramshackle and dive-y,” assuring that everything about BAYC was created in a spirit “of irreverence and absurdity.” Which is a far cry from Ripps’ views.

3. What was the inspiration behind the design of the BAYC logo?

We never wanted to take ourselves too seriously, so the look of the club is ramshackle and divey. Everything about the BAYC was meant to convey a spirit of irreverence and absurdity.

— Yuga Labs (@yugalabs) January 3, 2022

Goner even posted the email sent to the logo designer, saying that the club’s inspirations referenced his tastes in punk, skateboarding, navy flags, etc. There was never any mention of something Nazi-related.

Controversial or not, BAYC remains the collection of choice for celebrities and socialités, so much so that today Eminem and Snoop Dog released a video where they become two of their very own bored apes as they begin to sing.

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[fredheads]

does fred have any places during the summer time he goes to every year? or does he stay at home?

A GOOD ASK!!! i have been thinking about there being an andrews family cottage for a long time!! Artie won it in a card game (before fred was born if he has older siblings, after fred was born if he only has one or none) and they all pitched in to fix it up! it was tiny and ramshackle and had a rope swing and needed a lot of work every summer but it was theirs!! by the time fred was 12 or so it had fallen into disrepair and money was stretched thinner and there wasn’t much point keeping it up. they talked about selling it a couple times but never got around to it. one day when fred was an older teen he took fp back to look at the ruins of it. 

otherwise, money permitting, they would always pile all the andrews kids (again idk how many there are oscar threw me off for good back in january) and go down to the seaside!! for a whole week if money was good that year or for just a day or two if it wasnt. they would go on the boardwalk, go swimming, look for shells, ride rides... 

otherwise he stayed in good old riverdale, U.S.A! 

[nadjaofstatenisland]

i see hiram's upscale love shack and raise you the andrews family cottage: a ramshackle little place way out on a piece of property on a lakeside that artie andrews inherited (won in a card game?) and refurbished for his first family (freds oldest siblings. idk if oscar was among them.) but that had fallen into disrepair and disuse by the time fred was ten or so. he has a few early childhood memories there but not lots. they always talk about selling it but they never go to the trouble. (1/3)

(2/3) on a summer road trip fred and fp decided to go down there to check it out, just using an old address, freds flaky five-year-old memories, and the directions of some creepy gas station people who reminded fp a lot of the texas chain saw massacre. eventually they found the property and spent awhile hiking around. it was so much smaller than fred remembered!!! cottage was crumbly but not unsafe, so after a day of exploring they spent a night curled up together on an old bed under a quilt.

(3/3) a scarce handful of times teenage fred would bring friends there with him -mostly fp but once mary and once the whole group to explore. id like to tell you they solved mysteries but probably they just made a campfire and told ghost stories. everyone else always got bored of it before fred did and then theyd pack up and leave. when mary wanted to rent a cottage for a fred/gladys/mary/fp getaway right before archie and jughead were born fred was sure to rent one in the same area.

Artie probably won that in a card game they be put way too much money in considering the mess of kids he had at home to take care of. A momentary lapse in judgement, but it paid off because there it was.

FP and Fred in this total horror movie situation and FP is cursing why he’s trusting Fred’s memory to get them here. But once they find it it’s great and it’s like this nice little get away for them.

Fred bringing the whole group there at one point? Right before or right after graduation, naturally, when everyone was about to part ways and whatnot. I love.

And right before the kids were born and they were in the same neck of the woods, you know Fred and FP ditched the girls for the afternoon to go look for it. Sure enough, even more run down and tiny but it’s still there. Maybe they can tell their kids about it one day.

[cutthecrxp]

Rounding a corner and ducking down an alleyway out of sight, Rita's stomach lurched as she replayed the events of what had just happened. The whole interaction ran through her mind, as vivid as the minute it had happened. She could still feel Derek's breath against her skin, could still smell the stench of cigarettes and alcohol off of him, just as she could still see his snarl in her mind's eye. The taste of blood in her mouth was strong from where he'd struck her, and her hand remained splayed against her ribcage as she tried to take a moment to breath. Between her jaw and her stomach, she had no doubt both would bruise, and then she'd have to explain herself to Artie.

Nobody else would care, at least she doubted as such. Lying to Oliver was easy enough, she could spin a tale about a job gone wrong, but Artie was a much harder sell. Still, maybe she could pull it off. After all, the two of them had met while on the run from the cops, and it wasn't like they didn't regularly find themselves covered from head to toe in cuts and bruises. Rita could easily recall the time she'd managed to trip down the stairs in Times Square during a very intense snowball fight with her best friend. She'd sprained her ankle and insisted that Artie carry her everywhere from then onwards, and that if he wasn't willing to piggyback her everywhere she wanted, then she'd have to revoke his privileges as Prince of Park Benches and demote him to, like, a Duke or some shit less exciting. The point was, it wasn't entirely out there for her to be injuring herself, and when you were living on the streets decent healthcare wasn't exactly an option. Actually, the more she thought about it, in this country decent healthcare wasn't really an option for anyone regardless, but still.

Dragging her feet behind her a little, from a mixture of exhaustion and terror, Rita finally found herself outside of the grotty, rundown ramshackle of a place that she called home. With a bit of luck, Foland and the rest of the guys wouldn't be around, and she'd avoid them altogether. She had no idea if Artie or Oliver would be around – the only two people she could stand to be around – and she hoped, against her better judgements, that they'd both be out. With as much strength as she could muster, she tugged the front door open and trudged inside, stumbling forward as she finally found herself in their grotty, mildewy front room. Heaving out a sigh of relief at finally finding herself indoors, she allowed her legs to give way beneath her, as her body slumped, her back sliding down the creaky door that she'd just shut behind her.

Shutting her eyes, never having bothered to switch on the light upon entering, she leaned her head back and stayed there for a little while. Her jaw throbbed, her ribs too, and she could still feel blood trickling down her chin from where Derek had struck her. She'd have to clean up soon, knowing that if she at least washed away some of the blood, that she might be able to put up a better argument when she did come face to face with Artie.

All hope was lost, though, when the thud of footsteps sounded nearby, and the light flickered on slowly around her. A harsh gasp tore from Rita's throat, and she trembled momentarily as she stared up to see who exactly had joined her.

It was pathetic, really. She wasn't frightened easily, and it came with the territory of being a thief that you had to have your guards up at all times, and to be constantly vigilant and aware of your surroundings. A few footsteps and a shoddy lightbulb shouldn't have gotten her as shaken as it had. “Jesus, Artie,” she snapped upon catching sight of her best friend staring down at her. “A little warning would've been nice, dude.”