#august chats

[augentrust]

extremely enamored with the image of ludinus in aeor trying to figure out where the fuck all of the ancient technology he was relying on disappeared to, followed by a smash cut to essek in a cozy demiplane, wrapped in a handmade sweater and casually labeling all the artifacts from his third aeorian honeymoon with caleb

[royalarchivist]

Phil: [Reading a chat message] "Me and my friends were hanging on VR, and want–" You're watching my stream in VR right now?

Phil: 👁️👄👁️

[diioonysus]

cats + art

[wormzandgutz]

Bug out!

[gosecretscribbles]

Rise August 2024 Day 6: Lou Jitsu

@sariphantom

[nomadic-star]

FINALLY introducing my most recent woy oc..Butterscotch !!

she's Westley's companion in another galaxy 🤎

[thunderc1an]

btw everyone- Im not going to be making a 2024 version of the big Warriors: The Prophecies Begins drawing I do every year. I'm planning on skipping the year 2024, since I think the 2023 version is actually spectacular, and I want to let myself grow as an artist some more before I tackle it again.

[iconicranboo]

RANBOO: *unboxing fan gifts* … “just a girl who loves the titanic” yeah, you know the tragedy? … pffttthaha the back says “stream generation loss”

[fishyfarms]

Just a little something to commemorate August’s two closest friends in the valley ! August and Abigail hit it off right away when August first moves in, and she really is like a partner in crime to August. Shane takes a *lot* longer to come around, but he manages to eventually, and they really develop an almost sibling like relationship over the years. She’s incredibly grateful for the both of them and they definitely made moving in sooo much easier :)

[saturday-byte]

Hello solar opposites nation . How we doing

[jays-therapist]

This is how I perceive their dynamic

[augentrust]

pour one out for essek thelyss, several hours into mandatory movie with ludi time, who is sitting there sweating and asking himself: are those gods that just went through anamnesis

[ailius-suffers-through-art]

I love timeloops.

When you’re long past your breaking point and are forced to continue. Inescapable hell.

Do you lay and give up? what then? an infinity of meaningless deaths and all the time in the world to think. to drive yourself further into insanity.

Do you get up again? force yourself to function. find a new goal to accomplish. fool yourself into believing the lie of an ‘end’? carry on a hopeless positivity until your mind eats itself.

Do you try to end the world? think that if nothing exists, then nothing can bring you back. use your resources and destroy everything in sight. burn it all down again and again and again until the death has lost all meaning and you are alone on a throne you never wanted.

Do you search for a way to truly die? kill yourself over and over again until you’ve learned the ins and outs of your own corpse. a vivisection of yourself. the master of a million deaths.

I love timeloops.

[merakiui]

rollo being no1 on your ranking is so real. if there’s ever a day you plan to drop a bit of a longer rollo fic that involves a bit of fluff—knowing you yandere at the end—kinda like that one azul fic where they hung out multiple different times before getting together, my life will be yours.

(ʃƪ¬‿¬) you are in luck, lovely anon!! I do indeed have a fluffy Rollo fic in the works. It's not planned to have yandere, but there will be some obsessive undertones because that's just who Rollo is hehe. <3 it's a little similar to that Azul fic in that Rollo and Reader are sort of,,, forced together for the sake of the student exchange program. Rollo can push away all he wants, but he's gradually befriending and falling in love with you. (˘ ˘ ˘)

What is this behavior if not done out of love, Mr. Rollo? 🤨

[neathyingenue]

Introducing the 🪄Flighty Puppeteer

in the ♟️Great Game!

A Profit-Sharing Busker

You first see her not in Wilmot’s End proper, but a few blocks away, before the streets get quite so circuitous. A woman in a gauzy veiled hat sits on a stool under a gas-lamp, making a puppet dance. It’s a little soldier in paint so shiny it might still be wet, wearing a jaunty bandolier. The woman has no music. The performance is silent save the clacking of complex wooden joints and feet. Few people pass this way, but those who do can’t help but stare at the soldier as he marches in place, stumbles, picks himself up, marches again, stumbles again, picks himself up again—the march growing more labored, the getting-up slower. Finally he collapses, the strings going slack.

Now the Puppeteer’s veiled face raises toward your own. You can’t see her face, but you get the sensation that she’s looking at you. And now the puppet stirs. Its face raises as well. The painted black eyes look at you. Then—in a movement that should be impossible—the soldier heaves himself up and slings off the bandolier. No longer a soldier, he cuts a caper, and the Puppeteer’s up now, too, beating time with white boots that flash under her skirts. Finally, she curtsies, he takes a bow, the knot of onlookers applauds—but the show’s not over yet. The puppet looks at his Puppeteer and taps an impatient foot. She gives an exaggerated “What?” gesture. His foot reaches out and kicks at the bonnet holding the pennies she’s earned from the performance—not many—but she nods at him, understanding. She shifts the puppet’s apparatus to one hand and counts out the pennies—one for him, one for her, until the puppet nods in satisfaction.

How will you pay your respects?

>Approach with Two Pennies

Unlocked when you have Addressed As: "August Shaw"

As the onlookers disperse—some going to Wilmot’s End, some leaving it—you take out two pennies: one for the lady, one for the puppet. The puppet bows his thanks. And the Puppeteer speaks for the first time, low, so only you can hear:

“Sic semper tyrannus.”

She pronounces the Latin in the ecclesiastical style, as someone whose native tongue is a Romance language: your ear is trained enough to identify it as Spanish from the American continents, not the European.

Then she reaches her free hand and—for the briefest moment—pulls back her veil. You see a pretty plump face, warm brown, with a pronounced bow to the lips and wide-set eyes. She inclines her head to you, and you know she knows who you are, and what you have done. Then she drops the veil again and turns away.

A few days later, you pass a poster advertising “The Flighty Puppeteer in ‘La selva’—One Night Only—Mahogany Hall.” The pretty face, or a passable likeness, beams from the poster. A paper is tucked into the tiny space between the poster and the wall. You edge it out: a playing card, the King of Diamonds, torn in two.

>Approach with a whole Echo

Unlocked when you have Addressed As: "Robin Jones"

You make a shallow bow and extend a folded bill toward the Puppeteer. You inquire if she and the can puppet can split it between them?

Behind the veil, you see blurry features form a smile. The Puppeteer takes the bill between her gloved fingertips, brushing your own, and assures you that will be possible. “If I didn’t,” she explains, “he would not agree to perform with me at all. And he has been wanting some Whisper-Satin for a new cravat.” The Puppet nods emphatically.

The next time you dream of the Chessboard, an Ebullient Knight in Black dances across the board in perpendicular steps. It’s difficult to tell, but you get the unmistakable sense that she winks at you.

>Stand and contemplate the performance

Unlocked when you have Addressed As: "Mina Azoulai"

It takes your mind a moment to register that the performance is over, the few observers are tossing their pennies and wandering away, and you’re the only one still staring at the Puppeteer as she packs the puppet in a leather case. She’s put back her veil so she can see what she’s doing, and now she turns to you, her warm brown cheeks dimpling.

“Professor Azoulai?”

She motions you forward and snaps the puppet case shut. Then she recites softly:

“...no de esotra parte en la ribera dejará la memoria en donde ardía; nadar sabe mi llama la agua fría, y perder el respeto a ley severa.”*

So this is the agent you’ve heard of, then, who’s been assigned to Spain and the Americas—the countries like opposing riverbanks across the cold Atlantic, bound by language, custom, and the flame of resistance—just as your work spans the Straits of Gibraltar. As you puzzle over the archaic sonnet quotation, the Puppeteer tugs a folded paper out of her waistband and hands it over. You unfold it as she flounces away, swinging the puppet case: a poster for “The Flighty Puppeteer at Mahogany Hall.” A wordy paragraph assures the reader of the high quality of the act, and the first and last letter of each line forms an acrostic for an address.

*I will not leave memory where it burns on the other side of the riverbank; my flame knows how to swim in cold water and lose respect for the severe law.

Tagging the Midnighters: @zeebreezin, @viric-dreams, @letheology

[somesquence]

(if you're looking for part 3, stop looking because it doesn't exist. yet. please forgive me.)

← part 2