#because in practical terms

[maeamian]

Hey, if you did work over the past few weeks to try to stop the GOP's obscene and murderous budget: thanks. It ended up without the AI regulation ban, the trans healthcare ban, the western lands sell off, and without its stupid name being official.

It passing was a major loss for everyone in this country including the very wealthy and other people who believe they will be able to be better off from it.

But also, it passing was not as bad as it could have been and it took the ongoing effort of huge amounts of people to even make that a possibility, so if you were part of that, from the bottom of my heart: Thank you.

[a-loose-collection-of-ants]

Viridian City seems fun

[fisheito]

cool hat

[cartoonguy08]

Guys what if I drop this 👁️👁️ what if I just drop this here and—

What Engineer thinks of the clones- I MEAN THE TEAM—the BLU team!-

What the team thinks of BLU Engie

ALSO THATS RIGHT THE BEARD I LOVE HIS DUMB BEARD I LOVE IT SO-

[bonefall]

The way Cinderpelt is described in this au is making me envision that she was a really good fighter. Daughter of Frostfur, apprentice of Yellowfang, grew up during the events of TPB. She’s a healer, but she knows how to defend herself. I’m imagining an enemy warrior trying to steal herbs and seeing Yellow and Cinder and just backing away before they’re attacked

Definition of “I’m a healer, but..” *pulls out spear*

I love to imagine that she compensates for the leg by using the spear as a pole for shifting her weight. She jabs the shaft into the ground, and uses her mouth and arms to "swing" her lower body in a new direction.

So if a group of warriors ever thinks they have her surrounded, she's not as immobile as they assume she will be.

She absolutely HAS to be pretty up there in terms of "average Cleric strength" though, you're right lmao. Funny enough she might be stronger than Yellowfang, just without the opportunity to show it off.

(Besides the fact she manages to kill a small boar while also sacrificing herself in the process ofc)

...now i have an image in my head of Cinderpelt saying "im a healer but" and then she cocks her spear and it makes a click noise like a shotgun

[kacievvbbbb]

My most maybe controversial take on the live action situation is that if at this point you are still actively watching and going “hey guys this wasn’t that bad” at these live action movies you are not a real animation fans you are a fan of the OG movies despite them being animated. It’s just a blatant lack of acknowledging how the fact that these movies where animated shaped them

Because at this point it’s literally impossible to ignore the actual harm these “live action” movies are doing to animation.

[holyraconteur]

Okay, but here's a dark au where Spider drags Quaritch from the water and promptly kills him, and now no one knows what to do with this human child soaked in the blood of his own father. Blood is thicker than water, right? Why would a son kill his own father? Pandora's greatest enemy is dead. The scourge of the Na'vi is gone.

So, what is this feeling of discontent?

-) The moment Spider pulled Quaritch from the water, he made a choice.

-) The once-mighty colonel was barely clinging to life, his body battered, his strength drained. Weak. Helpless. A man who had terrorized Pandora, who had burned forests and spilled the blood of Eywa's children, now lay before him, gasping, vulnerable.

-) The knife in Spider’s hand felt light. The motion effortless.

-) One swift drag across the throat was all it took. Just like Neytiri would have done to him. 'Do you see me now?' Spider thinks. 'See me. See me. SEE! LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE MADE OF ME!'

-) Quaritch barely made a sound, just a wet, choked gasp as his lifeblood spilled into the water, dark ribbons mixing with the lapping waves. His body seized, his fingers twitching—but Spider only crouched there, watching, waiting. He waited for the flood of emotion. For the relief. The triumph. The guilt. But there was nothing. Just… numbness.

-) The monster was dead. The one responsible for so much suffering, for so much destruction, for everything—gone. And yet, Spider felt nothing. His father’s glassy eyes stared up at him, lifeless. Eywa’s grace had abandoned him long ago. And with any luck, Quaritch’s soul would never find peace. Never find acceptance. Spider exhaled slowly, running his tongue over dry lips, blinking at the bloodied body at his feet. His hands weren’t even shaking.

-) It was done. His brother avenged. The souls of Neytiri's family are avenged. His debt to the Sullys was paid in full. Everything is calm.

-) A soft rustling pulled his gaze upward. His father's Banshee crouched a few feet away, its golden eyes locked onto Spider with an eerie intensity. Spider tensed, half-expecting it to lunge, to attack, to avenge its fallen rider. But it didn’t. It simply watched. And then, without a sound, it lowered its head. Acceptance. Recognition.

-) As if possessed by something beyond himself, Spider stepped forward, his hand outstretched. His fingertips brushed against the creature’s snout, and for the first time that horrible day, he allowed himself a small, hollow smile. Perhaps it was a good thing that Quaritch never truly bonded to this one.

-) The rest of the Na'vi find him hours later, and Tonowari approaches first, his large shadow stretching over the scene, but he hesitates. The Metkayina chief has seen many battles, many bodies. And yet, this is different. This is a child, soaked in the blood of his own father. Why would a son do this? Spider meets his gaze, his expression empty. He waits for judgment. Condemnation. Something.

-) But when Tonowari speaks, it is not with anger. "The demon is dead." A statement. A fact. The warriors behind him exchange uneasy glances, but none argue. Some murmur in agreement; others simply watch. None move to comfort the boy who did the deed. Perhaps they do not know how.

-) The Sully are more horrified than relieved. Even Neytiri, who should feel the greatest relief of all, does not celebrate. Her bow hand clenches, fingers twitching as though her body is caught between two instincts. To praise him… or to fear him. She does not understand. She had thought she knew hatred. She had felt it burn through her when she held the blade to Spider’s throat on the Sea Dragon, her grief drowning out reason.

-) Jake had told her stories—of how humans could be cruel to their own offspring, how some children were beaten, abandoned, even killed by those who were meant to love them. How those same children woke up one day and decided to kill their parents. She had never believed it. Not until now. She watched Spider wipe the blood from his blade with mechanical precision, his movements too calm, too practiced. There is no triumph in his face, no relief, no sorrow.

Just a hollow emptiness.

-) Something dark and quiet has settled in the boy’s chest, a coldness that should not exist in one so young. The boy named Spider died on the Sea Dragon. Drowned beneath the weight of Neytiri’s hate, choked on the understanding that he would never belong. And what remains in his place is something else. Something Tonowari's people and the Sullys do not understand. Something they accept but fear all the same.

-) Jake takes a step forward, but Spider lifts a bloodied hand, stopping him before he can speak. "Don’t." His voice is hoarse, flat. "Your son has been avenged. The debt is paid. I am done. We are done." Jake stares, tears in his eyes, something unspoken hanging between them. "Kid, I never wanted this--" Spider turns his back, mounting the ikran with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. And then he was gone. The wind howled as the graceful creature lifted itself into the sky, carrying Spider higher, farther, into the unknown. Jake’s voice rose behind him, calling his name. Kiri's voice is the loudest, crying and screaming for him, but he hardens his heart. They call his name. Spider does not return. Spider does not look back.

[princessbubblecup]

A messy little comic introduction to an au where stan's... being? (Soul? Mind?) Was brought with bill to the theraprism when bill invoked the axolotl in stans mind.

(Hand written dialouge

Stan: HEY! How come HE gets to keep his hat?!!

Bill: It's part of my EXOSKELETON, you moron!!)

More below:

Stan: why am I stuck here again? I was actually bein' the good guy for once. Did the whole hero shtick.

Caption: he fist-fought 13 staff members upon arrival.

Axolotl doctor: *apology and explanation for why stan was accidently brought to the theraprism, and a promise that they are working on a way to send him back*

Stan, internally: holy fuck... I have to punch this thing.

Stan: UGH... the looney bin again. With aliens. And Bill.

...great

Bill caption: 5th count of contraband this week.

...

Loser asshole patient-prisoner dorks. They are NOT learning to get along.

[rotworld]

The Huntsman

orion, the youngest and friendliest member of the convenire, has taken an interest in you. this could be useful or it could be a big problem.

->meanvamps featuring orion. contains mind control, power imbalance, minor violence. also on ao3.

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The Belanger Estate has a library. Not just an office with a shelf or two and some fancy bookends but a spacious, old parchment-scented and antique furniture-filled two fucking stories tall library. 

It falls somewhere in the middle of the mansion’s zigzag through architectural time periods, comfortably Victorian with all its drapes and busy upholstery, decorative flourishes carved into the wood of sofa frames and table legs. Chairs are scattered across the room, clustered in twos and threes. An enormous painting hangs over the fireplace mantle, strange enough to catch your eye but not for more than a passing moment: a woman in a moonlit forest, clutching the painstakingly detailed folds of her billowing dress. She looks back over her shoulder at something as she wades barefoot into a river. You count twenty steps on the corkscrew staircase that brings you up to a narrow balcony ringing the room’s upper level.

There are books absolutely everywhere you turn. Shelves fill the walls nearly to the ceiling, some packed so tightly that it’s a struggle to pull a single tome free. Several systems of organization clash and coexist from one section to the next—alphabetical by author, oldest to newest, language of the text. You turn on the lights as you go, pulling the cords of table lamps leaving a trail of muted light behind you. It’s all painted, patterned glass and dim bulbs, dark enough that you still have to lean in and squint to read the titles along the spines. 

You find what you’re looking for up there on the second floor, tucked away in the corner. The section is partially concealed with a red curtain all the way at the dead end of one balcony. Some of these books are old and some are very, very old with delicate, yellowed pages and bindings that creak when you open them. You tuck An Elementary Treatise on Defensive Magics under your arm. You carefully wiggle Practical Arcana out from between two taller, denser titles. You consider Curses for Chrysalises but ultimately leave it behind in favor of The Arte of Eclipsing: How to Endure This Wretched Age.

“Whatcha doing?” 

You’re not proud of the noise you make, scared nearly out of your skin by the whisper that warms your ear. The library isn’t a quiet room. The door shrieked when you opened it, the floorboards groaned, and the spiral staircase sounded like it might collapse under you at any moment. You whirl around and Orion takes a step back from being uncomfortably, dangerously close to you. He’s in a loose t-shirt, drawstring shorts and those slippers again, gray and fuzzy. 

“What the fuck!” you hiss.

He puts his hands up in surrender. “Sorry!” he says, trying and failing to wipe the grin off his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you! Well, okay, I kinda did, but not that bad.” He keeps rambling while you bend to pick up the books you managed to drop, friendly enthusiasm unaffected by your glare. “It’s just practice, y’know? Gotta stay on my game. I’m pretty good at hunting, right? I don’t, like, have to ‘cuz Athanasius makes sure we’ve got enough to eat. Or, uh, drink? But hunting’s not just about feeding. If you’ve got territory and a partner and stuff, you gotta protect ‘em. Not that, uh—I mean, like—you’re not my—” He covers his own mouth, looking somewhere between sheepish and scandalized, but he snaps out of it when you collect your books and carefully inch around him. “Hey, so, what’re you up to? What’re you reading?” 

“Nothing,” you say. Your pulse quickens when you feel his breath on your cheek and find him right behind you, leaning over your shoulder. You hide the cover of Practical Arcana against your chest, but you’re not quick enough. 

Orion hums thoughtfully. “Witch stuff, huh? You gonna practice? You should ask Athanasius, he’s crazy good at all the principles. It’s kinda the same, right? Your magic and our principles?” 

You stop walking. Orion stops with you, too close again. He smiles innocently when you turn to face him, perking up when your gaze meets his. “I’m allowed to practice magic?” you ask, incredulous. 

“Uh. Yeah? He said you’d probably wanna.” Orion shrugs. “Just be careful and don’t do anything, like, dangerous. I don’t wanna snitch, but I have to if you try to hurt somebody.”

You look down at the books in your arms and your face heats with embarrassment and anger. You thought you were getting away with something. You’ve been sneaking around the mansion all evening looking for hiding spots, savoring the thought of secret rebellion; honing your spellcraft, mastering your precision, becoming powerful enough to stage a daring escape and destroying anything that gets in your way. But Athanasius is just going to let you do it, out in the open? You let out a frustrated breath and descend the winding staircase with Orion at your heels.

“What kinda magic do you do, anyway?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” you say tersely. 

“Huh?”

You set the books down with a bit more force than necessary on the first table you reach. “Can’t practice if you’re in hiding,” you mutter. You sink into a stiff red chair and pick something from your pile, flipping through the introduction and table of contents. Someone’s written in the margins, circling and underlining particular passages. The ink is faded, the handwriting a compressed cursive scrawl that’s hard to read. 

You hear the chair across from you creak as Orion sits down. He’s restless, one leg bouncing, glancing around the library with the frantic energy of a dog that wants to be let out. You take a deep breath.

“Orion.” There’s that look again, bright and excited once your eyes meet. You hesitate. Potential heart attack aside, he hasn’t done anything to deserve your ire yet. “Do you…want something?” 

His smile falters for just a moment, barely the blink of an eye. “No! No, just, uh. Thought you might want some company. I know last night was a lot and maybe you wanna be alone, but maybe you don’t wanna be alone? I wouldn’t wanna be.” 

“Really?” you ask, not managing to keep the cynicism from your tone. “You don’t just want some blood?” 

His gaze flicks lower, almost certainly to your neck, before he quickly looks back at your face. He swallows hard. One of his hands grips the armrest of his chair hard enough that the wooden frame beneath creaks in protest. “I’m not allowed to feed from you without supervision,” he says. The words are practiced. The gentle tone and flowing cadence are uncannily similar to the way Athanasius speaks. “I just got my muzzle off a couple days ago. And you’ve barely been on roseblood, so even if I get the go ahead, it’d be, like, a tiny sip.”

You’re torn between relief and utter bewilderment. What was that about a muzzle? “I’m assuming Athanasius supervises,” you say.

“Yeah, you’re in good hands.” He starts drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“Don’t.” You knock your chair over in your haste to stand up and back away from the table, the sudden thud echoing off the ceiling. Your heart races. You feel lightheaded with fear, cold and clammy with sweat. Orion stands in a panicked rush. 

“Hey, whoa, okay, it’s okay,” he says, softening his voice like he’s soothing an animal. “I stopped, see?” He holds his hands up to show you. 

You’re trembling. All you can think about is the call center conference room and Edmund’s serene smile as he wrenched your secrets out one finger tap at a time, how helpless you were, how good it felt. Hindsight grants you the terror you deserved then. You would’ve done anything he asked in that moment. Anything. You would’ve climbed onto the table and bared your throat like a lamb on an altar, would’ve let him drink you dry if that’s what he wanted. 

“Are you okay? Should I get Athanasius?” 

“No,” you say, your voice strained. “No, just. Don’t hypnotize me or whatever you were doing.” 

Orion blinks. “You thought I was…?” He grins a little like this is funny but the withering look you give him makes him clear his throat. “No, uh, I wasn’t. That’s not even how mine works.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Means we all do it a little differently, that’s all. I can tell you about it if you wanna know.” He says this gently as he inches closer to the table. You’re still thinking about Edmund. He looked at you just like that, all pity and longing. It turns your stomach. Can Orion tell how close you are to bolting out of the room? He shrugs and looks away, staring at the painting above the fireplace instead. “You have a slight advantage if you know how somebody’s mesmerism works,” he says absently, like he’s just thinking aloud. “Means you know what to look for. Sometimes you can dodge it, or resist it a little bit. Sometimes you can’t, though.” He holds out his hand, reaching for you across the table. He’s got spots of black nail polish, mostly flaked away. “I’m a tactile mesmer. That means I have to touch you. You’re safe where you’re at, see? Out of reach.” 

You’re not safe and you both know it, remembering how quickly and silently he can move. “That’s it? You touch me and I’m under?” you ask.

His smile is pained and apologetic. “Yeah, sorry. I’m unusually good at it for a hatchling, apparently. There’s fledglings older than me who need a little more prep time before their mesmerism fully kicks in, but mine doesn’t work that way.” He mimes tapping on the table without actually striking it, fingers falling in a wave motion. “It was tapping that scared you, yeah? That’s auditory. Mihai does that kind, although he uses his voice. Humming or singing, you’ll know when he’s doing it. Rowan, too. Mostly. I think.”

“Rowan?” you echo. You’ve at least heard of Mihai, although you haven’t seen him yet. 

“Our counselor,” Orion explains. “He’s an elder, like Athanasius. He doesn’t actually live here, but he drops by now and then. You’ll meet him eventually.” 

You’d rather not but you have a feeling you don’t have a choice. “What about Renaud?” you ask.

“Renaud’s tactile, too, but he kinda sucks at it.” Orion beams when he gets a startled exhale of amusement out of you. “Seriously. I’d be surprised if he can put you under and maintain it.”

“And Athanasius?” 

Orion hesitates. You see him studying your expression, maybe deciding whether or not he should tell you the truth. “He’s mostly an aural mesmer, but he can do it lots of ways. Aural is like…” He gestures over the table between you. “You’re this close? That’s enough. He doesn’t have to do anything. You just have to be in range and he has to want you under, and you’re under.” He sees you shrinking back and rushes to reassure you. “But he wouldn’t do it for no reason! I’m the same way. I only use mesmerism when I really have to, only to make people feel better. It’s like a hug, y’know? It’s our way of taking care of you—wait, wait, hey, where are you going?”

There’s an old parable about a nightbound who hungered for the blood of one particular witch it couldn’t catch. It never rested and never fed on anyone else, and its pursuit took so long that eventually it withered and died. It might’ve been pride or it might’ve been obsession. It doesn’t really matter which. The point is that Orion can’t possibly be this clueless, this willfully ignorant of your discomfort or at the very least your need for a moment alone, and yet he follows you down the mansion’s darkened hallways trying to make smalltalk. He stands an infuriating distance away, too far to easily keep track of without having to look over your shoulder, too close for you to relax.

But what if he is? you find yourself thinking, looking back again. The animalistic shine of his eyes in the dark unnerves you, like watching a wolf prowl closer. What if he really is oblivious? Truthfully, you don’t know what to make of him. Athanasius is everything you expect a nightbound to be, cold and inscrutable with a sadistic sense of humor, but Orion is something else entirely. Could he really be as awkward and painfully earnest as he seems? You didn’t dodge detection and registration this long by being trusting. Sure, he’s young and newly-turned, probably still adjusting, but…

What was that he said about mesmerism? “Only when he really has to?” If Athanasius has the place so well-stocked that none of them have to hunt, when has Orion had to soothe prey? 

“Have you been in the ballroom yet? We have a ballroom. Crazy, right?” he chatters. He’s always glancing around when you look back like he’s fascinated by the hallway decor, hands in his pockets, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. Harmless is obviously the look he’s going for but he’s not harmless. None of them are. But you’re here, right where they want you. Aren’t you safe enough to relax just a little bit?

“What do you mean there’s a ballroom?” you say, exasperated. Orion laughs. You stop by one of the windows to peer out at the night sky and the flowering bushes outside. The first time you heard the sun shields open, you thought someone was trying to break down your door. The thick metal shutters are antiques just like the rest of the mansion, clanging and clattering loudly whenever they move. They wrench apart at dusk and slam shut again before daybreak, keeping out the light. 

“Bet there’s a lot of this place you haven’t seen yet,” Orion says. You notice how careful he is when he approaches, slow and ambling, half-circling you before he closes the distance. No, you decide, he’s definitely not oblivious. He watches you too closely, slowing further when you tense up, making sure to catch your eye and smile. He stays just out of arm’s reach, stopping at the far end of the windowsill. “You seen the garden? It’s actually really nice. Sometimes I go out there and just sit for a while. There’s a gazebo and some benches and stuff, lots of good spots.”

A gentle breeze rustles the leaves. You watch the flowers sway. It’s roses, mostly, thick-petaled spirals blooming in a gradient of soft tissue pink to deep, bloody scarlet. “Am I allowed outside?” you ask. 

“Huh? Yeah, of course. You just can’t leave the estate without one of us coming along. I’m so down for that, by the way. I took this weekend off. Y’know. Just in case. Athanasius said you’re not from Harrow Creek so, um…” He shifts his weight between his legs restlessly, looking at you in his periphery. He’s waiting for you to ask, you realize. He took time off work in the hopes you’d let him show you around? Against your better judgment, you find the sentiment a little endearing. 

And a little terrifying. “And so the witch fled and the nightbound chased all the way to the ends of the earth,” or so the story goes.

Orion’s carefree demeanor freezes over and he frowns tightly. He’s not looking at you but past you, just over your shoulder. You stiffen in fear when he seizes your shoulder and pulls. Nothing happens. You’re lucid. You don’t feel the suffocating softness of mesmerism clogging your thoughts. He pulls you behind him and then he lets go, one arm out at his side like he’s warning you to stay back. Moonlight glimmers in a predator’s eyes just down the hall. You didn’t hear anyone coming.

“Yeah?” Orion calls. 

You remember him from the kitchen last night. Smaller than Orion, brunette, eyes that narrow as soon as they land on you. It’s Renaud. He saunters closer, his gaze flicking back and forth between the two of you. He’s dressed like he’s going somewhere in a leather jacket and jeans, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His hair is just barely long enough for the ponytail he has it in, a few loose strands from his bangs tucked behind his ears. 

“Helped yourself yet?” he drawls. You can’t see Orion’s expression but you see his posture shift from cautious to defensive. “Guess not. All bark and no bite, huh?” Renaud catches your gaze over Orion’s shoulder. He grins, flashing his fangs. “Has he been sweet-talking you all night? Were you dumb enough to fall for it?”

“Don’t be a dick, man,” Orion says, his voice tense and pleading. 

Renaud tilts his head sharply, his attention returning to Orion. “I kept Athanasius busy like you wanted. Not my fault if you wasted the opportunity. Let me have a turn.” He tries to come closer but Orion cuts him off, blocking his path. 

“Dude, seriously. Enough.” 

Renaud makes an animalistic noise that almost sends you running, a low, rumbling hiss. “This was your idea. Don’t act like you’re better than the rest of us!” He tries to get around Orion again, lips curling back in a snarl when he can’t. “You think you’re safe back there?” he calls, craning his neck and trying to meet your gaze. “Did he tell you where he came from? What he did? How many witches he drained—”

It happens too fast for your eyes to keep up. All you see is a blur and all you feel is a whirlwind, something streaking past you and landing so heavily that the stone floor cracks. You don’t see Orion and Renaud anymore. You see monsters. A hulking beast with bulging muscle and dark fur, spittle frothing between massive fangs. A gaunt hairless and eyeless thing, streaked gray like marble with a permanent gargoyle snarl. They tangle with each other, gnashing their teeth and thrashing their enormous, leathery wings. They’re titans, their shadows sweeping across you like swift eclipses, their heads nearly scraping the ceiling.

You hear a quiet sigh. “How unseemly.” You’re already on edge and braced for the worst so Athanasius’ sudden appearance barely makes you jump. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching the scuffle with disappointment. 

“Does this happen a lot?” you ask. 

“On occasion. We have gone several weeks without an altercation. Usually, they get along quite well.”

You hum in acknowledgement. You feel the same way you did sitting in Edmund’s backseat, the shock overwhelming the fear, the exhaustion numbing the hopelessness. The larger beast, a bat-like hunting form that makes Edmund’s look delicate, slams the smaller one’s head into the tile floor. It pins it with its own hulking frame, hissing a warning with its jaw open wide around the other one’s slender, quivering throat. That’s Orion, you realize, the one who’s winning. That bit of fading red dye at the ends of his hair is still there, lingering in hints of scarlet on the fur atop his head. 

“Is it true?” you ask quietly. “Has Orion killed witches before?” 

Athanasius doesn’t answer right away, which is its own answer. You hear a hoarse whimper escape Renaud as he tries to twist and wriggle free but Orion bears down on him harder. “It would not be right for me to tell you Orion’s history without his input. Every member of this convenire has been shaped by the hardships they have endured. At times, they have made poor decisions, but—” 

“He did, didn’t he?” 

Again, he hesitates. You find Athanasius watching the two hatchlings with a thoughtful expression, something almost wistful. “Yes. He did. Orion’s sire was a traditionalist dissenter. Are you familiar with that term?” You shake your head. “It means he was a lost soul who longed for the age of Qayin and he raised his hatchlings accordingly. Orion’s first nights were spent in a traditionalist compound where human and kin alike were kept in deplorable conditions. Even dissenters are loath to waste witch blood, but Orion was never taught how to feed in moderation. None of them were.” 

The fight is over. Now Orion is just toying with Renaud, feigning inattention and loosening his grip only to drag him back every time he tries to wiggle free. Renaud keens and tries to curl into himself but Orion holds him still and makes an awful, guttural noise that might be mocking laughter. “I thought we were valuable to you,” you say. “The Council just lets things like that happen?” 

“You are irreplaceable.” The sudden vehemence startles you. Athanasius pauses, composing himself, and turns to you with a mask of perfect calm once again. “The Council is not omniscient. They were unaware of the compound’s existence until a witch managed to escape, at which point they acted quickly. I was personally involved in the CTF raid. We culled dozens of our own that night. Orion was the only one permitted a second chance.”

“Are you expecting me to feel sorry for him?” 

Athanasius’ soft laughter lacks all the usual playfulness and mirth. “As I have said before, I expect nothing yet. Pardon me, I have let this go on long enough.” He strides forward confidently, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Renaud notices him first. He goes completely limp under Orion, uncanny bat-like wing fingers splayed flat on the floor and throat bared in deference. Orion is too caught up in the thrill of victory and bloodlust but he hesitates at the sudden show of submission, head cocked in confusion. He sees Athanasius approaching and his large ears flatten, teeth bared in a snarl. Athanasius doesn’t say or do anything. He stands completely still, looking up fearlessly at Orion’s bestial fury. The growl dies in Orion’s throat suddenly and he skitters back, climbing off of Renaud with his head bowed low, his whole body trembling. A whimper slips out, sad and pitched like a frightened dog.

“I am extremely disappointed in both of you,” Athanasius says coolly. The hatchlings flinch. “You have allowed your anger to sharpen into wrath. You have damaged the convenire. You have become so consumed by your impulses that you paid no heed to your surroundings. What if I were an intruder? I could have murdered the sacrament while you squabbled. Change back. Now.” 

They rush to obey, their transformations swift and painful-looking. You hear bodies doing things they shouldn’t, joints popping and bones compressing, tendons spooling beneath the skin as they regain human shape. Orion manages it first, kneeling on the cold stone floor with his head lowered in shame. Renaud is a few seconds slower and panting, leaning heavily against the wall. He grimaces at the pile of ruined clothes they left behind further down the hall. 

“Renaud,” Athanasius says. 

Renaud lowers his head and stares at the floor. “Yes, sir?” he says hoarsely. 

“You have work, I know. I will not make you late. But we will discuss this when you return and I will inform Rowan.”

The mention of Rowan makes Renaud’s shoulders sag. You can’t tell if he’s relieved or if that’s the worst punishment he could’ve received. He keeps his gaze lowered even as he gets to his feet. “Yes, sir.” Athanasius is utterly still and silent as Renaud gets to his feet and disappears back the way he came into the dark. He waits until he’s gone to turn his attention to the other nightbound shivering on the floor. 

“Orion.” 

“I’m sorry,” Orion says. “I know, I lost my temper and I was stupid and—” 

“Orion,” Athanasius cuts him off gently. You hear a shaky breath from the hatchling. “You underestimate my hearing. Your physical altercation is the least of my concerns right now.” Orion rises slowly from his prostrate position, lifting his head from the cold stone floor. He doesn’t look at Athanasius. He looks at you, just briefly, and then his eyes flick away. Athanasius glances back at you, looking far less amused than you’re used to seeing him. “Sacrament,” he addresses you, stern enough that you bristle at the title but don’t comment on it, “what do you make of this?” 

Make of what, exactly? And why is he asking you? You think back to what Renaud said earlier. Something about distracting Athanasius, and Orion wasting his chance. “They had some kind of agreement, I guess,” you say. “But Orion backed out at the last second.”

“Did he?” Athanasius presses. Again, he’s asking you, ignoring Orion kneeling in front of him. He turns to the side as if he feels the need to watch you both but most of his attention is on you, his head tilted, a disappointed frown on his lips. “I did not expect you to be so trusting. And Orion, I did not expect you to be so cruel to Renaud, making an offer you had no intention of keeping just to cause a confrontation and play the part of savior.” Orion very carefully does not meet your shocked, accusing gaze. He stares meekly at Athanasius, drooping and drawing in on himself like a scolded dog. “Never let blood make you foolish. Especially not blood you have yet to earn.” 

“Yes, sir,” Orion murmurs. 

“And you, sacrament. You must be more discerning.” 

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “Are you serious? I’m in trouble for thinking one of you might actually give a shit about me—” Your throat constricts, voice strangled before you’ve finished the thought. You can’t get the words out no matter how hard you try. A strange warmth washes over you, a soft sensation like a blanket pulled across your thoughts. You recognize the false comfort of mesmerism for just a moment, just long enough to remember that Athanasius doesn’t have touch you, doesn’t have to do anything to put you under, your breath coming in panicked wheezes—

And then everything is fine. Strange and disorienting, but fine. What were you doing just now? Why are you standing in the hallway? It’s a nice hallway. You haven’t taken the time to appreciate much of anything in the convenire. Why is that? Your gaze wanders aimlessly, eventually catching on tailored trousers and flared, lace edged sleeves. Athanasius is so still when he speaks. It makes any movement particularly eye-catching, from the slightest flick of his fingers to the tilt of his head. You don’t fight the sudden impulse to get closer and you’re rewarded for it, the back of his hand caressing your cheek. He’s saying something but not to you, so you don’t pay attention. It sounds like he’s speaking in another room, his voice muffled, words indistinct. You sway closer and his arm wraps around you, his thumb stroking your side. 

He nods sharply. You hear someone else, a mumble, retreating footsteps, nothing that concerns you. Athanasius turns to you and your breath hitches at how gently, slowly, he trails one finger over your lips and down your throat, his gaze drawn to the flutter of muscle in your neck. The warmth fades. The rosy haze drains from your mind. You slap his hand away and he lets you, watching you stumble back with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Apologies,” he says. “I had not finished scolding Orion and I could not split my attention. You may voice your concerns now.” 

“What do you want from me?” It comes out weaker than you’d hoped. You’re exhausted and afraid. “Do you want me to trust you or not? Do you want me to fight or just do whatever you want? I don’t understand you, any of you.”

“I want you to do as you promised, sacrament. Make me regret caging you.” On anyone else, that smile would be sweet, almost comforting. “I would like your trust, yes. I would greatly enjoy your obedience. But you must always remember that we hunger for you as we hunger for nothing else. I assure you, you are protected here. Even still, I would like most of all to see your teeth a bit sharper.” He lifts his hand, gesturing down to the hall. “Shall I make you something to eat? There is a new recipe I would like to try for you.” 

Was that advice? Is he helping you? That doesn’t make any sense. But he waits while you deliberate, hands clasped together almost expectantly. Every time you think you’re figuring things out, the world seems to shatter beneath your feet and send you plummeting into new depths of confusion. You don’t know what else to do and you wouldn’t mind some food, so you nod. Athanasius hums in approval and you follow him at a leisurely pace to the kitchen. He steals glances at you often, unsubtle about it and unembarrassed when you catch him. He just keeps smiling fondly.

A truce wouldn’t hurt, you decide. You won’t get too comfortable but if he’s going to play nice, you can, too. “Is there anywhere in the convenire where I won’t have to deal with nosy hatchlings?” you ask.

“My chambers,” he says. Your perturbed expression just makes his smile widen. “Anywhere, truthfully, if you are there before sunset. The hatchlings sleep deeply until then. Would you like me to wake you?”

“No thanks.” 

“Very well.” You’re startled when he taps your shoulder gently, a fleeting, almost friendly touch. “I wish you luck in your magic studies. Please do let me know if I can be of any assistance.” And there it is, that sharp grin and arched eyes and pure fucking smugness.

Alright, you think. War it is, then.

[cherryys]

i do not like the fact that yuuta was able to just return back to his body without any consequences at all, still as OP as ever. His character now seems even more flat than before. I never particularly cared for Yuuta, but during CH. 261/263 I started to like him. I thought those chapters and that narrative decision drew his character out and really made him shine. for it to amount to practically nothing removes any stakes or emotional payoff for such a decision. Nothing really changes about him now, unless you count the scar on his head. that sucked, I really hoped there would be something, but now Yuuta's character kind of annoys me with how little payoff there is, along with the fact he doesn't really lose anything the entire series, and is still as powerful as ever. there should've been a balance struck with his CT along with Rika, but I guess gege wasn't willing to compromise.

[pianokantzart]

Me thinking about what a Luigi’s Mansion 4 game might look like given the Switch 2’s capabilities

[aroaceleovaldez]

we're all in agreement Jason just totally bit Krios, right? "unarmed, 1v1 combat" Jason bit that guy. chomp chomp.

[serpentface]

How widespread are the odonii? Do they only live in the capital or does every town have its own temple?

The cult center is in the city Wardin, this is where THE temple to Odomache is, where the Odomache permanently resides, and where the majority of the priesthood in general is based. The priesthood is overwhelmingly centered in this capital and the vast majority of its public rites occur here, but does have branches throughout the state.

There's another major temple in Odkoto which has almost as many members and has a pretty major sway on local government (and has been in a cold war with some of the merchant guilds that Also have a pretty major sway on local government, this is where most of the 'assassinations suspected to have been ordered by Odonii' have taken place). Odkoto was the departure point for the ultimately failed colonization of Finnerich and the currently successful colonization of the Lleniwir island, and also gets the 'most frequently besieged and sacked Wardi city in history' award. So concepts of Sovereignty and Dominion and Military Might are especially important there on a cultural level and God-As-Odomache is effectively a patron deity(-form) of the city. The temple complex there is massive (built in part on remains of very old Imperial Burri temples) and holds the biggest semi-domesticated lion population. One holiday public rite to Odomache is performed only here.

Every other provincial capital has at least A temple and some local Odonii, which is because (aside from political and pragmatic reasons) their presence is considered to be a metaphysical bastion for the health of the state and all its major divisions of government. Every local jurisdiction outside of Wardin is run by an internally appointed high priestess, selected out of the body of 'senior priestesses' (the Odomache effectively fills this role in the Wardin cult center). Temples to Odomache are near-exclusively a mega-urban thing (with a the exception of a small temple in Lobera a ways down the Kannetod river, which is part of the state cult/priesthood but is the assimilated remnants of an unrelated cult and kinda still doing their own thing to some extent).

The CULT to Odomache is wider than the Odonii and there are other centers of practice and worship (though they still tend to be pretty urban, and small). The most notable is the outdoor temple to Odomache Ebada ('patriarch/father Odomache') in Ephennos, in which the Odomache godform is venerated specifically in Its aspect as a guardian/father to the collective people. It's maintained by a small lesser priesthood of exclusively men and a bunch of lay followers, though the Odonii do have a hand in this (the Ephenni high priestess directs public rites here on a yearly local holiday).

Most of the priesthoods and major temples in general are an urban phenomena and people living far from major cities generally want to be able to participate in their own religion. So you'll won't find many Temples but will find community-made shrines in many villages/towns (though the agricultural Faces (Ganmache Mitlamache Anaemache Inyamache) are typically the focus of these). This is generally considered acceptable as long as it's an extension of lay practice and no one involved is 'playing priest' and attempting rites they shouldn't. These shrines are usually just places to their communities perform more focused veneration, celebrate holidays, and leave offerings to aspects of God.

The villages on the pilgrimage route between the city Wardin and the Sons of Creation tend to have the most lavish community shrines to Odomache. This is because some Odonii and usually the Odomache are usually accompanying the pilgrimage, and will often oblige their hosts with blessings of their shrines or gifts of cult objects (statuettes, amulets, etc). The village Waenatlan Hehaë on the northern Briya river has a particularly lavish and proudly kept shrine. When they hosted the inner pilgrimage party 21 years ago, the community provided them a feast and slaughtered two oxen and three horses and several ducks for the occasion. The Odomache in attendance declared that they should be gifted with a real kagnoma odo headdress (helmet with a full sacrificial temple lion pelt, this is considered a holy object) for their shrine in return for their exceptional generosity as hosts, and lay pilgrims have been leaving an abundance of little handmade statues and the like for the village shrine ever since. (This sort of thing is typical under normal new year pilgrimage conditions, its expected that host villages Act like hosts and provide for their guests within reason and capability, and they can usually expect (but should NEVER verbalize or demand) to be gifted to in return).

[khaire-traveler]

Hello, just wondering if it’s possible to become advanced in your practice with the Gods as a minor? It doesn’t make sense to me whatsoever, as advanced would point to several years of in depth research, high understanding and a long history of kharis with the Gods, which seems difficult for anyone, let alone a minor.

Khaire!

Honestly, this is a really tough question to answer because I genuinely can't say. I don't think it's fair to judge someone's practice as "advanced" or not from the outside. We simply cannot say what someone's practice actually looks like unless we are that person. I think it would also help if we defined what exactly "advanced" means. Maybe "advanced" for a minor looks different than "advanced" for an adult. I also just don't like ranking religion in these kinds of ways. Like, "beginner" I understand using if someone has just started and feels they need more help, but I don't think it's a good idea, generally speaking, to rank one's religion with terms like "advanced" or "intermediate", as if it's some sort of real-life leveling system. That's an incredibly difficult thing to determine, too, because there's no set criteria for what makes someone "advanced" (this isn't a slight to you; it's just weird to me that anyone would use this term in HelPol).

I do think you may be judging this minor a bit too harshly, though, Nonny. Unless this person (or people) is causing direct harm by claiming to be something they're not (like claiming to be a priest and manipulating people with it, for example), then I don't really see a point in nit-picking about what level a minor considers their practice. Minors are chill and all, but I'll be so real and say that sometimes they say really weird things lol (saying this with peace and love) because they're still kids. When I was a minor, I remember saying some weird shit and having to learn from it, and that's an entirely normal part of being in that age-range. They're still learning how the world works, likely still learning how religion works for them, and they're testing different things out. Can it be a little annoying sometimes low-key? Yes, absolutely, but does that mean it's something we should hold against them? Eh, debatable, but I don't really think so, in this case. This person is still a kid, and kids make some wild claims sometimes. If they say they're "advanced", then let them be, even if you disagree. They'll likely figure it out on their own.

[il3x]

Any idea how more power solves the problem of being a good person?

With more POWER, you can protect your teammates. With more POWER, you can defeat the Aberrant criminals who kill and extort and farm children for Rapture. With more POWER, you can avenge Jaeil. With the right kind of POWER, you could reform the Aberrant Corps from a killer, his killer, into a true hand of justice. You could impose Goodness across the entire world. With enough POWER, you wouldn't even need violence to do it.

And on the smaller scale... POWER can erase your mistakes. Good? You could be perfect.

[run-little-cheetah]

You keep me warm on cold nights ~