#best butchery ever

[jeanjauthor]

This is absolutely amazing, an extremely high level of skill!

[clockwayswrites]

Birb in the arms. Part 24

Masterpost, CW: mention of blood, dissociation, panic attack

“I liked this sweater,” Danny bemoaned softly as he watched Alfred’s startlingly sharp scissors slice through the knit.

Alfred hummed sympathetically, but didn’t stop in his butchery of Danny’s clothing. “A lost cause from the blood if not the wings.”

“Right.” Danny tightened his hands around the mug of tea he had been presented with shortly after he’d been sat down at the kitchen island. He should drink it, he knew, but the adrenalin crash was hitting him hard right then and the warmth of the mug was comforting.

Danny held back a flinch as Alfred started on the dress shirt.

If the wings… stayed, Danny would have to figure out clothing to accommodate them. That would be a pain. He didn’t want a whole new wardrobe.

“Arms out now,” Alfred ordered.

Danny listened, mostly because it was easiest to, and the remains of his dissected clothing was pulled off and taken away. Danny hunched forward and returned his hands to the mug. Alfred started to methodically, but gently, to clean a away the blood.

“Fortunately, the skin seems remarkably well healed around the wings. Do you normally heal swiftly from their emergence?”

Normally.

As if he normally had wings.

As if this was just a thing that happened to him.

But it was, wasn’t it? Or it was now. He just had wings. That was a thing.

This is what he was now.

More dead than alive.

Always dead.

There was a warm hand on his cheek.

He was much more warm now. The blanket wrapped around him might explain that. Or the hot water bottle that he was practically curled around. Or the person he was leaning against.

Whoever he was leaning on was talking.

The steady, calm flow of words rumbled under Danny’s other cheek.

He could fall asleep like this. He shouldn’t though, part of him thought. He should… shouldn’t he be doing something? He tried to pay attention to who was talking. There were more people in the room, Danny realized, but who he was resting against was doing most of the talking in a steady, rhythmic sort of way.

Danny knew he should be worried about where he was and what just happened, but he wasn’t.

He just snuggled closer to the warmth.

The voice paused, chuckled, and then asked something as the thumb swept soothingly across Danny’s cheekbone.

Danny made a little noise of question.

“Maybe not so with us, then,” the voice said.

Oh, it was Bruce.

The wings.

The attack.

The boys!

Danny jolted up. He didn’t get far with the arm wrapped around him, tucked carefully under his wings that struggled against the blanket.

“They’re safe. Damian and Tim are right here with us. You kept them safe.”

“Please do not injure yourself,” Damian said, voice a little soft, almost hesitant.

It was enough to still Danny.

“We’re okay. You just, um, had a bit of an episode in the kitchen,” Tim explained.

“You dissociated,” Bruce clarified. He had a book in the hand that was around Danny and he closed it quietly to set aside. He must have been reading to them. Bruce cleared his throat almost hesitantly. “We thought it best not to leave you on a cold kitchen floor.”

They were in a living room of some sort, Danny realized as he became more aware of everything around him. He was struggling to get his normally quick brain kicked into gear. Once again he was aware he should be worried about things, notably the fact he was apparently basically in Bruce Wayne’s lap, but he just couldn’t bring himself to be concerned right then.

“Much warmer,” Danny agreed, words a soft mumble. “Everyone okay?”

“Everyone but yourself,” Damian said with a little scowl that made Danny smile. That only made Damian scowl harder. “Clearly you are not equipped to take care of yourself. You will stay here for a few days.”

“Damian,” Bruce said as a mild reprimand that didn’t mean much with the way his arm tightened ever so slightly around Danny.

Danny just chuckled and let himself close his eyes again. “I’m okay, chickadee. Just tired.”

“You were tired before the attack,” Tim pointed out over Damian’s indignant noise.

“Mhum.”

“Is… I mean,” Tim said in a start and stop. “I just think that’s why Damian is concerned.”

Danny chuckled softly. Obviously only Damian was concerned.

“This is not humorous, Fenton!” Damian snapped.

“Damian,” Bruce admonished back.

“It’s okay, know he’s just worried,” Danny said around a jaw cracking yawn. With quite a struggle and Bruce’s bracing hands, Danny got himself sitting up and facing the boys.

They occupied opposite ends of a sofa. Damian tucked into the corner with a vicious scowl on his face. Tim, on the other side, kept glance between Damian, Bruce, and Danny all while trying to look like he wasn’t looking.

“I was tired even before the attack,” Danny said. He rubbed at his forehead, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together. Bruce’s hand was still bracing him up between the wings. “There’s… a few weeks a go, there was an incident I ended up in the middle of. I was exposed to some of Ivy’s pollen and apparently that and who knows what else triggered a… change. In me. And my… meta status? Powers. State—in the state of what I am.”

Tim looked at Danny a little more directly as he asked. “Did you know before it? That you were a meta?”

“Lab accident when I was fourteen,” Danny said with a wry smile. “I’ve known for a lot of years and while I won’t pretend that it was easy at the start, everything had settled into a balance. So, for things to change so drastically out of no where… I’ll be honest, I maybe have been struggling to cope with it some. It’s not that I find it funny or don’t recognize that it’s a concern, Damian, I just sometimes have to laugh about it.”

Damian assessed him with narrowed eyes. “The wings are new.”

“The wings are new,” Danny confirmed. “I’ve already spoken to my doctor about it, one that’s been looking after me since I was fourteen, and we have thoughts but not many answers. This…”

Danny sighed and looked down at his hands. He flexed his fingers. The small feathers that had covered his hands were gone. The talons back to nails (though maybe still a little sharper than they should be). The wings were still heavy on his back.

“There’s a lot of unknown in this,” Danny said, “and that can be scary. I didn’t think that I’d have any more changes to deal with, not at this age. When it was first triggered… the transformation was fully into a bird but giant. I’m really, really hoping that was an outlier. We think it was but…”

“None of this will change your place at work,” Bruce assured Danny. “W.E. is firm in its support of meta.”

“And we aren’t scared of you,” Tim added quickly. “We have meta friends. I mean, I can’t say I won’t have questions like how functional are the wings or stuff, but, um, that’s just how I am.”

Danny chuckled lightly. “I get that. And I once things are a little more… stable we can answer some of those. Right now I’m just trying to manage.”

“Then you will stay here,” Damian insisted.

“Damian…”

“It is easier to manage troubles if you are not alone,” Damian continued, “or so my family is always trying to convince me.”

“It would be easier if you didn’t have to worry about cooking or things, wouldn’t it?” Tim added with a set of puppy dog eyes that Danny was sure got Tim everything he wanted when he was little.

Danny smiled softly at the boys. “I don’t want be a burden or bother to you all. This isn’t your issue.”

“Tch,” Damian sniffed. “We were not your issue today, but you still protected us and in doing so caused this episode. Us providing you a space to heal is the least we could do.”

“Damian is right,” Bruce said, finally adding his thoughts to the argument. “We owe you so much more than that, and having you around would not be a burden or a bother. Take at least tomorrow off and plan to stay through Sunday. You can see how you feel then. And besides, the rest of the children come over through the weekend. They would pout if they missed you.”

“Grayson’s pout is rather unbecoming,” Damian agreed with such a somber air that Danny knew he was going to say yes eventually.

“Alright… thank you, I’ll say for a few days. I will need some things from my place though.

“Oh, make a list,” Tim said, pulling out his phone to type away on. “Jason can grab them on his way in. He’s really good at picking locks.”

“Tim,” Bruce sighed wearily, but with a deep fondness under the sound.

Danny just found himself laughing again. What a family this was.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsters Reimagined: Yeenoghu, Demon Lord of Insatiable Hunger

It's been some years since I did my overhaul on the lore of the gnolls and how they embody the weird de/humanization that goes on with various monsters over d&d's history. Ever since I've had more than a few folks write in asking about how I would handle the default Gnoll God Yeenoghu, who exists in a similar state of "Kill everything that ever existed" to Orcus and a good portion of the game's other late game threats, thematically flat and not really useful for building stories around.

For a while I've avoided doing this post because I thought it might skew a little too close to my personal philosophy, and risk going from simply being influenced by my views to an outright soapbox. I personally hold that despite being part of our nature hunger is the source of the majority of human cruelty, and if society and cooperation are the tools we developed to best fight against the threat of famine, it is fear of that famine that allows the powerful to control society and secure their positions of privilege.

I've also dealt with disordered eating in a prior period of my life, alternating between neglecting my body's needs and punishing myself for needing in the first place. I'm well acquainted with hunger and the hollowing effect it can have, though I'd never claim to know it so well as someone who went hungry by anything other than choice and self hatred.

Learning to love food again saved saved my life. The joy of eating, of feeling whole and nourished, yes, but there was also the joy of making: of experimenting, improving, providing, being connected to a great tradition of cultivation which has guided our entire species.

If I was going to talk about an evil god of hunger, I was going to have to touch on all of that, and now that it's out in the open I can continue with a more thematic and narrative discussion on the beast of butchery below the cut.

What's wrong: Going by the default lore, there's not much that really separates Yeenoghu from any other chaotic evil mega-boss. He wants to kill everything in vicious ways, and encourages his followers to do the same. He's there so that the evil clerics can have someone to pray to because the objectively good gods are on the party's side and wouldn't help a bunch of cannibalistic slavers.

This is boring, we've done this song and dance before, and the only reason that there are so many demon lords/evil gods/archdevils like this is because the bioessentialism baked into the older editions of the game's lore was also a theological essentialism, and that every group had to have their own gods which perfectly embodied their ethos and there was no crossover whatsoever, themes be damned.

Normally I'd do a whole section about "what can be salvaged" from an old concept, but we're scraping the bottom of the barrel right from the inset. Likewise my trick of combining multiple bits of underwritten d&d mythology to make a sturdier concept isn't going to work as most of d&d's other gods of hunger or famine are similar levels of paper thin.

How do we fix it: I want Yeenoghu to be the opposite of the path I found myself on, a hunger so great and so painful that it percludes happiness, cooperation, or even rational thought. Hunger not as a sumptuous hedonistic gluttony but a hollowing emptiness that compels violence and desperation. More than just psychopathic slaughter and gore, it is becalmed sailors drinking seawater to quench their thirst, the urban poor mixing sawdust and plaster into their food because their wages are not enough to afford grain.

This is where we get the idea of Yeenoghu as an enemy of society, not because violence is antithical to society ( I think we've learned by now how structured violence can really be) but because society fundamentally breaks down when it can't take care of the people who provide its foundations. Contrast the Beast of Butchery with one of my other favourite villainous famine spirits: Caracalla the grim trader, who embodies scarcity as a form of profit and control in to Yeenoghu's scarcity as suffering.

Into this we can also add the idea of the hungry dead, ghouls yes but also vampires, anything cursed with an eternal existence and appetites it no longer has the ability to sate. A large number of cultures across the world share the idea that the dead cannot rest while they are starving, which is why we leave offerings of food by their graves or pour out a glass to the ones we lost along the way.

On that topic, there's also a scrap of lore involving Doresain god of ghouls, who has been depicted as an on and off servant of Yeenoghu. Since I'm already remaking the mythology, I'd have Doresain act as a sort of saint or herald for the demon lord, the wicked but still partially reasonable entity who can villain monolog before the feral and all consuming demon god shows up.

Summing it all up: Yeenoghu isn't a demon you wittingly worship, it's a demon that claims you, marks you as its mouthpiece and through you seeks to consume more of the world. It gives you just enough strength to keep on living, keep on suffering, keep on filling that hole in your belly and feed it in turn.

The greatest of these mouthpieces is Doresain, an elf of ancient times who's unearthly hungers elevated him to demigod status. Known as the knawbone king, he dwells within a dread domain of the shadowfell, and is sought out only for his ability to intercede with the maw-fiend's rampages.

Signs: Unnaturally persistent hunger pangs, excessive drool and gurgling stomach noises, the growth of extra teeth in the mouth, stomachs splitting open into mouths.

Symbols: An animal with three jaws, a three tailed flail or spiked whip. A crown of knawed bones (Doresain)

Titles: Beast of butchery, the maw fiend, the knawing god

Artist

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

To My Friend: Or, a Letter From a Villain

My dearest,

I am sorry. For everything that has passed between us. I am sorry for the fights we have had, for the scabs on our knees and the pranks we have played. I am sorry we did not do more of it. 

I remember we used to sit on that tree. We carved our names on it. It was not romantic. We didn't know what romance was. It didn't matter, even if it was romance. We were just having fun. 

We had a challenge to climb it all the way up to the top. It was the highest tree in the forest, or so your sister told you. I'm sorry that I never did reach that top branch, and even more sorry that I never helped you up there.

I pushed you off once. Your knee was fractured, and you yelled so loudly the weird girl from the next village over came to investigate. She helped me carry you all the way home. Mother and Father yelled at me so afterwards. I remember having to do your chores for weeks afterwards. I am sorry for that. Your tears made my heart ache so badly. I cannot believe you still let me draw on the cast. Did you like the flowers I put on them? I do not know if you could tell, but they were supposed to be lilies. Your favourite.

How are you now? Did you manage to start the shop you always wanted to man? I know you told your mother about it, and she slapped you and said to dream bigger. She told you that you would be great one day. I hope you are not. Greatness really is not what it was cracked up to be.

I am sorry I have not spoken with you. I did not think you would want me to, what with what has happened since. I do not think you would be happy to see me. I am everything I ever wanted to be, and I hate it.

We dreamed as children, did we not? I dreamt of a crown of jewels and a throne of bone, a foolish thing to want for a boy such as I. You dreamt of a quiet butchery at the heart of the village, leaning on the counter and bragging about being the one to provide the Emperor with freshmeats. What kind of whelp dreams of being a butcher, anyways? I am sorry I did not mock you for it.

How silly we were there, little kids playing a wild game of pretend. How different we were. How foolish.

I do not eat freshmeats from a butcher. No, I feast of flesh right from the bone. It tastes fresher, sharper, like the memory of you carving into my heart. Do you like carvings, still? You used to make the most adorable birds out of called branches. I would scour the forest after a storm and bring the best pieces just for you.

I would give you all the branches in the world to have you by my side. You could be my lady, my advisor, my butcher. Whatever position you want, my friend, you could have it. Just come back. Please. I am sorry for what I have become, for the monster I see in the mirror.

That tree we used to sit on is fallen now. I had it cut down after I took the throne. I am sorry for that, too. Nonetheless, it sits in my trophy room now. We could sit on it together again. I could have servants push the both of us up onto its topmost branches.

What do you say, my friend? Will you come back to me? Will you accept my apology, and renew what cruel fate tore apart? Will you be my friend again?

Remember: I know where you live. And I can bring you back to me, whether you like it or not.

Taglist: @coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west, @differentnighttale

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable, @paeliae-occasionally, @an-indecisive-nerd, @thecomfywriter

@seastarblue, @wyked-ao3

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[devourable]

➶ the butcher

sfw | tags ; nb!yandere butcher x gn reader (only prn used for reader is ‘you’), yandere behavior/tendencies, stalking, butchery (duh), violent imagery/ideation + implied violence

i dont see explicitly nonbinary yanderes much at all so im here to change that bc us offgendered mfs can be are crazy too 😌 sorry if this kinda sucks bc i finished this up while half asleep

you always felt there was something… off. about the 24 hour deli you always passed by.

it seemed to always be empty, aside from the butcher who was constantly at work inside. chopping meat, severing flesh from bone, every action executed with nearly clinical precision. did they ever do anything else? how were they always so busy with so little customers?

you could never understand. but as much as you were put off by the strange little store, curiosity gnawed at you with equal strength.

because of that, the day you entered the shop for the first time late one night, you left all of your concerns at the door.

unbeknownst to you, the butcher had been watching you long before you ever entered their deli. they always felt your eyes on them when you passed by their store — your gaze just felt so different from others. electrical, almost. they always knew when you were nearby. you must've felt it too, right? the connection you had?

but poor rhodes, they could never just approach you! you never stopped by and you didn't even know their name. they never had an opening to meet you formally. it'd be such a shame to scare you off...

thus, they were content with watching you from a distance. they ensured you never noticed their dark eyes following you, only daring to observe you passing in their peripherals or looking in your direction after you had walked far enough away. how wonderful your appearance was... a lovely sight that always brightened up the monotony of their work days. it was so fun to see you go about your life, it satisfied them enough to not mind your lack of connection.

though, sometimes... they couldn't help but imagine the animals they were tearing apart were the folk they occasionally saw you talking to. to tear their skin off of them, cut them into filets and send them far, far away from you... they ideated about it more times than they'd admit. why did you have to interact with others in front of them?

the day you actually entered their shop was a day they'd never forget. they thought they were dreaming when you walked in, shivering from the cold of the night seeking warmth and food in their establishment for the first time. you'd started a new job, see, and your shift ended well after everything else had closed. you were forced to forgo dinner and you were starved. so rhodes' butchery was the only place nearby you could visit.

you were intimidated by them, admittedly. their hulking frame, blank expression, and rough voice combined with the blood and gore constantly clinging to their apron was enough to put anyone on edge. but they couldn't be that bad, right?

their rampant emotions were hidden behind the unwaveringly neutral expression they always held, and you were none the wiser to their thudding heart and the slight tremble in their hands as they took your order.

the exchange was simple enough — you ordered a sandwich and something warm to drink, they made it for you, and you'd sit in one of the few chairs scattering the deli's entrance to enjoy your food and try to wind down after your shift.

and just like that, a routine was established.

you got to know rhodes as you continued to visit their place of work. they weren't scary, just awkward! or so you told yourself. but they were so easy to talk to — albeit not the best conversationalist, they were a superb listener. they'd devote their full attention to you every time you spoke to them, not daring to breathe a word so they wouldn't interrupt your lovely voice. they'd learn everything they could about you during your conversations. how you were gradually getting used to your new job, how it was a good thing they were open so late, how you were grateful for their work... things that they'd replay in their mind over and over again when you left.

you never really thought much of it when rhodes began giving you food on the house, using various excuses from not wanting to have to reopen the register to having conveniently already made your favorite sandwich earlier that day for a canceled order. you were friends now! of course they'd want to do you favors.

you also never really thought of it when the coworker who you'd complained about to them a few times stopped coming to work, either. they made an enemy out of so many people at your job, maybe they got fired? it wasn't any of your business.

rhodes had no clue how they'd get closer to you just yet. but now that you were seeing them regularly, they didn't mind settling for making your life a bit easier.

in any way they could.

after all, no one was going to question a butcher for having bloodied clothes.

[ghcstao3]

been on a hunger games kick lately so. ghoapifying time!! yippee yahoo

(edit: extra because i felt a little silly)

-

Simon isn’t much when his name is reaped, just days after he’d turned 18. He’s scrawny, starved, scarred—being from District 10, the only thing he’s ever known is butchery, so maybe he’s of use with knives, but it really means nothing to him. Not when his older brother Tommy had gotten killed by Peacekeepers, not when his mother had died of illness, not when his father couldn’t give less of a shit when his youngest son is sent to die.

So all he can do is accept his fate. All he can do is listen to his mentor, train in the fleeting days he has left, and try to survive. No matter if the odds would never, ever be in his favour.

Simon doesn’t remember much from the days leading to the games. All he can really recall is the absurd pageantry and the lack of privacy, though it had been nice to be freed from the stench of blood, if only for a few days. It was nice, not having grime beneath his fingernails.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t remember much from the Games, either. Simon hadn’t made allies, didn’t need to—even his necessary loyalty to the girl from his district was tentative at best. She would still come down to being another competitor, in the end. Simon didn’t want to die, he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

And he doesn’t. He wins, somehow—maybe out of spite. Maybe out of fear, or out of vengeance. Simon doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he hates the man he’d become in that arena.

* * *

Johnny was born and raised in the Capitol. Maybe not in a family that was the richest of the rich, but still much better off than anyone found in the districts. He’s only ever known some sense of luxury, has never encountered the cruelty of the real world, and continues to stand to benefit from the pain of others.

But even then, he does eventually recognize the faults and evilness of the system.

Eventually.

Because as a boy, he had loved the Games. Before having any sense of consequence or the realness of these people and their deaths, Johnny had been just as enraptured by it all as everyone else. He watched with interest, just as entertained as he was meant to be. The Games had been awe-inspiring to him as they are to most other Capitol children.

He still remembers Simon’s game. Ghost, as the boy from District 10 had been called, having earned the nickname from an uncanny ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere and make that cannon fire one more time. Johnny had been 15, then, still an avid watcher of this slaughter-show—but he’ll always recall that game the most, because of Simon.

Simon was shy, and awkward—but the Capitol had loved it. Loved him. And Johnny had just as well, albeit for some different reasons. Because along with everything the Capitol admired about Simon (which was mostly superficial), Johnny admired his resilience. His persistence, his triumph. He had thought, back then, that he could only ever wish to be like the boy from District 10. He’d never been so enamoured with a tribute, a victor like that before.

That was seven years ago, and things have since… changed. Not enough to be different, but enough for Johnny to notice. Enough for him to finally understand that these Games are far more than he had ever been led to believe. He just didn’t know to what extent.

Johnny is freshly 22 when he meets Simon. A friend of Johnny’s (in the loosest of terms), Philip Graves, tells him that he’d gotten a special birthday gift for Johnny that year—and while usually Johnny might be skeptical or uncaring, given Graves’ track record, it’s what he says about this gift that has Johnny… panicking?

“Remember that victor you used to have a crush on? Well, I finally managed to get in a request.”

Before Johnny can ask what he means, two Peacekeepers—escorts—are entering the room with Simon in tow.

Graves grins almost predatorily before standing and patting Johnny on the shoulder like he means to be friendly. Like he thinks he’s given Johnny all he could ask for.

And in maybe some sense he has, but not like this. Not like this.

“Enjoy the next few days, Johnny,” Graves is saying. “He’s all yours.”

Johnny thinks he might be sick. The threat of bile in his throat only grows more intense one he’s left alone with Simon.

The victor looks… different, since his time in the public eye. Bulkier, likely from a steady supply of food for the first time in his life; objectively healthier. Skin smooth, porcelain, like he hadn’t seen a day of suffering in his life. Every aspect of him perfectly tailored, manicured, prim, like a clean slate for his current proprietor.

He still has that rugged kind of handsomeness to him, though. The Capitol could change many things, but they could never take that look of fierce determination from his dark, knowing eyes.

“How do you want me?” Simon asks softly. Johnny can tell there’s still fight thrumming beneath his skin, but they both could guess what would happen if that were to be let free.

“I… don’t,” Johnny says before he can help himself. At the shift in Simon’s expression he feels his heart drop, so he adds quickly, “Sorry, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that. I just never realized…”

Simon tilts his head, curious, assessing. “Never realized what?”

“That you…” Johnny swallows hard. He takes a shuddering breath, nervous, like he isn’t the one with more power here. Like he’s the prey—and maybe he is. “Could be bought.”

Simon shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant like the idea of being bought and sold like an object is hardly a bother to him. There’s hurt in those eyes, but it doesn’t live anywhere else on his face. “There’s a lot of things you might not know outside of your world of luxury.”

Johnny’s gaze falls the floor. “Yes,” he sighs. “I’m sure there is.”

A tense silence falls over them, for just a moment, before Simon is shuffling across the room to join Johnny on the sofa. He sits close, but doesn’t touch.

“So,” Simon’s insisting, “how do you want me?”

Johnny doesn’t know if he’ll survive these next few days.

Perhaps he should at least be grateful that the transaction is on Graves’ hands.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Into The Light

It was impossible to ignore the steps behind me.

I was told, again and again, they were of no consequence. No SIGNIFICANCE. That my "shadows" were little more then passive servants. Glorified furniture that followed me room to room. But... but how could I possibly believe that? Worse, if I DID believe that? What would that MAKE me?

I was followed, as I am always followed these days, by... by DECORATION.

That's what they were BRED for. MADE to be. Aesthetically pleasing decoration. Perfectly matching, pleasantly smiling, mindless drones.

It sickened me.

When I "woke up"? Laughable as that phrasing is? Because I was not... not SLEEPING. I was... WAS... I had not BEEN-!

When I... "woke up" as it were, from that... long sleep. The one I had no choice in. That terrifies me even now. Haunts my dreams and wounds my soul. I found myself in a shining temple. A holy place, I was told. A beautiful place, it seemed.

And like so many stories? Like every tale of Utopia supposedly found? It was only after the first rush of wonder, did the cracks in the foundation begin to appear. And oh... OH, did they run DEEP.

I? Was "born" from a shining pool. Beneath sunlight and surrounded by soft breezes. Beauty and nature. But the "shadows"? They take the waters and manipulate them. Archaic machines I have never seen, someplace deep and dark.

I only see the successes of this process.

My mind screams that something terrible must happen, to those deemed "failures".

How? How in any God's name could I EVER be expected to accept this? This slavery and butchery? Worse still, be expect to TAKE PART in it? Have "shadows" of my own? As though it were not ownership of another living soul?!

In disgust, I raged.

I tried to fight. Was still too young, unfamiliar with the terrain. But my soul cried out in horror and how could I refuse? It... got me isolated. I am STILL isolated. Deep in the temple. Back in the "reflection gardens" where I may "think". It goes against our religion, after all, to harm me.

I am a PERSON. One of the Light's children. I need "gentle guidance" and "patience" so that I might "understand".

I understand perfectly.

They are simply monster's in my eyes.

It is cruel, really, that so much GOOD could be poisoned by such thoughtless evil. Because some of the teaching they foist on me? Are GOOD. Genuinely, truely, GOOD. They are teachings I am trying my best to follow. Even as something about them... niggled at the back of my brain. Like somehow they SHOULD be familiar, yet aren't quite.

Truely? I wish I could escape these walls. I KNOW there are other sects. The Shining Light was a result of a schism several centuries back. I know it had to do with the pools. But, of course, they have kept me from anything that might reinforce my "mistaken beliefs".

The eyes burning into my back trace lazily along my skin.

We never talk. I REFUSE to take part in this charade, but it does not stop them from following me. If anything, they seem amused. Something almost like fond on occasion. It is hard to tell, through their ever unchanging smiles. Perfectly bland and decorative.

There is a strange... anticipation in the air today.

I do not know what to make of it. When I ask the Light all I receive is nondescript humming. I do not know enough to know what that MEANS. Have no one to ask. So... I go through the motions.

And the anticipation builds.

And builds.

And BUILDS.

There are certain points in the, for lack of a better term (though honestly it's hardly), "little" building I've been cosigned too where I can see the main temple. The second floor terrace lifts me JUST high enough to see the eastern sprawl.

And the if I precariously balance? Up on a stool and then my toes. Leaning juuust so against one of the pillars that line the path? Then the hallway to the reflection pool garden, where I am too meditate each day, shows me the west.

As cut off as I am, except for the glorified propaganda shoved at me again and again by teachers who never linger, as though I am DISEASED? Well, all I can really do is watch. Try to pick out what is happening from afar. Try... try not to go mad from isolation.

Because the only people HERE with me are my shadows.

And I KNOW they would never talk to me. Not really. They will respond if I talk AT them but... oh Light that guides us... I am the keeper of their chains. I have NO RIGHT to play "happy little family~" as though they are even remotely close to me of their own free will.

I will not see them. I will not ask of them. In the Light, I will cast no shadow.

My mantra. Again and again. And please, oh Light that guides us, let someday it be true.

Still... my daily "lessons" have not come. And that? That has never happened. I do not WORRY for them, but as the only contact I have with the outside? Sudden change in behavior is... bad. Especially with this strange tension in the air. This anticipation of... SOMETHING. Like the Light is waiting for something to begin.

It is coming.

The east shows me nothing. So I try the west. Balanced precariously, ankles and toes straining from the uncomfortable position. The vast gardens between where I am and the main buildings? Are... empty.

They are NEVER empty.

Always. ALWAYS! Someone strolling, initiates debating, students reflecting, Master's meditating on the Light. Guests oohing and aaahing over the heavenly splendor of a garden unrivaled, by any I'd EVER seen before this place. All while followed by peacock tails of shadows. Matching and subservient. Hundreds of them.

The gardens were empty. Silent. An eery sense of... wrong, began to seep up my spine. Something that SCREAMED I had all the clues. Already KNEW what this was. But was being painful dense. Fatally blind. But I... I couldn't...

Sharp movement. A Temple Master. One who's name I could not recall. Only that he was forever poised and disdainful. He did not look so poised NOW. He raced, hair falling from it's styling, face wet with sweat and tears, robes a mess, across the main walk. Through the empty garden.

He... he never made it...

Too wherever he hoped to go.

In perfect synch, like WOLVES, shadows shot from the building behind him in pursuit. They had swords. He did not. Their long legs ate the distance between them and their prey almost effortlessly. In desperation, he called upon the Light, divine magic to defend himself.

They... they COUNTERED.

He died. Horrified and screaming, as I stood frozen. Pieces clicking together in my head. That... that was an advanced skill. But, ultimately, perfectly learnable if you were focused on nothing else. If... if you were able to FOLLOW those who sat in such lessons. Were... born of the same pools.

Of course they were children of the Light. I had always known. But somehow... my brain had not CONNECTED what that meant. Fully. What SKILLS that would afford them.

Slowly, numbly, I slid back down to merely stand upon the stool upon which I stood. I shakily stepped down. Acutely aware of the half ring of shadows smiling, oh so pleasantly, less then lunging distance away. Their eyes were intent.

Had...had they been waiting for me to see? Figure it out on my own? How long were they willing to let the charade continue? Just to drive home that their days of servitude were, at last, violently over? I did not look at them. I was afraid. My eyes staring, unseeing, off to the garden walls.

I was... was trapped in here... wasn't I?

Deserved this. For what I had allowed done.

And yet... and YET... I... I wanted to live. I was a prisoner too. Born into a cage that would see me die in it. Tears blurred my vision. It felt hard to breathe. Slowly, painfully fighting my tensed muscles, like a doll creaking from age, I turned to look at them.

Their smiles were sharper. They had teeth now.

Heads cocked, some terrible and delighted thing dancing in their eyes, their masks had cracked apart. No longer needed. I took a shaking step back. Then another. All the while they watch, eyes tracing my every action, unmoving. Expectant. They knew I would run. Clearly HOPED I would. I wish I could say I disappointed them.

That I was brave and stood my ground. Facing my end with dignity.

I didn't.

I bolted.

Behind me, a chorus of delighted laughs rip through the terrible silence like the baying of hunting hounds. The howl of wolves. Their masculine voices echoing all around me as, for the first time in this LIFE? I run with all I have. There... there is no where to GO. Not really. I have been kept ignorant of most of the temple's layout. Everything beyond it.

I have to try.

Mocking. They give me a heads start. But I hear them now. They have always been near silent when they walk. Can be COMPLETELY silent if they choose. It was a courtesy. Now? It is a taunt. So I know they are coming. Know how close I am to-...!

Desperately, I shed outer layers. The ornate, heavy robes they made me wear? Were lovely. But difficult to move it. Perhaps that was the point. Now? I can not afford it. They clatter and flomp to the ground behind me as I run. Skid around corners. Take two stairs at a time.

Banter behind me. This is taking everything I've got. Ha ha... oh Light! It's barely a work out for them, isn't it? A glorified jog at best. My exits are cut off, again and again. Forcing me to backtrack. My heart pounding, lungs screaming. Nails scrambling at the polished floors as my feet slide out from under me at the sudden shift in direction.

Bruises are building up. Exhaustion setting in. There is... there is no where in this building I can hide, that they do not KNOW.

I've lost track of at least half of them. They could be anywhere. I... I know, KNOW, I am being herded like an animal. Spooked and grabbed at, so I run the way they want me too. I just don't know WHY. I can't think. I have to run. All... all I can do is RU-!

As I pass an archway leading to a garden viewing room, I find out where the others went. Weight SLAMS into me from the side. Strong arms seizing my waist and cradling my neck, to prevent injury as we fall. I am thrown from feet by the tackle, through the archway.

Into a...nest of bedding?

I land hard, cushioning aside, and wheeze out a whine. The wall of iron muscle on top of me, pressing me down, half crushing me. My legs are on fire, my lungs the same. Everything hurts and I am terrified. There is a man's hand on the back of my neck, up high and near cradling my head, and it would take NOTHING for him to snap it. I... I can't... I...

I sob.

Frozen. Exhausted, in pain, and all struggled out. All I can do is cry. It's going it hurt. I.. I don't WANT to get hurt! P-please don't hurt m-me! I clutch at the bedding I'm pinned down too. My face all but crushed up against a familiar not familiar shoulder. I can hear the others strolling closer.

The shift of clothes as they kneel to crawl onto the strange nest they had made.

"Shhhhhh, shh shh shh. It's okay, sweetheart. It's over now. We CAUGHT you~ Our little champion. You're okay. It's okay. We're all here. You're safe now." Whispers the shadow pinning me. All but crooning it in my ear. "We've got you~, we've got you~. They can't hurt you anymore. Gonna show you the WORLD. No more cages. Can finally give you the love you DESERVE."

There are noises of agreement around me. Hands gently stroking my wrist and lower arm. Massaging my aching lower legs almost absent-mindedly. As though any part of me not covered by the man pinning me was fair game. Someplace to gently adore. I don't understand. Can not.

I squirm. Getting huffed laughs and chuckles.

"None of that, dearest. We were patient long enough. Frankly, we wanted to stage the revolt months ago. But, well, that pesky high priest. Never around when you need him to die, mmm?" Barks of laughter as the others crowded closer, got comfortable. My hand was tugged loose from the bedding. Fingers intertwined with my own.

"She's so cute." "Let us love you." "I can't wait to taste you." "Ours now, sweetheart~" "let us take care of you, okay?" "Light that guides, you're so fucking PERFECT..." "We're gonna take care of you, promise."

Muttered voices. Possessive, gentle hands. The shadow on top of me shifts down. And suddenly I could SEE. They stared like I was something to be devoured. The center of the universe. The Light felt triumphant. Held no answers. I didn't know where to look. Too many eyes. Too much touch.

Too much EVERYTHING after so long alone.

A kiss that feels overwhelming. Grins that promised things I didn't know if I can handle. Eyes that promise FOREVER whether I like it or not. Dangerous, dangerous hands that are so very gentle. I shake. I can not stop shaking. Hands from two different men, cup my cheeks, stroke my skin. My hands are held. Their palms are warm.

"Shhhh, your OURS now, little light. We broke our chains and killed our keepers, but YOU? Oh you, little prisoner, tried your best. You couldn't do it, and that's okay, but we SAW. We REMEMBERED. And the shadows?" They whisper, almost reverent. Both precious memory and quiet confession carried in their voice. Then, a terrible, possessive smile. A thing of entirely too many teeth.

"Oh little light, the shadows love you~♡"

[sapphologic]

Rings of Power Galadriel actually makes sense.

I'll die on this hill and maybe I'll die alone but that's not the point, if I hear another Tolkien “““loyalist””” piss and moan about her I will throw hands.

“She's not like in the movies!”

My dudes, so was Arwen when PJ replaced Glorfindel with her. That argument is hypocritical. And since when is PJ the measure for the fandom, as some of the haters even hate on these movies, despite them being masterpieces.

“She's so stubborn and rude!”

My fucking DUDES ... Her Elven name is literally 'man maiden'. Would you say the same about a male elf on a quest for revenge?

“Her lore is wrong!”

Well, the showrunners couldn't buy the rights for other writings of Tolkien than The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings and the appendices. The Estate is ...well, the Estate. I wonder if Tolkien would like the way things are handled at all. If you have to worm your way around protected lore, you gotta do it.

“Tolkien's canon is fixed.”

Holy crap, the dude wrote on toilet paper and revised so many things. At one point you just gotta say fuck it and roll with what you like. Are we going to argue about Gil-galad's canon too? Oh wait, Tolkien left that out. Conveniently. He left as many things unclear as he revised previous statements. Over and over. And over. I'm getting whiplash from it frequently.

“Her character/personality is butchered.”

No. Just no. Again: Her literal Elven name is “man-maiden.” Tomboy. Did I stutter?!

That's what you call butchery is a character arc for an amazing heroine who has yet to learn and unlearn. Her ambitions and her hatred are obstacles on the way to become the wise and fair Lady of Lórien. Again: character arc. You should look it up.

She'll have her share of experience, change of heart, desires and hopes. She will change in the series, I would swear on the precious.

You're welcome. I did the work you should do to understand the character instead of being a crybaby about the changes you don't personally approve of. Prime doesn't need your approval. What you gonna do? Piss and moan even harder?!

Also, if you hate Haladriel, don't ever come to my doorstep whining about it. Exactly the kind of ambition Galadriel shows would let someone weaker than her fall in Sauron's hands. Take his hand in marriage. Rule. (and be ruled.)

Actually that ship is worth exploring. Galadriel isn't a bad person, at best she's misled by her thirst for vengeance.

And as an encore since the fanatic crybabies love to demand that every single word written by Tolkien ever has to be met with a 1:1 transfer into other media:

The movies and/or movies doing that would be unwatchable monstrosities and no one would have the patience for that. Same stupid reasoning as in WoT. Also: would be a monstrosity and also... some things you don't want to be seen through a modern media lens...bc then your straight white male “demi god” of an author would be considered racist or sexist or homophobic... Do you really want that? I don't think so. You don't have to embrace changes blindly, but having a hissy fit like a damn toddler about each and every inconsistency/discrepancy just makes you look like a fool.

[positivelybeastly]

Beast and Dark Beast

The thing that gets me about the 'Dark Beast is just who Hank is given time' thing I see thrown around every now and then is that it fundamentally misunderstands literal decades age characterisation and the entire narrative point of the evil doppelgänger.

Like, I genuinely think that anyone who writes these characters almost has to be sat down and made to read X-Men Unlimited vol. 1 #10, and that's not an exaggeration, because Dark Beast is NOT Hank if he was evil. What he is, is something more subtle and interesting than that. He is Hank if his socialisation was completely different, and that's a fundamentally different thing.

He grew up in an aggressively social Darwinist society that was obsessed with genetic purity, the superiority of mutantkind, the codification of the idea that some people are just better because of their genes. Literally everyone in that world is different, because how in god's name would they stay the same?

On some level, Dark Beast is aware that his world is fundamentally cruel and without faith and optimism and belief and love. It's a fucking hellpit. It's the worst possible world. And he knows that. He knows, on some level, that there was a time where he wasn't like how he was, that there was a time where he did have faith. He is, on some level, aware that this is not all he could be.

But he also believes that this is all he can be, because to be anything else is to be weak, and thus you get your teeth kicked in and you get your lunch money taken away and you get shanked in the head.

Like, this sequence is so fascinating because this murder is meaningless except as performance - and performance for a world that Dark Beast isn't even in anymore! It's empty.

Someone has to die - why? Because that's just the way the world is. Because if someone doesn't have to die, then my entire worldview is meaningless, I could have made different choices, swam upstream, maybe died as a result, but at least I wouldn't have done all that. Because if someone doesn't have to die, then everything I did was actually just straight up evil and I have to start worrying about morality, and that feels bad. That makes me feel weak and unhappy and angry and ashamed and I don't like that.

If someone doesn't have to die, then I could have made different choices. And I don't like the idea that I made the wrong ones.

Morality is subjective. Science is absolute. I don't have to think about it. Like, Dark Beast criticises Hank for this, but it gets at why Dark Beast has never been half the scientist Hank is, never will be half the scientist Hank is.

Because he is fundamentally incurious. He's asking questions, but they're not the right questions if you ever want to get an answer that fucking means anything.

He'll never be the scientist you are, huh?

Go ahead, loser. Fucking solve it. Best guess.

Oh, you don't have a fucking clue? I'm shocked.

There's a reason that Isaac Newton said that, "If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants." Collaboration, peer review, question, counter-question, interrogation, inquiry, the simple act of asking, hey, what if all of this is completely wrong and we're looking in the wrong place? All of this is what science actually is.

It is not the act of pinioning flesh open and poking at what falls out. That's butchery, and it's hackery. There's a reason that pretty much all of the medical research conducted by the Nazis has been discredited, because it's bad science on top of being completely morally abhorrent! You don't learn anything through brutality! You only reinforce your own brutality! You go looking for answers, and you find them, because anything that disagrees with your preconceived notions, you ignore!

And Hank is not like that. It's no coincidence that the exact same issue that dives into Dark Beast's psychology has this scene in it.

And it's just. This is not an aberration in Hank's writing. This is how he's hard coded. This is who he is.

Choice.

Hank was given a choice. Dark Beast wasn't. And the difference between them is that, when given further choices, Hank continued to recognise that he had choices, while Dark Beast refused to admit that he had ever had a choice.

The point. Of the evil twin. Of the doppelganger. Of the shadow. Is to examine what changes, and what doesn't. There is a reason that Dark Beast was chosen to survive the Age of Apocalypse, and persist 30 years past the point where his timeline was truly relevant. There is a reason that he was chosen over AoA Cyclops, or AoA Wolverine, or AoA Jean Grey, or any of them, to come over, and persist, and survive. There is a reason he keeps coming back to life. He has died twice, and come back, for a reason.

Because he is interesting. Because he's fun. Because he's everything that Hank is, twisted one hundred and eighty degrees and made frightening. Because he is such a contrast to Hank. And it's just. It's such a betrayal of long form storytelling and narrative techniques to take one look at the good twin, and go, what if they were secretly always evil, actually? What if the evil twin was actually just foreshadowing?

It's fucking boring.

Evil Hank is 'we have Dark Beast at home.' Evil Hank is dull, and boring, and an edgelord's idea of a mad scientist. He is not curious, he is not funny, he is not interesting. His entire ethos can be summed up in one sentence, the ends justify the means, and that's it. There's nothing more to him. He's a joke of a character. Can you write anything substantive about that version of character that isn't just a summary of his bad choices? No, you can't, because he's a collection of shitty tropes and badly researched continuity pulls. There's no point talking about him.

What happens if you put evil Hank in this situation?

Like, legitimately. If you put X-Force Beast in this situation, is there any real question as to what he'll do? No. And that is boring. It is, quite literally, actually, factually, in the most basic definition of the word, predictable.

This is the single most intriguing panel that Dark Beast has ever been in, because I genuinely don't know what he's thinking. I don't know what he's going to do. Because I don't think he knows what he's thinking, or what he's going to do. He's overwhelmed. He's emotional. He's possessed by something, but he doesn't have words for it. It's not absolute, it's subjective. It doesn't make sense. It's illogical. Irrational. It infuriates him. It fascinates me.

That, is the narrative point of the evil doppelganger. To put a version of a character you know in a situation where you know what the good version would do, and see what they would do. To see what changes, and what doesn't. So that you can be surprised at what is the same and what is different.

Saying, well, actually, they've always been exactly the same person, is fucking stupid. It betrays a belief in, fuckin', in fuckin' genetic essentialism! That all we ever are is a product of our genes and that we're never destined to be anything than what a string in our genes says we are. And it completely misunderstands why Dark Beast is the way that he is!

Dark Beast did not come into the world a monster. The world he lived in made him a monster. If you want to say that Hank is Dark Beast, just given time, then what the fuck are you saying about the world that mutants live in? That the X-Men have created? About Earth-616?

Do you really want to imply that the Marvel Universe is such a fucking hellscape for mutants that it literally has the exact same effect on Hank McCoy as the Age of fucking Apocalypse? Because why in the fuck should I even read about the X-Men, if that's what they've managed to accomplish in their 60 years of publication? What great fuckin' heroes.

Like, just. What actually happens to Hank, given time? What's more common for him to experience? Across the multiverse?

Mutation.

Misery.

Betrayal.

Death.

Seriously, go back and read old What If comics, and you'll notice that almost any time that things go bad for the X-Men, Beast dies, almost immediately, because it's an immediate sign that things have gone wrong. It is way more common for Hank to be the one who suffers rather than inflicting suffering, canonically. Just because Dark Beast is the only one people know about doesn't mean that he's the only one who exists.

Dark Beast is not an inevitability. He's an eventuality. He's a case study in nature vs. nurture. He's the worst case scenario. He's the shadow cast by Hank's light. There's a reason Hank persists, even damaged by bad writing as he is - because he's worth reading about.

Because he's interesting. Because, despite being 61 years old, there are still stories worth telling about him.

Because fundamentally, funny blue man who looks like a monster but is actually a good guy, is a better concept than, blue monster man that is evil and only evil. And the fact that people don't seem to grasp that idea in 2024 is. Baffling, to me. The fact that people would rather the boring answer, because it appeals to the edgelord in them, just makes me want to roll my goddamn eyes.

Bleh. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. Ask for better, more complex stories, please.

[ratwithhands]

Hi Hello apparently I didn't empty my tank yet.

So fun general headcanon: Emmet likes to cook. He makes most of the meals in the house and often brings homemade food to special events as a way to show his appreciation of whoever he has over. It's how he relieves stress, shows affection, tries new things, it's one of his key interests beyond battling.

This has slightly different connotations in Battle Addict. See Emmet studies the physical properties of pokemon, how they tick and how to make them stop ticking. A key part of his studies is sketching pokemon and outlining their internal structures, but there's no teacher like experience. His favourite way to improve his knowledge is dealing with the subject hands on, and cooking is a very good way to do that. He specifically practices butchery, breaking pokemon down section by section, noting the musculature, skeletal structure, and organs inside. This information helps him to find weakness in an opponent's pokemon while knowing how to cover his own.

This also serves as bonding time for him and Ingo because Ingo gets to be sous chef while Emmet turns a monster into mincemeat. He hands him the different tools he needs and they converse while Emmet slices and picks apart the carcass. Emmet also gets to explain the inner workings of the pokemon, which both of them enjoy analyzing and discussing.

The book Emmet is holding is his "butchery book", which is really just a collection of different biology textbooks he uses as guides to best break down carcasses. They always end up getting messy and after a certain point, he just stops caring and uses it, dirty as it may be. They have to be stored in a sealed container away from their other study materials, and are only ever brought out for processing. Emmet is probably the only person who can stand to be next to the stench of the concentrated dried blood throughout the pages, Ingo usually wears some kind of face cover when Emmet is working.

And for those who want to see the real mess of the work:

Washing up is half the labour of studying through butchery.

[leviathansshadycorner]

Rope Him In ( Cato x District 10! Reader x slight! Marvel) Pt. 1

Summary: In which Cato falls for a tribute from 10.

____________________________________

Chapter 1 : The Reaping 

“And no matter what happens, just know that you’ll be alright. You’re going nowhere.” Amaranto, your older brother tries to sooth you. His man hands on your shoulder, making you look him in the eyes as he attempts to stop your sobbing. Teary eyed you just nodded your head. That was easy for him to say. He had reached the cut-off age only three months ago. 

“I swear it’ll be alright.” He pulls you into a hug, his tan arms squeezing you to the point where you let out a small laugh. 

“Alright…” You reply, wiping away your tears. 

“Come on, maybe work will distract you.” He says, picking up his tin foil container which held the rice and eggs you had packed him and yourself. 

It’s a little past 6 in the morning. The sun barely pushed the dark blue sky away to take its place. The reaping wouldn’t  take place for about another 7 hours or so. Giving people enough time to cry over their loved ones, or finish their final trades before more peacekeepers flooded the area. The two of you decide to go into work today, even though they give off reaping days to the younger workers. You nervously headed out, eyes fixated on the pale yellow of your house, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time you saw it. 

District 10, your home, never seemed more somber than on reaping day. The only other time you saw people’s moods this down was when the Capitol decided to take the horses away from the district as a punishment to those who tried to escape on them. Noises of chickens, cows, and pigs echoed throughout the empty space as you and Amaranto walked through the desolate farming sections. You had assumed the farmers were either at the markets trying to buy feed for their livestock, or out in the bar trying to get over the fact that their best farm hands could get taken from them. 

The smell of fresh manure filled your nostrils as you neared some of the dairy cows. You hesitantly stopped, trying to keep in line with your routine, your hand reached up and rubbed the snout of a large spotted cow. Its markings were peculiar, since they all looked like rounded shapes rather than blotches of ink. “What I’d do to trade places with you.” You told the cow. Dairy cows were prized in this district, they were the only cows that weren’t sent off to be packaged into meat. They were the ones who got to live a long peaceful life, while their counterparts were met with a bloody fate. 

“Come on (Y/n), the faster we get there, the faster we can eat lunch before the reaping.” Your brother said, already miles ahead of you. 

District 10 was divided in its work. There were jobs in the production of  dairy and eggs, the slaughterhouses, butchery , farming, breeding, and then there were the  people who actually raised the livestock. Before making leather was moved to district 8, it belonged to 10. The breeders and farmers were people with a little bit more money than the rest. The breeders being where the smartest of 10 would use their knowledge of science and splicing to breed superior meats to send off to the capitol. Most kids in 10 spend their first few years working as farm hands and helping around in the creameries. The older ones take jobs in the killing and cutting  of the meat. It was a shame that so much work went into something that its citizens couldn’t even have. The only good thing about 10 was that they got the capitol’s scraps. Small eggs the size of a cotton ball, cuts they deemed too disgusting to eat, cheese on the brink of its expiration, the list went on and on. 

Amaranto and you worked at the slaughterhouse. Ever since your dad broke his leg, you both had to quit your jobs at Farmer Alfie’s and trade in your coveralls for white rubbery aprons. The slaughterhouse always smelled metallic. The smell of iron was one that would stay with you for as long as you live. The ceilings held fans, but they only helped so much to drive the smell away. Metal decorated walls and tables greeted you as you walked in. Your job was to drain the poor animal of its life. Walking past the pen of the to-be-killed animals felt hypocritical of you. You related a bit too much to the poor bovine creatures. Afterall, just like them, you were born to die. 

“Dad’s in the building next to ours cutting up some lambs.” Amaranto said as he placed his lunch box in his locker. “And you know where to find me.” He finished, closing up the locker and turning to look at you. “If you feel like you can’t handle work today just go look for him or me ok?” He spoke, his kind voice reassuring you. Amaranto worked out with the men killing them. They were under the close eyes of peacekeepers, since their job was the only one requiring guns. 

“Alright…” Was all you could muster up.

“Damn (Y/n), you’re quiet today.” Clarabell, the girl who was sweet on your brother, spoke from behind you. She was your coworker, and quite literally your only friend. “My my, and why is it that you are wearing that gorgeous top to work?” She asked with a fake scolding voice. 

“She’s nervous about the reaping.” Amaranto told her as they both exchanged a flash of worry about you. 

“I thought I’d get dressed before coming in today, since I don’t think I’d get out in time to change.” You had gotten up early in the morning to go out of your way to put on your reaping clothes. It’s not like you anticipated the event, rather you felt that getting ready earlier would be better than struggling to change an hour before the reaping. 

“Oh come on (Y/n)-ie, you know nothing’s going to happen right? The chances of you getting picked are like the chances of your brother deciding I’m finally lady-like enough to marry.” The girl said, trying to throw some humor at you. 

“C-can we just work?” Came your reply, dry and hasty. You didn’t want to talk about the reaping anymore. You just wanted to distract yourself from your possible death sentence. 

Clarabell gave you a sympathetic hug, draping her dark red hair on your face as she nuzzled into your shoulder. “Sweet girl, you’ll be fine.” She said, then going to grab her apron. You followed, grabbing your own and shakily putting it on over your baby blue gingham dress shirt. 

“No- no, here.” Clarabell said as she  took off the shirt she was wearing. “You are not getting your pretty little self all bloodied before the reaping.” She said, tossing the shirt at you. 

“I can’t.” 

“Oh I think you will.” And like that her shirt was now on top of yours. It was stupid of you to wear your best shirt to work, now making people sacrifice theirs for you. Saying goodbye to your brother as he turned and left for work, you finally tied your apron on, and the two of you joined the others for work. 

Time passed and the sun arose. Its heat raining down on 10. The only perk about working here was that they were always blasting cold air into the building. The clock seemed like it was against you, time moving both quickly and at a skin crawling pace. Clarabell tried to distract you, but the deep feeling in your stomach only sunk further. Eventually you couldn’t handle it anymore, and went to go speak with your father. 

You hung up your apron. You hadn’t noticed how bloody your clothes had gotten until you took it off. “Damn.” You cursed looking over at the redhead. “I’m sorry Clara- I’ll wash it and bring it back to you I swear.” 

The older girl just laughed, “It’s alright, now go on- enjoy yourself, go frolic with the sheep, or kiss some boys-” She teased as she waved to you. 

You walked alongside the dirt path that connected the slaughterhouse and the butcher’s corners. Many of the men recognized you as your fathers daughter, greeting you as you sped through the halls and into the area where your father was sitting. Your heart stopped when you saw him, on his wheelchair working on slicing some skin off of a cut of meat. This was probably the last time you’d see him like this. 

You didn’t know why, but a feeling of impending doom told you that you’d be chosen as one of the kids to die in the arena. 

“Hey Papa.” You greeted. His dark head of hair shifted up to look at you. He smiled for a brief second, his serious expression returning. “What  are you doing here (N/n). Didn’t they give you the day off?” He asked, his voice deep and old. 

“They did, but Amar thought working today would distract me.” Your eyes shifted from the meat he was cutting to his face. 

“I see.” He spoke. 

“Just wanted to check up on you.” You tugged at the sleeves of your shirt, failing to realize that you hadn’t washed the blood on your hands thoroughly enough and staining the light material. 

“Thank you dear.” You knew why your Father wasn’t saying much. In fact he was just like you, not speaking much because he was scared. He was scared to lose you like how he had lost your mother. 

“I love you Papa.” You said, reaching out to hug him. 

“Look, you’re going to be fine. If you get picked or not, you’re from 10. Remember that. The district of hard-ass cowboys alright? Now you’re a badass (Y/n), so don’t let fear get to ya.” He said, turning around to hug you tight. 

Tears fell down your cheeks at his words. Nodding your head you agreed with his words. You couldn’t let fear get to you. Everyone had been saying that your chances of getting picked were slim, so they must be right. 

… 

The cries of children and mothers alike took the place of the bleating animals. Peacekeepers were now circling the district, lining up people with their guns as they ushered them to the square. The commotion made for some of the animals to go loose, but no one cared about them anymore. All that mattered to the peacekeepers was getting everyone to go witness the death of two children from home. 

You were already in line waiting to get your finger pricked. You watched as some of the older kids looked more relaxed. Your heart sank when you met the eyes of a teary eyed 12 year old. She looked at you with a scrunched up red and puffy face. All you could offer her was a somber smile. 

“God I know how them cows must be feeling.” A blonde girl spoke to her friend behind you. Flashes of the meat cows came into your brian. You had watched Amar do his job a while back, shocked at how he was able to go through with it. 

All you remember is the cow’s poor innocent eyes as it awaited its fate. The gun was raised and aimed smack dab in the middle of its head. 

Boom 

You jumped at the feeling of a needle puncturing your skin. You went to lick it, once again failing to notice the blood on your hands. Of course. You had forgotten to wash this off after helping your dad out with a few of his work. Sighing with no other choice, you wiped your hands on the sides of your shirt. Making your way to stand with your age group, you looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone familiar. 

Met with Clarabell ’s green eyes you felt more relaxed, soon catching a view of Amaranto’s face. He looked stern, serious, almost like your father. In fact he was the exact clone of your Father when he was younger. Speaking of which you couldn’t find. Your Father must have been further back. A part of you was glad you couldn’t see him. You knew you’d burst out in tears if you did. 

“Welcome, Welcome!” A sultry voice came from the stage. Everyone turned their attention to the announcer. It was a tall asian man, wearing a tan outfit consisting of pants longer than his legs, and a dress shirt littered with feathers that made it seem as if his whole upper body was a chicken. Along with the outfit he wore a hen on top of his slicked dark indigo hair. Pradain Alcomore, District 10’s announcer. Nobody could stop staring. Had he dressed like this in honor or in ridicule of the district?

“Boy is it hot.” The announcer then said, wiping the sweat of his brow with a handkerchief. He placed it back in his pants pocket, returning to holding the microphone. 

“Welcome All to the annual reaping.” He said scanning the crowd for a reaction. “As you all know, a male and female tribute are to be selected to participate in the 74th hunger games.” He said with a toothy grin as he made jazz hands to the crowd. “Right then, roll the tape!” He commanded.  

As he ordered the tape you had all memorized begins to play, its music the only thing making sound aside from the sniffles of children. 

“Wonderful, that never gets old.” He giggles to the crowd as he gets their attention back. 

“Alright then, let's begin shall we.” He dipped his hands into the fish bowl, swirling it around a couple more times than was necessary. 

Being one of the poorer districts meant your name was in there more than you would’ve liked it to be. Amar scolded you when he found out what you did, but he figured since he managed to survive the reaping you would too. You only hoped he was right. 

You watched as people held hands in nervousness, awaiting to hear the first name drawn. There was a deadly silence. 

Pradain opened the slip, a smile on his face as he announced to the world the female tribute from district 10. 

“(Y/n) Cuernos.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to scream but not a drop of voice came out. The ringing in your ears began as people around you began to back away, allowing a path to be made in front of you. The path that would lead you to death. 

Clarabell’s soft sobs were what lured you back into reality.  She mouthed the words sorry as you passed by, turning around to see if your brother was crying too. When you did find him he was on his knees, a friend of his trying to console him. You could only imagine what your father was thinking. As you looked around you spotted him, his face as serious as ever. You knew if he made eye contact with you he’d burst out yelling, so you continued to walk the path up to the stage. 

“Come Come dear, time is ticking.” Pradair says as you step up. The cameras follow you, focused on your back as you walk. “My what a fashion choice.” He speaks as he notices the blotches of red staining your shirt. 

You can’t cry. You can’t. And as you feel your face get warm, look up at the gigantic screen displaying your fear filled eyes. Your hair is braided into two braids, it makes your face look gigantic. The baby blue gingham shirt stained with cows blood looks exhausted, making you look like filth in the eyes of the people watching, or so you assume. The overalls you thought to wear covered the cowboy boots on your feet. You never noticed how long the pant legs were. You hadn’t noticed how much you looked like your mother. 

“Onto the boy!” Pradain then says as he shuffles to the other end of the stage to pull out the male tribute’s name. 

“Buckley Wheaton!” He calls out and you watch a mother scream for her boy. He’s around your age, though muscular and older looking. No doubt he’d be the winner out of the two of you. He went to school with you, only speaking to you when asking for answers to questions. Other than that the two of you were total strangers. The brunette looked unfazed, but deep inside you knew he was as scared as you. 

“Let’s give them a hand!” Pradair says, and the people only place their hands to their hearts. 

[allsadnshit]

I <3 meat

I don't understand people who do but don't care about the quality of life of the animal. It seems natural to pray and show deep appreciation for eating another animal + being part of a natural cycle of life

I love treating the meat I cook with deep care and thanking it and I love going to local butchers who do nose to tail whole animal butchery. The best one in Philly closed this year and I have been so empty and sad ever since, because it felt so rewarding and good to buy meat I knew was living a farm life not in a factory and being butchered not just for the best cuts but making sure to make use of the whole animal rather than just getting from grocery stir supplies that are so wasteful

It was such an incredible privilege to have a great butcher even for just a few years I am so horrified their business practice couldn't stay profitable. American farming and agriculture truly takes the biggest worst hits from American politics and capitalism and it should never have been industrialized and cheapened.

[roxannepolice]

Brain at 4pm: Loooook, I knooow you have that one scene you want to write but... I'm just... not in the mood? Thanks for the candles and music and all, but... naah.

Brain at 4am: I won't let you sleep until you write that down :3

- Give that poor hamster a break - the Master's voice was muffled by the pillow.

- Huh? - the Doctor turned towards the other Time Lord in confusion, only partially caused by a sudden halt to his thoughts.

- The hamster. In the rusty squeeky wheel you call a brain. I can't sleep with the noise.

- Right, as if you cared for some hamster - the Doctor quipped and, shoving his hands in his pockets, came closer to the bed.

- Cute, hungry and agressive... I do feel an affinity to them.

The Doctor snorted. And then, if only to keep other thoughts at bay, he asked a question that's been bothering him since the... cheesecake.

- I was just wondering, you know... What have you been up to between getting sucked through the gate and the Mondasian colony? It was a while, judging by the beard and hair...

- Are you saying I look old? - the Master turned towards him lazily. From where he stood the Doctor could see his amber eyes gleaming in the dark. - And anyway, you figured it out, didnt't you? The Time Lords cured my little condition and kicked me out, then I couldn't drive... I have to wonder, were you this polite with her?

- With who? - the Doctor dodged, clumsily.

- Oh, come on. The girl me. Missy - the Master wrinkled his nose. - Couldn't help the feeling you saw her as... distinct from me, the actual me. I got sucked to Gallifrey because I'm so incompetent and then she pops in with empathy that came from nowhere.

There was hurt just detectable under the Master's scorn, but what he said brought up one of those nasty pussy wounds the Doctor figured out he has to face, whether he likes it or not.

- Was hard to be polite with you after what you did to Bill.

- Ah, of course, because if only I wasn't there, you would have swooped in - once you finished your absolutely necessary show of brilliance - and got her out with only a cyber heart that had nothing to do with dragging her to an epic adventure she was absolutely not iffy about.

- Don't make this my fault - the Doctor's whisper was angrier than a shout could ever be.

- Not saying it was your fault - the Master made a show of how unmoved he was - just a consequence of your action. Or inaction. You know, by the time we got to my room you have already started scribbling on a blackboard. I imagine you could have already reached the lift by then.

- Can't imagine why with such an efficient mind you ended up ruining a perfectly functional colony - the Doctor spat back.

- Well, you met them, not exactly the brightest bunch in the universe - the Master shrugged back.

There was a moment of heavy silence in the darkness. The silence of clouds heavy with thunder.

- Why didn't you stay with me? - the Doctor finally broke it, a light rain deadlier than any noise.

- Oh, I don't know, because my experience with considering what happens when I'm dead is that saving someone's ass gets mocked at best?

- That's just petty.

- Never said I wasn't that. You were there when I executed Bill Gates over a Windows update.

- And apparently you heard some words I said.

The Master cursed quietly, angry at his blunder.

- Ok, I listened, as in registered what you said, but you speech was so incoherent I woulnd't say I heard anything. "Without witness, without reward" this, "you're going to die too, how will that be" that - no accent deserved the butchery the Master did to the Doctor's Scottish one. - So which one is it, without witness, or what about after you die? Seems a bit contradictory to demand no witnesses yet worry about after you die... You'll be dead, what's that to you?

- Much to anyone you might have helped.

- Sounds like a witness to me...

- This is strawman sophistry, you know full well what my point was.

- Urgh, professor, I don't believe I noted that down...

- Just... be kind. Don't turn back on other people. Save them if you can.

- As you did Adelaide Brooks?

This silence was more like the soft ringing after your head gets hit by a brick.

- How... what do you know of Adelaide Brooks? - the Doctor asked quietly, his voice choked. He made so sure to keep his thoughts away from the Bowie Rocket launch throughout the party. So sure, even the Master couldn't have...

- No, I haven't peeked in on your hamster. Didn't have to. That rocket's timeline was as clear on your whole being as waves on a radio. Wasn't hard to figure out the rest. So?... - the Master raised himself on the bed in a way reminiscent of a cat spotting a mouse drowning in a bowl of cream.

- I saved her - the Doctor whispered, without looking at the Master, instead hugging his own chest, his head lowered - and two other crew members. Couldn't save everyone, but I could save them. Her. They were... I saved them, too, but I was saving her... And then she... and then she...

- And then she reminded you laws of time aren't just fancy abstractions made up by Rassilon and Omega during an orgy, only constant flow of musts, musn'ts, wills, won'ts, wants and not wants. How about that.

There was another moment of silence, this one wet with unseen tears.

- That's your problem, Doctor. You believe you can see without being responsible. And, consequently, aren't responsible if you don't see. Responsibility can't see you if you can't see it. And when I tell you one must either rule or serve, becuase that's what responsibility is, you dismiss me as a villain in your fairy tale.

This moment of silence was soft and cold as a burrow in snow.

- Still such eloquence - the Doctor finally said. - But if you do know all this... why destroy?

- That's one easy way to really stop being responsible.

- Easier means more boring - the Doctor echoed the Master's earlier words.

- Guess sometimes - the Master started in silence warmer by bodies pressing against each other in the snow - sometimes boring isn't so ubearable. Don't tell anyone I said this.

The Doctor kept looking at the floor, still hugging his chest. That's not your fault, Donna's voice echoed in his mind. You can't save everyone, echoed his not-own.

Then there was rustle of bedsheets. The Doctor glanced at the Master over his shoulder. He pulled away the covers making a place for him in his bed.

- C'm here.

- What? - the Doctor asked with a disbelieving half-smile.

- Oh, come on, you clearly want to sleep, but don't want to sleep alone, and even you have enough dignity to not get between your evil stepmom and favourite niece, and even I have enough taste to not let you kicked puppy face interrupt the birthday girl getting the presents from her husband. So. Come here.

The Doctor snortled, but undressed to his underwear and got into the Master's bed. The other Time Lord promptly turned his back on him. 

- No cuddling, though, you try to cuddle and I'll bite your arms off.

The Doctor snorted. Pity. As Donna called him out, he did like the Master in this body, and now, and even on the colony ship, there was a certain... softness to his form, which looked traitorously welcoming.

- Are you now saying I'm fat? - the Master hissed without turning back.

- No, not really - the Doctor laughed. - Just... I do like the look. And that's just the thing. You look like you lived quite some time between the gate and the black hole. That's why I asked.

The Master sighed.

- Well, not that I really immediately crashed because I couldn't drive, it was some good, veery good years in between, at least on my side of the experience. But no, not as long as it looks. Still back on Gallifrey, after I was stabilized and had the drums taken away... - the Master swallowed and the cuddling prohibition became even harder to obey - I finally had a moment to look at myself and. What the actual fuck, I looked like a 90s grunge band dropout!

- It was kinda cute - the Doctor laughed. - I liked it.

- You're not exactly known for your taste, dear Melanie will back me up on this if nothing else. But anyway, I figured out I can wait for my hair to grow out, or I can make a good use of some 5 minutes worth of Artron energy.

- You spent 5 minutes of your life to deal with a bad hair day? - the Doctor laughed again.

- A good deal to not have to avoid mirrors for a month! And no, the 5 minutes were for the full set with the beard.

- I like the beard, too.

- Couldn't help but notice.

- I always like you.

- Don't get soppy on my bed.

- You're beautiful.

At that the Master didn't find a flippant response in good timing. He chose to pretend he's already asleep instead. The Doctor took advantage to break the firm no culdding rule, slowly got closer against the other Time Lord's back and placed an arm around his waist. When the only retaliation was a an angry snore, he pressed his mouth to the Master's shoulderblade, too.

And if, after a surprisingly good sleep the Doctor woke up with his hand pressed close between the Master's hearts, well. What happens on birthday parties stays at birthday parties.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Monsterhunt: Savogorg, Demon of Deliciousness

Demons reflect the most destructive impulses of the living and while most default to primal feelings like fear, pain, and despair... the feeling this saccharine salamander embodies could best be described as "the irresistible urge to stick your finger in a freshly frosted cake".

Driven by an indulgent need to taste all the finest things without ever worrying about hunger Savogorg crashes feasts, burgles pantries, and pinches pies from windowsills heedless of the chaos it causes in the process.

It takes an act of supreme immoderation to summon the demon of deliciousness, an inability to be satisfied that goes so far beyond hedonism that it wounds the soul. A ruler who beggars the realm with their elaborate feasts, An epicurean restaurateur who seeks ever more exotic experiences for her exclusive clientele, the taverncook who insists that this time he'll finally be able to make his grandmother's recipe as good as he remembers it. Those that suffer this affliction find themselves beset by bouts of reckless appetite, and with every mouthful the demon's stake upon them grows until it is finally able to manifest in the world.

Adventure Hooks:

Everyone knew it was a bad omen when the earl's secondborn shot the white stag. Legends of earning lordship be damned, it was plain as day the creature was beloved by the forest goddess. Butchery and trophytaking was bad enough, but to serve the flesh to your spoiled friends only to spit it out as "gamey"... now that truelove was worthy of some divine wrath. Now the noble lad wanders the wood in a state of ragged confusion, delirious from hunger and mushrooms and fermented berries, sometimes asking passersby for help, sometimes attempting to bite them. Folk susspect he's become a werewolf, and the earl is offering a rich reward to those who can bring his boy back and break the curse, while his firstborn is willing to pay extra to ensure that doesn't happen. She's become convinced her brother desires her inheritance, and what could it hurt if he stayed mad?

A prestigious culinary competition has been thrown into chaos after a series of disastrous incidents and atleast one contestant going missing. This is an excuse to riff off your favourite baking shows while the party plays detective trying to find who's eating the supplies... and the staff.

There's no such thing as forbidden snacks when you're a hunger demon. Having slithered into an elven temple dedicated to the god of earth and wine, Savogorg has laid it's greedy fingers on a sacred artifact in the form of a heavily laden bunch of grapes each sculpted from a precious gemstone and swallowed it whole. Ignorant of the demon's existnace the elves are incensed at this trespass, and begin hunting and questioning would be thieves. Tracking the demon might be easier than expected, as the holy artifact has given it divine indigestion, and the amphibious fiend keeps burping up minor mirracles as it moves about the city looking for a place to sleep off its tumymache.

Challenges & Complications:

Despite it's bulk, the demon's squishy body allows it to pass through any opening the size of a fist, allowing it to slip into unexpected places through drains, chimneys, and cracked doors, leaving behind only a sugary slime. This also allows it to unexpected escapes should it be cornered by the party. Experementation may reveal that extensive cold damage may cause the demon's body to semi-solidfy, preventing this ability.

As a demon of appetite, Savogorg is sustained by the act of eating, and will freely regain hitpoints anytime it focuses on chowing down rather than fighting the party, or if it's swallowed one of them whole. Poison can be useful here, souring its stomach and preventing it from actively eating anything more.

Artsource

[honeybyte]

heyheyhello!

could you give a little updated rundown of your ocs? i know you've done one back in '17 but that was aaaages ago :3

your ocs are so cool hhhrrrrghhhhh i wanna hear you infodump about them

OUGH OOOHHHH im glad you think they're cool! my little guys,,,,, hmmm lets see 👏 this is gonna get Super long

2024 OC Rundown: GO

Axe + Cleaver

Goliath Abernathy > local hunter, former clergy member of the Harlach Parish

Elle Sinclaire > butcher in the Ros District of Kencree, currently possessed by several ghosts

Agnes Laroche > a scholar of the humanities with a focus on religious studies. she came to Kencree looking to learn about Boarstooth and the Harlach Parish and got more than she bargained for

Euan Harlach > a runaway from the Harlach Parish, the twin of the Parish's head priestess who resents what the church has become under her guidance. Angus' fiance

Angus Reid > blacksmith in the Ros District, head of the militia that keeps the District out from under the Parish's control. Euan's fiance

Odelia Harlach > head priestess of Harlach Parish and foyunder of the Boarstooth religion. a cannibalistic vampire with a taste for power and adoration

tag: rhodes butchery

Coffinmakers

Yule Jones > the local coffinmaker. a workaholic who's main hobby is visiting the oldest graves in town to leave flowers, including a mausoleum with the name Joan Haakon

Joan Haakon > an ancient vampire who doesn't get out much. she got caught returning flowers to Yule's doorstep and now she's living her worst fear (falling in love)

Donatello Jenkins > Joan's wingman, who is ever exasperated with her and finally understanding the phrase "dumb lesbians"

tag: coffinmaker

Flock

Kazmir > grew up alone traveling thru a country hit by a technological apocalypse, looking for her mother. met Mozzwood at a young age and now they're partners thru thick and thin

Mozzwood > a very anxious young gryffin. Kaz protects him more than he has the heart to protect her, but he does his best to look out for her

Valentine > a former cult child and the leading mind on agriculture in the apocalypse. sells their knowledge on agriculture for their needs. rescued Gabriel from their old church

Gabriel > Valentine's little sister and a former cult child. has lived a very sheltered life, so you can imagine what a 9 year old who suddenly doesnt have any rules is like

Neera > an older gryffin that occasionally checks in on the group. taught a younger Valentine how to care for themself

tag: flock

The Hunt

Julia > one of the Malady twins and head of the Malady clan. reacts explosively and violently towards parties outside of his clan, but is loving and silly with the rest of his group. the group's brawler, weapon of choice is his "bear paw" gloves

Angelo > one of the Malady twins and second in command of the Malady clan. much more levelheaded than his sibling, more emotional and very well behaved in social settings. skilled in forgery and lock picking. weapon of choice is a crowbar

Jack > the 3rd addition to the clan. their tech and historical expert in heists/raids. can joke around off the job but takes his work very seriously. Mitchell's mentor. doesn't fight due to an old knee injury

Mitchell > the newest addition to the clan, added after a serious brawl in which he and Julia hit stalemate, earning the clan's respect in one shot. skilled in antique restoration. weapon of choice is knives

Mama > the matriarch of the Malady clan, raised the twins and Jack. very sweet with everyone she meets. doesn't partake in the raids or the spoils, but first order of business after a raid is still to offer her pieces that were acquired on the job. doesn't fight-- has never had so much as a scratch because the rest of the clan protects her

Scottie > local lounge singer, Julia's girlfriend. knows about the clan but unaware what their "job" is. Julia makes sure her every need is met. Scottie is very bubbly and sweet with everyone, and loves hanging off Julia's shoulder

tag: the hunt

Red Heron

Alec > one of the archivists for the Red Heron Project. unable to leave the site due to physical complications regarding their body modification. guardian of the Librarian (in love with the Librarian)

The Librarian > the main archivist of the Red Heron Project. considered a failed model of heavy body modification, they're also unable to leave the site. lives with Alec in the Project's archives

Eliza > considered a successful body mod, and currently works as an assistant within the Project. caretaker for Yuma and Lovelace, and currently working on a plan to get them out

Yuma > also known as Y-034. one of the two youngest subjects in the Project. a successful attempt at creating a programmable android out of a human. best friends with Lovelace

Lovelace > failed attempt at creating a programmable android out of a human. she refuses 98% of commands given to her-- an attempt to fix this leaves her wires fried, reactions violent, and movements unpredictable. does her best to help take gentle care of Yuma

Johann > one of the leading engineers within the project, but was unaware his designs were being carried out-- burdened with intense guilt after learning of Alec and Lovelace's existence, but unable to leave the site. designs and builds for Kairos' mods

Kairos > bodyguard for Johann, and a little obsessed with his own modifications. always looking for bigger and better mods, and loves when they come off intimidating. loves Johann dearly, but will get in daily fights with Alec

tag: red heron

Kor

Adriana > traveling mercenary on her "last job". she's morose, weighed down by the death of a childhood friend. she's convinced it was her fault, and so punishes herself for it constantly. finds her place in the circus after meeting Frogmouth

Frogmouth > a masked jester within a traveling circus. he's looking for revenge for a past hurt, which he refuses to share with others until he meets Adriana. Adriana's complete opposite, he's bubbly to a point of being annoying for most

Grace > duchess of the town the circus and Adriana have landed in. Adriana could swear she was familiar...

Andrew > Grace's devoted guard dog. he's over reactive when it comes to her safety and public perception. hates Frogmouth with a passion

tag: kor

With Love From Denver

The Harbinger/Denver Maldonado > a dullahan in the southwest. the loss of her head created a violent rage within her, and now that her head has been stolen, she hunts down anyone who's come in contact with it

Flora Hernandez > a mail carrier who's secretly hunting for the dullahan's head. she does find it. she also finds the dullahan

tag: wlfd

Pearl River

Dallas Whickam > an alligator hybrid living in the swamps of Louisiana. he's pretty sheltered, considering, but he has a kind personality and can't stop talking when he meets Pearl for the first time

Pearl Jones > a student interested in the swamp wildlife. he stumbles upon Dallas' shack on accident, gets the scare of his life meeting Dallas, and then begins socializing him when he finds he has nothing to fear

tag: dallas, pearl

Temperance

Magdalene > an alcoholic fisherman on the Maine coast. years of scraping by has beaten her down but she feels trapped within her industry. goes to bars and clubs to cope, during which she meets Sadie

Sadie/Temperance > Magdalene's new first mate. Sadie is the human vessel for the goddess Temperance, who's in love with Magdalene (god's favorite fisherman > Bad). Temperance has loved Magdalene thru several lifetimes and will continue to love her for many more

tag: temperance

[mmorpg-escapism]

guest - for the single-word fic prompt!

(this has been in my inbox for so long... well, time to bring it in from the cold.)

"...I believe the two of you met briefly in Ala Mhigo?" Fandaniel's voice sounded even creepier than normal, laced with barely suppressed glee. "His was a rather sticky end, wasn't it?"

Besany looked around, dazed. The helmet on her head was heavy, and-

Wait. Helmet? She shook the cobwebs from her mind and scanned her body. It... was not. Some poor Garlean lieutenant had been cast aside for her to take up residence in against both of their wills. The thought nearly made her hurl the contents of her stomach into the helmet's face-plate.

"Thankfully, he was thoughtful enough to leave behind his mindjack technology. I took the liberty of making some improvements─and selecting you as my esteemed test subject." The tone in Fandaniel's voice was like a knife beneath her skin.

"Give me back my body!" Her words sounded hollow and wrong coming out, but they were all she had. The room she'd been placed in was devoid of anything that could be even remotely considered a weapon. A wise precaution.

"And let you, my lord's esteemed guest, go on a righteous rampage in order to ruin our plans? After all the work we put in to prepare a wonderful meal for you? I think not."

She could only seethe as Fandaniel magicked her away from the cell and directly into a seat at a banquet table, all the while keeping the maniacal grin plastered to his face. At the head of it was Zenos, clad in full battle regalia and looking as bored as ever.

Fandaniel assumed the role of butler, serving meat and wine and salad to both ends before disappearing. In a fit of defiance, Besany refused to even lift a hand to consume any of it. Zenos ate silently for a moment, staring at the blank helmet across the table intently.

"Does the pursuit of prey you have bested before excite you?" The silence broke with a monotone drone once the Garlean prince had finished his first course. "Of course not. Absent the challenge, the thrill, your prize is a hollow victory. Butchery." He nodded slowly at his Ascian, who refilled the goblet with some kind of red wine. "Perhaps you think that to be the extent of my promise. I have no doubt fallen in your estimation since Ala Mhigo."

"No matter. As you will learn, I have only just begun..." He shot a bored glare at Fandaniel, who had wandered over to Besany in his jester-like fashion and was attempting to force her to eat. At the glance, he backed off with an exaggerated bow.

"While my lifeless body was in the possession of the Ascian, I too claimed another's as my own. It was an enlightening experience, to fight in an unfamiliar form. Flaws and failings in my technique were plain to see." Besany's eyes widened in fear as she started to understand what Zenos was implying.

"Whence rises one's true strength? The flesh? The soul? Perhaps you should like to discover the answer for yourself."

no no No No NO NO NO!

"Or... together."

And then he was gone.