#block tales builder man

[alexsorsis]

Gotta love player angst, am I right?

[sirwow]

I need to get out my bleeding heart for minecraft because man this game basically created the foundation and growth of my brain however rocky and I need to tell the world because I said so.

This game is a canvas. Not a empty one mind you but a canvas nonetheless. The one presented to all to begin being a world in which they’re left to learn and discover and build or destroy all on their own. Or maybe with a friend, or many. Someone’s first experience with Minecraft likely isn’t picking it up randomly but rather being told tales by others of what they weaved with the canvas they were given.

Weather that person was as quaint to just add a few additions to the canvas; a small wooden house situated inside a cool looking cave with some silly story about a creeper and a fire. Or if this person was someone you don’t really know but they put themselves out there to show their work to the world. A completely blank canvas with only one block? Why not? A downright ridiculous looking building with the sole goal of getting melons? Sure.

These stories and art is what makes this game so special. Something so stupid and mundane like a bunch of 1 block jumps with a goofy voice over and sound effects can still be such a great and beautiful thing with heart and care. We can’t understand every work but damnit I have respect for every last aspect and one. The depths of this game truly allowing everyone have some place, from leisure to mastery. I can not mention everyone but I will cover the broad strokes and their wonders.

Firstly to the builders of Minecraft. You are the forefront and most clear of your art. It is art within the most literal sense of the word, weather it is a building with intricate detail in every crevice and corner thought out meticulously. Or those of the larger then ourselves works. Organic mythical works of dragons, people, animals and more. Builds only made to be viewed once at one angle akin to a real painting. The recreations or creations of yours dreams and hopes. Or even just the humble home and village to create a story of as you survive. Creative, builders tools, survival, challenge play throughs. You’re all artists.

Redstoners. Though siblings of builders, your work lays in numbers, timing, mechanical works. Fixing issues you created for yourself when trying to achieve a goal. It may just be making the fastest door, or the largest and you’d still manage to break so many boundaries with time. Or it is those beyond my personal comprehension. You make machines capable of manipulating the behavior of the game itself by going through the cracks found over the decade of redstone. As much as it is wizardry to myself I wish someday to learn this as well if I ever choose to go down such a path. However as of now my eyes are set on another unexpected and undermined path that is next.

PVP. One much loathed by those outside it and I am guilty of such for almost a decade but as now Iv become knee deep in the waters of it myself I also see how it’s an art. Maybe more in the martial sense as obvious but it’s still very impressive what I see and understand in it now. The functions beyond “swing sword good”; a much deeper phycological game aspect to it then seen outside and understanding the intricacies of mechanics you generally give little thought to playing normally. Just how much health does each weapon do- crit or not. How fast can a crossbow reload, watch your sprint or you might just lose. On and on. Iv gained a lot of respect for it.

Parkour. Get your parkour civilization jokes out of the way- this is probably the MOST fundamental part of the game and I find it downright magical what can be done with it. I realize I’m saying that a lot but it’s 1 am shh. Anywho it’s got all its ins and outs. The ice parkour, neos, fences, drip leaf, combined redstone and timing, trapdoors and more. I’m missing about 50 here but that just goes to show how deep it is.

Off of parkour comes our good friend Speedrunning!!! Dedication and time in its most raw. Triangulation for college? Wrong! Block game. It’s a mental load to take on and the aspect of random chance and taking everything on your shoulders is persistence and patience.

And the best part of all of this? They all come together in their own ways for hundreds nay thousands of ways to play. All without touching on the deep deep well that is servers. Skyblock players, pvpers, ice boaters, niche specialists games (Cops v Crims, Bedwars, party games, tower defense, MMORPGs, one in the quiver for my old chums out there, ect) you all have my undying interest and respect in the details and depths of what you love.

So now you have the little canvas before you. Make what you wish no matter how bad. No one will create something identical to what you choose and it’s your story to paint- no matter how lame, small, boring, bad, or ugly you might claim it to be. I want it to still be made and for you to explore whatever depths you choose. Weather that be the simple literal ones, finding a neat cave or what have you, or finding a passion buried under the rubble.

And me? I guess I’ll keep doing my thing of watching and learning about all the silly little corners this game has and mastering what I can even if that takes another decade to do. The universe loves me and it loves you too, go and create.

[onenightbreak]

characters and skins from today’s tales from the smp stream! under the cut because Long:

tubbo: robin, orphan child. was the doctor in the first round, jester in the second. lore is that his mother died when he was young then his father went to fight in the red eyed village wars, so robin learnt first aid to help. (my sweet boy please-)

george: miles memeington. didn’t have lore i think? [edit: apparently was a steak connoisseur? what,] died in the first round immediately, possibly a villager in the second round?

bbh: jimmy the (self declared) mayor. murderer in the first round, got caught immediately, uncertain the second round. two skins because his first character went to the chopping block for murder, was still the mayor both times.

quackity: helga. fuckin iconic is what she is. the wife of jimmy supposedly, but this is disputed by him. goes around the village giving “dunderhead” to all the village men, to the distaste of most. villager both times i think?

ponk: jack the potato farmer. villager first round, murderer second round. just farms potatoes man, he doesn’t know how to murder !

corpse: unnamed catboy. was the investigator first round, probably a villager the second. blind, father figure to robin. [edit: @/the-scuttled-jamboree added that he referred to cornelius as his partner the night he died, and lived together both rounds] excuted at the start of the second round, sending robin into mute grief. (MY FUCKIN BOY-)

lazar: a builder named bob. bob the builder, if you will. jester the first round, murderer the second. don’t think he had lore. [edit: @/the-scuttled-jamboree added that he ‘spent a night’ with helga both rounds and was haunted by her voice after her death. helga also called bob ‘shrimpy’ a lot, so they weren’t on the best terms?]

dream: cornelius. murderer the first round, died first the second. was excuted at the end of the first round, then was killed by the murderers. also didn’t change his skin, apparently it’s just a green body suit.

extra lore!

-this story takes place 100s of years in the past, according to karl’s exposition -the world of the smp has always been shit for orphans :pensive: -also furries have always existed in the smp, as shown by catboy corpse -“the red eyed village wars” are a thing that exist apparently. this is Not elaborated on at all but lore pog?

[zero-cycle]

Legacies

The Players have never had a particularly good memory.

Oh, they remember the Builders just fine.Their gigantic castles and worlds are right there, after all, unable to be overlooked. Who hasn’t heard of Grian’s mansion, forever doomed to be unfinished? Or Etho’s cave, the oldest building in all of MInecraft who’s owner still lives? Who hasn’t been told of the beauty of Rivendell, Mezelea or the Ocean Empire and their rulers?

Hermitcraft’s worlds are tourist attractions, spaces for hundreds of people to live later. The Empires have their own population, their citizens telling the tales of their kind rulers and architects. Even the people from the Esempee talk about their benevolent king Eret and how much they built for them.

Similar to them are the Redstoners, their contributions consisting of new machines and farms or entertainment. Their names are whispered among the knowledgeable when they build doors or iron farms or have to time one of their contraptions.

Fighters do not have the benefit of giant monuments to their names but neither do they have trouble being remembered. The marks they leave aren’t a new creative use of blocks or a roof for Players to stay under. Instead, their legacies are the smell of explosions and blood in the air. They were the first to discover how to make end crystals and they started to warp the code around them, all just to give them a small advantage.

Their stories are about the bloody paths they carved through peaceful and war-torn servers. They win tournaments and are crowned with bloody laurels. Everybody in all of MInecraft fears Technoblade. Most Players will never willingly step foot on the battleground called “2b2t” and that for good reasons. The deadly trio of George, Sapnap and Dream is a legend among all fighter communities.

The Parkourers are similar to them. Only their laurels are less blood-soaked because the void kills cleanly and quickly. They tell stories about gods instead. Even though they never mention names, green is their color of luck and prosperity.

The Players don’t remember the people in the shadows.

The Runners are notorious for…well, mostly for being non-notorious. They keep to the shadows, always there but never in the spotlight. They win tourneys and take the crowns home with no fanfare. They fight but they’re not cruel or gloating, instead preferring to leave as fast as they came. Their buildings are often small, practical and they’re fast but not particularly creative with them. They hit jumps only the best parkourers can but never join competitions, they can do advanced redstone yet understand none of it and they’re good at everything but rarely shine with excellence.

The Players don’t remember them.

But the worlds do.

The Players in the big servers like Hypixel might have never heard of Feinberg but the non-player habitants of the wider worlds know different. There’s thousands of blocks he’s placed, hundreds of villagers he’s traded with but that doesn’t matter to a tiny plains biome on an even smaller world. The only thing that matters to the beehive that lives there is the flowers Feinberg carefully cultivated for them. the roof cover he built for them that keeps them safe from every thunder and wind.

Neither have they heard of Silverr, tirelessly working day to day to get better with no thoughts about recognition. Twitch Rivals might have brought him notoriety, might have made some Players aware of him but the villagers on a far away world don’t even know tournaments like that exist. They only know about the polite young man who must have spent days cutting down wood for them. It supplies the village with enough firewood to survive the winter for several years.

Most people don’t know about K4yfour. They are strange, quite unlike normal Players. Nobody would think of them as particularly influential either. They’re wrong, of course. Their tactics have saved a hundred runners and a thousand worlds and even more lives. It’s not an accomplishment they can display on the wall like trophies but it’s visible in every Runner that still runs, in every world they save.

Others might look at Couriway like a hero for his PvP skills but the worlds know better. There are a thousand of them out there that nobody else would have rescued. Nobody else would have even attempted. But Couriway has not earned his crown with blood on his hands and so he goes, steadily, and saves the world, over and over and over.

And the Universe smiles down on a tiny server, tucked at the edges of MInecraft, where mismatched buildings stand next to each other, where scattered blocks ruin the landscape of the nether, where laughter fills the air and plans to do the impossible are made.

They will not be remembered, but they don’t care. They are happy, here at the edge of the universe, far away from any competition or recognition.

They are home.

[leam1983]

Placing D&D's Failures In-Context

TL;DR: it isn't because Tolkien and Lewis followed in the footsteps of Chaucer and Snorri Sturlesson that you also need to play out stories involving clean-cut Good and Evil forces.

Y'ain't writing a Narnia redux, so go nuts and do workshop that trusting, gentlemanly and wise Beholder with a wee little top hat. It's your game, and yours alone.

I might be a Marketing-related writer by trade, I still primarily identify as a world-builder. As such, I have to credit Dungeons & Dragons, Pathfinder and other similar roleplaying avenues for helping me come up with my interest in specificity.

I've noticed a few people making note of the inconstant delivery of lore in D&D as of the 5th Edition, and especially of certain bad stereotypes that are being bandied about. I'm not looking to excuse them, so much as to make sure any other theory or lore-crafters understand why some concepts are so deliberately slapdash or offensive.

As with a lot of other things, it all goes back to Tolkien and Lewis, and to the myths and legends they themselves drew from.

You have to remember that The Lord of the Rings and Narnia are both serving as in-fiction national epics of a sort, the storied tale of the Good Guys thwarting the Bad Guys in your usual bout of identity-forging on a national level. You're effectively looking at Middle-Earth justifying its own existence, and at Narnia effectively setting up its main antagonist as someone who's not so much as deserving of nuance.

Nuance isn't foundational, after all. It isn't Biblical. It doesn't inform an etiological project for a greater Society. For the same reason, reading old Natural Science encyclopedias dating back to the late seventeen-hundreds would show us an outdated view of what constitutes an optimal ecosystem. Poke around for old news briefs dating back to the werewolf panic in France (yes, this is a thing) and you'll find no mention whatsoever of what primarily caused said panic, which was a combination of superstition, ergotism and excessive hunting of the local deer population. Wolves won't naturally attack humans, but a starving wolf who's had nothing to eat for days on end might be desperate enough to think otherwise.

Once Gygax realized there'd be more potential in his pen-and-paper jousting model if he freed it from the constraints of History, he felt the need to evoke that specific feel of classic Fantasy. The need to classify distaff character classes as protagonists likely initially edged them towards the Good side of the prototypical Alignment system, while fishing for antagonists obviously called for the opposite approach.

The rest sort of followed. If you're going after a Tolkien-esque propagandistic take on heroic deeds, then you don't need to give much nuance to orc, gnolls, trolls, goblins or what have you; you're entirely free to go as cartoonishly evil as you want. The apex of that approach was probably reached once the concept for Mind Flayers was pitched in 1977: when you're walking in H.P. Lovecraft's footsteps - as the man made it easy to misconstrue unknowable as being a synonym for evil - it's not exactly hard to start pitching the concept that some races are always Evil-aligned, no holds barred. That sort of talk unsurprisingly gives rise to purists.

Enter our contemporary era, wherein what isn't dissected or cancelled is revised for the good of Progressive gamers everywhere. You're a DM, you know the later editions pack resources for players wanting to play monsters, but D&D is so rigid in its presentation it might seem difficult to reason out of certain established canons.

What I do for my own campaigns is as follows.

I start by acting as if the Alignment system didn't exist. Githzerai, Aboleth, Bugbear, Illithid, whatever it is you're looking to play, it's just a stat block and a pretty picture. Then, I revisit the background info for your selected species and voluntarily ignore everything that involves agency-stripping "evil forces" shaping your character's native culture. Instead, you're born of a culture that is, as any decent Sociology teacher would tell you, the product of its environment.

Let's pick the Illithids. Canon-wise, they're extra-planar invaders long-since established in your setting of choice, to the point of usually forming a good chunk of your Underdark-esque setting's sociopolitical tensions. Having supposedly escaped annihilation, they're looking to rebuild at any cost and see all outsiders as tools to be put to use. This utilitarian concept goes so far as to inform how they reproduce, and also exposes a society where terminal sociopathy is the norm.

Okay. Let's break that down and keep only what I need to build upon or what I find interesting:

Extra-planar invaders? That's on-the-nose to the point of parody. Seeing as there's an element of survival involved, extra-planar refugees seems like a more cogent starting point. That angle gives me interesting societal hooks to play with, starting with various forms of PTSD, trauma, survivor's guilt, isolationism - or even more positive aspects, like the survivors seeing themselves as messengers warning the natives of a greater incoming threat, and deciding to arm both themselves and their new neighbours - at any cost. That gives the culture a large enough moral range to allow for both Good and Evil-aligned characters.

It doesn't make sense for shell-shocked survivors to effectively take over their new home. You're not looking at a civilization's worth of warriors, especially not with the Illithid - they're effectively betentacled bookworms that might be lucky if they had a few hardened soldiers left. Considering, they could either survive by ingratiating themselves with the local Drow or Dark Dwarf populations - as advisors, strategists, court scientists or sponsored researchers. Warriors in their ranks could make for an interesting spin on the concept of the wandering mercenary...

Ceremorphosis as a concept inspires no possibility for mutual exchange. Purists could argue that Flayers don't need to exchange what they can assimilate, but we're trying to avoid pejorative notions, here. Let's imagine, instead, that ceremorphosis is something they reserve for mutants derived out of the animal kingdom as a point of absolute bare necessity, and that they generally copulate in ways that are either closer to an actual cephalopod's or that follow the usual bipedal body plan. That implies some degree of sexual dimorphism that might go against the visual canons for Flayers, but the Internet's more than amply proved how much the community doesn't really mind that concept. If ceremorphosis has to be used, an easy workaround is to accept that the victim's original consciousness remains, but finds itself altered at the identitarian level. You'd die Bert the Barbarian and wake up still as Bert the Barbarian, except you'd feel a sense of distance from your former comrades and countrymen and would find it difficult not to imprint with your new "parents" or keepers.

Eating brains is an obvious issue. Let's stick with the Mother Nature-approved status of opportunistic carnivores, and leave the usefulness of learning through osmosis as a concept to the DM. If you really need to play up their intellectual capabilities, you can infer that Flayers have species-based total recall, which should make them fearsome or versatile enough in any context.

The end-result is a basic framework that's compatible with the notion of a "good" Illithid, without the need for some hackneyed messianic framework like the Adversary being involved - and that allows the idea of Mind Flayers being individuals in their own right to take shape. If the Elder Brain matters that much, you can retool it to be less a gestalt than a pool of shared knowledge, accessible depending on the subject's proximity to it - sort of like your Illithid colony's own flesh-based Intranet.

Remember that D&D is only a massive collection of suggestions. You're the creator of your own stories, so if you're looking to follow the trials and tribulations of a Gnoll Bard from a setting where the hyenafolk coexist with your distaff Rangers across forests and fields, go for it!

More importantly, if purists tell you the Monster Manual says X or that Mordenkainen's says Y, tell them you're running your own campaign.

It's all that matters.

[acenancy]

Bruh id definitely want to hear some of your ghost stories

WOW. Okay, I did not expect people to actually want to hear these, but I’ve gotten a few asks requesting I share! Lol. So I guess for each ask I receive, I’ll tell a “real” Goodperson Family ghost story. I promise I have enough to tide you all over for...forever. These things are kind of a regular occurrence for us.

*For the sake of privacy, I’ll always change or shorten the names of people and places. None of my stories will be exaggerated though, except in the style of my writing (lol).*

I’ll start with the earliest story I can remember. Possibly even the wackiest: The Boulder Poltergeist.

In the 1950’s, my grandpa G and grandma V moved their family of 6 to Long Island. We’ll call the neighborhood they lived in (and continue to live in) Scaretown. Scaretown was still mostly woods and strawberry fields back then, but there was a little police station and an even smaller fire department too. Grandpa G was the Scaretown fire chief.

As the years went by, little developments began to spring up along the island. Families moved in, families settled. Scaretown remained small, though, so Grandpa G never saw anything but the occasional stove fire or cigarette mishap. Nothing crazy.

One development, however, was carved out of a section of the Scaretown Woods. Almost as soon as families began moving into it, the police station began receiving complaints about rocks being thrown at their houses. Rocks that were being thrown every day, at the same time of day. And the rocks being thrown weren’t small either. Not like pebbles. Not even cobble rocks.

BOULDERS were being thrown. Straight from the woods to the houses which were built along the wood’s edge. Crashing through windows, falling through roofs, causing serious property damage all around. SUPPOSEDLY.

Naturally, all sorts of tales of ghosts and curses began to fly around lil ol’ Scartown, and the people were getting concerned.

But Grandpa G wasn’t buying it.

As most of my family members are (odd, all things considered), Grandpa G was a practical man. Very much a no-bullshit sort. He thought the boulder stories were exaggerated, if not totally made up. Being the father of 4 genuinely god awful children himself, he assumed, if the rumors were true, that teenage vandals were the ones terrorizing the new people in town. Possibly even his own teenage vandals. So, to control his blood pressure, he didn’t pay the stories any mind.

The police, though, had been investigating the woods surrounding the new development, inspecting the damage done to the houses, etc. The wreckage to the homes was significant. It truly did look like flying boulders were crashing into them.

And, when the police arrived at the time the new homeowners said the boulders were being thrown, they claimed they saw them soaring through the air themselves.

Logic told the police this was not happening by one man’s strong arm and his pure force of will. The only possible way they could figure these builders were flying was by a catapult.

Which sounds insane.

But possibly not as insane as what happened whenever the police tried entering the woods and locating the source of the flying boulders themselves.

The deeper the police traveled into the woods and the closer they reached what they assumed was the point of launch, dirt would begin blowing violently at them, pebbles and twigs rising from the ground with a vicious wind and pelting them. Each time, their vision became obstructed so badly that they could not venture into the woods any farther. They would retreat, battered and bruised and confused.

They realized they needed backup if they wanted to get closer to this catapult. Preferably backup with gear and equipment meant to withstand harsh conditions.

So Scaretown’s small police force hit up the fire department.

Chief Grandpa G had to laugh. Again, he was not convinced by the tales that were being spun to him. Flying boulders? Walls of dirt and sticks running police out of the woods? To him, it sounded like the cops were simply failing to do their jobs and making up excuses. He gladly agreed to help them out, if only to prove how incompetent they were. So he rounded up his department and scrounged up fire gear for the entire police force too.

When the two departments arrived at the development, they stood at the edge of the woods, waiting for the exact time the boulders were supposed to start flying. There, Grandpa G got to see for himself that the rumors were true - but nothing like he was being told.

The boulders were gliding through the air. Slowly, in perfect arches, landing so softly that sometimes they would hit the side of a house and fall to the ground with only a thump. Most of the time, the boulders were not even causing any damage at all.

It was odd, Grandpa G had to admit. But he wasn’t a genius and he still wasn’t convinced it was the work of anything other than a crazy person and their catapult.

So, before the boulders could stop flying, he and the dual departments entered the woods together.

Things remained calm at first. They ventured into the woods, the only strange occurrence the one Grandpa G was now familiar with. Boulders soared above them like birds, silent and without any fanfare.

They walked deeper.

Eventually, just like the sheriff had told Grandpa G, dirt began to pick up from the ground, blowing straight into their faces and blocking their view of anything before them. Pebbles, too, were being thrown all around them, and twigs were whacking at their arms and legs, almost as though beating them away. Though this time, thanks to the fire department, their faces were shielded and bodies protected. They were able to continue onward.

But conditions worsened.

It reached a point where they were being blown backwards, falling to the ground, afraid that they would lose each other amongst the trees and the growing night.

They needed to stay together.

It didn’t take much convincing for both the police and fire departments to abandon their mission of finding the catapult. Cops and firemen joined hands, together forming a wide, though tenuous circle.

And things began to calm.

To their amazement, their circle appeared to push the flying debris into their center, containing it until there was a mini tornado swirling in the middle of them. Braving the forces of nature, they all began to move forward, still holding hands, until they were all one huddled mass.

The storm between them grew smaller and smaller as they moved, until it died right there at their feet.

But they were too scared to continue their search now. Like the brave, grown men they were, they all ran the fuck out of there instead.

The next day, at the time the boulders were usually scheduled to fly, the skies remained clear. No complaints were made by homeowners. No boulders came soaring from the woods.

And they never did after.

Grandpa G and a few other guys did search the woods again, but never found the catapult or the boulders they assumed were there. All they found was a clearing amongst the trees where they all held hands, and a pile of dirt, twigs, and tiny rocks piled in the middle.

Until the day he died, No Bull Grandpa G swore they encountered a poltergeist in those woods. Sometimes, though, I’m not so sure.

Can a poltergeist attach itself to you? Does one follow you and your entire family for the rest of your lives? Can one even curse you?

Or could it be something else?

Like I said, my whole family has enough ghost stories to rival R.L. Stine.

And they all started in the woods of Scaretown.

[an-unlikely-poet]

The quiet gave way to piercing voices, non stop, one sided and the mind drifts. It’s no wonder he thought, all these years later. Recessed in words of limited vocabulary. Like a carpenter who lent his tools never to be seen again. Made up on the spot, he threw squares where the circle should go. Turned screw drivers when the hatchet was to blunted on the skull. Measured with fingers and arms like the boat builders in the pacific before the flood. Ever so skewed he adjusts to the growing tide, adrift and the birds became slow moving dots against the blue and white backdrop. Calm again and the mind settles into another production. No directors here, a child like mind spins endless tales in grand resolutions. Be careful what you wish for lad, one take to say it all into the nothing. Into the void. Was that so bad? Was it better than the alternative? He didn’t know. He cared less. Another lie. Another diversion. Tactics of the wandering central figure. A made up protagonist in someone else’s great story. Who’s he did not know. Maybe a better story teller than he. In the darker parts of the mind, he was convinced of the antagonist. A road block to worthiness. He’ll get out of the way again and again. Recalibrate, reorganize. No charts. Just man made tools, sweat and blood. The sun rises here, sets over there. In between the head rests. But not the mind. Sometimes friend, sometimes foe. And so it goes. Until the words come again

[mythical-song-wolf]

MCSM: My Warrior’s Tale 1

Note: Basically this is my personal canon of Minecraft: Story Mode with my own variation of Jesse which is just my main OC edited into the context of MCSM because I’m uncreative

I made all the parts for episode 1 at night when I was Tired and Fixating Part 2

Nothing built can last forever, Jesse knows this intimately. And every legend, no matter how great, fades with time, whittled down by years and years till nothing is left but half-truths and myths. In essence, lies. And yet, in all known universes between here to the Far Lands, the legend of the Order of the Stone persists on unchanged.

The Order of the Stone themselves are quite young, barely in their forties by now. But the legends of amazing heroes, all types of builders and people, coming together to slay a mighty beast known as the Ender Dragon has always had its hold on the worlds.

The Order of the Stone was the name of a far off legend and fairy tale, now it's the name of a group of heroes who turned fiction into reality.

Only truly troubled lands have a need for heroes, and it seems that this one was of them. Lucky are they to have four heroes to have made their lies and myths into truths.

Gabriel the Warrior, Ellegaard the Redstone Engineer, Magnus the Rogue, and Soren the Architect.

They defeated the dragon and finally gave everyone a solid name and face to the legends of old, cementing their names in history.

“Would you rather fight a hundred chicken-sized zombies or ten zombie-sized chickens?” Olivia curiously asks.

“Hm, I guess the zombie-sized chickens? Because seeing one that big would be pretty interesting. Fighting wise? I’d say fifty-fifty on that. The chickens won’t try to hurt me but the zombies would, but a startled chicken is a pecky chicken. Really depends on the mood, really,” Jesse replies as she flips to the next page of her book, while Olivia sets up a nightlight for Reuben, “He’s coming with us.”

“Really?”

She puts down her book to look at Olivia, “Of course he is, why wouldn’t he?”

“Okay, okay, I’m not saying that he shouldn’t come but don’t you think it’s a little weird that you take him with you everywhere you go?”

“Reuben’s my best friend along with you and Axel. I’m not leaving him behind.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“I know, I know, you don’t want to give everyone another reason to call us losers. But when we win this year’s building competition, they’ll have less reason to do that!”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Axel pops out from the ladder and startles the three of them, earning a reflexive punch from Jesse.

“Ow,” Axel groans, taking off the mask and rubbing his nose.

“Not funny Axel!” Olivia chides, while Reuben tries to tackle him.

“I could tell,” He grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, “That was some punch Jesse, where’d you learn to hit so hard?”

Lie.

“Thanks, I’ve been working on my combat skill lately,” She brushes off with a smile, “Did you bring the fireworks?”

“Of course I did, I also brought something for the little guy.” He brings out an Ender Dragon costume and puts in on Reuben, who happily parades around the room in it.

A few moments later Olivia and Axel head down while Jesse grabs a few more things. Shears, Flint & Steel, and double checks the durability on her stone sword.

Really should upgrade this to an iron one, I have a feeling I’ll need it for some reason... Huh... Warrior’s intuition?... I’ll bring some iron just in case.

~~~~~

They decide on building an Enderman along with their firework show.

(“Get it? Enderman at Endercon with an Ender Dragon pig.”

“I regret suggesting an Enderman.”

“A Creeper would’ve been cooler.”)

Their team name is the Order of the Pigs, and they get onto prepping... Until Axel and Olivia get side-tracked by what the Ocelots are doing.

“C’mon guys don’t get distracted by what the other teams are doing and focus on our own build.”

“They have a freakin’ beacon!” Axel repeats, more exasperated than the last time.

“They’re not just making a beacon. They’re making a rainbow beacon!” Olivia adds, panic lacing her tone at its edge.

“Relax, we’ve got this,” Jesse tries to assure.

“Who are we kidding?” Olivia retorts anxiously, “We’ve got nothing.”

“We have a plan, each other, annnd a cute mascot. Now let’s stop ogling the competition and get to work!” She announces with a clap as she turns to her friends.

Gill laughs at them as him and Maya approach Aiden, “Look, it’s the Order of the Losers. Again.”

“Don’t mind us,” Jesse tries but her voice is drowned out by Olivia’s.

“We were just looking.”

Aiden, that snarky bastard, replies with an arrogant surety of the Ocelots’ victory that she brushes off, but then he has the gall to call Reuben food.

“Shut up asshole.”

“What was that?” Aiden says, cold and serious in an attempt to be threatening. If he was a bit more unhinged it would maybe scare her, but that he is not.

“She—”

“I said, ‘shut up asshole’ or is your hearing as defective as your brain?”

“Why you—”

“Stop wasting time you three,” Lukas orders, “We’ve got work to do.”

“Hey guys,” Petra greets the two groups, “How’s the build going?”

“Only time will tell, but we’re optimistic,” Axel replies, with Olivia and Jesse nodding along.

Lukas smiles and approaches Petra (and in turn the Order of the Pigs), “Hey Petra, I forgot to thank you for that Nether Star.”

“Hey, no problem Lukas.”

Jesse and her team, with a lot of prodding from their leader, continue getting ready as Lukas and Petra banter for a bit before she leaves.

“Hey,” Lukas calls out, causing them to turn to him, “No hard feelings guys. If you’re cool with Petra, you’re cool with us.”

Jesse smiles, “Of course, let’s focus on making this about how awesome our builds will be, yeah?”

“Yeah, and may the best team win.”

Lukas and his team turn and walk away before Jesse replies with, “Be careful what you wish for.” The Ocelots pause for a moment, before Lukas smirks and chuckles but continues on.

~~~~~

They spend the whole afternoon making the Enderman alongside the rest of the builders with their own structures. Aiden tries to get a rise out of them again but Jesse pays him no mind so the others don’t either.

When they finish their build and the fireworks go off, all eyes are on them in awe. For once, everyone’s looking at her and her friends like they’re actually capable of something.

Aiden, in his fit of petty jealousy, breaks a block that was blocking off some lava which sets Reuben’s costume on fire and risking their build.

A switch flicks and Jesse’s off the Enderman and running after him while shouting some orders to her team.

“You two block off the lava while I get Reuben!”

“You got it Jesse! We’ll meet up with you at Endercon!”

If Aiden is suddenly knocked down and has a broken nose after she passes by, she won’t say it wasn’t her.

[alexsorsis]

Please do not mind the long intro, I swear it’s worth watching

[monstersandmaw]

Twelve Days of Exomas - 70+k words of exclusive exophilia stories!

So, they’re all up now.

*wheezes and passes out*

For a long excerpt from Day Six (male were-yeti x reader) see below!

Twelve Days of Exomas (Christmas Special stories) 2019

Day One (male mummy x female reader - v. light nsfw)

Day Two (male djinn x male reader - NSFW)

Day Three (female were-hyena x female reader - NSFW)

Day Four (male sharkmer x reader - v. light NSFW/kiss)

Day Five (female orc x male reader - NSFW)

Day Six (male were-yeti x reader, Part One - SFW)

Day Seven (male were-yeti x reader, Part Two - v. light NSFW/kiss)

Day Eight (non-binary demon x reader - light NSFW)

Day Nine (male werewolf x male vampire x female character, Part One - NSFW)

Day Ten (male werewolf x male vampire x female character, Part Two - NSFW)

Day Eleven (female naga x reader - NSFW)

Day Twelve  (male haunted mirror/Fae (x reader - NSFW)

Day Six - Male were-yeti x reader  long excerpt (sfw)

“Come to Snowy Starfall Springs, they said. Live out the fairytale Winter Wonderland dream, they said,” you spat as you waded through knee-deep snow, way off the trail, lost, freezing your backside off, and with the daylight hours slowly burning out. “Fuck.”

The eerie stillness of the woods didn’t help either.

Short, stocky, slow-growing pines, their branches laden with snow, stood sentry against the approaching night, and the old, softened tracks of either a cervitaur or an actual deer were the only sign that anything else aside from you was even alive out here. You might not be for much longer unless you found that trail and headed back, but you couldn’t be that far from where you’d gone wrong. You had driven three hours out of Starfall Springs into the Starfall Mountains, parked up at the trail head, donned your awkward snow-shoes, and plunged eagerly into the wilderness that morning. You’d only intended for this to be a four hour hike, but instead you’d missed a turning somewhere, and had ended up somewhere off the usual trails, in the arse end of Winter Wonderland. “Happy Solstice, eh?” you chided yourself.

You’d just stopped and resigned yourself to digging around in your pack for your phone and compass - having been assured that the trail would be easy enough to follow in a nice loop from the car park - when up ahead, the stillness broke as something shifted between the trees, and you froze. These parts weren’t known for harbouring particularly dangerous wildlife, but there were packs of wolves, and even feral werewolves if the stories were true, and you were easy picking like this. Tiredness seeped into your muscles along with the cold, and you flexed your fingers, frozen on the point of sloughing off your backpack.

To your utter astonishment, a young child appeared between the snowy pines. Unlike you, he was not really dressed for the cold, wearing only a sweater and scruffy jeans. He stopped, stared straight at you, and then laughed. It wasn’t a particularly kind laugh either.

“Shit,” you hissed, watching your breath fog across your vision for a moment. Your eyelashes were frozen, creating a thick border of white around your vision because you’d neglected to bring your goggles too.

The child bent and swept their hand through the snow in a rapid arc, sending a wide spray of powder glittering through the air, and amid the flurry, they turned and ran.

“Wait!” you yelled after them. “Wait! Is there a shelter around here?” As if you had no more sense than a jackrabbit, you plunged through the trees after him, immediately tripping on the toe of your snow shoe and pitching into a deep bank of snow, face first.

His hair had been a white blond, and his skin a warm, rosy brown, and somehow he looked like he belonged here among the sleeping pines and wild, endless skies. You, meanwhile, were making more noise than a bear in a city trashcan.

Around your fresh mouthful of snow, you cursed and rolled upright. It wasn’t easy to do, but you’d fallen over enough times on your way out from the trail head to learn how to pick yourself up. Faceplant, roll onto your front, rock up onto your knees, windmill your arms a bit, stand up. Rinse and repeat.

As you straightened again, you heard the boy’s laughter and froze. “Hello?”

It seemed to come from one direction and then, a moment later, from another.

“Fuck’s sake,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “Listen, I got turned around and I could use your help. I’m going to freeze my butt off if I stay out here tonight. Can you help me or not?”

Empty childish laughter was your only response.

Sucking in a deeper breath - cautiously because if you breathed too deeply and too quickly you’d start coughing with the cold - you headed in the direction you’d last seen the boy prancing through the snow like a Solstice reindeer. How did he move like that? Could he be a fae? At that point you were almost ready to sell your left kidney for a safe place to spend the night, but as the thought crossed your mind you realised that maybe you were more desperate than you should be. You still had perhaps an hour left of daylight, and you had a compass and a detailed map in your bag.

Out of nowhere, a deep, bellowing roar split the silence, crystalline fragments of winter peace shattering as your ears rang and you stumbled, catching the front of your snow-shoe again. You went down hard with a grunted ‘oof’ and felt your ankle go. It didn’t snap, thank all the gods, but you’d sprained it before and remembered the shock and the sudden rush of heat. You couldn’t have helped the yell that left your lips as you went down even if your soul (or your left kidney) had depended on it.

Defeated, frustrated, and in a fair bit of pain, you just lay there, face down in the snow for a minute. Perhaps the bear - if it had indeed been a bear - wouldn’t notice you if you just lay there.

Heavy footfalls reached you not long after, the snow squeaking slightly as it was compressed beneath large feet.  

Shit.

Summoning the strength to turn your head, you looked and found two enormous, fluffy white hind paws, tipped with thick, four-inch long, jet black claws standing right beside you. You didn’t think that polar bears lived in these parts, but by this point, your exhaustion ran bone-deep, your muscles were shaky and cramping with the creeping cold, and your reserves of courage had just run completely dry. And with that, you went limp.

The creature knelt beside you and turned you over, chuffing softly like a tiger and gripping your backpack as if it were the scruff of your neck. Your stomach swooped, and when you opened your eyes, you saw that you were five feet off the ground, in the claws of a creature you’d thought only existed in ancient fairy tales.

A yeti had you in its claws.

Stars danced in your vision and you went limp before you could process much more than the dull, deep growl that reverberated around pronounced canines and black lips.

Warmth washed through you and you wriggled gently before a flash of sharp pain shot up your leg and you stopped moving immediately. At the sound of your shuffling, something sat up straight beside you and you blinked again, trying to clear your vision a bit.

Covered by a soft, woollen rug, you were lying on a sofa in a wooden cabin, with an iron, wood-burning stove blazing away at one end of the modest space, and with vibrantly coloured rugs and throws decorating the floor and couch. Everything had a handmade look to it, including the house itself right down to the cement used to seal the gaps between the rounded logs of the cabin walls and the rustic wooden handles on the doors.

In a chair near you sat possibly the most handsome man you had ever seen in your whole life, and the first words out of your mouth when you spotted him were, embarrassingly, “Am I dead?”

He laughed joyously, his ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. His skin was a warm, rich tanned brown, his eyebrows steel grey, and his long, thick, wiry white hair tied back off his ruggedly chiselled face in a half-ponytail. He looked to be at some intangible age between thirty and forty, with laughter lines around his eyes and one or two between his brows. His lips were full and looked infinitely kissable, slightly chapped, and he had a thick, pale scar on his chin that stretched up his neck, over his jawline to his lower lip that just invited you to press your fingers to it and draw him closer for a kiss. Naturally, you did none of that, and just stared at him like a thunderstruck imbecile.

“You’re not dead,” he chuckled, and you immediately felt hot all over, under your skin. He had a beautiful, rich, deep, lyrical voice with a lilting, thick accent. “But you did twist your ankle pretty good. How do you feel?”

As you blinked again, you realised that it was dark outside and that the curtains had been drawn against the night. You shifted again, trying to sit upright, and you realised that your foot was cold. Staring down at it, you discovered that he’d strapped a plastic ice block to it, wrapped in a tea-towel. “Where am I?” you asked groggily. “What happened?” and then you added, “That kid… there was a boy out there…?”

“You mean that one?” the man asked gruffly, scowling and jutting his chin over his shoulder at a wild-looking boy standing at the other end of the cabin. He was resting his lean, wiry frame against the doorway to what looked like a kitchen area, though it was hard to see in the low lamplight. The kid, perhaps nine or ten, flashed you a wickedly sharp smile and disappeared into the other room.

“Yeah,” you said lamely. “He’s yours?”

“Yup,” he said, standing up and looming over you for a moment before backing off, mostly so you didn't have to crick your neck to look at him.

He was wearing a creamy, cable-knit jumper with an intricate pattern on, and pale scruffy jeans with a rip in the knee. Where he was tall he was also broad-shouldered, though there was a softness to his torso that spoke of a different kind of strength from movie stars and body builders. He was the kind of man who could lift a tree trunk without much difficulty, but probably couldn’t sprint for long without getting winded.

“Who are you?” you asked as he turned away and reached for a mug on a nearby table. It looked unusual and you realised a second later that it was carved from wood. Something in the back of your head said, with the voice of your late grandmother, that it was called a ‘kuksa’ by folks in these parts.

“Oh,” he said, pausing and glancing back at you over his shoulder. His hair was thick and coarse looking, hanging just down to his shoulder blades but you still felt the inexplicable urge to run your fingers through it. You frowned, wondering whether he’d slipped you something while you’d been unconscious. “I’m Arttu,” he said, drawing out the consonants in a way that made your mouth go a bit dry. His eyes were so blue that they were almost beyond comprehension. You’d never seen anyone with eyes that colour. “Here,” he added, moving back to you and holding out the kuksa.

You made no move to take it from him, no matter how rough and big and inviting his hands looked. “What is it?” you asked.

“Water,” he grinned. “You’re safe here, I promise.”

“You can’t blame me for being wary,” you grumbled, sitting up awkwardly and reaching for the cup. “Passing out in the claws of a yeti and waking up in the cabin of some supernaturally handsome guy…”

Arttu nearly dropped the kuksa as he handed it to you, but he laughed almost shyly at your words. “Well,” he said, oddly flustered and with his cheeks slightly flushed. From the other room, the boy yelled something in a language you didn’t speak or recognise, and Arttu replied more softly in the same.

You tried not to make an indecent noise at the sound of his voice, and looked away. You took in the way your foot was propped up on a cushion and, for the first time, noticed that your very unflattering snow-suit was nowhere to be seen.

When you looked back up at him, Arttu was licking his lips nervously and had stepped back even further. You drank and then set the kuksa on a nearby hand-made, pine coffee table. “I mean it,” he said in a soft, earnest voice. “You’re safe here. Are you hungry?”

For you? “Uh, yeah?” you said, suddenly realising how long it had been since breakfast as your stomach clenched almost painfully.

His lips twitched and he nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

___

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[evelyndaugherty06-blog]

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[writingdotcoffee]

#87: A Walk From the Library

The traffic is heavy at Midland Road when I saunter out of the large iron gate at the back of British Library and join the small crowd at the junction, waiting for the green man. The tube station is around the corner. I could catch a train and be home in 45 minutes. But today, I go straight past it and head into the quiet side streets of Bloomsbury. I’m going for a walk.

After several miserably cold and rainy April days, the weather is finally turning for the better. It’s almost 8 p.m. The sun is about to set, imbuing the pale blue sky with a gradient of orange and red. The trees have sprung fledgeling leaves that will soon fill their majestic crowns. A young couple, probably students from the nearby UCL campus, walks past, holding hands, talking animatedly about their day.

At Judd Street, a barista flips a sign on the door of a cafe from open to closed and carries a blackboard sign with the day’s specials inside to be updated for tomorrow. Chairs are upturned on the tables inside the bistro next door which closed an hour ago. The city is slowly winding down.

My route takes me under a row of tall planes along the grey slab of concrete that is the fashionable Brunswick Centre. Amongst the townhouses of Bloomsbury, the shopping centre looks as if an alien ship landed in the middle of Victorian London. There goes an idea for a story.

I turn into a narrow passage which leads straight to Queens Square Gardens and lets me avoid the crowds at Russell Square. Then I round the corner into Great Ormond Street and carry on past the ubiquitous cast iron railings that set apart the pits of lower ground floor flats.

My mind is tired, and as I go, I let it wander wherever it pleases. I’m not in a rush. I’ve done my work for the day, and the leisurely walk with the sun setting behind my back is my reward. Sometimes, I listen to music or podcasts. Sometimes, I ponder ideas for stories or brainstorm new ones. Lately, walking from the library has been one of my favourite things to do.

The last golden reflections disappear from the windows on the highest floors. The sun has set, the sky becoming deeper, darker blue. The street lamps come on shortly and flood the pavements with yellow in perfect synchrony.

Lively conversation seems to be going on inside The Perseverance at the corner of Lambs Conduit Street. I don’t particularly fancy a drink today, so I head on. A runner overtakes me in Northington Street which is closed for traffic because of construction, but that’s really all that’s going on around this neighbourhood.

It fascinates me how, if you take the right turns, walking through the centre of one of Europe’s largest cities can be almost as serene as walking down a meadow. Tens of thousands of shoppers may be streaming down Oxford Street while you watch squirrels eating acorns in a deserted park two blocks away.

Somewhere in the distance, a faint howling starts. It’s not the police or paramedics, but it does sound urgent. I keep going, and it becomes significantly louder until it’s clear that it’s coming from a restaurant down the road which appears to be closed for the night. When I walk past the front door, I see a man outside with a backpack on, talking on the phone in distressed Italian. He’s the last man out, probably did all the cleaning, and they didn’t show him how to arm the alarm properly. Poor guy.

At Chancery Lane Station, where Grays Inn Road meets Holborn, the brindle-brick Georgian terraces with large sash windows become concrete and glass office blocks with cavernous lobbies made of polished marble and beeping security gates. Mainstream food chains replace the cosy independent cafes of Bloomsbury that wouldn’t be able to accommodate the throngs of office workers from the nearby high-rises during the lunch hour rush.

Soon, I’m walking past the sombre Old Bailey where Charles Darnay was tried for treason in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. Further down the road, the majestic dome of St Paul’s Cathedral looms above the glass facades of modern office spaces.

From there, I venture down Cheapside—a thoroughfare with boutiques on either side, selling suits and shirts to bankers. I imagine it’s anything but cheap. There’s a branch of Daunt Books across the street which I remind myself to check out every time I pass by and always forget. The buildings grow higher and flashier again. I’m in the skyscraper area where the lobbies are even larger with stone-faced security guards and a couple of automatic revolving door. When someone rents an office up on the highest floor, they clearly mean business. The views must be incredible.

Several new buildings are under construction around here at any given time with huge cranes towering above them. The sound of grinding and hammering echoes along the backstreets. Although it’s dark and getting late, the builders will be working until dawn, and the workers sweep in like high tide once again.

I've been walking over an hour now. At Old Broad Street, I take my final turn towards Liverpool Street Station. I saunter across the pleasantly quiet concourse and make my way to the platform to catch a train home.

Inside the carriage, people watch Netflix on their phones and scroll down their bottomless Instagram feeds. Even though my eyes are closing, I’m on my phone too, typing up the first draft of this story, hoping that one day, I’ll be able to look back at all the work I’ve done today and see it one of the thousands little stepping stones that eventually led to something bigger.

Hope is all I’ve got.

What I Am Reading

I’m near the end of Amy E. Weldon’s The Writer’s Eye. The author, who is a Professor of English at Luther College, touches on a range of topics including observation, descriptive writing, drafting and editing. There’s the occasional tangent, but nothing prohibitive. Overall, it felt quite advanced, and I would only recommend it to writers with some experience to get the most out of it.

On the side, I’m also reading a collection of short stories by William Gibson called Burning Chrome. The cover is freaking me out a little bit, but the stories are great.

To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’ll be reading next. I have several candidates on my desk and will pick one at random. I’ll let you know next week.

Short Stories

I read these short stories this week:

Eleanor by Chuck Palahniuk

The Gernsback Continuum by William Gibson

Fragments of a Hologram Rose by William Gibson

How monkey got married, bought a house, and found happiness in Orlando by Chuck Palahniuk

The Belonging Kind by John Shirley and William Gibson

The Hinterlands by William Gibson

Red Star, Winter Orbit by Bruce Sterling and William Gibson

Want More?

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Past Editions

#86: The Person Behind the Story, April 2019

#85: Airplane Mode as a Way of Life, April 2019

#84: It’s an Excavation, March 2019

#83: The Bookshop Anxiety, March 2019

#82: On Regularity, March 2019

[thisspaceintentionallyleftblank]

Try, Try Again (pt. 6)

Good news! I’m finally done being murdered by schoolwork and can actually post stuff again! I’ve got a few good ideas for other stuff, but in the meanwhile, here’s some more fanfic :p 

Chapter 6 (4537 words)

The first rays of sunlight trickled over the horizon, streaking the sky with the same orange glow as the desert sands below. Disturbed by the light, Rex sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Commotion had already begun in the street below, and he could see more than a few early birds up and about their morning errands.

With a deep yawn, Rex stretched, arching his arms above himself and working out the stiffness left in his spine from having slept on the hard floor. As he did, he felt the tell-tale buzz of Emmet’s cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Curious, he pulled the device out, inspecting the bright screen.

hey emmet, a new text notification read. b@man moved the meeting to his place

again

we can still head over together tho

meet u @ larry’s?

Rex grimaced as he thumbed through the messages. If he was the sort of guy that felt regrets, he would definitely regret having told Lucy yesterday that we would meet up with her this morning. But, obviously, he had no such regrets. If any cowardly portion of his mind was shying away from the idea of seeing her and the others again, of being treated like some goody-two-shoes again, then Rex would just have to ignore that part until it shut up and went away.

Unfortunately, it was starting to look like that part of himself wasn’t planning on shutting up anytime soon.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Rex rested his chin on top of them and tried to reason with himself. Meeting with Lucy was a strategic decision; it was as important to his disguise as the construction worker outfit and the yellow paint on his face. If he truly wanted to keep up his facade, that meant continuing to be Lucy’s Special Best Friend.

Of course, Rex thought, scowling to himself. I might not have to pretend forever.

Once Emmet was done with his training, once he was Rex as well, the odds were high that he’d see Lucy and the others the same way Rex currently did. Therefore, if Rex were to break things off with Lucy, it would likely benefit himself in the long run.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

A tinny, beeping noise emanated from Rex’s pocket, shaking him out of his thoughts. He reached for his cell phone again, only to realize that the device was still resting inertly in his palm. Tucking the phone back into his pocket, he pulled out the sleek black radio that he had taken from the Rexcelsior. The device continued to beep and blink at him, indicating an incoming call.

“Emmet?” Rex asked hesitantly, as he pressed the button on the side of the device.

“Rex!” Emmet’s voice came through the speaker clearly. “You’re there! How are you?”

“Uh,” Rex paused, casting a look down towards the people meandering in the streets below. “I’m super awesome, little buddy. How are you holding up?”

“I’m awesome too! I’ve been doing a lot of push ups, though. Snake says they’re the toughest form of exercise.”

“Yeah,” Rex chuckled. “That sounds like her. Have you all started your mission then?”

“Yep!” Emmet squealed loudly enough to elicit a sharp shriek of feedback from the radio. “The mission is going really well! I was all like, ‘Oh my gosh, why did I think I could do this? We’re all going to die out here!’. But then, we totally didn’t!”

Rex smiled, listening to Emmet regale him with the entire story of his adventure - sound effects included. He tried to pay attention, but couldn’t help but get distracted by the small part of himself was was quietly thrilled at how far Emmet had already come.

He had been hesitant to send Emmet through the glastroid field so early in the training process, especially considering Rex’s personal history with the area, but he had faith in Emmet and his raptors.

Clearly, his faith had paid off.

Clearly, the plan was working.

Rex had let himself get distracted. His goal wasn’t to have a good time in Apocalypseburg. It was to keep an eye on Lucy and make sure that neither she nor anyone else interfered with Emmet’s training. He had let his emotions run wild and, if he continued to do so, then he would never be able to complete his half of the plan. He would fail to protect the one person he cared about.

Emmet was still chattering in his ear, but Rex had long stopped listening. He just had to stay focused on playing his part. If he didn’t - if Lucy and the others undid all of Emmet’s training as soon as he got back, like had happened before when Lucy found them in Undar - then Rex would have to start all over, again.

Yesterday had proven that this was going to be an uphill battle, but Rex had been in situations far, far more hopeless before. He was prepared to tough it out.

“Rex?” Emmet’s inquisitive tone grabbed Rex’s attention.

“Uh,” Rex’s brow furrowed as he tried in vain to recall what Emmet had just been saying. “What is it, buddy?”

“I have to go now. We’re having a mission briefing, and they need their captain.” Emmet couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of that title applying to him.

“Alright kid, keep up the good work.” Rex held the radio in his hand, listening to it spit static for a moment before falling silent as he finally released the side-button. Slipping the device back into his pocket, he pushed himself to his feet and started pacing.

He had to do something to show everyone that he meant business, but what?

His hair was still messy from last night, which was a good start. With a practiced motion, Rex brushed the disheveled mess into his signature hair style.

Next, he clutched at the fabric of his shirt sleeve. Ripping them off would look pretty tough, as they were currently hiding his sick muscles from an unsuspecting world, but would such a drastic change strike the others as particularly un-Emmet-like? Uncertain, Rex settled for sloppily rolling the sleeves halfway up his arms.

Satisfied, he took off down the statue, heading into the city. It had been years since he had walked to Larry’s coffee shop, and yet his feet carried him there as easily as if he’d gone only yesterday.

As he entered, Larry turned and met him with an achingly familiar derisive scowl. As Rex scanned the crowd, the other patrons all shot equally scornful stares in his direction. Unperturbed by their reactions, Rex found himself with a more pressing concern.

Lucy wasn’t here.

With a frown, he pulled out his phone to double-check the messages she had sent. As the screen blinked to life, Rex suddenly realized his mistake.

He was late.

He was really, really late.

He had been so distracted during Emmet’s call earlier, he had completely lost track of time. Lucy must have left already. The meeting with their Master Builder friends had likely already started as well.

Rex hissed a word under his breath - one which cannot in good conscious be included in a PG story - and bolted back out the door.

*******************

Approximately ten minutes later, Rex hauled himself up the stairs in front of the former Wayne Manor and, with a grunt of exertion, rapped on the front door with the intricate and incredibly heavy, bat-shaped knocker. A moment past before Batman’s butler swung the door open.

“Master Emmet,” he said with a slight bow. “Please follow me to the drawing room.”

With a nod, Rex stepped through the doorway and proceeded to follow Alfred through the maze-like halls of the cavernous mansion. As they approached a particularly tall, stately looking door, the sounds of muffled voices grew louder and louder.

“Through here sir,” Alfred gestured towards the door before turning neatly on his heel and walking off in the direction they had come from.

Rex watched him leave. Once the butler was out of sight, he turned back to the door, pressing an ear against the cold wood and listening intently to the conversation on the other side.

“I don’t understand why you all voted against the giant steel dome.” Batman’s characteristic deep growl was difficult to make out. “It’s clearly the best and coolest option.”

“Batman,” Lucy responded, her voice strained with exasperation. “I am not going to explain again why blocking out the sun is a bad idea.”

“Sunlight is overrated.”

They’re arguing over how to prevent another alien attack, Rex thought, chuckling to himself. No one in that room had any idea how very relevant those concerns would become before the week was out.

“Maybe we should go over the blockade idea again.” Benny interjected.

“Yar, I be agreeing most with that sentiment.” Metalbeard’s loud voice was unmistakable. “Blockading yon Stairgate is quite clearly a better idea than anything this be-caped fool has suggested.”

Rex grimaced. Space was awful big, but if they started poking around the Stairgate then Emmet and the Rexcelsior could be in trouble. He needed to convince them to drop the idea, but as things currently stood, they would likely ignore whatever suggestions he made. However, if he could just show them how tough he was, then they’d have to take his advice. Determined, he pushed the door open.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Rex stepped into the room, watching as everyone’s heads swiveled at the the sound of his voice.

“Emmet!” Lucy exclaimed. “I, uh, I thought maybe you just weren’t coming today.”

“Nah,” Rex waved a hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t miss something as important as this.” With a grin and a cocky laugh, he pulled out a chair and flopped into the seat. “After all,” he continued smugly. “You guys clearly need my help.”

The other figures around the table exchanged confused glances.

“Right,” Batman huffed. “We heard you’re tough now, or whatever.” He was seated at the end of the long table, opposite from Rex and directly underneath a large oil painting of himself, whose expression of disbelief perfectly matched his own. At the sound of his voice, Rex bristled involuntarily.

“Well,” Rex forced himself to continue smiling cheerfully. “I’m certainly getting there!”

“Emmet,” Lucy, seated to his left, interrupted. “Are you wearing your hair differently?”

“Oh,” Rex reached up towards his hair absentmindedly. “Yeah, I thought it looked tougher this way.”

“That it does, matey.” Metalbeard piped up. Benny, sitting beside him, nodded in agreement.

“I like it,” Lucy added. “It kind of suits you.”

Rex’s grin softened into something genuine.

“Uhhh…” Batman tilted back in his chair until he was almost parallel with the floor. “Newsflash, but changing your hair doesn’t automatically make you tough, bro.”

“Yeah,” Lucy laughed nervously. “Of- of course it doesn’t… Um, for a totally unrelated reason, I have to leave right now.” Hastily, she stood up, pushing herself away from the table and exiting the room in the direction of the bathroom.

Rex watched her leave, his expression growing taut. “That’s not the only thing that’s changed, you know.”.

“No, yeah, totally,” Batman responded facetiously. “I did notice the whole… sleeve thing you’ve got going on, and that’s just super tough.” He paused briefly. “Also, you can’t tell, but I’m totally rolling my eyes right now.”

Rex felt his fists clench at his sides. Deliberately, he forced himself to take deep breaths.

“Maybe someday,” Batman continued, “you might even be tough enough to patrol the wasteland all on your own. Of course, maybe not, considering that I’m the only one currently tough enough to do that.”

Rex laughed, a burst of manic energy erupting from him. “Well, maybe someday!”

“Well,” Batman scowled, “maybe not.”

“But maybe!”

“But maybe not.”

“I am very uncomfortable with the atmosphere we’ve created in this room.” Benny said, mostly to himself, as no one happened to be listening to him.

Beside him, Metalbeard scoffed. With a cacophony of metallic squeaks and squeals, he maneuvered his prosthetic body such that it leaned over the table conspiratorially.

“I dunno why the two of ye be bothering to argue about toughness,” he mused, “when neither of ye be tough enough to seek out Lord Business’s lost treasure vault.”

Rex gaped at him. “Lost treasure vault?”

“Of course!” Metalbeard clambered onto the table, posing dramatically in the center. “When me crew and I first infiltrated that landlubber’s treacherous office tower, we stumbled across a vast chamber housing his most powerful relics - mysterious and terrible things, the lot ‘em.”

“His relic room?” Rex frowned. “But, we've been there before.”

“We found but one room of many,” Metalbeard insisted. “The powerful relics, the dangerous relics, be kept much, much deeper in yon tower.”

“Rumor has it,” he continued, “that some poor fool tried to find this vault, claiming that the relics belonged in a museum, only to instead find himself flattened by none other than the dreaded Orb of Tee-ti-lus!”

Benny gasped. “That’s horrible!”

“Aye,” Metalbeard assented. “That’s why I'll be sure to avoid his careless mistakes once I get me body working again and can seek out this treasure on me own.”

Batman said something about that, but Rex didn't hear it over the sound of gears turning inside his head. If he could find Lord Business’s vault, break in, and steal a relic, then these idiots would have no choice but acknowledge how tough he truly was.

“I can do it,” he said to no one is particular, before pushing out his chair and briskly walking out of the room.

“Uh,” Metalbeard watched him leave, his mouth agape.

“Well, that's… not good.” Batman stared at the closing door.

“Let's get Lucy?” Benny asked.

Batman nodded. “Let's get Lucy.”

*******************

“I can't believe you guys would just let him run off like that!” Lucy, sat in the passenger seat of another of Batman's cars, twisted herself to glare backwards towards the other passengers, who for the most part, had the decently to look properly chastised. As they sped across across the rough terrain, the vehicle jostled violently underneath them, forcing Lucy to hold tight to her armrests in order to maintain her position and fierce scowl.

“Has he not undergone a be-toughening, though?” Metalbeard asked from where he'd been crammed into the backseat. “Is he not tougher now?”

“He's a little tougher, but…” Her scowl softened, revealing a fraction of the worry she really felt. “Come on guys, this is still Emmet we're talking about. Do you really think one day is going to make much of a difference if five years didn't?”

“I hope he's okay.” Benny mumbled, squashed somewhere underneath Metalbeard.

“You guys worry too much,” Batman interjected. “We're all, like, superheros. Obvis, we'll save him.”

He reached over towards the dashboard, cranking up the music in order to drown out the others’ voices. If any of them noticed how his own grip on the steering wheel was deathly tight or how concern was etched into the brow of his cowl, they didn't mention it.

Outside of the car, the wasteland rushed by. Recognizing their need for speed, the group had elected to take the Bat Racer - the fastest custom vehicle in Batman's arsenal. The twin rocket engines on the back were howling furiously, propelling them nearly fast enough to turn the sand to glass underneath them.

In the distance, surrounded by the remnants of other fractured buildings, the imposing silhouette of Octan Tower grew steadily closer. Despite having been ravaged by aliens for years, it was still the tallest building in what remained of Bricksburg. As such, it was not particularly hard to find.

Upon arriving at the base of the tower and clamoring out of the car, Lucy and the others surveyed the area around the building, searching for any signs of Emmet.

“Emmet!” Lucy shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Emmet, are you out here?” She paced nervously in front of the main entrance, worry gnawing at her gut.

“Avast!” Metalbeard exclaimed from around the corner of the building. At the sound of his voice, Lucy ran over to see him gesturing toward the twisted remains of some kind of motorcycle.  

“Is that Emmet’s?” Benny asked, floating closer towards the wreck.

“Yar, most likely,” Metalbeard nodded. “The engine still be hot.”

Lucy felt dizzy. “But if this is here, then where is Emmet?”

“Look,” Batman said, pointing towards the building. “There are tire tracks on the windows.”

“You be thinking he done rode up vertically?” Metalbeard asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully with a metallic claw.

Tracing the tracks upwards, they could see a freshly broken away section of the building - a gaping hole in the glass with fragments of debris still flaking off and falling away.

“Okay,” Lucy said, breaking the tense silence. “Odds are that Emmet went in there. How can we-”

“On it,” Batman interrupted, lunging towards the Racer. With a trained Master Builder hand, he quickly stripped the vehicle apart, reassembling it into a sleek plane. “All aboard,” he barked, leaping into the cockpit. The other three followed him in, and with a tremendous roar the jet took off, streaking up the side of the skyscraper.

Elegantly, Batman piloted the jet through the hole in the side of the building, landing it in a clear enough spot for everyone to disembark.

Climbing out of the plane, they took a moment to look around. The room they were in was an utter disaster zone. Fragments of debris, miscellaneous office supplies, and the occasional robotic limb were littered around the room. A number of desks had been tipped over, and now laid on their side, surrounded by broken chunks of computer monitors and piles of official looking paperwork. In one corner, a beaten-up copier sat by itself, intermittently spitting out blank papers.  

Lucy moved away from the plane, shards of glass and wall crunching under her feet as she maneuvered around the larger pieces of debris. On her left, the room opened up into a narrow hallway. Above the entrance, a laminated sign read “Super-Ultra Top Secret Relics This Way”. Hanging slightly below it, a second sign read “Enter at Your Own Risk”.

Peering into the corridor, Lucy’s view was illuminated by the subtle red glow of laser grids. Beyond them, she could just barely see the rotating head of a sentry turret. Beyond that, there was only darkness and deeply concerning noises.

Unsettled, she turned away from the hallway, shifting her focus towards another worrisome aspect of the room - a giant hole that had been blasted out of the neighboring wall.

“Jeez,” Lucy breathed, stepping closer. “What could have caused that?”

On cue, Rex appeared in the mouth of the hole, holding some kind of large gray tube in his hands.

“Huh,” he looked at the others in surprise before smiling cheerfully. “Uh, hey guys. What’s up?”

“Emmet!” Lucy cried out as she ran up to him. She stopped just short of embracing him to cast a quizzical glance towards the object he held in his arms. “Uh…” She gestured vaguely towards the tube. “What exactly is that?”

“It be a powerful relic,” Metalbeard exclaimed in astonishment, striding towards Rex in order to examine the object more thoroughly.

“Really?” Benny floated closer as well. “But, uh, what actually is it?”

“Unless I be mistaken,” Metalbeard said reverently. “This be the Tape-estry of Ducks!”

Rex frowned. “That’s a stupid name. It doesn’t even have any ducks on it.”

“Me thinks it be a metaphor.” Metalbeard shrugged. “Regardless, legend says that anything ye stick onto its surface will remain stuck for all eternity!”

Lucy gasped. “Emmet! Are you sure you should you be holding that?”

“Relax Lucy,” Rex laughed. “I’ve got it covered.” Holding the tape up, he explained. “Only one side was sticky, so I just rolled it up a little. That way I only have to touch the safe side.”

“Ooh…” Benny nodded appreciably. “That’s super clever, Emmet.”

“Yeah, that’s cool or whatever,” Batman muttered. “Totally what I would have done, you know.”

“Wow Emmet,” Lucy pressed a hand to her temple, shaking her head in amazement. “You actually pulled it off. I’m…” She looked up at him, an apologetic smile playing on her lips. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Rex shrugged, struggling to keep his expression cavalier. “It, uh, it wasn't that big of a deal.”

"Not a big deal!?” Metalbeard exclaimed. “Mayhaps you hit your head, matey.” Plucking the relic from Rex’s hands, he carefully turned it over in his hands to admire it. “Any pirate worth their salt knows that whenever ye be laying your hands on some treasure, it be cause for a celebratory shindig!”

“Yeah!” Benny reached over, clapping Rex on the shoulder. “We haven’t had a party in ages, maybe it’ll be fun!”

Rex smiled as his friends started chattering away, eagerly planning a party. The expression sat easily on his face. This kind of reaction was much closer to what he’d been expecting. It almost felt nice, just being with his friends again.

*******************

Rex was loath to admit it, but the party turned out pretty cool. The music was intense and loud, the floor was already sticky with spilled drinks, and the whole place stank of sweat and body spray. It wasn't necessarily a fun party, but it was definitely a cool one.

Given the number of people attending, they'd been forced to use the Bat Fortress, as it was the largest available space in Apocalypseburg. However, considering Batman's infatuation with high-end speakers, as well as his recent installation of a snazzy new lighting rig, the fortress was actually a top notch choice for a party venue.

Despite its enormity however, the place still managed to feel claustrophobic. Swarms of people, crushingly close to each other, moved across the dance floor in seemingly random patterns.

In the center of the giant room, raised on a makeshift pedestal, was the relic. The Tape-estry was still rolled up for safety, a wise decision considering that a number of fights had already broken out on the dance floor.

Above all the ruckus, smaller groups sat on the suspended catwalks, talking amongst themselves and generally seeming above it all. Among them sat Lucy, another passive observer of the chaos below.  

Batman, the self-appointed DJ, put on another song. It was something loud and angry sounding, comprised of shouted vocals and industrial noise. It wasn't one that Rex had heard before, but he found himself enjoying it as he started making his way over to where Lucy was perched.

As he pushed through the crowd, people kept slapping him on the back, congratulating him and shouting banal phrases about how they'd always known he had it in him, or whatever. That bitter sense of resentment still simmered in his gut, but Rex couldn't deny that, at the same time, something like pride was slowly joining it. He'd finally gotten everyone to see him, see how tough he could be, see the person he was underneath Emmet's saccharine schtick.

There was one person that needed to see the new Emmet more than anyone else, one person that could undo all his hard work if she didn't. Lucy's opinion of Emmet could make or break Rex's entire plan.

It was for that reason, and that reason only, that Rex clambered up to her place on the catwalk.

"Pretty rad party, right?" He shouted as he approached.

"Yeah," Lucy turned at the sound of his voice. "It's uh, it's great, Emmet. Listen, I, uh..."

Her voice trailed off. Rex sat down beside her, watching her expression shift and grow thoughtful.

"I just..." Lucy scooted closer to him, pulling Rex into her arms. "I'm really glad that you're safe."

Stupefied, Rex wrapped his arms around her in return, pressing his palms against her jacket's velvety back.

"I'm proud of you." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it didn't need to be any louder. Rex felt the words more than he heard them. He clutched at her like a drowning man, squeezing her tight against himself. The strains of discordant music faded into the background. He couldn't think of anything; for a moment, everything was just soft and warm and perfect.

Lucy patted him on the back, and instinctively he let go. It had been a sort of signal that the two had developed when it became clear that Emmet liked hugs a lot more than Lucy did. It wasn't to say that she didn't enjoy them, just that Emmet tended to hug longer than she was comfortable with.

Rex leaned back, out of her space. She was still smiling up at him, and distantly, Rex could feel a dopey grin mirrored on his own face.

She reached out to take his hand, slipping her fingers in between his own.

"I love you, Emmet."

"I love you t-"

Rex cut himself off with a sharp inhale, the sudden breath causing him to cough profusely.

"I just- I need a drink." Quickly, before she could protest, Rex shoved himself off the platform, dropping into the crowd below.

He didn't run to the drink table, electing instead to turn and race out a side door, out into the chill

evening. The brisk air felt nice, as his skin suddenly seemed entirely too hot and clammy. From behind him, he could hear Lucy's voice asking the other partygoers if they'd seen where he'd gone.

Rex snorted. Of course she was looking for him. Now that he was tough, she and the others actually wanted him around.

This was proof that Rex was doing the right thing. It was proof that Emmet had to change so that his friends wouldn't abandon him.

It was proof that Rex should have just listened when his friends had tried to toughen him up all those years ago.

It was proof that if he had just been tough, then they wouldn't have left him there.

Rex slumped down against the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest. He hadn't listened back then. He'd chosen to cling to childish naivety, chosen to do things the hard way. A cold but familiar voice in the back of his head whispered how, in the end, it had really been his own fault that he'd spent so long in Undar.

This was his own mistake to fix. But, it was at least a mistake that he knew how to fix. In less than a week now, he would finally be successful. When Emmet returned, toughened up and accepted by his friends, the mistakes of the past would disappear.

He would never admit it, but Rex was afraid of not existing. It was an uncomfortable idea to consider. Of course, as he routinely reminded himself, it wasn't like dying. He- Rex would still exist, just with a different backstory, a different set of memories.

In the end, that's what he wanted. After all, the only way for him to move on, to get over Undar, was to make sure that it never happened in the first place. Losing those memories would fix him. It would fix everything. It had to.

Until then, he just had to stick to the plan.  

[ajoraverse]

I know it’s been a while since I did anything SU and I’m sorry. Dragondance/the FFV stuff is pure self-indulgence. So here’s the starter for the next chapter of Beta AU. 

One hundred years into Jasper's training regimen and she still couldn't manage the swift, elegant moves Pearl was able to do with her sword and spear. Not that it mattered, she supposed. Her strength was in brute force and probably always would be, but at least Pearl's training helped fine-tune her reflexes and ability to predict the moves of a smaller, more agile target.

The topic of joining the Crystal Gems hadn't been brought up since her first training session with Pearl. She still had her village to run, and the more rigid beliefs formed by centuries of living with nearby humans would always clash with Rose Quartz's ideals of freedom and sacrificing everything for love. When Pearl talked about things other than training, it was usually about the glory of the Crystal Gem's war for Earth.

Jasper largely kept quiet during Pearl's tales of battle, occasionally working in a question when she could. Mostly it all sounded like some of those fireside tales humans told during bitter winters; great and glorious and so far removed from the present that they might as well be legend. Yet, sometimes when Jasper stood out at her butte and watched the stars, her thoughts wandered to those tales and she indulged in fantasies of proving herself in battle.

Reality always came with the dawn. With the bulk of the village off to explore and do business with the enormous mound cities to the east of the Great River, Jasper was left with a handful of gems and that yawning expanse of ennui that threatened to swallow her whole.

The sprawling apartment complex was finished, at least. Mother spent more and more time in the room they made for her that was built between Jasper's apartment and Twig's, often slipping into quiescence atop the nest they rescued from that one gutted injector. Someone brought in turkeys from the southern lands for the feathers they provided, and they made themselves at home in Sage's garden whenever they escaped their pen. Which, of course, left Jasper with the ignoble task of keeping them in hand while Wren repaired the turkey pen and Sage prepared her garden for the spring with the help of a human.

"You could stop farming," Jasper said one day, when she had the turkeys in her arms and was ignoring their attempts to peck at her.

"We could just give those birds away and be done with them." Sage's attention was fixed on dropping seeds into the carefully-measured holes in the garden soil. Jasper didn't understand why they could farm here but not the other Kindergarten, but she suspected that it had something to do with the kinds of plants Sage used: squash to prevent the growth of weeds and repel bugs, maize to provide a growing framework for the beans, beans that fed all the plants somehow and made the maize kernels digestible to humans. Then there were peppers for flavor, cotton for weaving, and melons for those who liked their sweets. Outside the rainy season, everything was watered by the cache of jars and gutted injectors they re-purposed into tanks.

The human man, one of just a long parade of humans who came to learn Sage's secrets over the centuries, looked up from his digging stick and grinned. "I'll take them."

Jasper's response was nearly instantaneous. "They belong to someone already."

"They're Wren's," Sage said with a sigh. "Bullsnake, she'll probably let you have the chicks if you talk to her."

"We'd appreciate it." Bullsnake paused to stretch out his back; farming was hard work for humans, but it was more reliable than hunting. "My family just started out in a new cliff, so anything helps."

Jasper wasn't surprised; the local humans took a shine to building along and within cliff walls seemingly overnight. Maybe it had been a few hundred years since the first humans built their complex masonry homes in the alcoves in cliff faces, but it still felt so recent. She still wasn't sure why. "Why did people start moving into cliffs? You didn't always build in them."

Bullsnake looked up at her, as if perplexed by the question. "I think it's just... a number of reasons. To get away from river bugs and seasonal floods, or take advantage of the springs that sprout up in them sometimes. The stone blocks that fall off the ceilings are good for building. South-facing cliffs absorb heat from the sun during winter months. Safety. Tradition. The last place was getting too crowded. There's no single reason."

"Fair." Jasper had always wondered, too, if humans had gotten the idea from seeing their emergence holes inside the canyon, but it never seemed appropriate to ask.

She fell silent as Sage reviewed her numbers for Bullsnake: plant the maize seeds first, approximately fourteen days after the last frost of spring. The squash and beans would be planted during the monsoon months. They had to be so many foot-lengths apart. The maize should be about this high before the stalks could serve as growth support for the beans. And so on. When they were done here, Sage would give him starter seeds to supplement his family's collection. Would they like melons? Cotton? Oh, she had some extra dried greenthread he could take home with him for teas.

Jasper was always a little bit jealous of Sage's patience with plants. She never had it with other gems, of course, but for plants her reserves of patience were endless. Once, many years back, Sage had confided in her how much she appreciated how plants could change over generations. Maize, for example, apparently started off as small grass stalks and plants that produced the biggest kernels were favored and bred for thousands of years, until they produced great ears of corn in multi-colored variations.

In time, once Wren was finished patching up her pen and Jasper dropped off the turkeys, she came back to Bullsnake and Sage taking a break and talking.

"Those rocks in your bodies are your spirits?" Bullsnake asked. He sat on a nearby boulder, his digging stick lying next to a hoe made of a deer's shoulderblade.

Sage hummed as she sorted through her seed pots. Some bore the markings and colors of far-flung villages, others bore the meticulous, multicolored marks of other gems' handiwork. "You could say that. Our bodies may be destroyed, but as long as the gem remains intact, we can revive."

Bullsnake paused; he looked at Sage thoughtfully, as if he wasn't sure if he should share this information. "And those monsters, they're your people?"

Jasper's attention was yanked hard out of the boredom that came with the domesticity of farming.

"Yes," Sage responded. Her voice was sharper; she likely came to the same conclusion that Jasper did. "They're that way because they're sick."

"I heard from one of the pilgrims on the way to Salt Canyon that one of the pyramid kings conquered a stone monster and keeps its stone in a diadem." Bullsnake looked uncomfortable as he said it. "Will you try to get it back?"

"We'll send Egret." Jasper's response was automatic at this point. Diplomatic problem? Throw Egret at it. She walked the streets of the pyramid-builders all of twice and missed the cacophony and chaos of a hundred thousand people, but diplomacy was decidedly not for her.

The man's tension eased; Jasper was reminded again of the dissonance between Pearl's tales of wartime glory and the histories the humans shared around campfires of devastation. Their human neighbors might trust them with trade and interpersonal relations, but they never quite got around to trusting them on matters of discord and strife.

No matter. Egret would do her routine and that should be the end of that.

---

Notes: Jasper had been to Teotihuacan before. However, the pyramid-builders mentioned here are Maya. Jasper’s gonna get to go visit the Maya Postclassical heartland. 

Sage’s farming techniques are inspired by the farming at Mesa Verde, Cliff Palace specifically. I did my final paper for North American Archaeology class on it. 

Finally: Salt Canyon is a translation of the Hopi name for the Grand Canyon. 

[gamesplusculture]

Bayonetta + Culture: Kulshedra

"A possessed whip, sealing away the soul of the ancient serpentine demon Kulshedra. Summoning the power of the demon from a portal on the weapon's hilt, it can be used in the same manner as a normal whip."

Kulshedra

In an almost comical 180 from the Shuraba, the next weapon Bayonetta receives will be arguably one of the weakest weapons in the entire game (aside from the handguns).

Kulshedra is most used during the “Stay in the Air” challenges in the Alfheim stages but experienced Bayonetta players somewhat enjoy the fancy tricks that you can do with Kulshedra. They go as far as to say it is more fun to use Kulshedra than it’s Bayonetta 2 counterpart, the Alruane due to its variety in the weapon’s move pool. 

So... Is the mythos as interesting as this weapon?

Uh... I suppose?

Kulshedra are female dragons and the final form of bollas in Albanian folklore.

Bollas are evolved demonic snakes who keeps their eyes shut unless it is Saint George’s Day because the man cursed the bolla (a bolla? There are some stories implying that there are only one bolla) into being blind except for this one day. It opens its eyes on this day and eats any human that it notices. If the serpent haven’t been seen by a human for 12 years, it will then metamorphose into a kulshedra.

So if you think of it as a Pokemon evolution line... Some random snake -> Bolla -> Kulshedra

There are two widely accepted depictions of Kulshedra, one of them could be a human woman, lizard, turtle, frog, Pepsi can, you name it. Whatever the case, it generally has woolly red hair, a long tail, multitude of heads, saggy breasts, and poisonous breast milk and urine. This seems to be a more German take on the folklore as it seems.

The other way cooler version of Kulshedra (and is most likely the version Bayonetta referenced in the game due to Jeanne’s version of the weapon) is a multi-headed serpent dragon that is able to cause droughts and water-related disasters such as storms, torrents, floods, tsunamis, etc. The dragon can also take water from a land until the people sacrifices one of their own in order for the dragon to return back their water.

In Albanian folklore and culture, a kulshedra also have the ability to take the sun or a moon, so Albanians would shoot arrows into the sky or cause commotion via banging pots and pans in order to frighten them away.

"A possessed whip, sealing away the soul of the ancient serpentine demon Vritra. Summoning the power of the demon from a portal on the weapon's hilt, it can be used in the same manner as a normal whip."

Jeanne’s version of the Kulshedra references our good friend Hindu mythology once again!

The story of Vritra comes in two versions. The Vedic and Puranic version.

The Vedic version explains that Vritra or “Ahi” (Sanskrit for “snake”) as some of the people in the tale call him, was a dragon blocking Earth’s rivers so the land cannot get water. Indra, the god of the Heavens and lightning, was apparently born just to defeat this monster.

Indra visits the house of Tvastar, a heavenly builder and a maker of divine implements (think of him as a Hindu Hephaestus) , in order to take a drink of Soma, an elixir, to prepare himself for battle. Then Tvastar’s created Indra’s iconic thunderbolt weapon and Indra slayed Vritra, saving the lands.  

In Puranic version, Vritra was created by Tvastar in order to take revenge on Indra for the death of one of his sons, Trisiras. 

Tvastar, an asura, only created his son so he can dethrone Indra and take over the devas. His plan backfired since Indra ,in a fit of rage, killed Trisiras in front of the gods due to his lingering suspicion that Trisiras was a traitor (he was right). Without any evidence to conclude that Trisiras was a double-crosser, Indra fell into depression and berated himself for acting so foolish once again. Gods such as Vayu, Varuna and Agni were worried about Tvastar if the news came to him.

The news came to Tvastar and he was 🎶p i s s e d🎶.

He then created Vritra in pure anger solely to kill Indra for revenge. Vritra obey him and defeats Indra in battle. Vritra was going to digest him but with Varuna’s yawn arrows(?) the serpent yawns wide which helps the Gods retrieve Indra from his mouth. Vritra notices their escape and get furious at their cowardice. He ends up slithering to a nearby lake and swallows the Earth’s waters in one gulp, knowing that the Earth will wither and the devas will be forced to face him.

After Indra recovers, he visits Sage Dadhichi so he can sacrifice himself to gain access to his bones. Despite Indra’s negative feelings towards the request, Sage Dadhichi accepts and leaves his bones so the devas can make Indra’s iconic thunderbolt weapon.

Indra returns to the serpent for a rematch and kills Vritra via creating a large cut in its body so the Earth’s waters can go back to where it was.

There you have it folks! A weak weapon turns out to have strong mythology attached to it. Next time, Hindu mythology takes the spotlight in the next weapon we will discuss.

If you have any thoughts or corrections, I am always willing to listen and consider! I am learning therefore I will do my best to gain the right knowledge!

Until next time, bye bye!