#braindead also known as dead alive

[thedepartmentofdiscoveries]

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Braindead (1992) directed by Peter Jackson

[frogwithfeelings]

hello ive decided to share with you all a list of films i consider 'silly horror'

'but what is silly horror?' i hear you cry! well shut up im gonna tell you

the criteria for silly horror is that it should have at least 2 of the following:

good practical effects and/or shitty cgi

goofy creature design

at least one point in the film that makes you think "what the FUCK is going on :D"

ridiculous ending or plot in general

cartoonish violence and/or unrealistic gore

a generally goofy vibe

(bonus points if it's from the 80s)

these are mainly comedy horror films that have what i consider the absolute silliest vibes however there is opportunity for a serious film to fall into this category unintentionally, unfortunately tho i havent come across any yet :( (if you know any send them my way :3)

ok so without further ado my silly horror films

REANIMATOR & BRIDE OF REANIMATOR

EVIL DEAD 2 & ARMY OF DARKNESS

BRAINDEAD (also known as DEAD ALIVE)

THE FRIGHTENERS

FROM BEYOND

THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE 2

LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS

KILLER KLOWNS FROM OUTER SPACE

ok thats all i have so far if you have any recommendations please tell me i love these films :D

[calamiitywrites]

— qimir x mae

trigger warning: a bit of hateful speech ( towards jedi ) and mentions of violence and addiction to power.

request via ask: "Ok so Mae is my favorite lowkey and I feel like if she had time to develop she could've been so much more. Would you mind making a oneshot where she actually does harness the force and she's scared of the darkness of it? Like she tells Qimir ( the shopkeeper ) that she's scared to tell her master because she doesn't know how to feel about what she's becoming? does that make sense?"

note from author: I also like Mae and feel like she should've had a little more time to develop, but I think I understand what you mean. Let's see what we come up with. I didn't mean to make it so long!!! as always please leave notes / feedback / messages etc. - calamiity

The warm and desolate air of Khofar slid between her lips and nearly caused her to choke. They hadn't even begun hiking yet and she could already feel the regret of coming here nipping at her brainstem. "A relaxing retreat outside of the outer rim," he had said. Instead, she was confronted with a grim and dense rain forest surrounded by crumbling rock and fields of dead flowers. one would have to be braindead to find this relaxing.

truthfully, she couldn't decide which was worse; his erratic piloting or his incessant need to speak to her in old cryptic ideologies that centered around trusting her master. She had half a mind to believe that Qimir and her master were lovers with the way Qimir would radiate adoration and acquiescence at every utterance of her master and his antics. It made her wonder how close they really were. Had he seen the master's face? What deal did they make with one another? How much of what she tells Qimir, will the master find out about?

The more time she spent with Qimir, the more her questions and distrust amplified and stacked like a pile of bricks lodged in her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. osha was alive and he had known this whole time without telling her. everything had changed and yet everything still reminded the same. Her allegiance was irrevocably tethered to Osha. she didn't know who to be without her. now that mae knew and understood that osha was alive, her quest for vengeance seemed increasingly futile. Yet beneath it all lingered a piece of shame she was desperate to keep hidden from her master and from osha herself. a piece of her that refused to stop.

She didn't realize that her eyes were watering and the idea of Qimir seeing her in any state of vulnerability nearly made her grimace. She knew that the right thing to do would be to turn herself into Master Kelnaka and leave her fate in the hands of the Jedi counsel. But a fragment of herself, long suppressed and yearning for freedom, emerged from the shadows, chastising her for clinging to shackles. "This is not who we are," it spoke mirroring her own voice.

This inner voice had been with her since the death of Master Indara, and she had come to recognize it as a part of herself—an insistent, primal force that echoed through the forefront of her mind without remorse.

Before she realized it, her feet were already moving toward the forest’s perimeter when Qimir’s voice halted her in her tracks.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! I wouldn't just take off if I were you. Khofar is massively uncharted. I know bounty hunters wont set foot in these forests." He stepped forward, inadvertently knocking over the container at his feet.

"Oh but you have," she replied, disbelief lacing her words.

"Yes… I have," he acknowledged matter-of-factly, shoving items into his bag. "To find the Wookiee and it was hard. That is one jedi that does not want to be found."

Her eyes wandered back to the forest and it some how seemed more threatening than before. The deep overcast destroyed any semblance of sunlight, casting an aura of dread that reached out with malevolent fingers.

"You went in there and risked your life for my master?" the disbelief in her tone had amplified and for a moment she found her eyes scanning him from head to toe. there was absolutely no way.

"No, I risked my life to help you." He corrected, retrieving a canteen of water from his bag and offering it to her

"Admit it, you need me." he added, his tone trailing off as he pushed the bottle toward her. When she reached for it, he held it firmly, meeting her gaze with unspoken intensity.

"You know, you sister being alive doesn't change anything. You need to kill the Wookiee. You made a deal." He reminded her.

There was a distinct pause between the two of them and for a moment she saw something she had never seen in Qimir before. A deep sense of understanding that he shouldn't have had. It was so profound and unsettling that she narrowed her eyes as if to look deeper into him. The deal with her master was not a secret between them, yet the concern etched in Qimir’s expression almost mirrored a warning—a subtle form of authority that twisted at her stomach. Was he commanding her?

Defiance decorated her features, her furrowed brows portrayed her resistance and betrayed her calm demeanor. "Osha being alive changes everything." she declared confidently, though her gaze fell away from his, while her thoughts moved inward. "But it doesn't change this." her voice was distant. she could feel his eyes burning holes in her skin, but she remained silent, teetering on the brink of revealing her true struggle.

She ground her teeth together to keep from speaking and turned towards the forest again. Though no further words were necessary, Qimir’s presence beside her rekindled that irresistible urge to unburden herself— he was the only one that she could really talk to. Yet the choice still felt unwise.

"How do you kill a Jedi without a weapon? It has to be some sort of test right? You engage unarmed, but you can use their saber if you unarm them. Or....is that cheating? I'm just curious to how you're gonna do it this time...you ..you failed so much." He jested.

"I didn't fail. I killed Torbin and I killed Indara." She retorted.

"But you killed them your way. You have to kill the Wookiee without a weapon. Your master wants...."

"What kind of deal did you make with him?" she interrupted, her voice sharp.

"I didn't, we didn't......I just owe him. You know how he is, he collects people."

"I've never seen his face, have you?" She pressed.

"You know I haven't." He spoke slightly annoyed. She could feel him pulling away from her, but she couldn't stop herself.

"I suppose it’s for the best that he hides his face. I’d hate to see his reaction when he learns I’ve been deceiving him," She chuckled bitterly while mentally wincing.

"Lying about what?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the distant trees, though his curiosity was simmering on the edge.

"Everything." She shrugged, eyes fixated on her feet as the sound of rocks crunching underneath her feet reminded her of their current remoteness.

"What do you mean?" He pressed further, this time looking back at her through the sides of his lashes.

"I know he's displeased with me for not ... killing the Jedi his way, but I have to do it my way Qimir. If I do it his way then I'm afraid he'll see that...." She trailed off, finally meeting his gaze. He had slowed his pace, studying her with an intensity that seemed foreign to his usual demeanor.

"He'll see what, Mae?"

She blinked, losing focus under his scrutiny, her gaze shifting away. A distant feeling warned her that if she told him he would end up telling her master. After she killed Indara it became clear to her that she couldn't trust herself so how could she ever hope to trust him?

She didn't notice it before, but they had stopped walking a few feet away from the forest. His eyes implored her to elaborate, but this was slowing them down.

"Nothing." She retracted refocusing on the forest and moving toward it. She was surprised to find his hand outstretched to halt her. Her eyes fell to his arm, and her brows furrowed in confusion. When she met his gaze once more, she encountered that same unsettling blend of authority and curiosity.

"Tell me."

"Why? So you can run off and tell him?" she questioned raising an eyebrow. Qimir’s shoulders shifted slightly, a hint of offense flickering across his face, but she saw through it. It was irritation, fueled by her lack of trust in him.

"Mae, you can tell me." He urged, but it was still there. That tinge of weariness that warned her to back away, but she wanted to trust him. he was her only friend.

"Something… happened during my fight with Indara," she began, her gaze skirting away once more. She half expected him to press her further for a response, but instead he stood quietly listening to her speak. She couldn't remember a time he seemed so in tune with her words.

"There was a moment when I thought I had her, but she bested me. I managed to escape, but even from a distance, I could tell she recognized me. She called out to me, and when I realized she knew who I was, this… tightness gripped my chest. It was as if it had been empty all this time, and then something flooded in without warning. All of a sudden she started clawing at her throat, and I didn’t realize she was choking until she collapsed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, and it struck me—it was me. I was doing that to her, and I couldn’t stop. I almost killed her, but when I felt what I was doing, I stopped."

She swallowed hard, finally meeting his gaze. His expression was a mix of confusion and awe, leaving her unsettled.

"Are you afraid your master will learn you failed with Indara?" he asked.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "I’m afraid he’ll discover how much I... liked it." The words felt like a confession, yet the peace she sought was overshadowed by shame. "I watched her struggle for breath, pleading with me for mercy, and all I could think about was how my people had been in the same position. Yet Sol, Indara, Torbin, and Kelnaka remained unmoved. They didn’t stop until my people were slaughtered and my home was destroyed. I showed mercy to Torbin. He was always fated to die by my hand, but after Brendok, he chose a life of permanent fasting and meditation, consumed by guilt. I allowed him to pass gently into darkness, but the others deserve no such reprieve." the malice in her voice had finally shown through and her eyes reflecting the rage she had tried so hard to conceal.

"I liked seeing her that way. I liked the rush of power that I felt, knowing I would be the last thing she saw before her death. To kill her unarmed, with the very power they used to destroy my people—just because they didn’t understand them—was satisfying. My master was once a Jedi. There’s something old and wise in him, and I know if he finds out... he’ll see me as a monster. Who would want to train a monster, Qimir?" her question was genuine, but when her eyes met his she froze. He was looking at her, but it didn't seem like it was her that he was seeing. Where was his mind?

"You can't....tell him, Qimir." She spoke, bringing him back into the present and pulling him away from whatever thoughts had been rummaging through his mind after her confession.

"I wont, but I think you should....." he admitted.

[jdeanmorgan]

honesty hour: top 5 horror movies !!

ooooooh. that's like. genuinely hard for me to answer lmao. but. off the top of my head in no particular order. scream (the entire franchise really), idle hands, bride of chucky (literally have a tattoo of tiffany on my inner bicep lmao), the cleansing hour aaaaaand the lost boys (sexiest vampire movie idc).

honorable mentions: the conjuring (entire franchise), final destination, jennifer's body, sin city: a dame to kill for, fresh, braindead (also known as dead alive), tom at the farm, the burbs, the people under the stairs, orphan, hard candy, the cabin in the woods, mayhem, saw.

[pyrrhesia]

FF14Write22 - Vainglory

In which Ysabet Sable takes the fall.

"One of the many curiosities of the Flood - or, to give it its rather unwieldy full title, 'the Definitive Account of the Flood of Light that Threatened to Swallow the World Whole, and of its Ultimate Defeat' - is that Sable never chronicles in detail how she came to arrive in Norvrandt. She does describe a 'calling' that befalls one of her companions and in a later volume details what became of Hlessi, her future wife, to bring her there. Yet her first accounts of being in Norvrandt are in the 'Rak'tika Greatwood', in the process of reuniting with the, ah, equivalent to viera, where she spends hundreds of pages detailing the world in degree in lieu of any real sense of narrative; this is only picked up when her companions find her again. Now, it can be surmised that she must have ended in the Greatwood somehow, but how? Some extremists have posited that the entire book is fiction, but this seems deeply at odds with what is known of Sable's character - and these volumes tell us as much or more about her than they do about the events she hopes to capture - but my preferred theory has always been that her arrival was a time of chaos, and she simply did not have time to detail the events that befell her. Moreover, that they were too mundane to prove relevant to the account, once she did find the time to begin..."

Violet eyes flickered open. No. No, on second thought. Too bright. She'd give up, gather her thoughts awhile. The Calling. The Calling. Oh, it was fine and fascinating when it was happening to other people. But she... ? She had always thought she would have more time. Time to, for instance, stop it from ever happening. That would have been nice. Hm. Sensations. Bad ones. For instance, a twig digging into her bare breast. ... Why was her-- Where was she? Was she dead? What was going on? Reluctantly, she pried open her eyes. It was horribly bright. Throat, parched. Head, aching. Worst of hangovers. Couldn't be dead. She'd lead too virtuous a life to be beset by hangovers. Also, Thancred wasn't dead. Braindead, maybe. Who could tell the difference? Haa. She was alive enough to joke. "Oaghhe." She forced herself up. Leaves rustled underfoot. Felt good to be standing on ... wait, no. No, it didn't. It didn't feel right, didn't smell right. Where was this? Not Eorzea. Not Golmore, certainly. Somewhere... far beyond... ? And she was shorn of aether. It did not feel... cut off from her, to her relief. But if something attacked her, she would only have her skill at arms to count on. The arms she did not, presently, possess. ... She decided she would climb a tree and panic there instead of the forest floor. Yes. Better to have a vantage point. It was a good plan, and it would have worked if she was not so disoriented. For three, four steps, she sprung up the branches with an alacrity that belied her frame and age. Then she tried to throw up, fell out of the tree and broke her arm. It was not a good day.

Hours passed. Too many... strange. It should be nightfall, she wondered, should it not... ? Perhaps she was so disoriented she had simply lost track of the time. Yeah. That had to be it. When she found signs of civilisation, she pounced on them like a starving man on a loaf of bread. A road. A road! It was a risk, and she was tempted to wait until night fell (any minute now...) but her stomach growled between thoughts. She had a little magic to her, now. Coming back all too slowly. Enough that she might be able to protect herself... She needn't have worried. The place was empty, and picked nearly clean. Meticulous. But no cobwebs. They had not left in an undue hurry, and not too long ago. What had driven them out? And where had they gone? A few houses were likely emptied prior to that, though. She found some abandoned clothes. Made for shorter people. Shorter, starving people. But there was a dress loose enough to become an ill-fitting tunic, some rope she could force into a belt, boots... it would be enough to not look like a wild-eyed barbarian if she ever found a local. There were small mercies; not least, a well. Her thirst had crept up on her, but now water was in sight, she found it all-consuming. And after she had slaked it, she bolted a door shut with the last of her wards and passed out on a ratty old mattress, too tired to wait for the sun to set.

She woke up... who knew how much later? Past the dawn. Nine, ten hours perhaps, but it had felt like far fewer. Her hunger had woken her. Viera could last on an empty stomach longer than a hyur... by a day or two. Probably? She had never needed to put it to the test. Hers were a hardy people... in their own lands. Nothing to do but keep walking. Night did not fall. Night never fell. It could not have been so long. So why did it feel so long? Did time pass slower, here? Wherever 'here' was... ? But after countless hours, the stench of people assailed her. Living in squalor, in bulk. She followed it hungrily. Maybe, if luck supported her, they would be brigands who would try to kill her and she could murder them and see if her palate could force down human flesh. Ha, ha, ha... She collapsed on the outskirts.

Her eyes flicked open once more. She heard... voices. Why was it still so damn bright... ? "Finally awake," she heard. Then bustling, people crowding around her. "Oh, thank Vauthry!" "For what? We don't need more competition--" "Are you really, really sure she's not a sin eater?" "Sin eaters are beautiful. This thing's caked in mud and sweat. Oh, she's one of us, alright..." "Hush. We have to stick together." "D'you reckon she's come all the way from Fanow?" "Why not? Word's spread far." "She looks pretty well-fed. I reckon she got thrown off the tower. Shouldn't get a second chance..." Ysabet forced her voice into a piteous croak. "Shuuuut. Uuuuup." They did. Long enough for her to try and pick out a few faces. A young woman, who had certainly been comely before the emaciation kicked in and was still, really, only a long bath away from presentability, smiled encouragingly down at her. "Be of good cheer! You've made it. Just. Here, eat this." 'This' was disgusting. It tasted of chalk, and absent of all that was good. But it did, just about, sustain her... maybe it would give her the strength to find more food. There had been berries, before. She could have foraged. But she was not desperate enough... it was all... wrong... "Do you have a name?" asked the woman at last, giving up on her thanks. Right. Yeah. "Ys... yss'bt." Recognition? Any recognition? No. "Isbamet? Right, right. All the viis i've ever seen have those weird -met names. Mind, I've only ever seen two or three." The woman smiled at her encouragingly. Others did not seem so impressed by her disorientation. She forced herself to nod, and at least seem like she had herself together. "Yes. Ysa...met. Is my name. Like the other viis. Which I am." "Of course," said the woman. "Where did you come from?" Ysabet blinked at her stupidly. "From Fanow, or--" "Yes," she said immediately. "There. Isamet Fanow is my name. My head hurts. Thank you for taking me in. How long was I out?" "Three, perhaps four hours." Then why was it so damn... ? No. If they were not worried, she could not show her hand by being worried. Perfectly normal. The sun was in the sky forever. "I understand. Yes. Well, it is good I have made it here, to my destination." She looked around. "Just to be clear, ah... just to be certain. Where are we?"

Nine days. Nine days of sitting outside the city, cooling her heels. Getting her strength back, she told herself. But it was clear that the city was the place to be. Outside the city was terrible. Entering the city was only barely worth the trouble of being outside the city. But it was very much worth the trouble. After all, the world was ending. Eh? She pieced her circumstances together, bit by bit. The portents were not good. The sun did not set. The land was diseased. And the damn chalk-bread, that... was good for barter, at least. The refugees certainly couldn't seem to get enough of it. She ate enough to live. When the guards asked her her trade, she said she was a writer. It did not feel prudent to reveal the full extent of her magnificence. Not just yet. Only when she was in would she built her strength. There she could, at last, spread her wings...

"Isamet?" Dutifully, Ysabet bounded forward as her master yawned her name. Oh, how she hated her! Oh, how she hated her shrewish, vapid friends! But it would all be worth it. She was getting closer to the heart of power, this... 'Vauthry' they all heard about. In hushed whispers and reverent tones alike; fear and love, a potent mixture. She would get to the bottom of this, yet... But for now that meant smiling like an idiot as her master paraded her in front of her soft-boned friends... "This is Isamet," she repeated unnecessarily. "A viis, you know." "Oh, how droll!" "Yes, that's just what my Stol said! Oh, and will you look at her little ears..." "Oh my! So droll!" Ysabet tried to think of how clean she was. Think of the food in her belly, the warmth of the hearth... "Oh, but Isamet, dear, would you mind brightening up a bit? It's quite putting me off my fifth course." Ysabet smiled. Incisors gleamed. The fifth course could now continue. Clink. Gura-Prel's teeth scraped against the spoon. "Isamet here," she said, mouth full of food, "she can read. And write! Imagine, a viis - and one of the, you know, the savage ones from Fanow - able to read and write!" A friend smacked her wet lips. "That is so droll." Ysabet stared dutifully at the wall. "Do you suppose..." A second friend slurped on his food, and did not deign to swallow his Godsdamned food before continuing to speak, spraying food across the table, "D'you suppose she knows any folk songs? From her people? I'm sure they are very merry over there." "Oh, that's right!" Gura-Prel brightened up. "A merry, simple folk, eh? Isn't that so, Isamet?" "It is often mistaken for--" She bit her tongue. "It's. Others have made. The assessment is--" "Oh, dear," said the final friend, chortling heartily even as she slurped on her wine and oh, oh how dearly Ysabet wished she had not been born with the curse of hearing. "She really tries to talk like a civilised person, bless her." Gura-Prel felt the need to defend her investment. "It's not like that. She can be very articulate." "Mmmmm." Slurp. By the Green Word, was she licking the dregs from the damn goblet?! "Honestly, Gura, I fear this will end up like the last one." "Oh. Do you think so? No, I quite like this one." "Maybe too much," opined the male. "You could afford to feed her a little less. She looks a trifle spoiled, and I like a hungry look in my servants, don't you? It keeps them from being complacent." "Oh, she came that way!" said Gura. "Did she? That's very droll," said the woman who said everything was droll. She was the one. In Ysabet's increasingly creative power fantasies of murdering Eulmore, she was the first one to die. Four chocobos would tear her apart, drag pieces of her to every corner of the world, so that she could never say the word 'droll' again... "She isn't really that impressive, Gura. The Blois got in a viis only the other week, you know." Leaning closer, he said, "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were following trend-setters." "Why, Pelo!" "But fortunately, I do know you better! So how's about one of those folk songs, eh? Or dance? Do you think she dances, Gura?" "Do you, Isamet? Do you dance?" Ysabet's smile was more brittle than glass under a rock. "I love to dance. I love dancing more than anything in the world except serving you, master." "Ah, I knew it." The male smacked his lips. "These simple tribals, they really can't resist a good old shake, eh?" "Well then," said Gura, gamely, "let's give it a shot!"

Half an hour later, the tea party had concluded. Thirty-five minutes later, Ysabet's voice could be heard wailing through Eulmore's vast halls. "No! No! I did everything you asked for! I'm the most literate person in the world! I DID THE STUPID DANCE! You don't want to do this! LetgoletgoletGO!" People lifted their heads, for just a moment. Ah. Nothing of importance. Just seemed someone had lost her chance, but there were always plenty waiting to take her place. Unusual, though, thought the few in line of sight of proceedings. Most did not take six guards to subdue. Ysabet did not see a point in starting a killing spree. Yet. But that did not mean she was going to go quietly, thrashing and kicking at her escorts. "Idiots idiots IDIOTS!" she screamed. "I put up with your vapid friends for THIS?" "Oh, please, Isamet, you're making a scene," pleaded Gura. "I will stop making a scene if yoU TELL THEM TO LET GO OF ME!" "Oh, we will," muttered a guard, chuckling. His mates chuckled with him, with the imbecility of people who lacked imagination enough to have more than one joke. It was rarely a good joke. "They're just going to escort you out of the city, darling, there's really nothing to worry about," soothed Gura. And... yes. Wait. She was right. This wasn't the way to the jail. She relaxed long enough to be dragged a considerable distance. Then she realised she wasn't being taken to the front gates, either. But by then, it was too late and she was on the precipice, surrounded by armed men, and rumours she had heard about and assumed were imaginative metaphors suddenly flooded back to her... Gura smiled apologetically at her. "So sorry it didn't work out." Ysabet glowered back. "I hate you with all my hate." And then the gates behind her opened, and the boot pressed into her midriff and her heels gave way and now, at last, she was flying...

"... the strongest evidence for my theory actually emerges from a different primary source of the era, who spoke to Sable some years later about her time in Norvrandt. According to this account, Sable said that her greatest achievement in Norvrandt was 'not burning Eulmore to the ground and killing everyone inside', which does to me suggest some hidden encounter prior to the Fanow entries..."

[transmascbutcher]

since I’ve thought about this many a time the boys is like. extreme western slasher and splatter gore that is really fucking fun. I would honestly say it’s a bit shocksploitation (more in the way of braindead/dead alive or ichi the killer as a comedy than something like a mondo film) for television. which is honestly one of the reasons I love the show like I do because I enjoy gross bloody horror and I love a good horror comedy. this isn’t me saying it’s horror (though I also have thoughts on how it Could be categorized as horror) as obviously exploitation films are not specific to the horror genre. anyways.

while this is something I enjoy it does absolutely nothing for something made to have a narrative. I have a really good time with it but, like much exploitation does, it lends nothing to the show and is known to be the big draw for it. so now you’re stuck with. well. season 3 for example. I personally love it because it’s so batshit but it lacks what is needed to keep a decent plot going. I think if this was an instance of someone making this a movie followed by various sequels it could work honestly because the limited time with that would honestly make the plot a bit less important. but because the source material is a commentary (that I have not read and don’t really want to) that would be a bit of a disservice.

hopefully for season 4 they were able to find a decent balance of shock and plot but until it’s actually out I won’t hold it to that. I’ve said it before I’ll say it again: I will go in expecting nothing from Kripke due to being in the spn mines before. less room for disappointment. also I’ll be honest I watched this show absolutely stoned out of my gourd so that helps.

[soyouareandrewdobson]

Marvel’s Dobson: Infinity PTSD

In case you wonder why I personally think Dobson is an idiot, here is one (of many) reason(s): Dobson takes the wrong things way more serious than he should.

 On one hand, he will belittle people e.g. to think about the new Pokemon starters more than about current events in real life…

But then he will also throw fits at something like a silly add slogan by Burger King, calling it sexist crap and that the company should be ashamed of it.

 Belittle lesbian teenagers for not taking “KorraSami” as something serious and progressive as he does…

Or in case of Marvels “Infinity War”, believe that the movies ending would be ptsd inducing.

I am not kidding. What you see here is a tumblr post Dobson made up shortly after he watched Infinity War in May of 2018, making it known that he is scared that the movie could be traumatic for people on a global scale.

Which was laughable back then and is even more so in the year 2021, when we actually go through a global trauma in form of Covid-19. Making me also believe, that Dobson, despite claims of suffering from depression and his own form of PTSD, has absolutely no idea what a trauma really is and that despite all his whining over the years, he must have one of the most privileged and easiest lives on the planet, if he thinks a superhero movie is going to be as traumatizing as certain real world events. At least the way the post is worded implies, that Dobson seriously believes seeing Spiderman and other Marvel heroes bite the dust (so to speak) has the same effect as e.g. witnessing 9/11 play out live or being involved in an actual war.

Don’t get me wrong, I know of the reactions people had at Infinity War and the infamous Snap scene. I myself was in a theater where a bunch of kids started to cry when Starlord died. And I do understand that reaction. Because unlike Dobson, I am not just using my brain to whine about things not pandering to my fetishes.

I know, that the MCU and its characters have grown on people over the years, myself included. So when we as an audience watch the world and characters we care about get destroyed as Thanos does to Knowhere, Gamora and so many more, we have an emotional reaction to it. I myself was not distraught, but genuinely surprised that when Thanos snapped his fingers, as many heroes died as we saw on screen. Sure, knowing the comics and that Infinity War was just part one of a two part Avengers Finale of phase 3, I knew the snap would happen. In fact, I even hoped for it to happen, cause I love badass villain moments and Thanos was a favorite of mine long before the movie. Not because I am a space fascist, but because I enjoy threatening villains and stakes in my stories, unlike certain people.

I just didn’t expect that after all the hype Marvel created for certain heroes over phase 2 and 3, especially Black Panther, they would do something as “radical” and kill as good as 95% of all heroes introduced in phase 2 and 3 off. Wakanda forever? Not according to this movie.

But I digress. Point is, I will give Dobson the following: Yes, the movie’s ending has obviously caused people to have a sad emotional reaction to it, because at the end of the day, we will react with sadness when we see someone we care about die. But guess what: So have many other movies over the course of cinematic history.

 Do I really need to remind people (and by people I mean braindead idiots) of stuff like Jack dying at the end of Titanic and watching the ship sink, Mufasa being thrown off a cliff, that one horse from Never Ending Story in the swamp, certain scenes of “Who framed Roger Rabbit”, that scene of the dog put down in “Marley and &Me” and so on? You know, stuff most of us remember as having watched in our childhood only for us as adults to joke how this shit traumatized us?

Okay, it may have at least to some degree in so far as that we remember those movies in parts because of those scenes. I think there have been a few kids not wanting to go into the water to swim for quite some time after watching Jaws. But guess what: Most people get over stuff like that, because somewhere down the line they realize it is just a movie or that those sad/scary parts are actually in their own way “fun”/good and helped us appreciate the story we watched even more. And all Infinity War is, is just another movie in a long line of such flics, while also being the culmination of a decade long multipart movie project by Disney to get the most profits out of superhero movies possible.

Furthermore, I doubt there is or ever was going to be everlasting damage, seeing how “Endgame” was going to happen anyway and has been out for almost two years. Meaning all the “drama” of Infinity War in 2018? Dealt with. All the people that turned into dust are alive again and well thanks to the Dragon Balls- I mean Infinity Stones, which is more than can e.g. be said about Bambi’s mom. So if your kid starts crying because Thanos won when you let them watch Infinity War? Make sure to put Endgame in almost immediately to show them their heroes are not dead. Just hope the kid is not a fan of Iron Man or Black Widow, cause they are the only superheroes of the bunch who are going to join Old Yeller and Co in the everlasting realm of fictional character deaths to “fuck up” your kids.

Which btw is the other thing worth pointing out: See, I can imagine kids having the most negative reaction to watching the Snap play out. Because most kids will not know as many media as adults and are on average not exposed to as much violence or “traumatic” events in the stuff they watch/consume or in real life (hopefully). And lets face it, Infinity War has some “brutal” scenes in it. Thanos choking Loki, Thanos getting stabbed, Thanos getting an axe in his torso, Thanos throwing Gamora of the cliff, everyone getting blown with the wind etc.

But the way Dobson words it, he believes that adults too will react to it negatively, to the point they may need therapy. To which I say, no. If most children can deal with Infinity War, so will even more adults. Personally I think the only person “traumatized” by Infinity War was Dobson himself, because if his history in regard of movies and media he consumes is any indication, he is a pantsy who likely pisses his knickers at animated Halloween specials despite being now almost 40.

Even others called him out on it, but Dobson, the manchild that he is can’t acknowledge that he may have overreacted to it and still believes this movie is a horrifically traumatic experience, based on some youtubers overreacting for the sake of clicks.

Last but not least, where was that kind of reaction by Dobson when Man of Steel came out? You know, the movie where the fight scenes in Metropolis were actually called out by many people in the media of being triggering for people who experienced 9/11.

Seriously though, if Dobson thinks Infinity War’s ending is traumatizing, I just have to ask the following things:

a) how many mainstream western comics has he actually ever bothered to read, cause on average even worse shit can happen in them to heroes than seen in Infinity War (just ask people who read “Cry for Justice”)

b) if Infinity War is already that traumatizing for you, how did you expect to ever be a decent story creator yourself, cause obviously you can’t see characters actually suffer? Except of course when they are straight males abused by redhead pirates.

c) Just as a personal opinion: Better turn into dust than to be inflated and popped, Catty!

[sylph-feather]

delta echo alpha delta

Summary: 

He is here, for some reason, in this place and with these people he vaguely recognizes. He wants help. Please, please, please. 

(All they see is a haunting and a monster.)

Prompt by @ectopal

“Jack and Maddie, at the end of their rope,  beg Vlad to come to Amity to help stop the ghost that's haunting their family. Vlad realizes that it isn't a ghost that's terrorizing them, but their son, who recently became a half ghost and is having just about the worst time in the world dealing with it. Bonus points if in his human form Danny is extremely unsettling. ”

Notes:  (yes the title is from lemon demon’s lifetime achievement award). this... i spent. way longer setting it up so sorry about minimal vlad but. uhh im really proud of this. i went. i went a little nuts, admittedly. with imagery. i hope its not incomprehensible? 

Wordcount: 2825

Being dead… is new.

The Phantom isn’t sure just how it is new, it contemplates as it stares at two children who scream and scrabble at a smoking portal. Blank in their terror, they ignore him.

His eyes flicker towards a mirror on the other side of the room, and it only shows the two of them.

The phantom ignores them— who is he to interrupt? Dead men tell no tales. He gets the distinct feeling that everything is wrong, and a piece of that puzzle is the pair’s odd familiarity— but hey, he just died, he’s really not feeling up to much of anything.

Green eyes stare in the mirror, but that’s all he is— two green wisps, apparently ignored in the panic of two teens.

He supposes he should feel weirder having, presumably, died. No, he innately knows he died.

But mostly he just feels… confusion. Displacement.

And cold, not unpleasantly so, just a buried, almost peaceful chill.

In between blinks— perhaps he is tired, so tired, dead tired (he laughs to himself), the two teens flicker away, basement restored, before he can even think about questioning them. Why are you so familiar? Why am I here? It pokes sharply at his heart.

For the phantom knows he is dead, but he never considered that means alive once, too tired and dead-brained (hah) to question implication.

The ghost of Danny Fenton closes its wispy eyes, not strong enough to maintain form, let alone to pervade that shock scrabble at memories that may lead him to living again.

xXx

Three days pass. The ghost, in moments of waking, had decided Phantom. There is something so familiar about that name, the way it rolls off his (hypothetical) tongue.

In between blinks, he sees the Family in the basement, that place of awakening.

They speak of someone missing, lost. They gesture to the green, swirling abyss, upset as they work on something that looks like a rocket. Rocket. Stars pervade his mind as he lazily blinks, and he falls back asleep to dreams of space before he can even think again of questioning the Family, of asking can I help?

He knows what it is to be lost, but he is too tired and unfocussed.

xXx

The one with the firey, long hair notices him first. He has taken to floating about the abode. Nothing physical keeps him here, but there is some tug in his heart that makes him want to stay.

He likes the red haired one. She reads a lot. Talks about bad coping to the Parents, though he’s not sure what those words mean (he’s unsure also why he gets the feeling of vague annoyance, oddly familiar, and the stinging in his chest becomes so painful when he thinks like that, like a scorpion’s deadly barbed stinger).

One day, one higher energy day, a week after the awakening, Phantom lazily swishes after her, into her room. Sometimes he blinks and he hears the swishes of pages and a drip of water, and he has enough energy now to be curious.

The doors, the walls, the floor— they’re all nothing. Or maybe, rather, he’s nothing, he observes as he notes the girl crying on her psych book.

He frowns, distantly. She’ll ruin the pages like that. Maybe there’s something more he should be concerned about, but he is so young and lost, and so tired.

He runs a finger along a page, rolling away a tear, in an effort to dry it. The pages flutter in a wind, and the girl startles, glancing at the closed window.

For just a moment, Phantom sees not two piercing green wisps, but something blue and glinting, and a fragment of a foggy body in his place. He glances down— there is no second person here.

He’s distracted by the fact the girl is crying again, harder, scrubbing her eyes.

Distressed, he thumbs at her face, and a cool, wintery wind blows over her hair.

He’s too tired to do much more, and his chill becomes like a blanket to him.

xXx

It’s small, but maybe Phantom can help the family. His waking moments get more frequent and longer, and he starts to fidget with objects; the daughter cries, and he rustles her hair. The mother sleeps on her research of the great swirling door, and he drapes a foggy arm over her. The father squints into darkness at his foggy form as he goes down for a midnight snack— then blinks and rubs his eyes. He flickers the computers off when they should be sleeping, touches at their shoulders in comfort, because he wants to help them and he wants to be with them so bad. The flailing stinger pierces again and again.

“We’ll find him,” the Parents insists, and the Phantom tries to support them as best he can. The Daughter has given up, but he tries to help her, too.

Bluntly, the Phantom notes perhaps he is not exactly selfless— one of the few concrete truths he knows of himself (the other being an enjoyment of word play; he’s twisted dead and ghost every which way). There is some innate desire within him to be with them; seen, known, interacted with.

At the moment, he’s not more than a blustering wind and a foggy reflection.

He sinks to the floor, ghostly sigh escaping his ever invisible lungs. He’s wondered if ghosts are supposed to breathe as he does, but it’s not like anyone’s around to ask. His crackled voice is never heard by the Family, responded to by nothing but icy silence.

He brushes a hand against the cold lab table from his floating position. His hands feel solid to him, but again, do not reach the Family.

The Phantom takes a look around at the toxic green beakers and sleek white tech. He is slipping away again, not that he wants to— but not that he has a choice.

In what feel like his last moments for the day (week? Month? Time is undefinable) he grasps at a beaker, curious.

Green oozes onto the floor as it blows over. Frantically, the Phantom tries to correct his mistake— but touching it… touching it feels good. A jolt of electricity and energy. The tiredness… is gone.

Something flickers beneath him, and the Phantom jumps into the air. White feet follow black legs. Him.

The mirror that showed green wisps and two teens now show a white haired boy, with two green eyes. Something seems… underneath that reflection, though. Approaching the mirror, Phantom tilts his head, and the picture glints into something blue eyes and black haired for a fraction of a second, as though it is iridescent.

And then he blinks out altogether again.

xXx

Phantom’s first appearance is in the night. The girl has put away her book she was crying over while reading in the kitchen, and the Parents are upstairs; they eat, softly, quiet. It’s like walking in snow. The cold is not tranquil, the flakes not soft, they are just sharp things that land quietly in flesh.

The Phantom decides to break it with an icy crunch.

From the shadows, from the floors, he claws at that energy.

The Family stare in shock at the white haired, green eyed form that flickers in the shadows.

Their ears ring as his form, like static snowflakes, glints into something familiar, as they sit frozen.

xXx

He sleeps again, after that stunt— but the Phantom wakes, hopeful. The Family is searching for the lost person— perhaps they will also be sympathetic to his cause. Maybe they don’t even need to find the lost one, Phantom considers; this feels so much like home, maybe… maybe. No, no, you can both get help, he scolds in gentle reminder to himself, reminding those thoughts are the scoprion’s poison. It’s not malevolent— it just, in some way, he just knows he’ll slot in like a missing puzzle piece. He doesn’t know how he knows, and thoughts like that make the urge of please see me, the love, the need, grow so strong.

His voice reaches them in a static scream; he gives that approach up quickly when the Parents shoot into the nothing. He doesn’t want to scare, he wants to be helped, and to help. He’s finally a little less braindead (his chuckle is tinny static) and can contemplate a little more emotionally complicated situations— in other words, he can tell continuing to screech is perhaps not the best idea, and perhaps more subtlety that is available to him with his increased thoughts is required.

The TV channels, the word magnets, the radio. Static and the message lost lost lost please help lost lost forgot forgot see me see see see seeseeseeseesee me.

The Phantom feels his message is going well until the Family destroys those things in a green fire.

I need your help, though, he grimaces. Perhaps they just aren’t getting it. The dead cannot speak, are not supposed to; he knows this when he writes messages, something grating in his mind that keeps him from communicating all but his basic thoughts and wants.

Determined still, he starts flickering into existence again, clawing out of shadows. Lights flicker at his arrival.

It’s hard to do much like that, though; his brain dies (more?) and it’s all his concentration of see me see me.

The Family shoots at him, and more sleek machinery invades the household— defenses.

It doesn’t hurt him.

But… if he gets frustrated, slams at the fixtures a little harder than needed, rakes the words into place to try to say something, who can blame him? The Phantom, for some reason he cannot explain, feels the Family is his family. The Phantom wants to be seen. The universe tries to keep the dead in line, restrain the dead from disrupting that natural order of their old life and their afterlife. It’s a lot of factors, the Phantom dismisses, very much like a sassy teenager, and slams a door a little harder to get someone to notice.

The real problem is that they notice, then react in all the wrong ways. But the Phantom cannot swallow that, that his efforts are squandered, because then where would he be?

xXx

By the time the Fentons are valiant enough to get Vlad to get the “gang” back together, the creature is a constant. The ghost scrapes its filthy claws over the lights, resides in mirrors, screams over anything electronic— and their tech puts no stop to it. It’s like it has a foot in each world, caught between the ghost zone’s intangibility that would let it not be hurt but make it challenging to interact and the human realm’s solidity that would allow it to be wounded.

It is too powerful.

xXx

The Phantom can feel that the irritated old man is powerful. Something about his eyes glints red, in that same iridescent way that something inside Phantom’s green eyes glint blue like a glacier, if you just tilt your head and squint just right.

The Parents, who the Phantom has grown wary of— and yet he’s still here— why? It feels so much like home. He wants it to be home, because it’s always felt his place. Maybe that missing person doesn’t need to be found— maybe he can—no, no, remember!— the Parents, they are ranting about ghosts loudly. The man is impassive, and the Phantom plays with tilting his head just right to get the man’s skin to flood blue.

“I think it’s Danny,” Daughter says softly. That name stings him, but Phantom doesn’t think Daughter means to hurt him. She, Phantom still likes. She looks at him when he shows, looks at him like someone is concerned, even if she cries harder than ever nowadays (maybe Phantom is just awake to see it more, but he notes the constant redness of eyes and face is new, so maybe not). She doesn’t destroy his messages, just stares. Not helpful in the least, he notes sarcastically, plucking at the invisible yet black (—how can it be both? How can he be two things that are so opposite and parallel?) jumpsuit of his (how can it exist when he never can exist, so many hows).

“That isn’t Danny,” the Parents cement, and Phantom frowns. The name stings again, the scorpion sitting perched upon a rib and taking personal offence to that person. Who is Danny?

xXx

Watching the old man is tiring and boring. Phantom doesn’t have enough energy to reach him, to say help me (because the old man has the glint and that has to mean something) so he decides to change that.

When he sleeps, he dreams of so many glinting things. Flickering figures of the Family and the Teens that visit sometimes. But they are just ghosts of memories.

xXx

It is in the night when he wakes up, green eyes staring at the silver pool moon, pleased as he ever is staring at those stars.

A breath passes his lips, and his nonexistent form shudders. Someone—!

“You must change back,” the ghost he saw in glints of the old man says. Belatedly, he introduces— “I am Plasmius, and I am… like you.”

“You see me,” Phantom murmurs, breath foggy. No, that isn’t right. The ghost is squinting in general directions, as though Phantom is a glimmer in his eye. Phantom is a glimmer in his own eye in the mirror, so he understands.

“You are... foggy,” the blue ghost amends, confirming Phantom’s thoughts. “Something about you is wrong.”

“Thanks,” Phantom says sarcastically (a new ability, a new joke that he loves), “tell me something I don’t know.”

“What happened to you?” the ghost asks.

“I woke up,” Phantom says bluntly. “I’m here now. They won’t help me.”

“Their son— they ignored their son?”

“They have a Son?” Phantom’s eyes flutter— “is he the lost one?”

xXx

The ghost went back to flickering inside the old man, because the Mother charged in.

“Oh,” she sighed, “it’s just you.”

“Yes,” he says, and he glimmers and shows fangs and horns, “just me.”

Phantom does not like the way he is looking at the Mother, but he’s not that good at judging subtleties in people still, so he lets that feeling pass.

xXx

The next… Phantom isn’t sure if it’s the day, he fell asleep, but his naps are less and less, so he feels safe in calling it the next day… the next day, the ghost flickers out of the old man to float with him again.

“How do you do that?” Phantom wonders. Is it the key to not being seen, to guise oneself as one of them, as not dead?

“You should be able to do it, too,” the ghost mutters, “I see it in you.”

“The blue eyes and the black hair,” Phantom breathes. Like a bird feather that shows green at an angle, so too does his other, and this ghost is the same.

“But you are unstable,” Plasmius informs in a frown. “You never settled into one world, so you are stuck unable to traverse between them.”

Phantom blinks, confused, and Plasmius heaves a sigh of thin patience.

“You flicker a lot more than I do,” he informs bluntly, in a tone that suggests perhaps Phantom is an idiot. “And,” he tacks on, more contemplatively, “you seem to not remember anything, as though you’ve separated yourself from that essential connection.”

“Connection,” Phantom echoes, and he yearns for that connection. His entire soul keens for it, to fill that hole.

“Yes Danny,” Plasmius grunts, and that scorpion strikes again, “a connection.”

“I’m Phantom,” he defends, tapping at his ribs like he can knock the stinging creature off, away from his vulnerable chest.

“You’re both,” Plasmius says.

“Danny is the other?” Phantom asks.

“The blue eyes and the black hair? Yes. He is your glint, and he is the lost one, and he is just you.”

“Oh,” Phantom breathes, and the scorpion is writhing and striking his heart and itself and his ribs and— and—

He passes out, green eyes going out like a light.

—But the flickers, the flickers finger around him, crawling over his form like electricity for a moment, and his form is a patchwork of two, and his mind is a flood of memory.

xXx

“I defeated the ghost, last night, and he gave me your son,” Plasmius’ old-man voice rings.

And Phantom is Danny and Danny is Phantom— and as usual he sleeps. Memories came in dreams, an eruption after so long of being dammed, brought forth at simple acceptance. Despite the dreaming, or rather because of it, he is achingly tired, with zero energy.

This time, his family (the Family, the same) surrounds him in warmth, in that thread of connection, and inside, in more normal and soft dreams, he feels something become filled.

The scorpion crawls away into the soft, soft snow.

[mirovoi1]

REFLECTIONS OF A JAILBIRD

It can be quite hard to force myself to concentrate on writing when myriad distractions abound: I have the internet, snacks at hand, and a curious mind that prefers wandering than getting stuck into the arduous task of gathering my thoughts and organising them into one structured essay.

What is worse is that there are also myriad birds outside my windows that are eager to show off how free they are - while it is me that is cooped up inside an aviary. And this has been my daily life for months already here, in the middle of Istanbul.

The world has surely been turned upside down.

And my state of being has now too.

Have you ever been to prison without being involved in a crime?

The laws of lockdown have worked; they have successfully restricting my body to the house, but it has also set loose thoughts and emotion; and the things that stir inside an idle being.

In fact, I am usually the opposite: a busy body with a braindead head – not a rioting soul in a dead body.

Thus, has been a rare chance to engage in some very unique, albeit testing, self-reflection and what I have observed is that my own mind is actually hell-bent on getting away from me.

Out of due respect for public health, I have not really been anywhere for a full three months. And during this home-sentence, I have been battling with another prison: a mental prison consisting of high walls that forbid me from doing any proper constructive written work.

The summer warmth has arrived in Istanbul; finally replacing the long, wet winter - the heat and sunlight have come and replenished the empty hole that is known as ‘lockdown’. This is a very good change in events. Weather does alter one’s mood.

The uplifting summer-scented air has called me to begin writing down a few notes to share with you all. Although, however lovely days of sunshine and birdsong may be, it seems my newly-found prison-life has offered some useful (and dire) insight into how many lives are lived.

*

Morning after morning after morning, I wake up in the same fashion, with the sound of pigeons outside my bedroom window. They sit there and mumble the same stuff at each other. I get up for a coffee. The sparrows chirp like mad in the big leafy trees from morning till dusk and I am always here to hear it. Now that all forms of unnatural noise have subsided over the past weeks, the world has revealed that there are even chickens living on the banks of in front of the apartments opposite me.

Who would think chickens exist in a city of fifteen million people? Well, I believe it. It is hard not to believe it when their bleating is sometimes all that is left over now that cars and engines sounds have left the room. Right now, it is a bird’s world and I feel as if I am the only living creature that sits around stagnating all day.

Those birds are busy with their lives and I am the one who is sat in the bird cage waiting for some sort of seeds to appear in my bowl.

*

During my lifetime, I have always wondered how come old people so often tend to be miserable.

I was confused as to why oldies were always angry when kids’ balls come over their fence. I thought that old people should know that life goes along better when the world is a tolerant and friendly place - after all, judging by their bent posture and wrinkly skin, it could be safe to say that they have been around for a bit and should be aware of the tricks of the trade.

The world over, I have been yelled at by grumpy old people – usually for noise or some other form of unruliness. But my anticipation for some eventual grey-haired wisdom to save the day always fell through as they most often would revert back to their own form of unruliness – that being their decrepit emotional composure in the face of something minor.

I always liked to imagine that someday, I will become the seemingly only old man in the world who is patient, kind and unconcerned with little things that are of no apparent bother. I thought I would be the kindest granddad who would come out of his house, and instead of shouting with a stick in hand, he would come with a packet of chocolate biscuits and tell the kids just how great they are doing with their soccer skills.

But now I get it.

A silent, idle life, void of real things to do and people to talk to just makes people become dank. Now I understand. A rattle in the refrigerator has the power to really piss people off. I never knew of that rattle when my life extended beyond these four walls.

In a tiny little world, tiny little things just appear so big.

Now I realise, I too, in the future, am capable of becoming an angry old man.

*

In Istanbul you often have company from giant seagulls which are a key part of the infrastructure of this giant port city. Istanbulites love to feed animals, and these massive birds easily get their beaks into heavy pieces of stale bread. They do not want to share their findings with others and so they fly onto the rooftops and drop it, hack at it and throw it around in order to break it into smaller, edible size pieces.

I live on the top-floor and often have to deal with them stomping around on my roof. I have a rooftop sky-window that I can open up and be part of the goings on up there, but they are too busy to care. They are very happy. I am not though, and I give them the evil stare from under the window pane. And, again, they are too busy being happy to care.

*

May is the month of Ramadan and at times some very rhythmic Anatolian music seeps out from behind some bushes somewhere near where those chickens live. There is also drumming at 2am each night. Sometimes I hang myself out the fifth-floor window to try to get a piece of the vibe. I always found the concept of music to be extremely fascinating. Music is such a human thing.

I admit I have felt a bit self-conscious before dancing in front of other people, but I have to say that I feel downright embarrassed doing so in front of animals. So, I don’t. I am sure animals understand the pleasure in moving around and having fun, but the style we do it in… well, I don’t know about that. We must look absolutely ridiculous. But it is Ramadan, and it is a time for celebration.

There is a family of crows that lives in a branch – rent-free – just opposite my biggest windows in the lounge area. I enviously watch them coming and going, and taking turns at sitting on their babies. They screech and caw, as I do when I think I am singing.

As I hum along to these sudden outbreaks of traditional folk tunes, I wonder why we humans feel the need to offer a bit of our own noise to an otherwise good-enough piece of music. We also like to move our bodies along with to the beat, as if that was called for. If you can get past your own two feet, that is, then this timely shuffling is generally known as ‘dancing’.

So, it seems that adding some singing, some lyrics, and well, ultimately some sort of mouth and body movement to the music, it just makes it all come alive.

*

We humans make order of our thoughts through speech. We navigate our world through the use of the mouth; through words; through language, through lyrics, through conversation, through stories, constantly feeling the need to incessantly release some form of mouth-made noise with/to/towards/at other people: we engage in civil, amicable chitter-chatter; we emit our oral vibrations out of rage at poor kids who have lost their ball over the fence, we thrust our noises into the music as we groove along in tow…

…and somehow this makes us feel better about the world.

I can honestly say I am utterly embarrassed to be a human. But, the innate, instinctive need for talk and movement dictates our psyche. The necessity for social interaction with other people and physical interaction with our environment is indisputable. This is the source of a large part of our health. And without it, well…

We humans are a group mammal after all – perhaps more so than the feathered ‘free-folk’ outside that even feel free enough to crap all over my windowsills. But it is obvious: being around people and engaging in meaningful conversation regulates our mood and emotions so that we can avoid entering the otherwise guaranteed free-fall to hell…

…where a lot of us are right now.

All of this has now become starkly clear as I sit in here doing the opposite of what a healthy person does. All the animals accentuate the fact that they can get more done in life now that us human-beings have ceased to be part of the furniture; and we are not around anymore to bother them. Unless I decide to dance behind the glass or something - and that could bother a soul or two.

I mean, if you have to be a human being, then you also have to know how to meet a human being’s needs. That is not to say I dance, but it does mean one needs to be able to think well, speak properly, and move more.

This may seem obvious and straightforward, but I can assure you… it is not.

Just as one may think six months at home would be heaven, and when it comes around you realise it is actually a nightmare. Human beings may sit around in their homes dressed in clothes with their fancy gadgets, but can assure you, we do not always really understand what it is that we need. Nor do we properly see things for what they are…

A lot of us have never learnt to think, nor learnt to move, nor learnt to speak. Properly, that is.

*

Over the years, I have had a number of students who could fall under the category of ‘depressed’; or ‘hell-bound’ would be a better way to put it.

There is a thing called clinical depression, but this dispiritedness is often just simply an environmental, psychological, physiological or sociological inadequacy or imbalance. Sort of like a form of vitamin deficiency that comes good again with the right adjustments.

That is basically to say… yes, as it seems, a lot of melancholy folk typically seem to lead a full-time lifestyle of lockdown.

Try that! What a bloody existence…

I have observed many teenagers of mine who regularly take part in physical activity in their daily lives, be it sports or dance, are generally much more mentally and emotionally healthy – not to mention physically so. They tend to hold onto less negative energy and have a lighter, bouncier kick in their way of being.

Those that have good social, conversational and inter-personal skills tend to have these similar healthy characteristics. In short, those that are well-equipped to meet their simple human needs fare well in the world.

But this species of well-equipped kid is actually depressingly rare. A huge number of adults do not qualify either. That has frustrated me for a long time.

*

Normally at this time of year, I would be busy preparing for the summer holidays for when my students and I hit the long road with our backpacks on.

This year, that is not going to happen though, which is a pity because we were planning for some very exotic locations (Cuba, Madagascar…). And it is also a pity for some of my students that are, and/or have always been full-time-lockdown-lifestylists who would greatly benefit again from a couple of weeks-long de-shackling from the mundane.

However, this virus has offered me a very unique opportunity:

With the ditching of my passport and car-keys and the forgoing of my usual travel-lifestyle, I now get the chance to exist on this great planet in another fascinating way…

By being in prison, experiencing the psychological state of depressed prisoners, getting to know and understand the inner-world of many of my students, rehearsing for when I am old, and getting to write about it all.

More unfortunate is getting to brush up on my knowledge about myriad aspects of birdlife and how damning similar it is to ours. Even more unfortunate than that is the succumbing to the fact that I am capable of using words like ‘myriad’ myriad times in a six and a half page-long essay…

13 May 2020

(Period of lockdown from Covid-19)

(Some Photos from Around My Place in Istanbul)

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Also, what would a Susie or Norman focusing fanfic be like in the Bendy/ Under tale crossover?

Because you didn’t specify Susie Deltarune or Susie BATIM I’m doing a drabble with both, Enjoy:

The glum angel absentmindedly tapped on the window of the rented bus as she looked outside at the rest of the group, wishing that they could just hurry up already so that they could get back on the road and go... Well, she didn’t know where that crazy, stupid prophet was taking them, but if he managed to keep an entire village of people alive and not all completely brain dead in spite of the entire studio literally pulling out all the stops to try to stop him, then she could trust his judgement enough to let him lead them to this supposed “Abandoned Kingdom he sent the others to” that he was yammering on about, even if she knew what he was saying sounded like a load of complete bullshit.

She should’ve been happy.

Susie Campbell had finally been freed from that nightmarish studio, and unlike so many of the workers within the studio, she wasn’t one of the searchers or the lost ones, or even some scared, confused toon who was wondering either “What are we doing in this strange looking world that’s nothing like home?! How do we get back?! What do you mean ‘our world is fictional and didn’t exist in the first place’?!” or “Why the $&@! Am I a cartoon animal?! What the #$%* is up with the outside world?! Is this a dream?! It has to be a dream!” She could still remember who she was and why she was like this.

In addition to that, She was “Perfect” and “On model”, looking more like a cartoon version of herself than she did Alice Angel (which pissed Malice off to no end, but as the twisted angel had been demoted from ‘the main angel in control’ to shoulder demoness, there was nothing she could do about it but silently fume.). When she spoke, she spoke in her own, normal speaking voice instead of that warped, distorted version of Alison’s voice. She could look outside and see colors, not just the sepia tone hellscape of yellows and black, but the entire pallet.

But she was absolutely miserable. Why should she of all people be blessed with so much when she had done nothing to deserve any of it? Every time she looked at Norman, she saw the projector-headed monster she turned him into, no amount of reels or tacky oversized hawaiian shirts could ever change that! Every time she looked at Sammy, she didn’t see the proud, cynical and sarcastic hardass with a secret sweet side who she fell in love with, she saw a self-destructive madman who spaced out so often he might as well have been braindead. And Buddy? The poor kid might’ve looked more human now, but he was still a cartoon. A cartoon who remembered what Malice did to him and couldn’t help but flinch whenever she was too close.

Malice might have been the one who had done the killings and took pleasure in them, but Susie had done nothing to stop her-

“Susie!”

Speak of the Devil, she was now pulling on her hair to get her attention.

“Susie! Can you hear me?”

“What do you want?” she hissed under her breath.

“Somebody’s coming aboard the bus with something, I think whoever it is wants to talk to you.”

“Oh.”

That was… pleasantly surprising compared to most reasons why Malice wanted her attention. She stood up straight and turned to face the bus’s door to see a giant purple lizard carrying a to-go bag for the diner the bus was parked near.

“Hey.” she stated, lifting up the bag for her to see. “I heard you were moping in the bus, so I brought dinner.”

“Thanks…”

The angel took a tinfoil wrapped burger out of the offered bag.

“So…” The lizard-monster dug through the bag and pulled out a burger of her own. “Apparently we both have the same name.”

“Your name’s Susie then?”

“Yep, Susie Campbell.”

“Huh…”

“I kinda think it’s cool, I didn’t know I had the same name as a famous voice actress until recently.”

“So I take it I was just ahead of my time then?” Susie chuckled. “Alice wasn’t really all that popular...”

“That’s hard to imagine; Alice Angel, the heroine star of some of the underground’s most well-known and loved cult classics getting thrown off to the side…” The monster looked at her sympathetically “It must’ve been tough.”

“Honestly, it is and it isn’t. I always thought that if I’d be alive to see Alice’s popularity, it would be while I was still voicing the character. ...And while I was still human.” The angel sighed. “This entire past few days have all just been so weird, I feel like I’m just having a vivid dream, and I could wake up at any second.”

“How’re you handling post-escape depression?”

“Post escape depression?” the toon repeated “Is there really enough people who remember the studio to give it a name like that?”

“Not that I know of.” She shrugged. “But when monsters escaped from Mt. Ebott, at first, a lot of us were thrilled to be free, see the sun, and to not have to worry about getting overcrowded in the underground, but then we realized we had to deal with shitty people outside, a world saw us as myths for centuries and had changed so drastically we could only barely recognise it, and homesickness. Sure, a lot of us were miserable down there because it was a literal prison, but it was also home. And I can understand if anyone in the group feels the same way.”

“What was the underground really like?”

“Sammy’s description of it was pretty spot on.” She took a bite out of her burger. “Big, lots of different climates and shit all under one mountain, stuff like that. I’m almost surprised he didn’t live down there. Granted, I don’t know what it’s like now, but I don’t think it’s anywhere near as bad as the studio was for you guys.”

“At the very least, they won’t be hacked to bits by me anymore…”

“Hey.” The non-toon Susie put her hand on the toon Susie’s shoulder. “Sure you fucked up in there, but you have all the time in the world to make things right out here. If they could forgive Sammy, Tom, and Allison in spite of their involvement with getting them all trapped in there in the first place, then I’m sure they’ll forgive you too as long as you try to prove that you’re willing to change for the better.”

“Thanks, Susie.” the angel wiped tears off of her cheeks. “I needed that.”

“Anytime. I might not be a professional shrink or some shit like that, but I’m getting better at helping people out.”

[felinalain]

Cates garbage list of problems

- Eddie being retconned as a “ egregiously depressed suicidal bastard “ (thanks Symbean) which is against Eddie very core.

- Symbiote being retconned as a cruel manipulative abuser.

- Both main characters being retconned several steps back into their character development, for the sole purpose of Cates getting to develop them again, except he’s doing it by destroying everything that made them “them”. And it’s even worse compared to the run that came just before (like Carnage 2016 and Costa run). Like, this wouldn’t be so bad if this run was happening right after the 2000s. But it’s not.

- Eddie cancer arc being retconned: makes no sense because of anti-venom and mister negative. Also if the symbiote gave Eddie cancer, why would he abandon him because of the cancer in the 2003 hunger?

- Eddie memories being changed by the symbiote: makes no sense because other character remember the same events like Eddie did, and other symbiotes could/would have told him about it

- Mary being retconned, only to be replaced by Cates OC Dylan (note, I like Dylan, but the way he’s being shoehorned in is what I have a problem with)

- Dylan entire origin (codexes?)

- Anne have been raped by the symbiote. (forced pregnancy is rape) edit: Recent issues have mentioned that symbiote codexes can only “affix” to existing foetus, so Anne was pregnant, from Eddie? And somehow the codexe made the baby an hybrid? Unsure and unclear, better than rape option, still stupid overall

- Codexes as a whole being nothing more than plot gimmicks. They can do anything and everything depending on what the plot need. They can resurrect the dead, imprint people, transmit info, make hybrid babies, and probably do the washing and coffee while at it

- Red is dead and Cletus barely reacted

- Cletus HATES fate and destiny with a passion, why is he going along with Knull bullshit?

- There is no Carnage in this event, only Grendel and Cletus. Garnage? (thanks mushroom for the name, it works)

- Why do the Venom symbiote codexes matter so much to bring Knull back? Who knows! Not Cates apparently!

- Shriek and Scorn being killed off as sacrifices goes against all of their respective characters: !Shriek was never a meek submissive, even if she WAS obsessed with Carnage. She was always shown as strong and fighting. She even fucking SLAPPED Carnage once when she had enough of his bullshit! !Scorn fought against Carnage in Carnage USA and she was shown to hate him and want him caught at all cost... we never get told why she’d become a zealous follower of his, and she dies with her character butchered

- Shriek being killed to bring back demogoblin, who never even got that well along with Carnage, only to then give him tits and have him make out with Carnage, because it’s fine to do that now that he has tits, but Carnage couldn’t just make out with Shriek, that wouldn’t have worked, got to have those monster-tits

- In fact, every single named women that Cates wrote into this shitshow is dead, or was retro-actively raped. Every single one. The only survivors so far are in side-stories that he didn’t write himself. (and that’s not saying all side stories women survived) Here is a full list, to not loose track, adding the most recent entries as they appear, because apparently he’s not done yet:

Scorn: character butchered, killed Mary: erased from existence Anne: retconed into a rape victim (of sort, see above point about her) Shriek: killed to give Demogoblins tits, so he and Carnage could make out Louise Kasady: rectoned to have died in child birth Alejandra (A ghost rider): Killed Sadie and Tess (from the family taken over by the life Symbiotes): alive, in tubes in the makers lab? Traumatised. Patricia : Killed by Garnage Aunt Sarah (Andi’s aunt) : killed by carnage worms Andi: Still Alive (now sharing her body with Donna and Scream) Misty: Still Alive (for now)

- In Alejandra case, she died for her codex, despite that she never, ever had a symbiote herself. The excuse for her death being that the spirit of vengeance had the codex because it bonded to Venom once, so it passed her the codex (because spirit are known for having spines, as we all know) That is literally making up bullshit to get to kill a woman character.

- Now let’s compare this to the number of male characters that got the short end of the stick this run: Lee price: dead (cf more on that below) Mac gargan: paralysed Osborn senior: still crazy The Judge (from the side story): dead Jameson Junior (wolfman): escaped carnag-ification, probably traumatized? Miles:  escaped carnag-ification, probably traumatized? Sadie brother and father (from the family taken over by the life-Symbiotes): alive, in tubes in the makers lab? Traumatised. 

Now assume any character not on this list is still alive, and the worst they got was normal super-hero type injuries while fighting Garnage legions... When you know that there is an overwhelming majority of male characters in comics, do you see the problem with the fact that nearly all the victims are women?

- The entire scene with Miles getting caught by Carnage, being told by two writers, and cates version makes no sense and makes Eddie an idiot “Mac get to Carnage!” “Mac Get away from Carnage!” (thanks lobac for nailing this)

- On the subject of Miles, let’s go back in time to earlier Venom issues when Miles got mad at Venom, as if he’d forgotten about his reality jump, except Miles had SEVERAL issues in which it was proven that not only he remember he jumped universe, he already MET Venom before this, when Flash still had the symbiote. So WHY would he react like this now? (we all know why, Cates doesn’t give a damn about anyone run but his)

- The symbiote was braindead, suddenly it’s not. We never got told why or how

- Venom symbol was never copied from spider-man, it’s actually a dragon because knull symbol is a dragon! Look at my edgy oc design! I didn’t copy Venom, he copied me!

- Making Carl Brock a physical abuser, and a poor man, when we were told in ASM that he’d never raised a hand on Eddie and it was emotional neglect that turned Eddie into what he was. Less important but making Carl poor when in ASM when we first met him he had a maid and a fucking mansion on a hill.

- Everything of Eddie’s past actually seems more pulled from the cursed Dark Origin than from the ASM issues where Venom first appeared. (Carl, the house, the grimdark, etc)

- Eddie personality being reduced to “gruff bland dudebro with manpain” instead of over-the-top, literate, dangerous, lethal protector. Heck, Dylan feels more like Eddie than Eddie himself!

- On that line, Norman feels more like Carnage than Carnage has the entire run!

- Absolutely no acknowledgement of the symbiote abuse of Eddie, it’s being brushed over without so much as a single line mention, like “we’ll talk about it once Carnage is dead” Edit: we are now several issues past the whole abuse thing, Garnage event is over, and their relationship switched back to being happy partners with still no explanation or acknowledgement, leading me to ask: “Why the fuck retcon all that shit in, if it’s to then ignore it? What was the point, aside from pissing off the fans by making shit up in a desperate (and failed) attempt at edginess?”

- The life fondation symbiotes being once again treated as monsters with no personality when their stint with deadpool AND scott both proved the opposite. Yes they’re being possessed by knull, but it’s barely made clear and barely shown whether or not they’re fine with it. (And they should not be)

- Lee price character was murdered before he was. He always was a cold, calculating bastard working from the shadows, and was created and used to demonstrate that host can abuse symbiotes. In Cates run he was just a stupid braggard. His death wasn’t satisfying because he wasn’t himself.

- Ravencroft and the people in it (mentally ill people) are represented as monsters, and the establishment itself is made to look like a b-movie asylum. I know comics have a hard time with respecting mentally ill people, but I still wasn’t expecting it to be that bad

- Why does Eddie still have so many wounds? He got a big-ass black eye, why isn’t the symbiote healing him like it always did in the past? Eddie never stayed hurt, the symbiote never LET him stay hurt... so why is it doing that now? (never solved, past Garnage event Eddie is now healed)

- Eddie and Sleeper reunion (AC3) is as cold as an iceberg. All past interaction they had, Sleeper called Eddie “father” and Eddie called Sleeper “his child/baby” And now it’s “... oh yeah you’re here. Cool I guess?” Also Sleeper is a cat. Why? Who the fuck know!

- Eddie refusing to kill Norman Osborn. Norman Fucking Osborn. And why? To not set a bad exemple for Dylan. Who is not even present at the time. Who is in deadly danger because of garnage. Let me re-iterate. Eddie LETHAL protector Brock, refuse to kill Norman Green Goblin Osborn.

- (AC3) The symbiote suddenly doesn’t mind dumping Eddie, to jump on someone more powerful. We spent months with shit being shovelled at us about how possessive it is, and how it fucked up Eddie to keep him forever, and then suddenly, poof. It’s jumping ship.

- (AC3)  The symbiote is evil because it's staying with Eddie, then it's Evil because it's leaving Eddie. Not even mentioning that it did this because it's trying to kill Garnage. Ya know the thing that's trying to kill literally EVERYONE?

- (AC4) Garnage can see the green door, when only gama-radied people can. Garnage is not gama-radied. This is apparently a dig from Cates at the writer from Hulk who think Knull is not that good. The whole dialogue certainly seem that way.

- (AC4) Eddie “I can’t fight I need to protec my child!” Brock “Wait, spider-man protect my child I must fight” Again with the constant change of motivation that give you whiplash. Of the bad kind.

- (AC4) Eddie spent the whole run being made to hate symbiote, bath into codices to create a new Venom.

- (AC4) Miles who had previously gained control of the Garnage piece attached to him, now somehow has lost control again, and Eddie has to fight him. Anyone who read the Miles tie-in know this is bullshit. Cates did not consult the other writers on this, once again.

- (AC4) The bonus note at the end, presenting Eddie having lost the symbiote as an addict, when at the time, Eddie reaction was to exercise like a madman to get stronger, to get revenge for the symbiote. The only one to ever make Eddie a sad mopping mess is cates and yet he mocked that very concept. Am I the only one seeing the arrogant irony here?

- Garnage die in one-shot. After all the hype and build-up and “he’s invincible! we’re doomed!”. He dies. In one shot. In the most anti-climatic way possible.

- Dylan kept a piece of Garnage. Why the fuck would he do that?! Why the fuck did he become suddenly so stupid?!

- Ravencroft side story can be summed up in a single (if long) sentence: “Hey what if we changed everything that ever made Cletus interesting, like the chaos and killing, and made him an agent of destiny, born from a lineage of serial killers, while throwing in some racist bullshit in our comic! Doesn’t that sound neat?”

- I’m astonished at the length at which Cates will go, to avoid writing the main characters of the serie he’s supposed to be writing. He retconned Eddie into an entirely different man to not have to write him, and he use every single excuse he can come up with to avoid writing the symbiote. So far, the symbiote:  (numbers aren’t fully accurate I went from memory) - Was there but silenced with medications - Was brain-dead  - Was a dog  - Was gone and got used in a space viking elf war  - Was back to fight Garnage and kept being treated like everything it said or did was evil  - Was held hostage and silenced by Garnage - Got blown up with a nuke, on the “Honeymoon Island” as we call it

Please someone tell me: if C*ates hates Venom’s character so much, why is he still writing them?

I probably forgot some, but if I did, feel free to add

Also, a personal thought but the pacing of the whole run is awful. We go for half a dozen issues of nothing but exposition dumps, then cluttered rushed action scenes, and then back to expo-dump... that’s not a good story-telling pace.

edited 17 TIMES.

[dasha-aibo]

Zombie apocalypse happens, people are praying, one day, someone accidentally gets some ceremonial wine on a Zombie, it stops, and takes the wine. Suddenly more and more zombies arrive at churches, waiting, one day, a brave priest goes out. The zombies wait, he start a ceremon, the zombies listen, become calm, leave, they come back each week. People start running around with wafers, and wine. It works. Would probably be more comedic or something.

Hence me bringing up Braindead (also known as Dead Alive) and Dogma.

[fhulhuse-of-muses]

16 and 18!

16.  What’s your mun’s favorite thread?

“It’s hard to say, but he really liked Sugi-chan and Akira-chan’s wrestling matches.”

“She handled him effortlessly~”

18.  What was the last movie your mun watched and did you like it?

“Fhul watched Braindead, also known as Dead Alive in America. Truly a wild horror film with impressive practical gore effects. You would never guess that the director of said film would go on to direct the Lord of the Rings trilogy.”

[a-d-n-d-journal]

Game Session #10

Characters:

Mirri in the wind, tabaxi; rapier

Rysiel, half-elf druid; acid burns, simple clothing and leather armor, scimitar

Teir, tiefling warlock; acid burns, vibrant gold skin and black hair w/silver highlights, horns, hooves, expensive-looking clothes and leather armor, carries a dagger as his only (physical) weapon

Zastu, dragonborn rogue; white scales almost completely covered in a hooded cape and mask, leather armor, short bow and shortsword + dagger

Noteable NPCs...

Sydiri Haunlar, human (Chondathan) fighter; brunette, chain shirt, dagger, shortbow, wooden club

Zephyros, cloud giant; windswept white hair, wispy white bear, billow purple robe with gold stars

Amarath and N'von, two human cultists missionaries and their seven human cult followers friends; all dressed in tight fabric wrapped around their thin bodies, topped with head wraps and decorated with feathers. Amarath carries a disturbing "smiling bag"

We were all tired and braindead during this one, so details are sparse...

Zephyros welcomes the party (Rysiel, Teir, Zastu, plus Sydiri at this point) to his floating tower. He explains that his extra-planar allies have told him that someone would come to help fix the mess that is the Ordning. What is the Ordning? It's giant society. Ever since forever, giant society has been ordered by type—with Storm Giants at the top, and Cloud Giants (me, Zephyros) below that, then whoever –handwaves– below that (fire and frost giants, stone giants, hill giants). Giants used to rule this land, until the war with the dragons millenia ago (giants and dragons are mortal enemies you know). Well, with the recent uprising of the dragons (a couple years ago), Annam got angry at us and called us all lazy and complacent. Oh, Annam, he's the Giant god. He looks over everything. And he broke the Ordning, that's why you've been hearing about giant attacks lately—everyone is trying to prove they're the most fit giant to rule over all of us. Er, you have heard about that, haven't you? Well, I thought that king Hekaton, lord of the Storm Giants, would be able to keep his seat of power, and hold control over giant society. He certainly seemed like he was going to continue that way. But then... Well, his wife, poor Neri, went missing. She had a soft spot for the small folk (that's you), and met with them on a regular basis, on an island off the Sword Coast. She turned up dead a while later—murdered. Hekaton, as you can imagine, flew into a rage. He would have led the giants to smash every small folk settlement on the coast, if it weren't for their youngest daughter—Serissa—who held her mother's affection for the small folk. She convinced Hekaton not to destroy you all, for Neri's sake. But now he's... Well, nevermind. Rysiel and Teir pipe up, insisting that Zephyros finish that thought. He's resistant at first, but they guess the truth, or near to it. Hekaton has gone missing now too. He went in search of his wife's murderers, but hasn't been heard form for weeks. His youngest daughter—Serissa, remember?—holds the throne, with her elder sisters—Mirran and Nym—acting as advisors, along with her uncle Uthor probably.

The party decides that going straight to the Storm King's throne is the best idea, and ask Zephyros where it is. Unfortunately, it is beyond them for many reasons. Maelstrom is a citadel deep within the Trackless Sea. Technically Zephyros' tower can bring them there—or close anyway, but they'd definitely be destroyed without magical protection, and Zephyros isn't interested in risking death. He offers to bring them close, but assures them they would die (kind of non-chalantly, at which point Mirri tells them that Zephyros isn't all there due to his fondess for contacting other planes and sometimes going temporarily insane). He knows how to get there, but they aren't near important enough—yet—to be able to manage it. The party sighs collectively, and asks to go to their second destination—Triboar—to deliver the news of Darthag Ulgar's death to his ex-wife at the Lionshield Trading post there. Zephyros brightens up immediately and says it'll take about 11 days (275 hours exactly) to get there. He asks if there's anything else he can get them before he retires upstairs to consult his extraplanar allies (Mirri rolls their eyes, "Not again!") —I also tell the party that they can treat Zephyros as a sort of merchant, but his supplies might be limited since he's a giant. Zephyros mentions that Mirri's (+1) rapier used to be a clothes pin, so who knows what he might have. (Rysiel asks for -something-, but I roll for it and he doesn't have it :/ ); They get some food—very airy spongcake-type stuff, and Zephyros brings down one of his many journals from the Moonshae Isles, which he wrote and illustrated himself. Mirri can't read them, but has been looking at the pictures a lot. Rysiel translates for Teir, who is increbily interested. The journals are about 100lbs each, and 4-5ft tall, made of thick parchment. (They can be used as a mundane item that grants advantage on certain knowledge rolls, but specific information isn't really available unless I go read a jillion wiki articles about the Moonshae Isles and their history/fauna/flora/etc). There's also some roleplay with the Tressym (Rillix) as they figure out what to feed it. Zephyros drops a hunk of raw meat at some point (and some of the griffon's hay bedding for Bobble), and Rysiel creates a bonfire to cook with. Zephyros reminds them not to come up to the second floor, or the griffon aerie. (Not that they have the ability anyway) The days start passing... Teir seeks Sydiri's help in wearing armor and using shields (they improvise with a giant wicker coaster). On the first day, Zephyros approaches "Ryan" to tell him that someone is looking for him. They go aside (outside) to talk, and Teir sneaks behind to eavesdrop. Both "Ryan" and Teir are disappointed though, when Zephyros reveals that "someone is looking for you" is the entirety of the message. Zephyros doesn't seem to notice, but the next day he comes down after speaking to his allies again and tells "Ryan" that "A Rainy Kevin" (or is it "Kevin Rainy"?) is the one looking for him, but that it will be someone else that finds him. Ryan/Rysiel thanks Zephyros, but looks confused.

On the third day, the party is surprised by some visitors, because no one wants to stand in the wind and cold to watch the fucking majestic countryside far below. There's a fluttering of many large wings, and then a moment later—some shouting. The voices ask—in the common tongue—for the owner and resident of the tower to come out and say hello. Zephyros is sleeping upstairs at the time, so the party waits until the owners of the voices make their way inside. Nine slendar humans appear, all dressed similarily in fabric wrapped around their bodies, tied tightly. They have more fabric wrapped around their heads, and are decoraed with feathers. Two of them appear somewhat more decorated, and one carries a shoulder back with a distrubing-looking smiley face. Teir recognizes the bag as magic, but doesn't remember why. The newcomers seems somewhat surprised to find some small folk, but ask if there's a cloud giant around. The party stands around looking offended until Zephyros calls down and greets them. "Have you heard of our Lord and Saviour, Yan C Bin?" One of the cultists missionaries asks. Zephyros looks confused. Two of them introduce themselves (to Zephyros) as N'von and Amarath, and explain that Yan-C-Bin wants his help to 'restore the planes to their rightful primodial state'. They're hazy on what this means, they just want a yes/no from Zephyros. Zephyros is confused, so he asks the party. Teir seems to think this is a bad idea, and is jealous of the newcomer's arrival, and also: how the fuck did you get here? The missionaries try to ignore him, but it quickly becomes obvious that he's not going anywhere, so: "On our giant vultures, of course." Teir tries to recall what he can about giant vultures (kind of an unusual choice of mount, but not unheard of) and what cultures/societies/groups were known to use them (no one close by! probably from another plane?) (I don't remember the rest of the conversation, but Zephyros goes upstairs to consult his planar allies on the matter, and the missionaries go outside because they like the wind and open air)

More than an hour passes and Mirri realizes that Zephyros must have had an 'accident' (he failed his saving throw on the spell), and is lying comatose upstairs. Teir sends his raven up to check on the giant, and then they have a game of pantomime to try to figure out what's going on (Zephyros is laying on the floor, but is alive). Mirri explains that he'll be "fine" in another 8 hours or so. A little while later, the two speaking missionaries pop back inside to see what's taking so long. (I don't remember what was said) They have an argument with Teir and Zastu (Rysiel is brooding in the corner or something? Idk), and Mirri walks by with 'Calm Emotions' (make targets indifferent), causing one of the missionaries and Zastu to chill out. The missionaries go back outside. Moments later they hear the flapping of wings and a scrabbling on the tower wall. Normally they'd ignore it, as the grphyons that Zephros keeps are constantly coming and going, but something is suspicious. Zastu sneaks outside and counts the missionaries and vultures there—only seven of nine of them are there. She goes back inside to tell the party. They are very offended by the presumptuousness of these cultists missionaries!!! To be continued...

Spells cast:

Mirri:

Abilities:

Cantrips: Mage Hand

Spells: Calm Emotions

Slots used: 0/4 1st; 1/3 2nd; Regained: All (multiple rests)

Rysiel:

Cantrips: Create Bonfire

Spells:

Slots used: 0/4 1st; 0/3 2nd Regained: All (multiple rests)

Teir:

Cleric abilities:

Cantrips:

Spells:

Rituals:

Slots used: Warlock 0/2 Cleric 0/2 1st Regained: All (multiple rests)

Killcount:

Mirri: 0 Rysiel: 0 Teir: 0 Zastu: 0

Treasure looted:

Supplies for 4 minor Potions of Healing (bought for 12gp ea. by Zastu)

Made 2 minor Potions of Healing (Zastu)

[kazokuhouou]

In honor of Libra and Walhart both making it into Heroes, this.

Source is Braindead (also known in the US as Dead Alive.)

Seriously, though, watch this clip. Best line in cinema.