#but I can always find them later

[clairpilferage]

The popularized idea that casting a circle creates a restrictive boundary is one I don't support in the least. That it creates a boundary is secondary to its actual purpose: creation and focus. Through regimented practice of evocation and repeated exposure to Spirit, I think the awareness of this fact becomes self-evident. The proper form of a magic circle is one that does not restrict but amplifies. It creates a microcosm with the practitioner at the very heart of its machinations and carries that dynamic out into the aether to find fruition.

In simple terms, it is the foundations upon which a practitioner stands, a stage wherein the elements and worked rites are able to dominate the entire 'world'. A circle is not a punishment or a restriction or an "abuse" of nature. It is the magnifier through which intent and will and Spirit may pass to become like augmented rays of light, burning the path they've been called to set. Upon its release, that focused, empowered energy can be envisioned almost as a self-contained power system - interlocked in drive and strength and growing within the macrocosm it has been cast upon.

To my mind, summoning demons and angels and such-like entities into a circle follows a similar line of logic. As they are not part of this realm and may not naturally appear upon Earth's surface, a circle becomes a focus upon which their natural preferences and alignments can be charged to enable smoother, easier manifestations. Through the intentional use of incense, herbs, and liquids, the practitioner is able, within its bounds, to create a space that is both of comfort and use to both sides of the working.

Additionally, in the case of demons, the circle itself is not employed for subjugation or domination. It takes the addition of fire and words and sigils, as well as a number of other tools should the summoner wish it, to support such a purpose. In this case too, it is apparent that the circle is a point of focus, rather than a tool meant to cause harm in any way.

I believe the error in associating circles with restriction comes from: 1) a lack of practical application and/or 2) a faulty understanding of the nature of boundaries. It is easy, I should think, to assume when faced with the word boundary to think only of negative associations with the word. But just as it can account for a thorny wall that pricks and scratches to touch, it can apply to the walls of a home holding in heat and fond memories in the dead of winter. In either case, it is the people who build and inhabit them that set the course for which path they will take.

[quirinah]

ummmmmmm guys this dungeons looking a little dark here..........................ummmm..... hello??? guys??

[petricorah]

what should i draw this weekend

[garblegarden]

always fun to consider the implications of big plot events on one's own characters...

[cherikdogfood]

Continued in the reblog

[bonefall]

I personally like Thunder's prosthetic. Explained it to my friend (who does use a mobility device, a cane and wheelchair, and listens to me rant and infodump about BB) and they agreed, it's important to know that not every person needs what someone wants to give them. It's another example of "bad ableist person does a thing that hurts a disabled person because they are bad and ableist".

Clear Sky got Jagged Peak killed and would have killed Sunlit Frost! He would absolutely force his disabled son to be "normal" and present it like a privilege. "I wouldn't do this for anyone else, it's special, why don't you want to be helped?"

Thunder Storm should toss it in Clear Sky's face. (I would say toss it into the river but we do not pollute waterways in this house)

Thank you for telling me this, and tell your friend I'm thanking them too! If they have anything else to add please forward what they have to say

Since BB!DOTC tackles some of the heaviest topics in the entire series because its canon equivalent is so dark, I think very carefully about what I do here and how I show it. I take feedback on its sensitive aspects very seriously. If I'm understanding the criticism properly, it's that I should avoid stigmatizing prosthetics by making sure Thunder Storm's not the only one with it-- which he's not! And I'll add even more.

I don't want to avoid something only because it's uncomfortable if the topic is important, and my portrayal is respectful. Ableism IS uncomfortable! There are some situations where a prosthetic is not wanted! I think the rejection of this particular one is both a good opportunity to show a type of ableism and ALSO is very fitting for the characters.

In BB!Clear Sky's mind, the villain, he's fixing an old mistake. He can't admit that he got Jagged Peak killed or take REAL accountability for it (though he will, occasionally, apologize insincerely), but deep in his bones, he knows what he did was cruel. He'll never tell anyone this because he doesn't really cognate it himself, but Thunder Storm NEEDS to take his gift.

If Thunder doesn't take it, it blows a hole in his newest story. You see, throwing Jagged Peak out was All That Could Have Been Done back then. It was a Tragedy and he simply Made A Hard Choice. He regrets it very much, But You Have To Understand.

But now? Now? Well, behold. Look at what he's accomplished since the tragic death of his little brother. His cats are well-fed, cared for, and stable enough to make such incredible advancements. If only Jagged Peak had been able to hold on longer, if only he could be here now, I could fix him.

Just like I can (MAKE YOU JUST LIKE ME) fix you.

"Everything I've ever done is for Jagged Peak. For Fluttering Wing. For you." Thunder Sky is SPECIAL, but if he rejects any gift, tries to turn down the "privileges" offered to him, in an instant that becomes ungratefulness and arrogance. He both forces him to be special, and then leverages it against him if it's rejected. "Spoiled brat, doesn't appreciate what I've worked so hard to give him."

It all goes back to him and his own guilt. He can NEVER be wrong. He can't accept his family doesn't have to be "normal" or reflect his own ability. He won't see himself as a bully, let alone a murderer. It was never about his son's comfort or finding out what Thunder Storm wants or needs, it was about his own ego.

...All that said I'm still taking feedback if there's anything else I should keep in mind, or if anyone has a counter point, especially if you also have experience here.

(In the interest of having a link trail for posterity, here's the critique/call for feedback this is in response to)

[front-facing-pokemon]

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

ok, once more I realize that my own kindness and friendliness has been taken for implied consent, and as always, the troubles that are brewing now are connected to OCs.

So let me be clear and frank one more time, one last time, because I have NO INTENTION of going through what I went through in 2021.

While I am always immensely happy that my Original Characters are enjoyed and that they can serve as source of inspiration, they are NOT however a template for anyone to base their OCs on.

They are not something that you can take in their entirety, change whatever suits you, and then call it your own.

It doesn't work like that, especially because, and allow me to reiterate this once and for all, OCs are *immensely* personal.

They are an extention of the soul of the person that creates them.

So taking whatever suits your fancy and use it for the "aesthetic" or the "vibes" is immensely disrespectful and, dare I say, rather impertinent, especially when both characters happen to belong to the same fandom.

Now, I am not talking about certain tropes and subjects that are typical of certain genre, of course not.

We are all somehow reinveting something that's already there when we work with OCs and stories.

What I am talking about is taking certain specific idiosyncrasies that make a certain character unique, change them to suit your character, and then being SO IMPERTINENT to just call it your own and parading it around without even having the courtesy to quote the person that has inspired you, taking advantage of the fact that I am just a small creator with a small following.

This is a huge No No for me.

Huge.

I appreciate that other creators might have a different opinion or perspective when it comes to OCs, and while I do not share entirely in that, I sure as hell respect it.

But allow me to be crystal clear: if this happens to me, like it had in 2021, that's the *easiest* way to lose all respect I might harbour for you, and I seldomly get mad or angry.

I am always accomodating, always supportive, and I think I have proven it aplenty in the past few years.

But this is something that I cannot condone nor agree with.

And it's not just a matter of ethic, in this sense: it's a matter of also hurting me, and literally put my whole creative process into shamble.

It's a matter of having respect of others.

Now, you might say: who cares if they hurt you? they are characters that do not exist, just move on and have thicker skin!

Well, as I said above, for when it concerns myself, my OCs are an extention of my own soul, a way for me to formulate and explain feelings that sometimes I have a hard time let out; a way for me to actually face, fragmentize and analyze my own trauma through them;

and most important of all, they are OFTEN a love letter to both the world I am exploring with them AND my own husband and child, such as in the case of Jacob and Dorothea,for whom, as I said often in the past 5 years, I have poured A LOT from myself and my husband's own story.

You could say that it probably my fault for having bared my feelings so much and poured so much of myself into a character;

And you might be correct, because I have learned my lesson, and ever since Dorothea and Jacob, no other character has been infused with as much of my own being as they were.

but that doesn't mean that it stings any less when I see it unravels in front of my eyes.

I am tired.

[mayashesfly]

Document: The Traitor

(Or my personal take on the player in Pressure's Game Lore)

M-██████ - Codename: The Traitor, is a specifically made variant of M-████ made by Mr.█████ for the Blacksite Mission. (See document █████████ for more information)

Infected individuals by this variant are called Sleepers.

It has been modified to only find suitable Sleepers signed under the EXR-P unit. In the case of its current Sleeper dying, it will infect another EXR-P.

It is oblivious to its change of Sleepers, viewing its next run with its new Sleeper as another life. Though it does not grasp the concept that death is permanent and not reversible, viewing its next life as a normal phenomenon.

Due to its natural inclination to seek knowledge and take everything it can, it tends to gather all loose assets and all valuable equipment it can carry.

It excretes a colorless and odorless gas that Sleepers exhale, attracting Z-V06 when concentrated in an enclosed area, like lockers.

However, Sleepers inhaling this gas for too long in an enclosed area showcases symptoms of cleithrophobia and causes the Sleeper to leave the enclosed area immediately.

The smoke Z-283-Chainsmoker emits exacerbates this symptom.

As motivation for it to kill its current Sleeper before it can reach the Crystal, Mr.█████ has made a way to give it more information about the facility and its hazards when it changes Sleepers through the usage of the Saboteur's abilities.

It's shown to be effective during the early stages. Though currently, an unfortunate side effect of this action is that it now seeks out to survive until at least room 50 in order to meet the Saboteur.

[In the case that it reaches the Crystal, it will naturally make its current Sleeper fall down to their death before they can take the Crystal.

However, in its perspective, it believes that it actually took the Crystal and had to survive more rooms before it could 'win' thanks to Mr.█████'s abilities.

Depending on how it performs in this illusion, it will either meet the Saboteur as always when it 'dies' or transfer directly to another EXR-P unit thinking that it 'won'.]

Document: █████████

M-████ - Codename: █████████, are entities found in the █████████████ capable of entering the minds of people, taking root in the victim's brain to control their entire nervous system.

However, it is incapable of feeling the pain its infected individual experiences, leading their victim to be more susceptible to injury without being able properly treating it since it lacks proper self-preservation instincts.

Infected individuals lose autonomy on their own body, making them incapable of moving or talking. They remain conscious and self-aware even if infected severely, only retaining their capability to have their own thoughts and mind.

Dissections of the infected individuals showcases signs of brain damage left behind from a bright metallic-like substance, almost akin to mercury. Though most individuals have survived and recovered after being infected and released.

Transmission of unmodified M-████ is unpredictable as it is not traceable through any physical means. Though observations from known infected subjects showcase that key individuals in an infected subject's life can be more susceptible to being infected by M-████ as well.

One thing that is known about M-████ is that it has a natural inclination for seeking knowledge and taking everything it can, sometimes to the expense of the individual it has infected.

If someone you know suddenly developed an interest in exploration and/or asking invasive questions regardless of your closeness with the individual, contact ███████████████ immediately.

(Note: These documents are not affiliated with nor created by Urbanshade)

[shadedheart138]

Legend has a minor case of kleptomania. Its gotten MUCH better but after his first quest he used to steal everything, mainly food and money. But its still a thing, there have been moments where Legend has had to remind himself to give things back, because otherwise he'll steal them.

Its even worse because there have been moments where he's stolen from the other links. Small shit, like snacks but Legend doesn't like that he still does even that. Hates that hes got food and monetary insecurities.

Link was exhausted. Uncle had been gone for weeks and he'd run out of food in the house by now. It wouldn't be long until the house itself was gone too. He didn't know what to do. He pulled Uncle's big jacket over his tiny, thin frame and headed out the door, the snow so thick it immediately came up to his mid-thigh. Link sneezed. Maybe people in town would be kind enough to give him food. XXX People in town were not kind. He'd already been run out of two warm stores for tracking snow and trying to grab things with his tiny hands. Link was hungry. He sobbed to himself quietly, hugging his uncle's jacket around himself to try and stay warm. It'd been soaked by now, not properly doing its job. Link paused. He smelled something. Food. He looked around, wondering if he was finally going crazy. A person bumped into him and cursed, whacking him in the side with a cane. Link paid him no mind, he smelled food.

A warm loaf of bread sat in a windowsill about a foot and a half above Link's eye level. Someone had recently put it there to cool for a few minutes. Link's eyes filled with tears. He didn't want to steal it, stealing was bad, but he'd been caught so many other times and he was starving. Link straightened his shoulders and climbed up the wall a little, a burst of nervous energy helping him get his dirty hands on the loaf. It hurt, but he didn't dare let go. Burning his hands was worth getting the bread. A woman yelled from inside the house, and Link booked it, her shouts quickly fading in the distance.

He had warm bread and a guilty conscience that night.

XXX

Months had passed. Almost a year. The house was gone, he lived in the woods. Link had learned that feeling guilty about stealing got you nowhere, it was the stealing that kept you alive. He didn't want to die.

Link's hand moved slowly, reaching for a lady's purse. He could see her wallet poking out of the top, just barely. She was talking with a salesman at the counter, and he was still just small enough that the man behind the counter couldn't properly see him. He touched the wallet, and with the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose, gently pulled it out and stuffed it in his pocket. He swiftly turned around and started looking at jams on the shelf. When the lady turned to find her wallet and couldn't, he took the money out and put it in his bag. A good amount. No one was the wiser when the woman found her wallet in the snow several minutes later, empty.

This is to survive, he reminds himself. He has to do this. XXX Link was Legend now. It'd been years since Uncle had died. He couldn't be stealing things to survive, he didn't need to anymore. They always had food. He could always turn to Zelda after his adventures. She'd always been by his side after a cold, hungry month of people keeping their doors locked and not daring to let any merchandise out of their sights.

But still Legend stole.

He reached for a snack he saw poking out of the side of Wind's pack. Jerky, of some sort. Look at him, stealing from a child younger than him. Legend didn't entertain that thought any further. He got his hands on it and gently took it, making sure not to alert anyone. No one saw him take it, it went into his pack beside the other snacks he'd stored up.

He looked guiltily at those snacks that night. What was he doing, stealing from his brothers? (Were they really his brothers?) He pushed away the guilty thoughts like he'd always done.

XXX

The next day he saw Time's pocketbook in clear view, while Wild was making breakfast. That tiny, scared child that still resided in his brain whispered that it would be easy to steal, it was just sitting there. More money meant more food. Always did.

Legend casually went to go sit beside it and slowly reached to take it, deftly opening the clasps with one hand to see inside. He was met with an empty bag looking down, and a disapproving Time when he looked up. Legend froze.

They'd caught him, he'd been seen. Were they upset? Time was definitely upset. Several heads turned to look at him, and he shrunk under their gaze.

"So the thief wasn't Wind after all. Legend. Care to tell me why you've been stealing?" Time asked firmly. His voice wasn't mad, was only concerned and curious. All Legend heard was anger, anger, get out of my store, rat! His ears went back against his head.

Warriors crouched beside Legend. "We've noticed you've been hoarding food. And taking it from others. Time and I enabled it for a little while, thinking it was an easy habit to break if you were given the right amount of food and water and care but... it seems to go deeper than that. We want to help." Legend's lip wobbled. He'd been stealing since the age of eight, of course he wasn't going to break the habit that easy. He was only sixteen. Why was he stealing from these people? He had a home, back in his Hyrule. Had income from the crown. Had food, that these heroes across time provided. What point was there to steal? The guilt came back, harder than before.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He just signed "Hard" and squeezed his eyes shut. He could talk about it, but not now. Not when he was being crushed by his own emotions. "Take your time, Legend. We're here when you want to talk. And we can figure it out together."

fin.

[sukugo]

Gojo gives a note to sukuna like : "I wanted to write

A cute hikyu for you

Do you wanna smash?"

He does not, in fact, end up smashing he gets a long winded passionate lecture about the art of poetry and tries hollow purple-ing himself halfway through

GDJDHDJDJFFHFDJF worst part is, gojo IS capable of good poetry. and sukuna know this. but he likes lecturing (and poetry), even though satoru spends 90% of the time talking back and finishing sukuna's sentences, giving supposed correcting comments (that get debated. and then debated back. and so on and so forth)

but sukuna keeps at it, and satoru does learn quite a few things. technicalities that instantly improve his verse. or at least align it more towards heian era style poetry. sukuna is proud.

and THEN they fuck. obviously

[donaviolet]

Friendship is the most special thing in the world because no award could be give me bigger happiness than jumping around in my room and smiling because my pookie asked me if I wanted to match pfps

[crandberrysaucewithpulp]

whatever questions i’ve ever had dublin answered them all

[angelsdean]

ruthlessly deleting old 2021/2022 posts (not by me) from my dean studies tag like *click* un-incorporating that from my beliefs system! also the way SO many posts have me like ok uh-huh good aaand then say one completely wrong thing that loses me. it's so many posts.

[alexcabotgf]

not to be true crime posting on main but i think i'm falling down the wm3 rabbit hole again

[acourtofquestions]

Rowaelin Chapter 41 Kingdom of Ash:

She'd rebuild it—what she had been.

Perhaps one last time, perhaps only for a little while, but she'd do it. If only for Terrasen.

Rowan swooped from the mast, shifting as he reached her side at the rail. He surveyed the night-black sea beyond them. "You should rest." She slid him a glance. "I'm not tired." Not a lie, not in some regards. "Want to spar?" He frowned. "Training can start tomorrow."

"Or tonight." She held his piercing stare, matched his dominance with her own.

"It can wait a few hours, Aelin."

"Every day counts." Against Erawan, even a day of training would count.

Rowan's jaw tightened. "True," he said at last. "But it can still wait. There are ... there are things we need to discuss." The silent words rose in his animal-bright eyes. About you and me.

Her mouth went dry. But Aelin nodded In silence, they strode into their spacious quarters, its only decoration the wall of windows that overlooked the churning sea behind them. A far cry from a queen's chamber, or any she might have purchased as Adarlan's assassin.

At least the bed built into the wall looked clean enough, the sheets crisp and stainless. But Aelin headed for the oak desk anchored to the floor, and leaned against it while Rowan shut the door.

In the dim lantern light, they stared at each other.

She'd endured Maeve and Cairn; she'd endured Endovier and countless other horrors and losses. She could have this conversation with him. The first step toward rebuilding herself.

Aelin knew Rowan could hear her thundering heart as the space between them went taut. She swallowed once. "Elide and Lorcan told you... told you everything that was said on that beach."

A curt nod, wariness flooding his eyes. "Everything that Maeve said." Another nod.

She braced herself. "That I'm-we're mates."

Understanding and something like relief replaced that wariness. "Yes."

"I'm your mate," she said, needing to voice it. "And you are mine."

Rowan crossed the room, but halted a few feet from the desk on which she leaned. "What of it, Aelin?" His question was low, rough.

"Don't you..." She scrubbed at her face. "You know what she did to you, to ..." She couldn't say her name. Lyria. "Because of it."

"I do know."

"And?"

"And what do you wish me to say?"

She pushed off the desk. "I wish you to tell me how you feel about it. If…"

"If what?"

"If you wish it wasn't so."

His brows narrowed. "Why would I ever wish that?"

She shook her head, unable to answer, and stared over her shoulder toward the sea.

It seemed like he would close the distance between them, but he remained where he was.

"Aelin." His voice turned hoarse. "Aelin."

She looked at him then, at the pain in his words.

"Do you know what I wish?" He exposed his palms, one tattooed, the other unmarked. "I wish that you had told me. When you realized it. I wish you had told me then."

She swallowed against the ache in her throat. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"Why would it ever hurt me to know the truth that was already in my heart? The truth I hoped for?"

"I didn't understand it. I didn't understand how it was possible. I thought maybe ... maybe you might be able to have two mates within a lifetime, but even then, I just ….." She blew out a breath. "I didn't want you to be distressed." His eyes softened. "Do I regret that Lyria was dragged into this, that the cost of Maeve's game was her life, and the life of the child we might have had? Yes. I regret that, and I wish it had never happened." He would bear the tattoo to remember it for the rest of his days. "But none of that was your fault. I will always carry some of the burden of it, always know I chose to leave her for war and glory, and that I played right into Maeve's hands."

"Maeve wanted to ensnare you to get to me, though."

"Then it is her choice, not yours."

Aelin ran a hand over the worn wood of the desk. "In those illusions she spun for me, she showed me variations on one more than all the others." The words were strained, but she forced them out. Forced herself to look at him. "She spun me one dreamscape that felt so real I could smell the wind off the Staghorns."

"What did she show you?" A breathless question.

Aelin had to swallow before she could answer. "She showed me what might have been—if there had been no Erawan, if Elena had dealt with him properly and banished him. If there had been no Lyria, none of that pain or despair you endured. She showed me Terrasen as it would have been today, with my father as king, and my childhood happy, and..." Her lips wobbled. "When I turned twenty, you came with a delegation of Fae to Terrasen, to make amends for the rift between my mother and Maeve. And you and I took one look at each other in my father's throne room, and we knew."

She didn't fight the stinging in her eyes. "I wanted to believe that was the true world. That this was the nightmare from which I'd awaken. I wanted to believe that there was a place where you and I had never known this suffering and loss, where we'd take one look at each other and know we were mates. Maeve told me she could make it so. If I gave her the keys, she'd make it all possible." She wiped at her cheek, at the tear that escaped down it. "She spun me realities where you were dead, where you'd been killed by Erawan and only in handing over the keys to her would I be able to avenge you. But those realities made me ... I stopped being useful to her when she told me you were gone. She couldn't get me to talk, to think. Yet in the ones where you and I met, where things were as they should have been ... that was when I came the closest."

His swallow was audible. "What stopped you?"

She wiped at her face again. "The male I fell in love with was you. It was you, who knew pain as I did, and who walked with me through it, back to the light. Maeve didn't understand that. That even if she could create that perfect world, it wouldn't be you with me. And I'd never trade that, trade this. Not for anything." He extended his hand. An offer and invitation.

Aelin laid hers atop his, and his callused fingers squeezed gently. "I wanted it to be you," he breathed, closing his eyes. "For months and months, even in Wendlyn, I wondered why you weren't my mate instead. It tore me up, wondering it, but I still did." He opened his eyes, and they burned like green fire. "All this time, I wanted it to be you."

She lowered her gaze, but he hooked a thumb and forefinger around her chin and lifted her face.

"I know you are tired, Fireheart. I know that the burden on your shoulders is more than anyone should endure." He took their joined hands and laid them on his heart. "But we'll face this together. Erawan, the Lock, all of it.

"We'll face it together. And when we are done, when you Settle, we will have a thousand years together. Longer."

A small sound came out of her. "Elena said the Lock requires—"

"We'll face it together," he swore again.

"And if the cost of it truly is you, then we'll pay it together. As one soul in two bodies.

Her heart strained to the point of cleaving. "Terrasen needs a king."

"I have no intention of ruling Terrasen without you. Aedion can have the job."

She scanned his face. He meant every word He brushed the hair from her face, his other hand still clasping hers to his chest, where his heart pounded a steady, unfaltering rhythm.

"Even if I had my choice of any dream-realities, any perfect illusions, I would still choose you, too."

She felt the truth of his words echo into the unbreakable thing that bound their very souls, and tilted her face up toward his. But he made no move beyond it.

She frowned. "Why aren't you kissing me?"

"I thought you might want to be asked first."

"That never stopped you before."

"This first time, I wanted to make sure you were ... ready." After Cairn and Maeve. After months of having no choices whatsoever.

She smiled despite that truth. "I'm ready to be kissed again, Prince."

He let out a dark chuckle and muttered, "Thank the gods," before he lowered his mouth to hers.

"You're my mate." Her words were a breathless rush. "And I am yours."

The world might have been burning around them for all she cared, all he cared, too.

"Together, Aelin," he promised, and she heard the rest of the words in every place their bodies joined. Together they would face this, together they would find a way.

Together we'll find a way, their mingling breaths, the crashing sea, seemed to echo.

Together.