#but i am trying to find time to write

[seijorhi]

Hey Rhi how are you? We miss you 🥺🫶 btw it’s okay if the spooktober fic isn’t ready yet if that’s why you haven’t been posting anything recently we still love hearing from you <33 if that’s not the reason and you’ve just been busy that’s fine too obviously but still hope you’re doing well :)

bby i am sorry for the radio silence!! i was sick for a few weeks there and then life just kinda got busy and :)))))

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[stellar-collective]

Feel free to take this time on this request. /gen

Since your Phoenix can come back from the dead, I wonder if you can draw Reginald's reaction to finding out about Phoenix's multiple deaths.

(How he finds out is up to you. But if you want an idea: Zoraxis memory reading machine upon Phoenix getting captured.)

rule number one of being a handler: never, ever panic in front of the agent. if you stay frosty, then they won’t panic either. Reginald is going to hang on to these feelings and quietly have a crisis once they’re safely back at base, where Phoenix will never know.

[uncanny-tranny]

Passing as a trans man is a nuanced and complex topic, but one thing I have been noticing as somebody who is a cis-passing (white) trans man is the way I'm treated when there is conflict.

I've noticed that in conflict, people are almost meek around me, willing for me to try working with them up until a woman is involved. When a woman (or, really, anybody who the other party assumes is one) is part of the conflict, they direct all their anger and rage to them. It's fucking insane the way a woman is treated when there is conflict, even if it isn't her fucking fault. These people are fundamental cowards for seeing my manhood as the only reason they can't be openly hostile to me, but it reveals a lot about how a misogynist thinks on an almost primal level.

I'm watching the women and people around me I care about being torn apart by people, and that's unacceptable. I can't sit around to watch it, and I don't want to do that. I need other people to perhaps read this and remember to not stand by if there is something that you can tangibly do to help, even if it's to lend a listening ear or let the person vent.

[puppetmaster13u]

More Possessed Doll Au (the au was created by @phoenixcatch7 so go check them out they do great stuff!)

Honestly this would be early-ish I am thinking into Bruce doing his vigilante work with the doll body. Or he just straight up has thick eyeliner/raccoon makeup lol.

[mswyrr]

Snowbaird is so powerful for me, in part, because the narrative could have easily been a coming-of-age romance instead of a tragedy. That narrative shape is contained within and thwarted by the tragedy that happens. But it had all the components: a corrupt society that love comes into and shakes up, the lovers having a real chance at making something "new [and] vital."

Context on what I mean here:

The writers of Greek New Comedy, a form that emerged three hundred years before Christ, established the pattern of comedy, which the romance novel would modify some twenty-one centuries later. For most of this time comedy’s protagonists have been male. “What normally happens,” Frye tells us, “is that a young man wants a young woman, that his desire is resisted by some opposition, usually paternal, and that near the end of the play some twist in the plot enables the hero to have his will.” The context of comedy, its setting, is society. Comedy’s “movement . . . is usually . . . from one kind of society to another” (Anatomy 163). This, then, is the usual sequence that the reader encounters—an old society (which is often corrupt, decadent, weak, or superannuated), a hero, his intended, paternal opposition to his intended becoming his wife, a removal of that opposition, the hero’s triumphal betrothal, and a wedding symbolizing a new, vital society. ... The typical conflict in comedy between the hero and his father, in which the father as senex iratus (angry old man) blocks his son’s attachment to the heroine, and, in some instances, pursues the heroine himself loses its psychological force. ...Male comedic protagonists, who typically enjoy full freedom outside of their families, must overcome their fathers. --Regis, Pamela. A Natural History of the Romance Novel (pp. 28-30). University of Pennsylvania Press, Inc.. Kindle Edition.

At the end, Coriolanus leaves everything behind in the forest--including his mother's scarf that he gave to Lucy Gray--everything except for his father's compass. Instead of overcoming the corrupt father, Coriolanus kills his own heart to make himself the death mask of his father, to *become* his father rather than overcome him.

I'd say Dr Gaul is another corrupt authority figure who represents a barrier to the better life that could have been and, with both Daddy and Mommy, at the end Coriolanus retreats to a child role instead of actualizing as an adult and creating something new and better with the person he loves:

The movie only line where Tigris says "you look just like your father" after he comes back from District 12 really drives this theme home. That and the blank/dead expression he has as he stares up at the statue (representing the past/authority/history) with a "rainbow" at her skirt instead of looking up at the living Lucy Gray. He has made himself something dead and he looks up at the dead past--that he is going to sustain for another 60 years until Katniss comes to burn it all down-- instead of at a living, better future.

[ixkhor-and-ambroxia]

Hey #GreekMythology tumblr, I want ya’lls help on something :).

So, I’ve been thinking about starting this massive project. Like, would take years and years work of writing and research and sheerly finding the time and motivation for. And as I was thinking about the specifics, I thought: why not bring others into it as well? Because as much as I am interested in a lot of Greek Mythology, there are things that are simply not my interests and might cause writers block and my goal for the project would to be as fun as possible. So, here we are.

What is the project exactly? Well, hopefully, it’ll be a long Ao3 series/fic focusing on the individual perspectives of various figures/events in Greek Mythology arranged in (semi/good enough) chronological order. I personally intend to write for Poseidon in his/my version of the Titanomachy and (maybe) some events that follow, if you want a little bit of an idea on what I’m talking about.

The limits on this are almost completely free, all that I ask are that each of your submissions are one POV only (and by that I mean your main subject’s POV). Why do I say this? I say this because that is what I want this project to look like. It doesn’t matter if it’s First, Second, or Third POV along with all the other variants of those three, my main focus is on the individual experiences of these individuals. Kind of like character studies, if you know what I mean. I’m intending for it to be mostly formal but I will absolutely accept crack admissions that I will probably put into its own series to Separate the Vibes for whoever comes by :).

Ultimately, this is a completely open-ended project that has absolutely no deadline. I’m about to go to bed so I can’t go into too much detail, but if you want to DM me or send any asks, I am completely okay with that and we’ll all flesh out the specifics we go :).

What is my overall purpose? Not only is this project made for my own individual purposes of learning more about the gods and other Greek Mythology writers, but it’s also the chance to spread the word of other writers. I know how hard it is to get specific audiences, especially when you’re shy, so this is a chance for your work to be stumbled upon. Each post on the eventual Ao3 fic will include your socials, how to find you, and your other general works on either ao3, tumblr, wattpad, or other :)

Can you participate even without socials or a tumblr page? Yes you absolutely can :). My asks will always be open to anons and I will do my best to give credit when I eventually post everything :). If you want to post multiple submissions or simply just want a trackable (between works) name to your writing, just sign something at the end. It could be a name, it could be a potential username, I don’t mind at all :)).

How do I submit things? Well, the best way would be to DM me :). I have a personal writing email separate from most things that would be perfect to either share a google docs with or to just send a copy-and-pasted copy of it. Otherwise, I take asks. None of them will be posted unless asked or we’re ready to so it’ll be safe to just drop them off in! It’s also where I take questions :).

Any other things to note? I’d really appreciate some other moderators and editors :). There’d only be like two or three of each and we’d have to know each other decently well before officially starting, but some help would be appreciated! Also, I’d like to keep a working ‘spreadsheet’ of who’s working on what just for people to see what’s going on :). Maybe some people can collaborate or it’ll encourage those niche writers to write :). A third thing is that most questionable stuff is accepted. I’d personally rather not handle all those things other than posting it so it might be a while until I can officially accept (consensual and/or graphic) ✨spicy stuff✨ but, other than that, I’ll take any of it (also, it’s Greek Mythology, almost all of it already happened). If someone’s willing to take over the ✨spicy stuff✨ then please DM me so we can work out the details and see if it’s a nice fit :)

Honestly, that all should be it. The main point is that I’m trying to start up a long-term project on Tumblr and Ao3 about what is essentially Greek Mythology character studies that not only allows for mass communication across a wide audience, but also (hopefully) gets some recognition for the smaller writers :). Feel free to DM me or send me asks with questions but for now, I shall sleep

Tagging: @bluebellstudio @thirteen-deaths-later @0lympian-c0uncil @happyk44 @h0bg0blin-meat @sworeontheriverstyx @deathlessathanasia @gotstabbedbyapen. Sorry if I tagged you and you want nothing to do with it, I just wanted to get it out there /pos /gen

[rainbowstargazerlilies]

If you're trying a new way of doing things (focusing or to-do lists or self-care or what have you), remember: it's not something you can fail.

If the method doesn't work? That just means that method isn't the right one for you. It's not a failure on your part.

If it works for a while, or only works sometimes? Also not a failure on your part! Take that information and use it when you try a new method, or use that method when it applies.

If it works for you, but other people don't think you should need it? Who cares what they think? Nobody is going to have the same route to success. Trying to push yourself to do things to a "normal" standard is not going to help anything, and might even hurt.

Do things that work for you, and don't see it as a failure. It's a process of experimentation, and eventually, you'll find ways to reach your goals that work for you. Get creative, think out of the box, and try something new.

You can do it. I believe in you.

[f1-stuff]

Hi 🩵 Can we know more about the Regency AU? 👀 (I love your work 🩷)

Hiii! ❤️ Big fan of you, as well! 😆

S0 my idea for that AU is that the Leclerc family comes to stay with the Sainz's for the social season, hoping that one or more of the boys will find a match with Carlos' sisters. But insteeaaddd...😅 I have a distinct image of Charles, with his eclectic regency fashion sense that sets him apart from his brothers, boldly wooing Carlos, despite period-typical attitudes. And the two of them spending the society balls flirting and joking with each other instead of mingling with the eligible ladies...

Anyway, this snippet is from the very beginning of the fic, and it's actually a carlando (friendship) scene, which I never thought I'd write asfhgfjs. But I felt like it was a cute idea, Lando being a recurring guest of the Sainz's every year. In this scene, Carlos is complaining about the Leclercs' impending arrival...

If Carlos has to listen to one more recounting of the handsome, dignified, witty, admired, magnificent Leclercs, he might be forced to hurl himself into the sea.

“Particular favorites of the Prince of Monaco, and distinct in both societal standing and countenance, the whole lot of them. You’d be hard pressed to determine which of the three is most agreeable to the eye or to the ear,” Carlos performs a rather poor imitation of his aunt’s voice, who had prattled on for hours and hours to his mother these past days.

Lando snickers, idly snapping a twig in his hand into small bits and pieces that he tosses to the side as they walk along the banks of the creek. “They sound insufferable.”

“Doubtless,” Carlos mutters, kicking rocks out of their path. “I’d wager they won’t even know Spanish.”

Not that Lando does either. The comment has the added benefit of being both a criticism of the Leclercs and a method to tease his friend. Carlos knocks their shoulders together.

It’s a perfect spring day, the sun shining and the breeze swirling bits of pollen through the air, carrying the scent of new growth. The perfect day for a walk, which he’d muscled Lando into agreeing to, despite the younger man’s confusing attachment to the indoors. 

They stop for a moment to appreciate the view of the far off mountains, the sea just visible on the horizon, glittering against the sun. Carlos can feel his sour mood lifting already, such is the magic of his family’s estate.

“One wonders why these Leclerc men are still unwed, and why they need someone to sing their praises so exhaustingly prior to their arriving. Unless their real company leaves much to be desired,” he continues, although his heart isn’t in the complaining anymore. He’d much rather find a spot to lay in the grass and feel the sun soak into his skin. So he does just that.

Lando follows suit, curling his legs underneath him as Carlos reclines onto the grass, rolling up his sleeves and shutting his eyes against the sun.

“But why are the Leclercs coming here for the social season? Why not France or Monaco, if they are indeed favorites of the prince? Or England?”

“Not everyone wishes to go to England,” Carlos teases, just to hear Lando’s scoff. Truthfully, he has half a desire to go to London himself. But he mostly says it as Lando always acts affronted when insults are piled atop his country’s name. “Isn’t it obvious?” Lando arches a brow. “Marriage, mi amigo. It’s the reason for everything. Well, most everything.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that,” Carlos chuckles, pinching Lando’s arm.

“Ow.”

“Oh, shut up. Anyway. Just because you are still a slight, wide-eyed fawn-”

“I am nineteen!” Lando exclaims, but joins Carlos in his laughter soon enough. Nineteen or not, his boyish curls, along with the spots still dusting his skin, make him look every bit as young as he is. “If I am a fawn, then you are a buck. Surely, you ought to be wedded soon, before you are old and bitter. Well, older and more bitter.”

“Ha ha,” Carlos says, deadpan. “We should have been forewarned of your wit.”

But Lando isn’t entirely wrong. Carlos had just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday this past September, and he’s getting to the age where his parents might not be so patient anymore in entertaining his hypercritical standards, eager as they are for him to sire an heir.

It isn’t that he hasn’t become acquainted with plenty of eligible women at various balls and dinner parties during the social season over the years - he has. But no matter how lovely they seem, he always finds himself stalling when it comes to the actual proposal, something stopping him from making that final commitment. Until, eventually, another suitor steps up and whisks her out from under Carlos’ nose. And, every time, it doesn’t escape him that the prevailing emotion is relief.

When it comes to the woman he will marry, the woman he will spend his life with, he wants someone pretty, kind, and smart. Someone charming and witty and clever and interesting. And he isn’t keen to settle for less. At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Sometimes, he even blames himself. I’m too loud for her. I’m not artistic enough for her. I’m too independent for her. Et cetera, et cetera... But, mostly, boiling down to: I’m just too picky.

Still, no matter that he will eventually need to wed, he is set to inherit his father’s lands and estate, so there isn’t much of a rush to send him to the altar. His sisters, however - particularly his eldest sister, Blanca, who is almost as picky as himself. She doesn’t seem overly concerned with the wealth and status of a partner, despite the high ranking men their parents are always parading her in front of. But she does expect an honorable sort of man, and, above all, kind, which Carlos cannot fault her for. She deserves the very best this world can offer her, and he fears no man will be enough in his eyes to deserve her.

With the youngest of the Sainz siblings, Ana, her lack of husband as of yet is more a case of her preferring her independence than ‘pickiness’. She often elects to read a good book or ride her horse or go for a swim, rather than practice dancing or attend a ball. It hadn’t been much cause for concern until she had debuted into society a few seasons ago and had refused any offers she’d received since. 

During their childhood, he would always include Ana (and Blanca, until she had started her schooling) in his games and competitions with his friends, pulling her away from time with their sister and mother. He doesn’t regret the fun adventures it had led to growing up, or their particular bond. But it occurs to him from time-to-time that he could be, in some way, to blame for Ana’s convictions.

If it were up to him, he’d have both his sisters stay with him at the estate forever. But it isn’t how things are done. And he doubts they’d be completely happy here either, longing for something more beyond this country life that Carlos so adores.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I hardly need concern myself with such frivolous matters as marriage.”

“What - you have less frivolous matters that require your attention?” Lando asks.

“No - more. Like bathing in the sun and exchanging gossip with my dear friend.” He winks, and Lando just shakes his head with a smile. “If I had a wife, we’d have no time for our walks, or our little competitions, during your visits each year. And that would be a real shame.”

“Says the man who always wins those games.”

Carlos snickers. “Well, if either of my sisters really do marry one of these Leclerc chaps, I might have to let him win. Once, at least, as a gesture of goodwill.”

“You really think they would? Marry, I mean.”

“If they seem a good match...” He shrugs. It is, after all, the whole intention behind the arranged visit.

His aunt and uncle had met the Leclercs on a recent trip to Monaco, where they had expressed interest in visiting Spain and exploring the social scene there. His aunt and uncle had invited them to their home in Madrid, but when Carlos’ parents had heard about it, they’d insisted the Leclercs come to stay with them for at least a few weeks this summer. Carlos doubts the Leclercs had a country estate in mind for their visit to Spain, but perhaps the humble parties they host out here will charm them.

“Well, I don’t know why you sound so reluctant,” Lando continues. “You make friends with practically every person you meet. And for all you know, maybe these Leclercs will live up to the talk.”

“Maybe...” 

But Carlos has his doubts. How interesting could they really be?

He drops the topic for now, preferring instead to tug at the soft blades of grass beneath his fingertips and muse over what will be served for lunch.

----

WIP ask game

[unordinary-diary]

Blyke and John: the Followup

In my last entry, I pointed out the similarities between chapters 249 and 121, but I had hit the image limit and wasn’t able to embed screenshots. I got around this by linking the chapters, but this is probably my favorite parallel, and to do it justice I think I need to really put them next to each other.

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

(121) (249)

It’s the same fucking scene but backwards and in a different font.

They’re the SAAAAAAAAAAME!!!!!!!!

This was definitely on purpose. Shit like this ^^ doesn’t happen by accident.

[sora-of-uranus]

This is gonna be a mish mash of cultures and ideas so bare with me. In eastern Europe (specificly slavic countrys) the vampire was an almost ghostly spirit rather than our common undead sexy friend. They were trixters to some extent, spread disease but in the way rats do rather than the specific bite we know. They also didn't consume blood. So this is the technical truth aspect of this idk 'theory' (but more headcannon I suppose). From this, I headcannon, it evolved into two specific paths: the vampire as we know and the seer. Both evolved to revolve around blood since blood is commonly seen as a holder of the human spirit and life force making it a very powerful energy source. Vampires evolved specifically as almost undead creatures, focusing on that ghostly aspect and almost making the souls haunt the dead body in such a way that it becomes 'imortal'. The sucking of blood is to create a constant source of energy to power the 'possession' and inturn their existence- like food for us. The 'infectious bite' then becomes a combination of corpse germs and supernatual infliction that continues to create vampires- something their ancestor obviously did not have due to the lack of biting and corperal form. on the otherhand, seers found their powersource in blood by creating their own. Specifically in having a functioning human body. The living body acts as a conduit for the supernatural power wich is displayed by divination and prophecy, what which ghosts being conected to the past and human life being seen as something of the future. This ghostly ancestor also explains why Ethan can see ghosts when touching their objects, he's channeling that energy. Of course if having a living body was such an easy way to have blood the vampire would have done it too, the problem with using your own body as a conduit continuously is that it starts to degrade over time either with natural circumstance like being old as shit and dying, or your body contracting ilnesses. It's has it's ups and downs. anyway the idea of a common ancestor is so intresting to me, especially since in the few mythologys I research prophecy and disease are strangely commonly linked. And I mean blood has ALWAYS been apart of seeing the future, think of literally any form of animal sacrifice amongst religions. Or how in some underworld storys the souls must consume the blood of a sacrifice (not necessarily human!) to be able to comunicate.

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hm. im not very big on new years resolutions, they're too much pressure. but... perhaps i can handle new years Desires

this year i want to complete a lil comic, fan-based or otherwise. i'd like to also complete some sort of storyboard/animatic thing. i want to develop a coloring style that i can be proud of. i want to get to a point with my dragons where they can have a coherent story & world to live in. i want to think of so many fun, trivial facts about my characters. i want to post more about them. i want to write and post an original thing, be it 1k words or 10k. i want to finish the rough draft of a book i outlined. i want to be kinder to myself. i want to create more gift art for others. i want to put more effort & care & love into my art. i want to force myself into the world and figure out how to live. i want to make an irl friend. try a new craft - scrapbooking, maybe, or making an enamel pin. i want to finish that last commission and make a new sheet for more. i want to be freer with myself. i want to finish at least three fics. i want to go whale watching again. i want to improve my art, especially in the matter of drawing people. i want to bake something tasty and share it with the neighbors. i want to be content with existing. i want to have more good things in life to list on bad days. i want to build a birdhouse.

[springcatalyst]

My dearest, tell me about your conlang scripts, please❣

Yeassss thank you beloved I will now kill for you <3 Ask me to kill for you.

I truly do not know how long this is going to end up but I'm just gonna go for it.

Montaran

Montaran is fauns' native language: it is alphasyllabic (rather than alphabetic), made up of character 'blocks' that are themselves composed of syllabic components. It's based off a mix of Korean and Sanskrit (mostly Brahmi script).

⬆️ "This is an example sentence" written in Montaran. Pronounced "Bavna mōskadatōk nin."

Components are arranged in blocks of three max, with spaces between words. It's written and read top to bottom, left to right. In three-component characters (called full blocks or complete characters), the arrangement of the components tells you where the syllabic emphasis is.

Here's the same sentence but with the components split up. The first word bavna has it's emphasis on the syllable na, and you can tell by reading because it's alone, as opposed to the other two components, which share space on the top of the block. The second word, Mōskadatōk, has its emphasis on the first and fourth syllables mō and da- the ones that are alone in their vertical placement. For partial blocks, like the last word nin, you can't tell emphasis by reading it.

Montaran is an abugida, which means its alphasyllabary is made up of consonant letters and small, diacritic-like additions that determine vowel sounds. Consonants can exist alone, but vowels must be connected to a consonant.

Where vowels are connected to a consonant can vary- usually there is a standardized method, but handwriting can alter it.

Montaran doesn't use any articles or particles, is written subject-verb-object (though the verb to be is considered an implied verb and therefore not actually written or spoken in sentences which would need it in other languages). Adjectives and adverbs are placed before what they alter.

Homonic

Homonic is humans' native language. It's alphabetic, made up mostly of vowels. The consonants are just 6 'base' ones, the sound of which changes with the inclusion of diacritics. It's based off of mostly English and Japanese.

⬆️ "This is an example sentence" written in Homonic. Pronounced "Goa ja ikaruth zonosh hfow."

Likewise I had more explanation for those weird phonetics but once again I am going to joker out so what the fuck ever. The r is a tapped r though.

Consonants base form is considered the default, while the diacritics change what sound it makes. The handakuten indicates a harder sound (P to B, F to V, L to tapped R), the tilde indicates a softer sound (hard G to Y, L to R, F to a sort of harder H that's not quite an english H), and the dakuten indicates a much softer, sometimes voiceless sound (P to W, F to H, T to Th). I should say now that I wrote out the phonetics of these in a way they make sense to me, so they might seem like nonsense to you. Because I don't understand international phonetic alphabet. But I digress. Vowels are never given diacritics.

Homonic uses both articles and particles, but particles are mostly used for action and subject indication. It's written subject-object-verb: Adjectives go after the noun they alter, but adverbs go before the verb. It's written left to right.

Paitarō

Paitarō is ipotanes' native language. It's an abugida, but unlike Montaran, consonants cannot exist alone. Instead, letters in their 'default' state are assigned the inherent vowel a, and all alterations from that indicate different vowel sounds. It's based mostly on Ge'ez and Eastern Cree.

⬆️ "This is an example sentence" written in Paitarō . Pronounced "Roujih myudae ba raisakō louhayka".

Paitarō has a bunch of different versions of verbs depending on context. They have general vs current forms, constant vs transient, beginning vs ending, and some verbs have a gladly vs reluctantly form. I gave examples, but this is my third time trying to edit this and I can't be assed to write it all out again without becoming the joker.

Rotation and diacritics determine the vowel sound of a letter. It's very consistent, so while it looks like there are 8 million letters, really there's just 12 that are altered slightly for different forms. A clockwise rotation 90 degrees will always result in the vowel ay, an macron will always result in the vowel i, etc.

It's written left to right, subject-verb-object, and uses no particles (but does use articles). It's also one of the harder languages to learn from an outside perspective, because many of the vowels (particularly o, oo, ou, and ō) sound similar to the untrained ear.

Arbor

Arbor is satyrs' native language. It's alphabetic, and has the largest alphabet of any language, with 42 letters (Paitarō beats it only if you consider all rotations and diacritics separate letters, which I don't). It's based mostly on Russian and Japanese.

⬆️ "This is an example sentence" written in Arbor. Pronounced "Shleya bouk dzyañen aotal voh."

It's written right to left, verb-subject-object. It doesn't use articles, but does use particles, which make up far more of the grammatical structure than of any other language. Particles indicate time, possession, location, direction, vocatives, pragmatics, formality, connectives, and conjunctions. For example, in the above sentence, the particle voh indicates certainty- what is being said is fact- not up for debate.

Formality particles are something that is mostly unique to Arbor: Homonic uses some, but they are loanwords from Arbor, and not used near as often. The only circumstance in which a satyr would not use formality particles is when speaking to children (or if the speaker is a child). Because of this, for an adult to speak without these particles is perceived as immature or patronizing or both. There are generally four 'levels' of respectful particles: familiar (for friends and family), peers (for acquaintances and strangers), respect (for superiors or elders), and higher status (for governmental or religious leaders). There are also degrading particles that are only used explicitly as insults, but are naturally not used in everyday life.

There are no true diacritics in Arbor, similar letters (like eh, ih, and uh, or v and fh) are considered distinct, not the same letter but altered).

Shotali

Shotali is nightlings' native language. It's syllabic, written calligraphically from top to bottom. It's made up of common humanoid phonemes as well as a clicking sound that is unique to their physiology. It's mostly based off of Khoisan and Vulcan.

⬆️ "This is an example sentence" written in Shotali. Pronounced "Sikosha taori niloth zhoi."

Here's the same sentence twice, one with the letters and other aspects of the sentence pointed out. The letters are designed to run into one another, where one letter ends another begins. Words are separated by a small open circle at the beginning and end to make clear the joint between the two.

It uses only two diacritics: a handakuten and a macron. In natural Shotali, they are used sparingly, but their usage has since expanded to allow for other sounds to be transcribed into Shotali. The macron traditionally changes just a few letters from an i vowel sound to an e (ri->re, ni->ne, li->le), but now can also be found to alter any letter with an i to an e, even if it was not originally allowed. The handakuten, in natural Shotali, indicates a click, made as part of the syllable alongside the voiced pronunciation, and is not actually considered a diacritic in this form. It's present only on hard consonants (k, v, d). These consonants can be written/spoken without the click and therefore without the handakuten, but only in very specific words or it is incorrect. Some words only define meaning by the presence or absence of this click- this makes things tricky for any other species trying to learn/speak Shotali.

Now, though, the handakuten is also placed as a diacritic on some other letters- not to indicate a click, but to harden the sound (Th to T, P to B, Zh to Z, J to hard G). These characters are not included in the base alphabet as they are considered adopted characters, meant to transcribe sounds from other languages- Shotali has a lot of technically allowed ways to write/speak that arent included in the 'official' alphabet.

Only d, j and th (or t with a handakuten) can exist as a consonantal sound without a vowel, considered a whole syllable by themselves in Shotali. It's written verb-object-subject, and uses no articles or particles. Adverbs and adjectives go before the noun or verb they alter.

Bonus: Chimerae's sign-morse

The chimerae, which live in the depths of the ocean and thus do not interact with any other humanoid species, converse with a form of sign language that utilizes their bioluminescent abilities. It is untranscribable, and so doesn't have a proper name. It's made up of similar signs as that of shallower merfolk: large, slow movements of the hands and caudal fin, but is additionally altered by light. Light carries meaning in: where on the body it is located, how quick the flash is, and what physical sign it accompanies.

Chimeraes have two distinct dialects of this language: a distant and close dialect, both used in conjunction with each other depending on context. Because detail gets much harder to see at distance, and the deep sea is big, the type of sign-morse used when far away from your conversation partner is different than that which is used when you are right next to each other. The former is vaguer, but more obvious, while the latter is more intricate and specific.

[jakeperalta]

hitting "not interested" on these posts isn't enough I need a gun

[qcomicsy]

Lately I've only been wishing to grab a comic about my favorite character and just have a genuinely good time reading it.

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 4 - Hallucinations

title: marked

fandom: empires smp

this is an alt pov of my fic hubris killed the god! i recommend reading it first

cw: blood, hallucinations, implied/referenced character death

~

Jimmy doesn't say a word when he feels something almost fuzzy brush against his wrist.

He just finishes drawing his chalk arrow and keeps going.

Pix isn't here. He's still clinging to a little shred of hope, the only thing that's stopping him from pulling the entire group out right now, the only thing keeping him from telling them he was touched.

If Pix was here, it all would have been worth it.

But Pix isn't here.

And the further they get, the clearer it is.

But there are plenty of those varmints around, and one of them appears out of nowhere to scare them, so Jimmy turns and makes a break for it, calling for them all to follow him.

He can't bear to let another one of them fall.

But he's too late.

When Shelby climbs onto the airship, the first thing she does is run to the staircase that leads to the stern, wedging herself in the little corner between the stairs and the captain’s cabin.

"I'm dying," she sobs, when Jimmy approaches her, hands out. "I'm going to die!"

"I know," he calls back, over the sound of the ship.

He doesn't know what else to say.

"I don't want to die," Shelby cries. Her hands tear at her face, at the place where a little red mark is already forming on her cheek.

Gently, Jimmy pulls her hands down, holding them in his own. She shakes, bends over just a bit, as if her body is trying to curl up without her input.

"We're here," he shouts, the wind whipping away his words. "We're not gonna leave. It's okay, we're right here with you."

"I didn't do anything wrong," she chokes out, tears running down her blotchy face.

Jimmy's heart twists.

She didn't. She only tried to survive.

He pulls her into a hug, sets his chin on her shoulder. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do.

He just lets Shelby cry into his chest and stares at the wooden deck behind her.

-

Jimmy hugs all of them.

Quickly. Just a pat on the back, really.

But he hugs them. He hugs Shelby again, then Scott (Scott is close to tears, standing on his own by the railing), then Katherine (who stops in her pacing to acquiesce to an embrace). He takes the five steps up to the stern two at a time, hugs False briefly (she leans just slightly toward him), then heads belowdecks, to the little makeshift bed of False's.

That's when he checks for critters.

There aren't any. Of course there aren't.

But on his wrist is a tiny pink mark, an innocuous sign of the end. If he looks at it for long enough, it could just be a mark from pinching himself, a bruise about to form from bumping against a door jamb.

It isn’t that, though.

Jimmy has known for weeks that he's been living on borrowed time.

He started this. There was never any real hope that he would survive.

He's felt marked, almost.

Marked, ever since he stood over Joel's body, hands shaking and legs weak, covered from head to toe in the blood of a god.

He pushed his bloodsoaked hair out of his eyes, unable to look away from the tear down the god’s body from the enchanted axe that Jimmy had dragged from his collarbone to his waist.

Blood leaked from the bullet hole between Joel's eyes.

That had been the wound to take him out. He could have survived just the cleaving.

He was a god, after all.

Jimmy stared, even as dark clouds rolled in.

Even as the blood dried on his body.

Even as bile rose to his throat.

He stared, and with the first drops of rain, Joel's body began to go fuzzy around the edges of the wounds. Fuzzy and black, and Jimmy thought for a moment of mold before falling to his knees and vomiting.

And there he kneeled, trembling and ill, stained with blood and vomit, and screamed.

He screamed his apologies.

He begged the rumbling sky for restitution.

He buried his fists into the dry grass of the savannah, as his words dwindled hoarsely into nothing, and sobbed.

When nothing came, nothing but thunder and pouring rain, Jimmy hefted the crown off Joel's unmoving head and dragged it home.

Then he scrubbed the gore off his body, changed clothes, and replaced his hat on his head.

Despite the terrible storm, despite his people, Jimmy strapped the crown onto Bullseye and headed for Dawn.

Maybe Gem's god would pardon him.

But there had never been any pardon, had there?

It had all been a waiting game. It always had been.

Joel's blood marked him the first day.

And now, just like then, Jimmy can only stare.

He deserves this.

He deserves this, and he relishes in that.

He isn't stuck in that awful waiting phase, death looming over him like a dust storm over the horizon.

This can finally be over.

He can finally just be gone.

-

If there was anyone left to rescue, Jimmy would go do it now.

He's as invulnerable as he ever will be. It doesn't matter if they touch him. He could be in and out quicker than ever, able to defend without needing to worry about the vermin touching him.

But the only person to rescue is Shelby, and there's nothing he can do to help her.

All Jimmy knows to do is patrol. There isn’t anything else he can do, and everyone else is so busy with Shelby that they haven't been able to pick up their patrol shifts.

So Jimmy patrols, making sure nobody steps outside of the steadily shrinking border, keeping an eye on where the mites are piling up as a better reference point than their stakes in the ground.

He sees Scott, sometimes. Scott paces the border, marks precisely where it's changed, sometimes staring a long time out over the land beyond Sanctuary, as if he longs to leave from this place, as if he can see it as something of its former glory.

Jimmy does the same. He often finds himself wandering to his favorite place in all of Sanctuary, the flat boulder in the woods that looks out over the plains that remind him so much of the land where he grew up, before he was ever a sheriff in the beautiful mesa.

He can pretend that everything is normal, looking out there.

Sometimes, he can't see the darkness that runs through the grass.

Sometimes, he can see other things.

It's two days after the trip to the catacombs that Jimmy's forced to admit that the hallucinations are in full force.

He'd wondered morbidly, for some time now, what it was like. How long would it take to succumb to the illness? How gradual is the appearance of the hallucinations? How long until the fever starts?

He knows, now, that the hallucinations aren't gradual. He'd simply woken up by the campfire to find Lizzie standing before him.

"I can't believe you," she says disgustedly, arms crossed. "Sleeping on the job?"

"I'm dying, I think I deserve a bit of slack," he mutters. She scoffs.

"Why would you deserve slack? You caused this. You killed all those thousands of people."

 Jimmy goes to say something—he isn't sure what—but Lizzie is gone.

After that, the hallucinations are frequent. He sees long-gone friends—Lizzie, Norman, Pix—and abandoned buildings, forgotten memories and lost messages, and . . . dark creatures of shadow.

It’s unsettling and deeply disturbing, but not even the most bone-chilling hallucinations can keep him from sleeping.

He's so tired. He's been digging himself deeper and deeper into sleep debt every night for weeks, and now he can't find the strength to push through it.

Jimmy sleeps. All the time, everywhere. By the campfire, slumped in a chair in the inn, at the table in the planning room of the church.

So often he wakes up on that boulder overlooking the plains, the rock warm under his back and the sun pleasantly shining through the leaves of the tree behind him.

His body starts to ache.

His bones start to weigh down with exhaustion.

His hands start to shake.

His body is fighting, he can tell. Trying to put off being sick as long as possible. Trying to conserve his strength for healing.

There isn't any healing to come.

-

The others are going into the Rift.

Well, Jimmy's meant to be going, too.

He'd proposed himself going (he had spoken to them, laid out the plan in exactly the way he thinks he would have, but it's hard to remember how to act like himself when there's gaping black maws where everyone's eyes should be), even though he isn't planning on it at all.

Scott is going.

He doesn't know it yet, but he's going through the Rift. The spark in his eyes hasn’t died yet, and despite every doubt he has and the mistakes he’s made, Jimmy knows that the others look up to him. They’ll follow him, more willingly than they had ever followed Jimmy.

Jimmy isn't sure how to change the plans right after he presents them, though, so he just leaves, back to lie on his boulder to watch the wind ruffle the grass.

The sun is gently warm on his face.

His hat slips back, flopping off his head.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment. It isn't sleeping.

His body's just so tired.

Time passes.

It must pass.

Because the next thing Jimmy knows, the sun is not on his face and there's a scratching noise from beside him.

He blinks his eyes open, casts his gaze around.

fWhip is sitting beside him, writing in a journal of some sort. That's the source of the scratching noise—his tiny pencil going back and forth on the page, scurrying like a little mouse.

"Sorry," Jimmy mumbles, biting back a groan as he sits up.

It's so hard just to sit up.

fWhip chuckles a little. "It's cool. Just glad you're getting some sleep."

Jimmy doesn't respond to that.

"You know, you've been running yourself into the ground. You deserve a second to rest."

Definitely not a hallucination, then. Seeing as his hallucinations tend to hate him.

"What are you writing?" Jimmy asks, in lieu of arguing about his sleep habits.

fWhip shrugs self-consciously. "Nothing much. Just journaling." He gestures around at the plains. "Describing Sanctuary, us, the things we're doing. Just in case."

"In case of what?"

"In case . . . well, I dunno," fWhip says. "I keep imagining this scenario where we go through the Rift, and we end up in a different world, and we forget all of our history just two or three generations down. So I'm writing down all of this."

"Don't forget to mention Tumble Town," Jimmy says. "The most . . . uh, the best land for miles around."

fWhip shoots him a toothy smile. "Want to write something? I have pages for everyone."

Jimmy stares at his proffered pencil, then carefully takes it in his left hand, before transferring it to his right. He doesn't want his cuff to pull up even the slightest bit, revealing the mark on his wrist.

fWhip flips through his journal—a repurposed sketchbook, actually—until he finds the blank page he's looking for. He sets it in Jimmy's left hand.

"Just write anything. I'm planning on filling it in later with a bunch of biography type-stuff, but I can work around whatever you want to put."

Jimmy sets the pencil to the paper, willing his hand not to shake.

The Sheriff, he writes, in his quick, sharp cursive. Then, just below:

Jimmy.

It's not his best. It definitely doesn't look quite like it normally does, when he signs warrants of arrest or bank notes. Not as careful, the lines not as straight.

The J has a little divot in the line. The second h falters just the slightest bit.

He doesn't want to write anymore.

Or, rather, he doesn't have any more that he wants to write.

He slides the book back into fWhip's lap. "There," he says. "Now you can sell it for lots of money, it has my signature."

He can tell that fWhip's laugh is more to humor him than anything else.

"If I ever get Katherine's hands on this, absolutely," fWhip says. "I want her to draw everyone—have you seen her sketches? Like, in her workshop?"

Jimmy shrugs.

"She's actually really good. Scott, too. I just . . . don't know if I'll see Scott again, so. . . ."

He trails off with a bit of a cough.

Jimmy looks back over the fields.

He can't stay here.

He can't stay here, sleeping and aching and hiding until he dies.

He can't convince them to let him stay here. fWhip, at least, would insist on staying with him, and if Jimmy’s learned anything, it's that he wants his friends to survive.

He's going to have to leave.

"Actually, Katherine is what I came here for, I totally forgot!" fWhip snaps his journal shut. "She was wanting to talk to you. Do you wanna come back with me?"

-

"I'm sorry," Katherine says after a long moment.

Jimmy blinks. "Sorry? About what?"

She shrugs. "Pushing us to go look for Pix. If we hadn't gone for him. . . ."

For a foolish, hopeful second, Jimmy thinks she's referring to the death mark on his wrist.

Then he remembers that she doesn't know it exists.

She's talking about Shelby's condition.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her. "It was my fault."

"No—you didn't want to go, you—"

"But I let it happen," Jimmy cuts her off. "It was my fault, okay?"

He can take the blame.

What's another sin on top of ending the world?

Katherine frowns. "Are you sure? Because I know Scott's beating himself up over this, too. And if you really thought that it was your fault over his, you would go tell him."

Her face has gone from open, apologetic, to practically glaring at him.

And, really?

Jimmy absolutely deserves it.

"Sure," he says, trying not to let show the exhaustion dragging on his bones. "I'll talk to him."

Katherine nods.

She looks like she's sparkling.

She looks like she has wings.

-

It's long past midnight when Jimmy slips into the chapel.

Scott is there, he notices immediately—curled up and asleep on a pew near the entrance. Scott hasn't ever slept in his own bedroom, as far as Jimmy's aware. Every night when Jimmy checks on everyone, he finds Scott here, wrapped up in a blanket.

He ought to tell Scott that he's leaving. That he wants Scott to be in charge. That it was his fault.

But he can't bring himself to wake him.

The candlelight is low, and at the front of the chapel, muttering under his breath and holding his hands to a sleeping Shelby's head, is Sausage.

Even from afar, he looks exhausted. His hair falls limply into his face, his shoulders are slumped and his clothing is rumpled. He doesn't even look up until Jimmy is right beside him, spurs clicking all the way down the long aisle.

"You should rest."

"So should you."

"I'll wake Shelby, all right? She can hold down the fort for an hour or so."

"I feel close."

"You feel tired."

"And you don't?"

"This ain't about me."

"I can't. I can't go to sleep. I can't fail them."

"I reckon I understand. But this won't get fixed lest you take a rest. Just an hour."

". . . Okay. Pero, necesitas dormir también, okay?"

"I don't speak whatever that was."

"Stay here and rest a little. Just pretend like I'm giving a sermon, then it'll be easy to fall asleep!"

"Right. I'll wake Shelby."

-

fWhip never locks his room.

So it isn't hard for Jimmy to sneak in and tuck the Deputy Norman badge into his packed backpack.

-

Dawn breaks early the next morning, and Jimmy feels surprisingly lucid.

He feels like—no, he knows, somewhere deep within—his body is giving him a brief respite before it starts fighting the next stage of the illness.

Jimmy lingers outside the chapel, absently twisting his hat between his hands.

The others still have a day to prepare.

But Jimmy had packed his satchel with a bit of food, his waterskin, and a couple of papers with a pencil.

He's ready to leave.

He just has one person left to speak to.

As expected, Scott heads out from the inn to the church soon after dawn, likely having grabbed something quick to eat before returning to his self-imposed work of watching Sausage and Shelby.

Jimmy catches him by the shoulder.

His sleeve rides up just slightly. He hopes Scott doesn't notice the pink mark.

"Could you walk with me?" he asks quietly.

Scott glances uncertainly toward the church.

Then he nods.

Jimmy leads the way, and perhaps he can sense how unwell he truly is by the way his boots land a bit heavily against the dirt path and his legs feel almost too tired to pick his feet back up.

He probably has . . . a week, at most. Maybe a bit longer, if he takes it easy.

Right. Take it easy.

He doesn't want to leave.

He can't stay.

"Nice out," Scott comments, and Jimmy jumps.

He'd forgotten that Scott was there, or maybe assumed that he'd imagined him.

"Yeah, I guess," he says, looking around. "Bit warm for this early, but I ain't complaining."

It is a bit warm.

Sanctuary has had fairly warm temperatures the whole time they've been here, but the morning is usually more moderate.

Maybe there's a heatwave building up—one last hurrah of summer, before autumn properly takes over.

Sanctuary has been looking rather fall-like of late. Orange and yellow leaves making up the majority of the trees. It's quite pretty, really. Jimmy's never been to Sanctuary in the fall.

They pass under the trees, down the winding dirt footpath that Jimmy's trodden into the ground almost on his own (although there were remnants of it that he followed those first times), so many days and nights out patrolling the same line. He goes just beyond the trees, right to his favorite spot.

The boulder is almost wavering in the weak morning light.

Jimmy pauses beside it, looks out over the plains.

His view is framed by red leaves, and out beyond is rolling green-and-yellow grass, long and waving, the sky still such a young blue behind it. It looks like it hasn’t been devastated by the apocalypse. It looks calm, welcoming, lovely.

It looks so much like home.

"This is the most beautiful part of Sanctuary, I think," he murmurs.

Scott shifts beside him.

Right.

Time to delegate.

That's all he's doing. Delegating. Adjusting a former command.

Jimmy takes in a deep breath, then turns, looks Scott in his mismatched eyes. "I want you to go through the Rift," he says, willing his voice not to falter.

Scott blinks. "Sorry, what?"

Jimmy sighs, then sits on his boulder, tugging one knee up to his chest. How can he present this? "I'm not going," he says, and prays that Scott won't ask why. "I want you to take my place."

"Wh-why?"

Shoot.

Jimmy doesn't want to speak.

So he doesn't.

He looks out over the plains.

It isn't just his childhood that he misses, he supposes.

He's a cowboy. A traveler. He isn't meant to stay in one place for too long.

He's meant to feel the grass underfoot, and the wind through his hair, the dirt on his face and the sun on his back, fresh air in his lungs and a horse at his side.

Jimmy has a chronic case of wanderlust, and Sanctuary only grows smaller by the day.

"I can't do that," Scott says suddenly. "I—you're the leader, I can't—I don't—"

"Scott," says Jimmy, and it comes out smaller, softer than intended.

Jimmy can see, out of the corner of his eye, that Scott freezes.

"I'm not going. And they'll follow you. Even False will follow you, if you can convince her." False doesn't trust easily, if at all. 

Jimmy doesn't think he ever really got her trust. Just her approval.

"But I can't go through the Rift."

"Why not?" Scott asks, nothing stubborn in his tone, nothing angry.

Jimmy can say he wants to find a way to protect everyone left.

He can say that he's going to go looking for Pix.

He can say that he left something important in Tumble Town, and he needs to go get it.

But Scott is a lover of truth. He’ll see through any lie that Jimmy tries to give him, so distrusting after everything he’s already put him through.

And honestly, he deserves the truth.

It's not going to be easy to say.

But Jimmy fixes his eyes determinedly on the horizon, and twists the loose button on his vest, and makes his choice.

"It was in the catacombs," he says, and he can't make his voice any louder than a near-whisper for some reason. "I was marking our path with chalk. And. . . ."

He can't say it.

Luckily, he doesn't need to.

Jimmy shakes back his right sleeve, just enough that death's mark shows.

Scott stares.

"I didn't know what to say," Jimmy says simply.

That's the most truthful of it all, isn't it?

"Not when we couldn't stop moving while we were down there. Not when Shelby needed comfort. Not when we needed to focus everything on her."

Jimmy supposes he ought to feel something about that—sadness that this is the end, that he'll never see his friends again. Or relief, that he can finally stop running. Or maybe even despair, knowing that there is nothing he can do to protect his friends anymore.

He doesn't feel any of that, though.

He mostly feels tired.

"We might be able to heal you," Scott suggests, and he sounds as tired as Jimmy feels. "If it works with Shelby, we can do it with you, right? We can just put off the Rift thing until you're both better."

Jimmy isn't going to get better.

He isn't going to give himself that chance.

"And if Shelby doesn't get better?" he asks.

Scott looks away.

He's about to say something placating. Something kind and fluffy, to make Scott feel better about not trying.

The truth. Jimmy needs to tell the truth, not soften the blows.

"I want to stay," admits Jimmy. The words tear from deep within, yet pull free almost easily—like tugging a barely-formed scab off a wound. "I do. But I can't. And maybe it's selfish, Scott, but I don't want them to know that . . . that I've been hiding this from them."

He doesn't want to face their anger, possibly their grief. He doesn't want them to force him to stay.

Because if they find out, and he's already gone, he'll be just another rescue mission.

Someone else could die.

And . . . he's kind of been lying to them this whole time.

People don't like being lied to.

"Like you hid the stuff about Joel from me," Scott's saying, and Jimmy grimaces.

"Yeah. I'm not really good with confrontations like that. You saw what happened. But I couldn't just leave without telling someone, you know?"

"So . . . you're leaving."

He is.

He has to.

"To—what, become like Oli? Instead of staying here, where we can help you . . . go peacefully, I guess?"

Jimmy shakes his head practically before Scott's done speaking. "I don't care much for the idea of staying in bed, all still and sick 'til it's over. I figure I'll just head out quietly, yeah? I already packed my bag. Just wanted to make sure someone could be in charge."

"I'm not a leader," Scott says, sounding a little bit panicked. "What about fWhip?"

Jimmy almost laughs. "fWhip's a follower. He gets too stressed to actually lead."

"Katherine?"

"I don't think she'll want to go through the Rift," Jimmy says thoughtfully. She'll want to stay with Shelby, he's sure of it. "She said she'd come, but I bet my bootstraps she'll back out last minute."

Scott opens his mouth, clearly about to suggest the next person in line.

"And not Gem, either," Jimmy cuts him off. "Scott, I chose you because you're the one who fought back when you thought I'd made a wrong choice. You spoke up. And not just then—you suggest your own plans all the time. You're a leader, even if you don't know it."

Scott doesn't respond to that.

Jimmy looks out over the plains. He can imagine that Scott is biting his lip, trying to think up some argument.

He can imagine that Scott has a lot of things he wants to say.

Somehow, Scott rarely ends up saying them.

After a moment, with a scraping of fabric against stone, Scott sits down beside him, quite gently leaning against him.

It's an invitation.

And he's so tired.

After a long moment, Jimmy lets his head fall onto Scott's shoulder.

It's peaceful, all quiet-like this early in the morning. The world feels almost sleepy, the sun rising but not blinding. 

Gem worships the sun, to some extent. Her kingdom of Dawn revered its rising, held festivals and services in its honor. Jimmy understands why every time he watches it rise, every time he sees the orange glow that slowly spills across the darkened world, softly letting more and more light into the day to gradually pull the lands into consciousness.

The sun isn't going to be able to pull him with it.

He's going to die.

He's going to die before he ever feels fully awake again.

He's never going to be entirely conscious before he sleeps forever.

“You should go.”

The voice belongs to Lizzie, he thinks. Or Pix. Or Oli.

“It’s time to go.”

That one belongs to Joel.

Jimmy swallows, gathers every bit of consciousness and strength that he can find, then pulls away from Scott, stretching.

“I should probably head out before the town wakes up,” he tells Scott, and he can see his eyes, mismatched and conflicted, through the shadow that tries to darken them. “Get away before anyone can stop me.”

“Sure. What do you want me to tell them?”

He wants Scott to tell them goodbye. He wants them to know that he loves them, that if he deserved any better he would stay.

But he won’t put that on them.

He tells Scott to convince them that he deserted them. He tells Scott he’s leaving without any sense of direction, that he’s going to go out there and hope for the best.

He doesn’t tell Scott goodbye, either.

He deserves better than that.