#but that's a powerful expression of potent grief

[ladyniniane]

Zoé, protagonist of my Byzantine-inspired fantasy WIP Zoé, lady of the palace/Zoé dame du palais.

A warrior from the provinces, Zoé moves to the capital in the wake of a personal tragedy. There, she hopes to begin a new life. An encounter leads her to work in the palace, where she earns the empress dowager's trust. Secrets, intrigues and love await her in that gilded world. Zoé will need all of her skills to carve her place.

Mary Magdalene in the cave - Hugues Merle/ Valerius Maximus about Artemisia II of Caria/ Empress Theodora - Antoine Helbert/ Sailing to Byzantium - William Butler Yeats/ Miniature commemorating the marriage of Nikephoros III Botaneiates and Maria of Alania/ Song of Songs 6:10

[colibrie]

More jedi turtles! Again, all thanks and credit to @trilobitepunch for the spectacular art and inspiration.

Rise of the teenage mutant ninja jedi (working title)

Meetings

"Leo?" Mikey whispered, his heart skipping a fearful beat when his elder brother failed to respond. Swallowing hard, he carefully edged forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with his sibling, one eye on the armored duo while the other ran over Leo's form in search of injury.

No blood stained his clothes. No scratches or bruises marred his pale green skin. Yet their absence didn't prevent his heart from racing, rabbit quick beats slamming an SOS against his ribs as Mikey looked at his brothers face.

Leo, charming, affable, funny Leo, was gone. His expression was as blank as a piece of fresh paper, mouth hanging ever so slightly open as though he'd forgotten how to close it. Dark eyes that usually danced with mischief and mirth, sulked and steeped in petulance or sorrow, that blazed and smoldered so brilliantly in frustration and in wamth, had become empty and hollow. His dialted pupils were blackholes staring off into some fathomless mid-distance, chest barely rising and falling with the shallowest of breaths.

"Say. Something," the smaller armored figure hissed.

Where Leo was blank, this one could not seem to keep still. His facial features kept twisting and churning rapidly, flickering and warping too fast for Mikey to fully comprehend. Waves of dark energy rolled from his quivering shoulders, a potent brew of rage flavored with grief and disbelief that had acid creeping up the back of Mikey's throat. Horrendous pressure bore down from seemingly every direction, an unstoppable force that demanded the unmoveable to get out of its way or be subsumed.

"Keep it together Don," the big one rumbled, burnt eyes sliding predator sharp between Mikey and Leo and his companion. "Donnie..."

"Donnie" did not acknowledge his companion, attention lazer locked on Leo. The red glare of his saber added a slightly crazed sheen to his eyes and a corner of Mikeys brain, used to looking for the tiniest details, absently noted the way the red picked out beautiful highlights of purple. The greater part of his mind told that part to shut the shell up.

"Leo, we need to go," he mumbled under his breath, one hand sliding up to grab Leo's shoulder. "We need to go right now."

Leo remained blank, limbs locked and limp like a droid without a power source.

"Leo, please!" Mikey begged, panic dripping ice cold down his shell as the big one shifted restlessly. He stepped back, trying to drag his brother towards the safety of their ship. "We need to- MOVE!"

The last word came out in a half mangled shriek as the big one lunged, one red saber igniting and swiping out in a brutal arc that forced Mikey to shove Leo away as hard as he could to avoid getting dismembered.

"You two ain't goin anywhere," the big one growled, towering over them.

[the-tmnt-ficfinder]

Ficfinder finds: The Lemonade Leak

Chapter 19: The Sculptor

Chapter 19 Summary: No summary

The Sculptor: Appraisal and Ratings

(Don't know what fanfic "Appraisal and Ratings" means? Check out my explanation on my Main Masterpost! Looking for a different fanfic to read? Head on over to my Fanfic List Masterpost!)

Disclaimer: This fanfic is only available to those who have an Ao3 profile. This fanfic is written by @turtleinsoup, so go show them some love and support!!

The fanfic ratings are not based on quality, favoritism, or how good I think it is, but rather, how intense a subject may be. Like a movie review, or the tags on Ao3, letting the readers know what to expect.

Plot: 💛💛💛💛💛

"Plot is five out of five!! The jump from Donnie's POV to Mikey's is quick and jarring, but also incredibly effective!! Everything is going to be different now. Like, massively different!"

Suspense/Mystery: 💛💛💛💛🖤

"Suspense/Mystery is four out of five!! The suspense and mystery levels for this chapter originally start out low, as we the readers understand what happened between Donnie and Leo. Then as the story progresses, and more things are revealed, its suddenly apparent that the big picture had yet to be resolved."

Angst/Hurt: 💛💛💛💛💛

"Angst/Hurt is five out of five!! The amount of angsty emotions packed into this chapter is crazy!! The fear, the confusion, the dread, its all so potent!!"

Fluff/Comfort: 💛💛🖤🖤🖤

"Fluff/Comfort is two out of five! Some of the interactions between Mikey and Leo have some comforting elements to them, though it is somewhat marred by the severity of the situations."

Emotions Conveyed: 💛💛💛💛🖤

"Emotions Conveyed is four out of five!! Mikey's emotions are very powerful, and it really bleeds through into the writing!! The grief, the fear, its all so well written!!"

Drama/Tension Level: 💛💛💛💛💛

"Drama/Tension Level is five out of five!! The tension between Mikey and Leo very prominent, and the family drama is a big part of the story as the chapter progresses!!"

Triggers: 💛💛🖤🖤🖤

"Triggers for this chapter are two out of five. This chapter has less triggers, and more emotional angst in it. Most of the triggering things, are implied, or hinted at, rather than actually talked about or shown."

Legibility (Reading): 💛💛💛💛💛

"Legibility (Reading) is five out of five!! As this chapter is from Mikey's POV, I'd say its absolutely a wonderful read!! Its poetic, and flowing, different than the writing style of Leo's and Donnie's POVs."

Legibility (Audio): 💛💛💛💛💛

"Legibility (Audio) is five out of five! No weird formatting in this chapter!! So, its able to be listened to in audio book format!! Yay!!"

Length: 💛💛🖤🖤🖤

"Length is two out of five!! Chapter 19 of The Lemonade Leak takes about 14-15 minutes to listen to!!"

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Next Chapter ->

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The Lemonade Leak: Story Ratings and Chapter List

Personal thoughts on chapter below cut (Contains Spoilers)

Later, Mikey’d sketch over the memory, re-trace it for details, his mental brush hovering too long over the same spots, muddling Leo’s last expressions into loose suggestions. Mikey would re-tell them a thousand times. But here, oh no. His head was stuffed with crème au beurre, a savory-sweet non-knowing.

I absolutely adore how Mikey thinks in art terms, and baking terms. All creativity and creation. It’s fun to compare the thought style of the brothers, and how it affects how they interpret each others actions. 

Dr. Feelings didn’t answer. He was super silent lately, and a part of Mikey felt chewy about it, but maybe it was for the best! Mikey couldn’t trust him to do it. To help Leo. (Chocolate should be chocolate and nothing else, and all that!) Dr. Feelings would’ve tried to talk Donnie out of it.

It’s interesting how Dr. Feelings seems to be more of a presence in Mikey’s mind rather than a persona. I wonder, if that was built into his mind, like a fail safe mode to get his brothers to stay together. Because we often see that Mikey is very sensitive and caring. He’d never yell at people. However, Doctor Delicate Touch is very harsh, and Doctor Feelings takes no crap. They both deal with different things. Dr. Delicate Touch with physical issues, and Dr. Feelings with emotional problems. I wonder, does Mikey control this?

Where’s he at? Supply run? He tried to think back. Did he tell me? It was hard to remember. A lot of things were, lately. Memories kept smudging from frantic retracing, mental brush strokes unwilling to form.

Like a hand brushing over a graphite pencils drawing to many times over. Eventually it all smudges together, and bold light and dark contrasts all become gray. 

Mikey kept Dr. Positive at gunpoint while he closed the door to Donnie’s room.

Maybe because he doesn’t wanna be overly hopeful? Or because he doesn’t want Dr. Positive to leave… 

Mikey warped his arms around Leo’s neck and pressed his nose against the base of Leo’s throat. (By his nature. Like apricot confiture, clementine compote, or the skin of a peach – Orange was a sticky color. His brothers understood that the way they understood their own hues in the picture.) Leo didn’t try to wipe him off. This close, Leo’s scent filled him in a thick rush, petrichor and damp. At the base of Leo’s pulse, Mikey could make out every nuance, every past palette. The dried blood layering him, the sour lick of chemicals and far-away places. Those were the new normal.

The imagery that all these poetic sentences bring, is beautiful in almost a haunting way. I love how Mikey’s thoughts and emotions are objectified. How they’re expressed through colors, and sounds, and flavors. It’s simply stunning. 

Mikey tightened his hold and bumped his cheek to Leo’s. Dotting his purr with playful little pecks. “I love hanging out with you, you’re so cool! And fun. You’re so dang important to me.” He felt Leo exhale shakily, sinking into Mikey’s embrace, heavily. His muscles fought with themselves but lost against their own instincts. Leo buried his face in Mikey’s warm shoulder.

Out of all the brothers, Mikey is the one who is most in tune with his emotions. He’s also the one who is most in tune with his animalistic instincts, as they go hand in hand. You can clearly see how this give's Mikey a leg up on his brothers. They're all powerful in their own ways, and this is one of Mikey's ways.

Donnie, Leo. Missing. It was like half of Mikey’s body had been amputated, and he was left with phantom pain in every movement. His body itched and burned, so much; it was hard to feel much but the missing, missing, missing of my brothers.

Mikey’s role in the unit is to keep his family, so it makes sense for that to be instinct driven. It’s not even something he can control. Just how Donnie only feels welcome when he has a purpose, Mikey only feels happy when his brothers are around. Incomplete without them. 

Dad didn’t look up from the kitchen table. “What do you mean to say, Orange?” he asked.

Now that Donnie's gone, now that Splinter is no longer taking any of those specialized pills, he's up and about, and interacting with his sons.

Now, my last little thought is on the chapter name. The Sculptor is a very fitting name for Mikey. I find it interesting that the name the painter, or artist wasn't chosen. The sculptor seems much more fitting for this Mikey in particular. A sculptor, to create art, slowly chips away at a hard exterior, till its the shape they want it to be. Occasionally, they'll mold soft clay, shifting it to how they want it to look so that once it dries, it'll be in its correct shape. Other artists, such as painters add paint to a canvas, while a sculptor already has what they're given. Mikey chips away at his brothers, and molds them when they're soft, turning them into the art they need to be.

[owlespresso]

Slake

Estinien

Tags: dragoon!reader, blood, predator/prey, non consensual bite, dragoon fuckery

The Hinterlands are beautiful. Wide emerald plains strewn with rivers and lakes, moving waters gleaming underneath a dull sun. The aged remnants of the new Sharlayan are wreathed in vines and moss, tiles cracked as nature overturns mankind’s withering scraps. Though infested with hostile goblins, the buildings are still in good condition considering all that has conspired since the initial flight of their creators.

The scenic vistas and breathtaking views fly past you, now. They are no more important than the nattering of the local wildlife in the distance. Estinien hasn’t stopped to rest under any of the crumbling roofs, so they cease to matter. All that matters is the pull of his scent on your palate, the full thick of his aether growing more potent the closer your come. You’re drooling, you think, every bit the insipid beast the Garleans believe you are. You don’t feel bad about proving them right.

The only regret is leagues and leagues away, nestled safely in the roost of Ishgard’s well-guarded heart. Aymeric is likely doing paperwork, or seeing to the rebuilding efforts, or appeasing the still-uneasy citizens. Busy as ever.

He made time to stop you, that very morning. In the soft light of the approaching dawn, eyes sleepy and beseeching as he hunched down. The low timbre of his voice was still syrupy with sleep. His hurt was obvious, too exhausted and too close to you to maintain the front he showed the rest of the waking world.

“But I am right here, my love,” Aymeric murmured, voice steeped in gentle grief, fingertips brushing up against your own. Am I not enough? he asked with his eyes. Will you not slake your thirst with me?

He could never understand the infernal thing that pulses beneath your skin. He does not hear the clarion call of Estinien’s aethers, the traces of his essence lingering in his wake. He does not feel the longing which hooks its claws to your bones and sinew, which rends you through every moment you remain apart. He abandoned you, left you to awaken to a cold grey sky, an empty nest, the dithering nothingness of whatever happens next.

So you hunt. Freed of Nidhogg as he may be, he’s been irrevocably changed by the wyrm’s influence. It clings to him now, Estinien’s mint-sharp twang coalesced with the ferocity and love and loyalty that massive beast was once capable of. He is Nidhogg, something feral in you says, something you don’t understand, something that should terrify you more than it does. He is Nidhogg, and he can make you full.

So you chase. You chase until your feet are throbbing, until your lungs sting bitter with the high altitude air. The creatures that would typically plant themselves in your way, indignant over your intrusion into their territory, avoid you now. They’re nowhere to be seen, but you can feel them, you can taste the fear in the air, the wariness. They know the sight of a Great Wyrm on the prowl and they are wise enough to avoid you when you are so inflamed, so starved.

Estinien, perhaps, feels you before you can even lay eyes on him. For once, he is made quarry. He’s waiting by a river bend, stood stark against the empty plains as you round a stone ledge. Right there, lance hooked over his shoulders and expression nonplussed. Bewildered, but not alarmed. He recognizes you and he is not running. This should be enough.

But it isn’t, so you jump. You fling yourself through the air, putting every ounce of draconic power you can muster into the movement. The aether is so bright and brilliant that it sears, leaves behind charred grass and soot in your wake, the tail end of a mad comet.

You remember it in flashes. The fresh collision with his warm body, the taste of his flesh under your teeth and tongue, the abrupt shout he lets loose as you both tumble into the river. The frigid water floods you both, slips in between the cracks in your plate and soaks you through, but you don’t care because Estinien is here and under you and writhing and spitting and cursing—

“What in the swiveling hells has gotten into you?” his voice is a low snarl, ice cracking underfoot. His fingers clutch hard the round of your shoulder, tight enough to make the bones creak. He doesn’t try to pry you off, he simply gasps and twitches as you bite. He goes rigid, then. The breath rolls in and out of him in little pants.

“Missed you,” is all you can choke out, consciousness slipping between your fingers. Estinien remains silent for a long moment, before he makes an exasperated sort of sound. You curl your fingers into the wet folds of his sleeves, taking in greedy inhales of him.

At the first taste of copper, he gives a broken moan. You release him, then, rolling your tongue over the wound once, before letting it bleed. The bright crimson paints the pale expanse of his skin, and for the first time since you’ve left—your humanity resurfaces in one twitch of horror. The aether you’d mustered to propel yourself all this way is expunged from you all at once, leaving you a limp body cradled against his chest. The leather vest he’s worn is wet against your cheek.

And then you’re out of the water, hefted into his arms as easily as he’d scoop up a cat. The sudden movement has you shrieking in surprise, limbs flailing before your hands land on his shoulders, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Settle down,” he breathes into your ear, voice a strained rasp. So you do, choosing to focus on only the thrum of his heartbeat, the very heat he radiates in spades. Even now, even while a free man.

“Don’t leave me again,” you rasp, pressing your lips over his stained skin, roll your tongue to bathe it in his lifeblood. He shivers. “Please.”

Silence settles over you both for a long, harrowing bundle of moments. He’s deliberating. You don’t know how you can tell, you just feel it, just know. He’s going to scold you, ream you out for following him so brazenly

“I won’t,” he says, and then quieter. “At this point, I doub you would let me.”

[madamlaydebug]

I believe that Imagination is stronger than Knowledge. That Myth is more potent than Reality. That Dreams are more powerful than Facts. That Hope always triumphs over Experience. That Laughter is the only cure for Grief. And I believe that Love is stronger than Death.

- Robert Fulgham

Don't let insecurity lead you to seek the approval of others.

Death is not the biggest fear we have; our biggest fear is taking the risk to be alive – the risk to be alive and express what we really are.

- Miguel Angel Ruiz

Whatever you hold in your mind will tend to occur in your life. If you continue to believe as you have always believed, you will continue to act as you have always acted. If you continue to act as you have always acted, you will continue to get what you have always gotten. If you want different results in your life or your work, all you have to do is change your mind.

You are given the gifts of the gods, you create your reality according to you beliefs. Yours is the creative energy that makes your world. There are no limitations to the self except those you believe in.

[starreadssstuff]

Fragments of a broken bond -Nanami Kento

warnings - Angsty, character death, spoilers! (kinda idk) emotional distress if anything LMK!

Authors note- y'all... I have been so M.I.A lately so im super sorry!! writers block and life have been crappy soooo... But I am planing on writing a lot more but yk. I really hope u enjoy!! love, star ♥️

Dark clouds loomed overhead as the once serene landscape trembled with an impending threat. You and Nanami Kento, bound by a love as strong as the sorcery that coursed through your veins, stood side by side, ready to face the cursed adversary that threatened to tear your world apart.

The battle was fierce, the air heavy with desperation and the taste of bitter defeat. Spells collided, shattering the calm of the forest, and cries of anguish pierced the air. In the chaos, you caught sight of Nanami, his expression etched with determination, fighting valiantly against the cursed entity.

With a surge of energy, you summoned every ounce of your power, unleashing a spell so potent it rocked the very foundations of your existence. But in that moment, the enemy struck with a vengeance, and a wave of darkness engulfed the battlefield.

When the smoke cleared, you found yourself standing alone, your heart pounding with fear and despair. Kento was nowhere to be found. Panic gripped your chest as you frantically searched the wreckage, calling out his name in a voice choked with tears.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the weight of loss settled upon your shoulders. The world had grown cold, its colors faded, devoid of the warmth that Nanami's presence once brought. Every breath you took felt shallow, each heartbeat a reminder of the emptiness that consumed you.

Unable to bear the pain any longer, you sought solace in the memories you shared. Photographs, letters, and trinkets became your lifeline, preserving fragments of a love that once thrived. In the quiet corners of your mind, you replayed moments spent together—laughter, whispered promises, and stolen kisses.

One moonlit night, as you stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing at the starry sky, a gust of wind caressed your cheeks, carrying with it a faint echo of Kento’s voice. "I'm sorry, (Y/N). I never wanted to leave you. Please, find happiness."

Tears mingled with the wind as you whispered your response to the empty night, "I'll carry your love with me always, Kento. But without you, happiness feels distant and unattainable."

Days turned into months, and months turned into years, but the ache in your heart remained steadfast. Though you continued to live, the shadow of loss loomed over every step you took. The world moved on, but you remained trapped in a bittersweet limbo, forever haunted by the ghost of a love lost.

In the quiet corners of your existence, you often imagined what life could have been. Would Kento have held you close during sleepless nights? Would he have shared stories of his past, allowing you to bear witness to the depths of his soul? The unanswered questions haunted you, forever etching an anguished longing in your heart.

As time marched on, you vowed to honor Kento’s memory by channeling your pain into purpose. You became a beacon of hope for others, wielding your sorcery to bring solace to those plagued by curses. And as you embarked on your journey, you carried within you the fragments of a broken bond, forever etched in your soul.

For love, even in its absence, has the power to transform sorrow into strength and pain into resilience. And in the depths of your grief, you clung to that glimmer of hope, carrying the memory of Nanami Kento with you, forever.

[nitrateglow]

Halloween 2023 marathon: 16-18

The Spiral Staircase (dir. Robert Siodmak, 1946)

A murderer is slaying "imperfect" (ie disabled) women in a small Vermont town around the turn of the 20th century. Mute since she experienced a great trauma, Helen (Dorothy McGuire) is cautious, but she assumes she'll be safe within her employer's home. Working as a companion to the bedridden Mrs. Warren (Eleanor Barrymore), Helen has to deal with the older woman's moods. As the night wears on, Helen and Mrs. Warren begin to suspect the killer is in the house... but who is it? One of the servants? One of Mrs. Warren's bickering sons? Or someone from outside?

Another favorite of mine! I usually watch this twice a year because I love it so much. The Spiral Staircase is a perfectly crafted thriller with absolutely everything I could want: a sympathetic and smart protagonist, rich supporting characters, beautiful black and white cinematography that enhances the gothic atmosphere, slow-burn tension, and a climax that has me screaming at the TV for the characters to get the hell out of the house.

I really do love the supporting cast in this, especially Elsa Lanchester as the alcoholic maid and Eleanor Barrymore as the mysterious, hardnosed matriarch. But it's truly Dorothy McGuire's show all the way. Her face is so expressive, and like the best horror movie heroines, she is both vulnerable and resilient.

Another thing I love is how the film opens with Helen watching a silent film. It sets up the 1910s setting well, establishes Helen as a sensitive young woman (she's crying at the film), and it makes a subtle comment on Helen's trauma-induced muteness before we're made aware of it.

Not much else for me to say. I've gushed about this one before and it never gets old. It's probably my favorite horror movie of the 1940s, with only Cat People as competition.

The Sixth Sense (dir. M. Night Shyamalan, 1999)

After being shot by an anguished ex-patient, child psychologist Dr. Crowe (Bruce Willis) yearns to redeem himself by helping another troubled child. Cole Sear (Haley Joel Osment) is a sensitive, awkward young boy who claims to see "dead people," much to the dismay of his mother Lynn (Toni Collette). Can Dr. Crowe help Cole?

*mild spoilers below, but not THE spoiler from the ending, though I expect everyone knows the twist by now*

This was my first time watching this film.

To rip the band-aid off: I liked The Sixth Sense but it also underwhelmed me. It seems like a solid supernatural drama/thriller with a really cool twist ending, but hardly a masterpiece for the ages on par with the best of Hitchcock, as I've seen some critics claim.

What I liked: Haley Joel Osment and Toni Collette are phenomenal as the troubled son and mother. HJO is probably the most gifted kid actor I've ever seen: in every movie of his from the late 90s, early 2000s (and of course, in the Kingdom Hearts video game series as Sora), you forget you're watching an actor. And in this, he's doubly impressive because Cole is such a tormented character, dealing with powers an adult would be ill-equipped to handle. Collette is just as amazing-- a few of her scenes actually brought me to tears because she made Lynn's pain and helplessness so potent. While Bruce Willis is solid as Dr. Crowe, HJO and Collette stole the show.

The movie's melancholy atmosphere is wonderfully realized too. I think the best ghost stories are less about shocks than they are about sadness and grief. This is certainly a thoughtful movie in that regard.

What I didn't like: There are quite a few campy moments that took me out of the film, mainly involving the ghosts. Now, I ADORE camp when it suits the tone of the story. However, pairing campy, shrieking ghosts that seem like they belong in a 1990s Stephen King miniseries with a delicate exploration of grief and unfinished business isn't peanut butter and chocolate, it's peanut butter and dijon mustard.

I also found some of the directorial choices super on the nose, like the murderess at her victim's funeral wearing a bright red dress. That's a Debbie Jellinsky move, not something appropriate in your uber-serious dramatic movie.

Overall, it was a good film, but I guess I expected something with more psychological ambiguity like classics of supernatural horror cinema like The Innocents, The Haunting, Onibaba, or The Shining. Everything is pretty cut and dried in The Sixth Sense by comparison... but then again, I suppose that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's possible my expectations were too high. I could see myself watching this again and thinking better of it, like I did with Diabolique.

Frankenstein (dir. James Whale, 1931)

Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) ignores his fiancee, friends, and family so he can create a living being (Boris Karloff) from an assortment of corpses. It doesn't turn out well.

Frankenstein is incredibly dear to me. I discovered it early in my classic movie geekdom and it was the stepping stone to my becoming a horror movie fan. It's gothic, heartbreaking, funny, and beautiful. While there are slicker movies in the Universal Horror canon, this one is arguably the single most influential, tied with Dracula from the same year. It's definitely my favorite.

I'm not going to write as much about this one because I plan on doing a big post on it for my Wordpress blog come mid-October, so stay tuned!

[spacemonkeysalsa]

Her Embrace, Her Tears

(Angst and fluff and eventually smut, this is going to be very multi-chaptered)

Lae'zel probably didn't need a good excuse, or further motivation, to go to war with Shar. But, she is about to get it anyway.

Five years post game, Dark Justiciar/Mother Superior/Chosen of Shar Shadowheart and (with a few notable exceptions) everyone got their bad endings, in that everyone is still alive, but shitty. Lae'zel is thriving though, aside from her relationship.

Read Chapter One on Ao3

Read Chapter Two on Ao3

or read Chapter Two below the cut

Shadowheart knew she ought to offer up a prayer of thanks that she was momentarily shielded from feeling any disappointment at how her afternoon with Lae’zel had ended. Shar’s condescension meant she felt alkaline, most of the time. She knew that in days past, she might’ve been very upset that they couldn’t make the most of one of the precious few days they had together.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

And it wasn’t even like Lae’zel had to rush off again right away. They would get the chance to see each other again, very soon. Lae’zel’s plan was infirm. This visit didn’t have a definite end, there were simply tasks; she had a few things to take care of in Faerûn, mainly here in Baldur’s Gate, then she would return to whatever plane of existence she called home at the moment.

They would get another chance to enjoy each other’s company.

Had Lae’zel been quiet?

Shadowheart shook herself mentally. It didn’t matter if she had been. Five and a half years was a long time to have entirely separate lives. They simply wouldn’t have as much in common to speak of as they did when they were sharing every breath with one another.

On her long walk back to the enclave, Shadowheart diverted her path, lingered in bustling crowds as she entered the lower city and wound her way around the wall to the intimate back entrance of Astarion’s grand palace.

She had a parasol with her that disguised a channeling rod. She didn’t really need to use such a device, especially not for casting individual spells or cantrips, she was powerful enough in her own right, but she had found that the rod also enhanced her more passive gifts as a Chosen of Shar. The use of it could spread the breadth of her dark mantle. Especially if she consistently walked the same paths in the city, the effect would build up a thick, numbing miasma that turned hearts to sorrow, to sinking, and eventually, the waiting arms of the Dark Lady.

Since she’d started carrying the rod, her acolytes had marked an increase in visitors to the House of Grief, and she did not believe it was a coincidence.

She climbed the wall and Astarion’s security let her pass with barely a nod. Even if they didn’t recognize her, it was unlikely that they would have tried to interfere. She was so… potent, today. She could see the expressions of those around her draining of their distractions and worries just at her approach.

She’d never just looked in on Astarion before. Their relationship as allies had served them both very well on a few occasions, but the routine recently was that she received an invitation to one of his revels, and she came, and usually, didn’t even see or speak to the man himself. It was by design, but it still felt a little strange, to feel herself gradually becoming strangers with someone she’d once regarded as a friend.

Her pretext was to find out about the need for a cleric that her enclave had neglected. But, perhaps the real reason she was there was because seeing Lae’zel again had her considering their old allies—especially the ones who were still in Baldur’s Gate. So close. But, she barely knew them any longer. She paused under the trellis on the balcony leading around to the entrance.

Perhaps it was a bad idea.

She considered going back, but the lingering numbness of Shar’s presence folded over her, and even as a Chosen of the goddess herself, she was still susceptible to some of the inconvenient attributes of the mantle. Including lethargy.

The view from the palace was beautiful. Especially when there was still light to gleam across the sea below. She wondered if that had been part of Cazador’s motivation to ascend. Had he seen it when he was still able to stand in the sun, and did he long to see it again? After Astarion stole that ascension for himself, did he appreciate it?

She wasn’t sure Astarion was in any disposition to appreciate anything these days.

Are you? With the voice came a spark, a memory she hadn’t sacrificed yet. The first time that Lae’zel had made the difficult trip back to Faerûn to see her. When they hadn’t even been sure it would be possible. Her arrival had been a complete surprise to Shadowheart, and she’d lost all composure, weeping the moment Lae’zel stepped out of the portal. She’d never managed to say the cheeky greeting she’d planned on, in her little daydreams about such a scenario.

She shook herself. It was an old, weak voice in her head, one that tried to argue with Shar from time to time, and that brought forward the memories Shadowheart was most reluctant to part with. A voice of rebellion. That voice wouldn’t do anyone any good.

The palace doors opened, jostling her from her reverie. A girl strode out onto the balcony without looking in the direction of Shadowheart and the trellis. She made it to the railing of the balcony and fell against it heavily, her face awash in the kind of weariness that always perked Shadowheart’s interest.

Sorrow.

One of Astarion’s human servants? Well. She was fairly certain he’d sacked or killed the majority of them, but there was still the one maid, Shadowheart vaguely recalled having taken note of her at one of Astarion’s revels. Alice?

A gentle gust of wind gathered up the girl’s dark hair and pushed it back just enough from her face that Shadowheart got her first proper look, just before the girl noticed Shadowheart in turn. “Oh, excuse me,” the girl curtseyed, “I didn’t see you, M’Lady. Well met.”

“Well met, Alice?” Shadowheart didn’t manage to stop herself from guessing the name outloud in time. The instant it left her lips she knew she was wrong. This girl didn’t even look like Alice. She was too tall, too curved, too dark, older—in her defense, it was a little hard to tell with humans.

“She’s inside,” the girl’s face fell a little, like she felt the comparison to Alice flattered her a little too much for comfort, “I can fetch her if—”

“—no need. I could have let myself in,” Shadowheart twirled her channeling rod, disguised as a parasol absently, contemplating the girl’s heavy, sad eyes. “I only wanted to take a moment.” The girl’s sorrow was rolling off of every spoken word, and with every flickering glance, she appeared afraid of being struck. She was not dressed like a servant. The clothes she wore weren’t exactly nice, but they were not meant for labor either. Simple garb, ill-fitted and only flattering in the places where the cloth didn’t disguise her figure. Some outfit she had stolen or borrowed, certainly.

It would be far too easy to snatch this one up. Surely, Astarion wouldn’t mind. He was always so accommodating. “I’m Shadowheart. Just Shadowheart. No need to M’lady me.”

The girl barely managed to mask her sadness as she forced a smile and curtseyed a second time. “Isolde.”

“Gossip with me a moment. Someone here was injured quite terribly the other day, weren’t they? Have they since recovered?” Shadowheart wasn’t confident enough to assume that this girl could be the one that Astarion had spoken of, even to ask her outright, and for a moment she thought it couldn’t be her, given Isolde’s apparent confusion. Her eyes unfocused. They were wet, but she was thinking, searching her mind and Shadowheart could almost hear her asking herself whether she’d forgotten about some incident.

“Someone called for a cleric,” Shadowheart went on. Maybe the girl was just a bit dull and needed a few details to jog her memory. “Healing magics.”

“Oh!” Isolde’s face momentarily brightened with understanding, but then immediately relaxed into sorrow again, as she answered. “That was me, actually. It was nothing. I simply should never drink.”

“Dear me,” Shadowheart couldn’t help but admire a good liar when she heard one. It was possible that if anyone other than the Sharran Mother Superior and Chosen of the Lady of Loss had been on the receiving end of that quick deception, they wouldn’t have caught it. But, Shadowheart was far too discerning. Whatever had happened to Isolde, it wasn’t that she just got drunk. “I couldn’t imagine. Quite recovered then?”

“Indeed,” Isolde answered, “I’m rather embarrassed about the whole thing. Such a fuss, all because I was… foolish.” She looked down at her hands, swallowing. That wasn’t a lie. At least, Isolde was saying what she believed to be true. 

The human girl had gotten hurt, and it was her own fault. She thought. 

Shadowheart had never known Astarion to resort to outright physical abuse, to vent his endless frustrations, even when he was pushed very hard—not against those he valued and called friends or allies. Then again, Isolde might be neither of those things. Still more to consider, his relationship with this girl could be very different from anything Shadowheart knew of him.

“He did make a bit of a fuss,” sighed Shadowheart, hoping to coax a little more out of her. Something to work with, she added, “quite the pretty color in your cheeks.” 

Isolde’s blush was indeed a rich maroon on her olive skin, but it paired especially well with the mix of emotions on her face. “As I said. I’m rather embarrassed. I was fine.” Maybe Shadowheart had it wrong. Maybe Astarion really hadn’t done anything to harm the girl, but all the same, his response to her injury, and the fallout seemed a point of shame for her.

“I must confess, when he first told me, I made an indelicate assumption that he might’ve lost control of himself and that he’d been the one to drink too much.” She watched Isolde to see which reading of her words she would take. If Isolde didn’t know that Astarion was a vampire, she’d probably think that Shadowheart was implying he had gotten intoxicated and violent, but if she did know—

Isolde’s eyebrows were high, her color even deeper, but she wrestled with a little panic, “does everyone actually just know?”

So Isolde did know that he was a vampire. That made things simpler. “Everyone in his life, surely,” Shadowheart assured her. “I wouldn’t call him an honest man—but, he is certainly transparent. He introduces himself, smiles and flashes those long eyeteeth without shame, puts the knife away, and it’s fairly obvious what he is.”

“Well, that isn’t what happened,” Isolde took a moment before she responded. “I mean, that does roughly describe how we met. But, he wasn’t responsible for my condition. I can’t imagine him losing control, and I can bear the blame for my misfortunes myself.” 

Shadowheart massaged her sore shoulder with her channeling rob. “Good to see you well for myself. Put a face to the story.”

“You’re a cleric then?”

“I am,” Shadowheart conceded with that particular tone that she’d cultivated to let people know that she appreciated their interest in her, but was far too modest to talk about herself. “And you’re not one of the staff?”

“I’m not,” Isolde confessed. “I’m… just a friend. Astar—his lordship has been very kind to me.” 

“I see,” Shadowheart decided then that the poor girl was definitely sleeping with him, “forgive me, Isolde. I do not know you, but you hardly appear to be someone who has been treated with excessive kindness.”

“Oh? What do I appear to be then?” Isolde wondered.

Shadowheart had not meant to provoke Isolde intentionally, but she did feel a strange disappointment that the girl didn’t seem remotely interested in standing up for herself in the least. She should be glad of it. Isolde’s marked despondency was only going to make it that much easier to draw her into Shar’s darkness. “You look like someone who has experienced a great deal of loss. You look like you’re wearing clothing that doesn’t belong to you, relying on kindness from someone for whom that virtue has always been elusive, and contemplating what’s in front of you the way a sailor contemplates the depths below the ship.” 

It was far too easy. What had Astarion done to the girl? Her eyes were big and glassy with tears. It could not just be Shadowheart’s dark mantle. Isolde tipped her head away, her hair falling over one eye. Shadowheart took a liberty and brushed a lock of her hair back behind her cute little stubby human ears.

“I won’t try to argue,” Isolde could only endure her touch a moment, then she stepped back to breathe in more easily, but she didn’t remove herself from Shadowheart’s reach entirely. “I’ve never had the luxury of knowing precisely what the future has in store for me—but if the past is any indication—”

“—it doesn’t have to be,” Shadowheart wouldn’t usually interrupt a potential worshiper so quickly, especially one who seemed to be thinking in the right direction already, but she felt strangely eager to bring the girl to Shar, “I know well how the past can keep us anchored when we ought to sail on. Even the happy memories become tainted, don’t they?”

Isolde’s eyes welled up, but she blinked the emotion away, nearly recovered.

“Try something with me,” Shadowheart wouldn’t need her channeling rod for this. She could already feel the tendrils of Shar’s mantle curling around both of them, cool and calm. She set the disguised parasol aside and took Isolde’s trembling hands in hers. “Close your eyes.”

The girl was obedient. Shar did so value that in a follower.

“Breathe in, Isolde. I know what you see now. A vision of all that you have lost. The ghosts of those who failed you, and scorned you, and the many ways in which they filled your life. Blind yourself to them, and instead, Imagine for me, a future. See yourself peaceful. The past does not burden you, the future never frightens you again. You are different here. Powerful. Free.” Shadowheart thought to herself that she liked this part the most; she could feel the infinite power of Shar, flowing right through her as a whirl of cyclical darkness. Churning, drawing both of them in. It took all the pain away, and she felt Isolde’s hands steady as the girl tasted that emptiness, that perfect absence. “This can be real. It’s just in your mind, right now. But it can be. You have but to embrace it.”

Obedient she might be, but the girl’s sadness had not entirely washed away in Shar’s cold caress of power. It was intentional, to some degree. Leaving her with nothing to feel but her sorrow, for a little while, would motivate her to commit to Shar, in the end.

Shadowheart brushed the moisture from Isolde’s cheeks. “Come now. These can be your last tears. Do you know the House of Grief?” Shadowheart took her hands again. The girl was lucky to have happened upon the attention of a Chosen of Shar, but such a hopeless soul didn’t exactly need an instrument as exacting and powerful as Shadowheart herself. Her young acolytes could easily harvest this one. “I think they can help you there. Show you true kindness. They’ll help you forget you ever fell in love with an unfeeling vampire lord.” She finally felt the smallest spark in Isolde, her soul struggling, rather than listing lazily into darkness. 

“It’s not that I want to forget,” Isolde opened her eyes and took her hands back. “I always knew my time with him would be short, but I hoped we’d find comfort in one another, and not regret.” 

Meeting her eyes again, it was simple enough to wear a mask of sympathy, the sort of face that would convey she knew exactly where Isolde was coming from, maybe even unsettle her with the errant thought that she had personal experience with the chilly affections of this specific vampire lord.

“I think I may have made that impossible.” Isolde went on, “We might’ve been able to cherish a few happy days together and part amicably, but I was too weak.”

“I am far too familiar with Astarion to believe that you are the problem, Isolde. And I am very sorry to tell you that to forget all about it is likely the only remedy. He’s hollow. Selfish. Incapable of love. Even if you did cause some falling out, there was never a scenario in which it would be otherwise. He would never allow it. You would always be destined to regret him.” Even to Shadowheart, the words seemed a little too harsh, but Isolde must have been past caring because her drained, colorless face didn’t even flicker with doubt.

“Well. I am leaving in the morning, in any case.”

“For the best,” said Shadowheart heavily. “As you head on your way, you should make a visit to the House of Grief. Alice can show you the way. They are well equipped to help you move forward, unburdened. Trust me. Astarion is already as unburdened as any man ever can be. You ought to be equals in this.”

The heavy double-doors leading back into the palace crept open and Shadowheart turned to see Astarion greet them. “Dear old Shadowheart! I had a feeling you’d come to call.”

“I thought about sending word ahead, but felt certain you’d be free to speak to me.” Shadowheart scooped up her parasol and floated between the two of them, allowing Isolde a moment to compose herself out of sight. Totally unnecessary, as it happened, the vampire didn’t even look at the girl.

“Presumptuous,” Astarion gestured for Shadowheart to follow him inside.

“It was very good to meet you, Isolde. I do hope to see you again.” She followed Astarion, and the moment they entered the dark palace and the door shut she felt a sudden uneasy shift.

The vampire lord’s face had been a mask of his cruel smile under beautiful sunset orange, but as he closed the door and let the palace’s shade fall on him, he released a breath he didn’t require that betrayed a depth of feeling that startled her. So much so that she looked away, commenting, “you were so very eager to live in the sun again, yet it seems you still recoil from it. Obviously, some tolerance is preferable—but you do seem to have a very… drowlike relationship with it, at this point?”

“Hmm,” Astarion shook his head, running a hand over his pretty face. There it was. That strange ringing in her ears, and the sense of ancient rage and sorrow and diabolical elation. That was why she didn’t dare approach him at his revels. He didn’t feel… right. It made her feel hungry for the breaking point in him. She knew he’d been a difficult one to crack, but wouldn’t it be all the more satisfying to see?

Her stomach twisted a little. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come—at least not until after her recent rendezvous with Lae’zel was a distant enough memory that she didn’t already feel some festering weakness. Astarion was visibly preoccupied with the door, or, more likely, what was still on the other side of it.

A thought snagged Shadowheart, unbidden. She had assumed that Isolde was a plaything—and, perhaps she was. But the way he stared like he could see right through the door to where she stood, weeping and wrecked as Shadowheart had left her—he’d had to try to seem disinterested. To ignore her. It hadn’t been the simple reflex of a man who was intending to move on. And that feeling flowing off of him, that affront to her Dark Lady… she knew it all too well: longing.

Oh dear. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been quite so eager to harvest the girl.

Perhaps she’d inadvertently contributed to Astarion’s already singular chaotic state of mind.

Was it too late to adjust course? Maybe just this once?

Astarion guided her to his office, rather quiet, not at all the unburdened rakehall she often held in her mind when she thought of him. But, in fairness, she hadn’t seen that side of him in some time, even when she did see him. He’d been a gloomy figure even at his own revels, for months now. In his office, his movements grew lazier and more distracted as he watched her from the side of his face, collapsing into the chair behind his desk. He looked like a man who had a great deal on his mind, in any case. Was it just the girl?

“She’s sweet,” Shadowheart sighed.

“Yes.” He barely looked up from the desk, swaying a little in his seat.

“I didn’t think you went in for sweet.”

“I’m not that picky, and she’s not that sweet.”

“You are picky,” Shadowheart had seen Astarion with a dozen lovers, but only a handful of them did he even seem to like, as good company, she was fairly certain he liked this one, or else he would not have that look on his face. “Predictable.”

“Uncalled for,” Astarion’s sharp eyeteeth flashed through a dangerous smirk.

“Reliable then,” Shadowheart shrugged, “means the same thing, doesn’t it?”

“Need something, do you?” Astarion narrowed his eyes at her.

Shadowheart finally took the seat, folding her legs and clasping her hands together. “Let’s talk,” she suggested. The feeling flowing off of him clashed into the sacred emptiness of Shar that radiated from her dark lady. She had to be careful here. 

But, then again, she always had to be careful. Careful was baseline.

She recalled that same first reunion with Lae’zel after she split her world back open and stepped out of the portal. After Shadowheart had wept, and let Lae’zel hold her, she’d had to run. Lae’zel had been baffled for a moment, but mercifully, she had understood. She must’ve.

In prayer, Shadowheart offered the sorrow to the Dark Lady, reminding herself of their only chance to be together. She’d thanked Shar for the gift, this time with Lae’zel, which would eventually be a great gift to offer up in turn. That was how it had to work.

If she was going to share her little trick with Astarion, and try to fix her hasty conquest of the girl, she had to be more than subtle. She had to work into Shar’s designs in word, in spirit, in every way but one; poor judgment of target was their only hope. Astarion would not be swayed by her words, could not be. The time and place was wrong. That would keep him from Shar. She could throw everything she had at him to get the message across.  “So, you’ve grown bored of your paramore, and she’s quite hurt, and that’s the end of it, am I correct?”

“Astounding insight. Bravo.” He seemed callous enough in his words, but the stiffness of his jaw validated her suspicions. 

“You shouldn’t second guess yourself. Your instincts are correct. You should let her go.”

“That is the plan,” Astarion spoke slowly. She could see his mind working. Also, slowly.

“You’re so good at those. But truly. I do mean to commend you. There are few people I know, who have not yet embraced my mistress, with such an innate understanding of the rewards one can expect from consummate loss. From letting the past die.”

The immediate rage apparent on his face was only tempered by her power, soothing him, reminding his exhausted damned soul that it didn’t matter because nothing mattered. “Such dark wisdom,” he managed a little venom but it was on reflex, Shar’s power was wearing him down even as Shadowheart’s words had their intended alternative effect. “Whatever could I have done to earn the loving ministrations of a Chosen of a Goddess?”

“The Lady of Loss accepts all who accept loss. Her shade embrace is a void. All will come to her, eventually.” She heard her own thoughts now, the prayers she offered up to her goddess in her divine solitude. “We all get there. Certain souls have quite the talent for getting there more quickly through your own misguided attempts to find something that will fill you in such a way that my dark lady could not simply hollow you out again. On your way to oblivion, if you take up and leave behind little pebbles as you go, so be it. So long as the destination is utter absence. ”

“Is that how you see your beloved gith? A pebble to pick up and discard?”

We’re different. She needed to silence that voice. The only way to keep Lae’zel was to keep her in silence, even from herself. Shar knew her thoughts, her longings. If she couldn’t stifle them, then they were nothing but an unacceptable threat to her devotion. “You could sculpt more heartbreak, for both of you. If it was your pleasure to do so. You could stop Isolde from leaving, say whatever you need to in order to convince her, lie to her, about how different it might be. With more time. With her sweetness. I don’t think it would take much pressure at all. But what would come of it? You would only delay the loss of her. You should let me have her now. While it’s the plan.”

“You can have whomever you like, whenever you like,” Astarion, for all the weight Shar was putting on him, only bristled exactly as Shadowheart knew he would. Good. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this up. There was a strange tension in her that needed release, concentrated right in the palm of her hand and burning out the back of it. 

Astarion’s eyes shifted to her hand, but away quickly enough that she felt sure he was trying not to call attention to it. “I certainly won’t stand between you and a promising, uh… congregant.”

“Well,” Shadowheart resisted the urge to flex her hand, “I’ll admit, I was intending for this to purely be a short social call. I don’t afford myself to take many of those these days, but I can see now that my mistress guided me to do her bidding after all. And you helped prepare the way. Many thanks.” It was up to the two of them now. Astarion could stop Isolde from coming to the House of Grief, or he could let her go.

“Was there anything else?” Astarion asked slowly enough, that it felt like a vindictive attempt to delay her departure.

“I merely meant to meet the woman I failed to help you with, and see how you fared.”

“Solicitous of you,” he rolled his eyes.

“We’re neighbors, after all,” Shadowheart arose from her seat, almost couldn’t help but do so, she felt such a need to flee. She braced her hand against her channeling rod. “I can see myself out.”

“Hmm. Tah tah.”

No sooner had she quit the room than she sped up. She wasn’t sure why she felt such a drive to get out, to get far away from this place, but the feeling had been building for several minutes. Almost since the instant she was alone with Astarion.

It was the discomfort in her hand. It had been mild at first, so she barely picked up on it, could have easily dismissed it, if it hadn’t been so persistent. The thing had started to heal after she embraced Lady Shar completely, five years earlier. There had even been a time where she thought the damn thing was finally gone forever.

But the old pain, that punitive anger from her lady, never really went away, because her spirit was still so weak. Sharrans valued obedience above all else, so it often humbled Shadowheart to remember that it was her greatest flaw in her devotion. For every time she did exactly what Shar asked, no matter what it was, there were always dozens of small rebellions that were still counted against her. Rubbing at it helped a little, and she slowed her pace again, caught her breath, as she neared the exit of the palace. Her hand tingled, and stopped keening.

That hadn’t been so bad, she decided, with a slow exhale. Credit where it was due, she hadn’t said anything to Astarion that went against the dogma. The problem wasn’t the words themselves, it was the receptacle, and Shadowheart’s sure knowledge that saying those things to Astarion was guaranteed to have a specific effect on him, and one that was not entirely in keeping with Shar’s wishes.

It was fine. The girl was no specific target. It wasn’t as though Shar had sent her to collect Isolde—she was nobody, just a convenient wandering, despondent waif. Easy to collect. Shadowheart had been nearly instinctive about the whole thing. It was only when she saw Astarion that she reconsidered what she’d just done to Isolde. To the pair of them, really.

Astarion was not doing well, even for him. For all his faults, Shadowheart had to admit that she had always enjoyed their conversations. He had a way of being present and attentive that she appreciated. It helped that he was so easy for her to read, even—perhaps especially—when he was lying. Today though, she had seen him losing focus, guarding something. Successfully. She was impressed.

And Shadowheart hoped it was just the girl. He liked her more than he thought he should, and he didn't know what to do with that. Cute.

If that was all it was.

She didn't want to consider what else it could be.

Nothing good.

It was shaded and blue outside, dark enough that lamplighters were out. She could see them like fireflies in the vast view of the lower city below the balcony.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a small bodied person shift beside the same trellis she'd been lurking under when she met Isolde. A child? She started, but her eyes barely fell over the little golden-skinned gith when her hand suddenly spasmed, anticipating a bolt of pain before she felt it, almost warning her to brace herself. The pain was so intense that it blinded her, stopped her breath. She felt her knees come loose beneath her. She didn't realize she was falling until her body connected with the ground.

She was prone there until she managed to catch a breath that became a whimper that she had to stifle. She sat up, afraid to look at her hand. It was as bad as she had ever seen it, no longer faded to pale scar tissue, but angry and inflamed once more. 

Left in silence, she did not need to hear her mistress' voice to know how she felt. Shadowheart’s passive efforts to give Astarion a little motivation to mend things with his paramour had been noticed. She should have known better than to try and do anything clandestine that Shar wouldn't approve of. The clandestine was part of Shar’s domain.

“Forgive me,” she murmured.

There was nothing to see beside the trellis any longer. Shadowheart was certain she hadn't imagined the child.

[wildwoodsgames]

Bitter Litany Design Diary | Positions

Characters in The Bitter Litany are made by mixing and matching half-playbooks—your Background, which expresses your social connections and your upbringing, and your Position, which describes the place you occupy in the kingdom's intrigues.

In addition to some expressive picklists to shape your character, your Position also gives you access to four unique moves that give shape and force to your influence.

One of these moves describes the day to day business of your Position, generating opportunities (and threats) and equipping you with tokens to measure the currency you deal in—the Prince's Privilege, the Spider's Secrets, the Pearl's Intimacy, etc.

For example, here's the day-to-day move for the Barrow—the priest who speaks for the barrow-god who holds sway over the kingdom.

When you lead a ceremony up at the barrow, roll. On any hit, describe the ceremony and the message you deliver, and History will tell you honestly how it lands with the community and what this reveals about their hopes, worries, and outlook. Gain 1 Belief token. On a 10+ hit, you gain an additional Belief token and History will tell you specifically how your message lands and what this reveals for any prominent NPCs in attendance. On a miss, gain 1 Belief token for your pains and History chooses:

 • The community takes your words to heart, but finds a different message in them than the one you intended. They will pursue it fervently.

 • Your ceremony is disrupted by some ill omen—bad weather, a botched sacrifice, shipwreck, or a collapsed participant—and the community’s mood grows grim.

The other three moves are potent expressions of the power your Position allows you to wield. You must spend a token to make them, and each one includes a way to spend extra tokens to expand its reach (regardless of your roll).

Here's another move from the Barrow, to demonstrate:

When you give a body to the sea, spend a Belief token. Then, tell History if you send them off in speech, song, or silence and roll. On any hit, you tell the tale of their life and what awaits them and bid them farewell. Choose 1 to describe how they will be remembered. You can spend extra Belief tokens to make additional choices.

Their name is spoken with reverence, and they are remembered as a hero.

Their name is spoken with easy fondness, and they are remembered as a neighbour.

Their name is spoken with wistfulness, and they are remembered as gone too soon.

Their name is spoken with venom, and they are remembered as a villain.

Their name is spoken often, attached to a landmark that preserves their memory.

Their name is spoken far and wide, and they will be remembered for generations.

Their name is too painful to speak, and they are remembered with bitter grief.

Their name is too shameful to speak, and they are remembered as a horror.

Their name is swiftly forgotten, and they will scarcely be remembered at all.

On a 10+, the crowd’s feelings surge and fall like the tide, and they are united in their grief. On a 7–9, the crowd is divided—History will choose how some of those assembled will remember the deceased instead. On a miss, History chooses—your tale of the deceased is openly challenged, someone insists the deceased is still alive, or the body will wash up in the bay a few days hence. Either way, expect trouble.

It's been a real challenge working out the syntax and poetry of writing moves that have two axis of effect—the 10+/7-9/miss ladder, and the benefits of investing additional tokens—but I've found it really rewarding. I'm five Positions deep and after fifteen of these moves, the kind of possibility space that the "spend additional tokens" model offers is becoming clearer. It's very exciting!

I can't wait until this game is in fit shape to be passed into other people's hands for the first external playtests.

[caribwitch]

One thing I have begun to pray for (and need to keep praying for actively) are soul nourishing friendships/life long sisterhood with other women who live in their divine feminine energy. I need that sweet connection where I can pour and be poured into. I see myself in community with sisters who I can cook with, workout and increase our flexibility together, sit barefoot in grass together, pour tea and laugh hysterically from the deep core our p*ssies, plan trips and hikes with, comb each other’s hair, etc.

I’ve been unearthing deep emotions that have been buried as my moon closes out🌙🩸It’s felt like an intense death cycle. I’ve wailed, screamed, bawled, howled - I let it all out. It was harrowing in the moment to witness myself release unrestrained and raw. I honestly haven’t witnessed anything quite like it. Yet, in the midst of it, I breathed into my heart and muscled the power in my voice to claim all the good that lays on the other side. There’s power in surrender, vulnerability, and destruction. It’s all apart of the process. It’s a potent expression of Goddess. It’s been so empowering to REALLY understand this as I come into my own and deprogram misconceptions about Goddess. There’s shadow, there’s miniature deaths, reflection, grief, tears and pain. To create, there must be a clearing, a destruction of the old.

Mmm…. It’s the sliver between seemingly impossible emotional pain and the next breath where I find myself shifting fully into reclaiming optimism for all the beautiful things in life I will experience and receive. It’s the rawest portal to plant my seeds and water them with my tears.

In 36 hours I found myself in the city at a yoga/flexibility class, mildly sore in the heart but still present. I laid down all my frustrations, leaned into the energy of the room filled with beautiful feminine souls. We stretched, breathed, cheered each other on. I went deeper into my splits (getting closer omg). I reached a new milestone of doing open-legged forward folds and back bends. I feel one step closer to the friendships I want. The women were spiritually inclined and dedicated to improving their physical health and sensuality. I laughed, I prayed, I had the yummiest, sweetest smoothie ever and got hugs. I’ll keep caring for my energy, I honor my sensitivities at this current phase. However, the potent shift between painful release and sweet gain reminds me to find power in surrendering. When the pendulum swings low, it’s a sign that the highs and euphoric times are directly behind it. And so, I hold on to myself, to the Most High God. Oh womanhood, you humble me so.

[ritik2004]

Dance Classes in Delhi: A Path to Wellness, Fitness, and Stress Relief

Delhi, a city buzzing with energy and vibrance, offers numerous ways to stay fit, relieve stress, and enhance overall well-being. One of the most effective and enjoyable methods to achieve all of this is through Dance Classes in Delhi. Whether you're seeking to improve your fitness, explore a creative outlet, or tap into the therapeutic benefits of dance, the capital city provides a variety of options. From Bollywood-style routines to contemporary dance forms, dance classes cater to every age group and skill level. What makes dance especially powerful is its unique ability to combine physical activity with emotional expression, making it much more than just a workout.

Dance for Fitness: Move Your Body, Strengthen Your Mind

Dance is an excellent way to improve physical fitness. Unlike conventional workouts, it engages various muscle groups simultaneously and improves cardiovascular endurance. Dance for Fitness classes are designed to provide a full-body workout that helps in toning muscles, increasing flexibility, and enhancing stamina. Whether it's hip-hop, salsa, or classical forms like Kathak, these classes make fitness fun and enjoyable.

One of the biggest advantages of dance for fitness is that it keeps the body engaged while the mind focuses on coordination, rhythm, and creativity. This creates a holistic workout that strengthens both the body and mind, making it an enjoyable alternative to monotonous gym routines.

Dance Therapy for Wellness: Healing Through Movement

More than just a physical activity, dance can have profound effects on mental and emotional well-being. Dance Therapy for Wellness is a specialized form of therapy that uses movement to improve mental health. This form of therapy taps into the body’s natural ability to express and process emotions through movement, making it a powerful tool for emotional release, self-awareness, and healing.

In Dance Therapy, participants are encouraged to express their feelings through dance, helping them to process complex emotions like anxiety, stress, and grief. This therapeutic approach can significantly enhance emotional well-being, allowing individuals to reconnect with their inner selves. Studies have shown that dance therapy can also help reduce symptoms of depression, boost self-esteem, and improve cognitive function.

Dance Lessons for Stress Relief: Finding Joy in Movement

Stress is a major challenge in today's fast-paced world, especially in a city like Delhi. Dance Lessons for Stress Relief offer a fantastic way to unwind and break free from the pressures of daily life. Dance enables you to immerse yourself in the rhythm of the music and lose yourself in movement, providing a sense of liberation from stress and anxiety.

Whether you're learning salsa, ballroom, or freestyle, dance offers a creative outlet where you can express yourself without judgment. The endorphin release from physical activity combined with the joy of movement creates a potent stress-busting combination. Many find that regular dance lessons help reduce cortisol levels, lower blood pressure, and improve mood, leading to a calmer, happier lifestyle.

Benefits of Dance Therapy: Emotional and Physical Healing

The Benefits of Dance Therapy go beyond the obvious physical advantages. It can help people dealing with a range of emotional and psychological issues. Dance therapy is effective in treating trauma, chronic stress, anxiety, and even PTSD. It allows participants to reconnect with their body, understand their emotions, and express feelings that are difficult to put into words.

Incorporating dance therapy into your routine can also enhance social interaction, as group sessions foster a sense of community and shared experience. The social and emotional support found in these sessions is invaluable for those struggling with feelings of isolation or loneliness.

Personal Dance Trainer: Tailoring Your Experience

For those looking for a more personalized approach, a Personal Dance Trainer can help. Hiring a personal dance instructor allows you to receive one-on-one guidance, ensuring that the dance lessons are tailored to your specific goals and needs. A personal trainer can help improve technique, push your limits, and create a structured program that suits your pace, whether you're dancing for fitness or emotional well-being.

Personal dance training is also beneficial for those who want to explore the therapeutic aspects of dance on a deeper level, offering customized routines designed to target stress relief, mental wellness, or even rehabilitation after physical injuries.

Music Healing for Mental Health: The Power of Sound

In addition to dance, Music Healing for Mental Health is a powerful therapeutic tool. Music has the ability to evoke emotions, memories, and mental states, making it an effective medium for healing. Music Therapy can improve mental health by reducing stress, anxiety, and depression, while promoting relaxation and emotional well-being. Whether through passive listening or active participation (such as playing an instrument), music therapy can lead to improved mental clarity and emotional balance.

Acupressure Specialist in Delhi: Combining Dance with Holistic Therapies

Incorporating holistic therapies like acupressure can further enhance the benefits of dance and music therapy. An Acupressure Specialist in Delhi can help target specific pressure points in the body that relieve pain, reduce stress, and improve energy flow. When combined with dance therapy or music healing, acupressure can accelerate the process of physical and emotional recovery, providing a more comprehensive approach to well-being.

[songsofbloodandwater]

"Violets beckon the start of spring in the hills and mountains of Cana’an. They carry an association with renewal and rebirth, amongst the first flowers to bloom after winter’s snowfall. My mother reminisces about their common use as a dyeing agent for easter eggs when she was a child, the violet’s flesh gently wrapped around the eggs and covered with tight stockings to leave an imprint when dipped in onion water. [...] Violets are so humble they are often bypassed for their power. I am convinced their purple hue has something to do with their regenerative secrets. The first time I worked with this plant, I was on the verge of a downward emotional spiral in a town where I felt isolated and out of place. A few minutes of meditation with merely a couple drops of violet extract swept through my body like a pristine river, clearing stagnations and debris of physical and feeling kinds, and completely transforming my state of mind in no more than an instant. Their association with grief is common in folklore—“violets are blue”; they support the release and expression of repressed and difficult emotions, helping us “feel to heal.” Violet was one of the first plantcestors to “show” me just how profoundly flowers can heal us, and how potent the vibrational impact of their spirit can be on our own. The violets effectively interrupted a spiraling emotional descent, helping me love effortlessly through the densest places inside of me while filling me with a sense of embrace and love in its trail. I could feel this full somatic knowing that I was supported—an “I’ve got you,” imbued with the rare intimacy and loyalty of a lifelong friend. I have since affectionately incorporated violet leaves and flowers often into remedies for emotional restoration, or instances characterized by stagnated or sinking states. Violets epitomize the intelligence of water, softening us within a knowing of the life-giving element’s sheer strength."

— The Land in Our Bones: Plantcestral Herbalism and Healing Cultures from Syria to the Sinai, Earth-based pathways to ancestral stewardship and belonging in diaspora (2024) by Layla K. Feghali

[atelier-kristel]

The Healing Power of Creativity

In the hustle and bustle of modern life, where stress and anxiety often loom large, there exists a profound antidote that offers solace to the weary soul: creativity.  

I have witnessed firsthand the transformative potential of art in fostering healing and renewal.  

The Power of Creativity: Creativity is more than just a means of self-expression; it is a potent force that has the power to uplift, inspire, and heal. Through the act of producing art, individuals tap into a wellspring of inner resources, unlocking hidden talents and unleashing boundless imagination. 

Healing Power: Art has long been recognized as a therapeutic tool for healing emotional wounds and promoting mental well-being. Whether through painting, drawing, sculpting, or any other form of artistic expression, individuals can channel their innermost thoughts and emotions into tangible works of art, thereby gaining insight, clarity, and emotional release. 

Creative Expression: Creativity provides a safe and non-judgmental space for individuals to express themselves freely, without fear of criticism or rejection. Through artistic expression, individuals can give voice to their innermost thoughts, feelings, and experiences, fostering a sense of authenticity and empowerment. 

Creative Healing: The act of making art can be deeply cathartic, allowing individuals to process and make sense of complex emotions and experiences. Whether grappling with grief, trauma, or anxiety, engaging in creative activities can provide a sense of comfort, solace, and healing. 

Sense of Accomplishment: Completing a work of art, no matter how small or simple, can instill a profound sense of achievement and pride. From mastering a new technique to bringing a vision to life on canvas, each creative endeavor represents a triumph of the human spirit and a testament to the power of perseverance and determination. 

Creating Art: The act of creating art is inherently therapeutic, offering a respite from the stresses and pressures of daily life. Whether painting a landscape, sculpting a figure, or composing a piece of music, the process of creation allows individuals to immerse themselves fully in the present moment, fostering a sense of mindfulness and inner peace. 

Creative Impulses: Creativity is not bound by rules or conventions; it is an ever-evolving journey of exploration and discovery. By following their creative impulses and embracing experimentation, individuals can tap into their innate creativity and unlock new realms of possibility. 

Creative Art: Art has the power to transcend language and cultural barriers, speaking to the universal human experience in ways that words cannot. Whether through visual art, music, dance, or literature, creative expression has the ability to touch hearts, inspire minds, and forge connections across time and space. 

Art Journal: Keeping an art journal can be a valuable tool for self-reflection, self-discovery, and personal growth. By documenting thoughts, feelings, and experiences through art and writing, individuals can gain insight into their inner world and chart their journey of healing and transformation. 

In conclusion, the healing power of creativity is a profound and transformative force that holds the potential to nourish the mind, body, and soul. As we embrace our artistic impulses and engage in acts of self-expression, we cultivate a deeper sense of connection to ourselves and the world around us. Through art, we discover new depths of resilience, strength, and beauty, illuminating the path toward healing and wholeness. 

Join me next week for another exploration into the vibrant world of creativity, where every brushstroke tells a story and every creation holds the promise of renewal. 

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[connectparanormal]

Undead Revenants

Revenants, who stand for the restless dead who return to the world of the living, are a fascinating and complex aspect of mythology and folklore. Usually portrayed as having a physical form, revenants, unlike ethereal ghosts, interact with the living in more genuine and often horrifying ways. Though their motivations for returning might be very diverse, they often do so because of a need for retribution, a desire to settle unresolved business, or as a result of an improper burial or a life lived in sin. In medieval European folklore, the concept of revenants was strongly associated with both religious doctrine and societal anxieties. These stories frequently included people who had died violently, tragically, or who had committed terrible sins. These people were believed to be in danger of becoming revenants because of their unresolved resentment, guilt, or unmet desires. These tales functioned as moral lectures, cautioning the living about the perils of living a sinful life and stressing the significance of conducting funeral ceremonies properly.

The Old French verb "revenir," meaning "to return," is the source of the word "revenant." Their etymology encapsulates the fundamental concept of these entities: they are the dead who reappear. Numerous stories claim that revenants come from the dead and haunt the living, instilling terror, illness, and occasionally even death. This connection to disease is especially noteworthy since it echoes past attempts to explain disease outbreaks that occurred prior to the development of modern medicine. Sometimes, communities would link sudden deaths or epidemics to the evil influence of a revenant, prompting them to take extreme measures to neutralize the supposed threat. Literature and popular culture, which frequently expand and adapt old mythology, have also embraced the idea of revenants. A prominent example of a revenant is the vampire named Dracula from Bram Stoker's classic Gothic book. Driven by a thirst for power and a need for food, Dracula rises from the dead to feast on the living. In contrast, J.R.R. Tolkien's Barrow-wights in Middle-earth, ancient spirits possessing the remains of the dead, embody the revenant archetype. These stories showcase the adaptability of the revenant motif, allowing it to accommodate various story requirements and thematic inquiries. Contemporary horror literature and cinema still explore the revenant archetype, frequently combining it with other supernatural aspects like vampires and zombies. These tales may portray revenants as vicious ghosts seeking vengeance, flesh-eating beasts, or cursed souls searching for salvation. This flexibility guarantees that the idea stays intriguing and relevant for viewers in the modern era.

Over time, different civilizations developed a variety of strategies for dealing with revenants. Exhumation and mutilation of the dead were common practices in several European traditions. To stop the revenant from rising again, this could entail burning, beheading, or piercing the heart with a stake. Religious ceremonies such as blessings and prayers were also performed in order to drive the ghost away and ensure that it couldn't come back. These customs highlight people's ingrained superstitions and anxieties about dying and the afterlife, as well as the extent to which they would go to defend themselves against alleged supernatural dangers. Even though there is now less of a belief in revenants, the archetype is nonetheless fascinating and motivating. Revenants are potent representations of unresolved grief, unmet expectations, and a fear of the unknown mysteries of death. They serve as a reminder of the tenuous line that separates life from death, as well as the lasting effects of our deeds on the planet and the people we leave behind. Whether portrayed as sinister ghosts or tragic humans longing for closure, revenants continue to be a powerful feature of human narrative, expressing our darkest fears and our persistent interest in what lies beyond the tomb.

[madamlaydebug]

I believe that Imagination is stronger than Knowledge. That Myth is more potent than Reality. That Dreams are more powerful than Facts. That Hope always triumphs over Experience. That Laughter is the only cure for Grief. And I believe that Love is stronger than Death.

- Robert Fulgham

Don't let insecurity lead you to seek the approval of others.

Death is not the biggest fear we have; our biggest fear is taking the risk to be alive – the risk to be alive and express what we really are.

- Miguel Angel Ruiz

Whatever you hold in your mind will tend to occur in your life. If you continue to believe as you have always believed, you will continue to act as you have always acted. If you continue to act as you have always acted, you will continue to get what you have always gotten. If you want different results in your life or your work, all you have to do is change your mind.

You are given the gifts of the gods, you create your reality according to you beliefs. Yours is the creative energy that makes your world. There are no limitations to the self except those you believe in.