#but. the turtles are bald. and i realized that was what was throwing me off fjdsklfjsdk

[tomiyeee]

Genshin Character Design Notes

wanted to write down some stuff i’ve noticed while studying genshin character designs for my rottmnt au in case anyone could find them useful for their own crossovers/ocs.

these are not hard and fast rules as much as they are simple observations and patterns i’ve seen across characters. i am by no means telling people how to design their characters!! these are just things that i personally try to keep in mind while designing and wanted to share for those who are interested.

sorry it’s long, i’m obnoxiously meticulous and wordy 😔

5-star characters will almost always be using their burst in their wish art and the effects will usually take up half or more of the space. many will either have an almost solid background and/or ground to stand on. an exception to both of these would be klee which could be due to her being made very early in development.

4-star characters can be using either their skill or their burst and their effects will usually be pretty minimal with much more empty space around the character. effects are also much more generic save for some talent-specific visuals like sucrose’s butterfly or xingqiu’s swords. even the 4-stars with more complex art look basic next to 5-stars with similar effects (ex: chongyun/eula, xinyan/dehya, candace/tartaglia).

all of the archons so far have had their nation’s scenery incorporated into their wish art. nahida is possibly an exception as it looks like it’s just her burst, even though the burst itself seems to be based off of sumeru’s architecture, but this could also be due to her being isolated compared to the other three.

i feel like this one’s a given but long loose/draping fabrics and dangling ornaments are basically a requirement. this game has gorgeous cloth physics and they very much like to use that to their advantage in their designs.

also the characters’ movements and combat style often play a part in how they are dressed, especially in regards to the cloth physics. characters with quicker and more active movements, like sword users or those with more energetic personalities, have smaller capes, wear pants/shorter skirts, and overall have fewer loose fabrics to obscure those fast movements; their clothing/silhouette tends to hug closer to the body. meanwhile characters that have less movement and/or are more elegant, like catalysts, will have longer skirts or other long clothing items that accentuate those types of movements better. there are no strict rules for this one, but in general the clothing should complement how the character moves, not work against it.

most characters will have a very unique hair style/coloration (yelan, dehya, xiao) or they will have hats/hair ornaments (shogun, shenhe, childe) and many will have both. either way, their hair and head is an important point to add visual interest.

this one’s kind of specific, it’s just a fun thing i noticed: there are very few characters, if any, without a high collar, choker, or otherwise covered neck. i guess they don’t really like leaving the neck exposed lol.

basically this entire video has a ton of very good observations, but the main thing i keep in mind from it is that characters will “always have an appealing view from behind” since that’s how they are primarily viewed by the player during gameplay. characters in most other series will have a backside of their design that basically gets the job done and not much else. but genshin takes care to have a back view that is just as unique as the front. skirts and capes will have their own unique silhouette and flow. clothing cut, fabric patterns, and accessories will create shapes that are just as eye-catching as those in the front. they are basically almost their own unique character design, completely independent of what’s going on in the front.

the legs tend to act as a sort of “break” for the eyes, especially when viewed from the front. not counting skirts, the legs will usually have less patterning and/or darker, more subdued coloration compared to the torso. many characters will have bare legs or plain colored stockings or pants with large amounts of blank space/simple patterning.

some will have brighter colors or noticeable patterns compared to other characters, but it is almost never the main point of interest in the overall design. ex: yelan, shenhe, and albedo all have very ornate leggings/pants, but at first glance it’s generally drowned out by the brighter colors + higher contrast shapes on their torso.

some characters like razor, noelle, and heizou are exceptions to the pants rule. in these cases, the legs serve to simply balance out the design. razor and heizou’s brighter colors add interest to an otherwise simple and almost monochromatic design and noelle’s armored legs make her feel sturdy and more ornate, fitting for a knight. they are detailed enough to enhance the design, but not enough to take away focus from the upper body.

since the characters spend a lot of time running, climbing, etc, their legs are never completely covered/obscured. skirts, if not split, are knee-length at most. otherwise their animations would probably be a clipping nightmare.

pattern placement is very intentional on every part of the character. fabric patterns will generally follow the cut of the fabric so as not to interrupt the “flow” of the design. repeatable/tileable patterns are almost non-existent, except to add texture to a small area like the scales on zhongli’s coat, dark patterns on sara’s skirt, and glittery star-like textures on parts of several characters’ outfits.

(this one is very iffy and better left to your own judgement, but..) asymmetry is common, but not necessary. in fact, most characters’ silhouettes are pretty symmetrical; the asymmetry is more often in the smaller details like patterns or ornaments/accessories than anything else. more noticeable asymmetry is usually in angled/layered skirts (ningguang, faruzan, barbara) and one-sided capes/sashes (kaeya, alhaitham, wanderer), while the cut of the “base” outfit is otherwise symmetrical. the asymmetry in these designs is noticeable because it is used well, not just often. exceptions to this (namely yoimiya and tighnari) are usually going for a specific look that fits the character’s personal and cultural background and their personality.

aaaand that’s about all i can think of at the moment. i’m sure a lot more research and thought goes into these designs than what is listed here, but i am just one non-professional artist and i am far from knowing all the ins and outs of mihoyo’s design process 😔 these are just a few of the (purely surface-level) visual observations i’ve made while making my turtle au lol.

[fantasticstoryteller]

New Amsterdam Chapter 97

Wade stared at the small townhouse with trepidation. He could still hear echoes of laughter from his last visit and vaguely remembered that the woman had said that she liked him better than Tony. Of course, she had broken Tony’s arm, and was disappointed that Tony had full use of said arm.

{She also likes us better than Norman!}

[I don’t think that’s hard. She probably likes the sewer rats better than Norman.]

Wade shuddered at the image.

Peter absently pat his arm, so as not to disturb the cake that Wade was holding. “It’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly. “Oh, the turtle’s in the window.” Wade’s eyes tracked to the window closest to the front door and saw that there was, indeed a stuffed turtle in it. The turtle was green with a yellow shell and looked fuzzy.

“What’s important about the turtle?” asked Wade as Peter put a gentle hand on his arm and guided him towards the back of the house.

“Means the front door’s blocked. She does metal art sculptures with recycled materials,” Peter explained as they walked through the tiny yard.

[Would have been good to know earlier.]

{Well, it’s not like we told him we were going to visit his aunt.}

[What?]

{He couldn't have told us about the turtle earlier, because we didn’t tell him we were going to see his aunt.}

[You are so strange.]

The back door opened to reveal the smiling face of the woman he’d seen earlier. “Peter!” she called holding open her arms. “It’s good to see you!” she said as she hugged her nephew.

“It’s good to see you too,” Peter said warmly. He pulled away and put his hand back on Wade’s arm. “Aunt May, this is my boyfriend, Wade.”

“It’s nice to see you again Wade,” the woman said, still holding the smile.

[I can’t tell if she’s lying, to spare Peter, or if she’s serious.]

“Nice to see you again,” Wade echoed. He held out the baked good in his hands. “We brought cake. Glazed lemon pound cake,” he added.

Her entire face twitched. “That is—so sweet,” she said in a strained voice.

{What did we do? Is she allergic to lemons? Oh, God, did we almost murder Peter’s mother?}

Peter sighed. “I didn’t have anything to do with cooking it, Aunt May,” he reassured the woman.

Who sagged with relief. “Thank God. I still remember the horror that was chicken noodle soup.”

“I was ten!”

“You put six heads of garlic in it!”

“Garlic is good for you!”

“The soup came from a can, Peter. A. Can. Trust me, it had all the garlic it needed.”

“You ate it,” said Peter petulantly as Aunt May reached for the cake. “And I never made that mistake again,” he added quickly.

[I wonder what other mistakes he’s made.]

{If he’s made that many mistakes, then his cooking should have improved, right? Why hasn’t it?}

[Do NOT ask him that!]

Wade surrendered it and then curled up around Peter. “Yes, and I was sick for an extra two weeks,” agreed the woman as she turned and entered the house.

Peter sighed and hung his head. “We can still go,” he said as he looked up at Wade.

Wade curled around him again. “But then I’ll miss on your embarrassing stories!” he whined.

Peter chuckled and the two of them followed Aunt May into the house. “Can’t have that,” he teased.

{I love him!}

[We all love him. You’re not special.]

Once inside Peter and Wade sat on the couch while Wade peered over at the front door to see the metal thing blocking the door. It looked like there were now colored bits of metal all over. Peter looked to see what he was looking at and grinned. “So, what pot did you ruin to make the bismuth crystals?” he called out to his aunt, who was in the kitchen cutting the cake so that they could all have some.

“Same one as last time,” Aunt May called back as she came into the living room with three plates. Each plate had a fork and, oddly, a strawberry.

“Thank you,” said Wade remembering manners he had learned somewhere. Peter gently nudged him with a shoulder and grinned. Wade grinned as he nudged back.

Aunt May looked on with a satisfied smile. She neatly cut a bite of the cake with her fork and ate it, not looking away from the two on her couch. “How’s work, Peter?” she asked.

Peter brightened and began chattering away about matrices and stability and a bunch of other things that flew right over Wade’s head.

[I wonder if she actually understands what he’s saying or if she’s just letting him ramble.]

{He’s so cute! Look at how enthusiastic he is!}

“How did you and Deadpool meet?” Aunt May asked.

Peter frowned. “Wade, Aunt May. His name is Wade. You literally just used his name!”

Aunt May smiled. “I didn’t ask how you met Wade,” she continued patiently. “I asked how you met Deadpool.” Peter glared at her as he pushed his glasses up with his wrist.

{What’s happening?}

[I’m as confused as you are.]

Aunt May turned to Wade, breaking the staring match. “I have some lemonade that will go well with the cake,” she said calmly, as though she hadn’t just been staring Peter down about—something. “Would you like a glass?”

Wade glanced at his untouched cake. It was untouched because he didn’t want to push the mask up. “I’m okay,” he told her firmly.

Peter, understanding the problem, leaned into Wade’s side. Aunt May simply nodded. “Peter, she said firmly, “come help me with dishes.” She picked up her plate and Peter grabbed his own before heading into the kitchen with her.

[She doesn’t want us to hear what she’s going to say to him.]

{We should eavesdrop! That way—what’s that?}

Wade went to the window and peered out at the neighborhood before giving a mental groan. There, on the house across the street, with a perfect visual scope of the one he was in, was a figure lying on the tiles of the roof.

[Can you still call it camouflage when it’s a different color than the roof it’s on?]

{Brown! Brown on black tiles! I swear, standards for snipers are so low.}

So, who was the sniper working for? They weren’t from HYDRA, because those fuckers knew how to camouflage themselves—otherwise they wouldn't have been able to hide within SHIELD for so long. Ah—must be SHIELD. Only SHIELD could be so bad at camouflage and still be in operation.

Wade pulled out his phone and made a call. When it was picked up he growled, “Pull your sniper out of the neighborhood.”

“There’s a sniper in the neighborhood?” Wade turned to see Peter.

Wade shifted. He didn’t want to get Peter involved in this, but he already was. It was his aunt’s house that was being targeted after all. He nodded.

Peter’s expression darkened. “What house?” he demanded. Wade pointed and then Peter gestured towards Wade’s phone. “May I?” he asked. Fascinated, Wade handed the phone over. “You have five minutes,” Peter said grimly, “to get your sniper out of my neighborhood or I’m calling Mrs. Salinzky and telling her I see her cat on the roof before going out to take pictures of the old woman yelling at your sniper for killing her cat. Then I will submit the encounter to every news, from paper to television to independent blogger, asking why you felt the need to harass an elderly woman with dementia.”

[Oh. My. God. Peter’s a force to be reckoned with!]

{That’s so hot! Think he’ll be up for some cuddling later?}

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Parker,” the tinny voice came over the phone. The sniper across the street flung back his cover and began packing up. “May I come and make a formal apology?”

“Might be a good idea,” Peter admitted darkly. “Front door’s blocked.” He calmly hung up and handed the phone back to Wade. “What could they want?” he muttered as he leaned against Wade’s side.

Wade tucked his phone back into his pocket and hugged his boyfriend. “I don’t know,” he answered with complete honesty.

There was a knock at the back door and Aunt May allowed the individual there to come in. Wade stiffened as he glared at the balding man in his distinctive three-piece suit. “Coulson,” he spat darkly.

“Wilson,” said the man amiably. He looked at Peter. “Sorry to bother you Mr. Parker. We were—concerned about Deadpool’s activities.” The man smiled. “Just want to keep the neighborhood safe.”

“It’s always important to keep the neighborhood safe,” Aunt May agreed. “Please, take a seat.” Coulson sat and, not to be outdone, Wade did too, Peter following. “Would you like some lemonade?” asked the woman pleasantly.

“If you would be so kind,” Coulson said with a smile. Aunt May smiled and bustled off while Coulson turned his attention to Peter.

[I don’t like the way he’s looking at him.]

{Petey is ours.}

“Well, Peter,” Coulson said slowly as Deadpool tucked himself around his boyfriend, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Unfazed Peter used his wrist to shove the glasses back into place on his face. “Have you?” he asked. “Agent Coulson.”

“And how did you know that?” asked Coulson with an easy smile.

Peter did not smile back. In fact, he bristled and Deadpool could feel it. “Wade called you by name,” he said.

Wade. That was right; he was Wade. Peter’s boyfriend. He shook himself and Peter leaned back into his embrace.

Coulson, the bastard, watched the whole thing. “Wade,” he said emphasizing the name and not title, “didn’t call me ‘agent’.”

Peter sighed. “You are not wearing a uniform. I know all of the detectives in this section of the city, since one of them lives down the street and has been regularly throwing barbecues for his fellow officers and detectives since before I lived here. So you are not a detective, or I would already know you. That leaves ‘agent.’ I don’t yet have enough information to realize if you are FBI, CIA, or SHIELD, but you are definitely an agent.”

The man nodded. “That’s a good deduction,” he admitted.

Peter gave a low snort. “Trust me,” he said, “I only look stupid.”

“The spandex only makes me look stupid.”

Almost the exact same phrase. One was Peter. One was Spidey. Except—

{They’re the same! Oh, thank the good heavens, Petey-Pie and Spidey are the same!}

Wade’s mind quickly sifted through all of his interactions with Peter. The way, when they were first eating back to back, that he’d been reminded of Spiderman. The way that Spiderman and Peter were never in the same place at the same time. The way that if Spiderman left Wade in an uncomfortable situation Peter would show up to help (and maybe tease him about the insane number of masks in the drawer, but Wade still had issues about his skin). They were the same person.

[Do you even know what this means?]

{Of course I do! It means we can cuddle Spidey any time we want and not feel bad about it!}

[It means he’ll hate us.]

Both Wade and Yellow paused in their internal excitement as they felt the first tendrils of dread. What did White mean? Why would Peter hate them?

[He spent so much energy hiding his identity and then we, the most unstable person he knows, figures it out? He’ll never forgive us.]

{But—but what can we do?}

[Pretend we don’t know and wait. He’ll either tell us eventually, or not.]

Wade wasn’t sure he could do it.

[horrorslashergirl]

Could you do Chromeskull and The Collector (together or separate) 'falling' for a reader whose a famous crime writer known for writing gruesome and bloody murder scenes. :)

Something funny and cute; plus Jesse is a teasing asshole. Haha...I hope I did justice to these two outside the nsfw and murder writing.

Chromeskull x Reader x The Collector- Fantasy on a white sheet

Asa loved to read and that was a fact that even someone who didn't know this man could say. He always carried with him a book, just in case. Jesse wasn't one to be into books that much and always teased Asa for being a straight-up nerd, with his nose in the white sheets of paper.

Jesse asked Asa what was so 'exciting' about reading and the answer was simple and with no emotions.

"Try it."

Of course, Jesse just scowled at the response, rolling his brown eye and leaving Asas' house, walking to his Bentley and driving off into town. He later found himself looking over the shelves of the library who adored so many books that said man wanted to bang his bald head on the wall.

The old lady at the front was absorbed into her book too, glasses almost falling off her nose. Jesse internally chuckled and wanted to photograph her and send the image to Asa with a simple 'Just found your soulmate', but decided against it, trying to find something that wasn't boring to read.

He looked over the erotic ones but decided otherwise. His sex life was enough spiced with Asa and if his lover would see what book he chose to read he would probably give a smart remark and he didn't wanted that.

Brown eye looked past the romantic ones, 'booooring', action and comedy? Nahhh, he got lots of action in his life and he was funny enough not to need a book to make him laugh silently. Then he found himself in the crime selection.

He stopped his gaze on a black book with red details. Picking it up from the shelves he read the title.

'1000 murderous nights to remember'

Now that was more like it. The book looked pretty dark and the image on the cover with the silhouette of a dead woman along with splatters of blood caught his attention. Perfect.

After buying it, he drove back to his place, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and sitting down on a black leather armchair, opening the book and reading it.

This was almost 2 hours ago and Jesse didn't stop reading, he was so absorbed into the book, all the details and macabre mental images the book was giving him. He like it, no...Screw it, he loved it. It was like the writer had witnessed these murders or more taboo....done it. So much passion for bloodlust and death.

Jesse found himself looking at the clock, midnight when he finished the book. He was mesmerized; he needed to show Asa.

The next day, the two meet in the morning at Asas' place for coffee. Asa was, to put it bluntly, surprised to see Jesse with a book in his hand. Jesse with a book? Was he sick? Asa would have understood if he saw the bald man with a tablet or phone, but a book.

'Yeah, yeah....Laugh.' Jesse signed as he rolled his eye.

"I am not laughing, but I'm pleasantly surprised you finally took on my advice." Asa explained, sipping on his coffee.

'I brought this book so you can read it. You will be very much pleased.' Jesse signed, giving Asa a wink and tossing the book at the dark-eyed man.

Raising an eyebrow, Asa looked at the book, reading the title, then raised an eyebrow.

"I'm surprised you didn't pick a BDSM novel. Glad you didn't." Asa said, sitting down on the chair as he opened the book and began to read. He wanted today to read 'Honeybee Democracy' by Thomas D. Seeley, but this one seemed as interesting as the previous one.

It was only the curiosity about the title; both men had hobbies that implied blood, guts and cutting up humans into pieces.

After 4 hours of Asa reading and Jesse falling asleep on the couch, that was startled by Asa throwing the book at Jesse, waking him up and looking at Asa.

"Where did you find this book?" Asa asked with crossed arms over his chest.

'Where do you think? The library. Why? Wanna find the writer and give him some advice?' Jesse signed, rubbing his eye from sleepiness.

"Yes, and it looks like there will be a book opening for the second one. Let's get going." Asa said, pulling his denim jacket over his black turtle neck.

Jesse was driving with Asa next to him as they reached the mall complex where the book event was held. It was pretty crowded, so the two had to wait to reach the writer that was at the front.

While waiting, the two inspected the people among the crowd, looking for fresh meat to put it like that. Jesse was looking from the corner of his eye at two young girls, who giggled; too easy. Asa was having a bored expression on his face until he saw a middle-aged couple with a teenage boy; the boy would look good in his collection, shaped in the form of a Apis mellifera.

After half an hour the crowd disappeared after the bought the second book and got the autograph of the writer. That's when both men's eyes widened when their gaze locked on the small female at the desk with a smile on her face as she waved at the last one of her fans.

This woman was you.

Asa felt his stomach turn as he realized who the gruesome and sadistic writer was; a young woman who wasn't bad looking either, decent and well put together; his type.

Jesse, on the other hand, was more confident and walked straight to you. You smiled up at the man as he handed you the second book to sign. He pulled out his phone texting.

'Love your writing, doll. A masterpiece.' you read the text on his phone and you giggled.

"Aww stop, you're making me blush." you said and Jesse smirked victoriously.

Asa was sitting a few feet away. That sly bastard; it was his first book to read probably since 4th grade and he acted like he owned a bookcase.

Your eyes found Asa who has held a copy of the second book, then you looked back at Jesse who was smirking at the shy man.

'Sorry for my friend over there. He's a bit shy and I think he has a crush on you.' he texted and you blushed, looking at the obsidian eyed man, giving him a wave and smile.

Asa knew that Jesse texted you something about him, just by how smug that bastard was looking. Jesse beckoned Asa with his index finger to come closer.

'I swear I'm gonna murder him'

[indigoire]

It Read-through Chapter Three: “Six Phone Calls”

God. One hundred pages into IT and I only just got done with chapter three. This book can and will kill me. 

Warning for racism, suicide, blood, gore, abuse, assault, misogyny, and Bill Denbrough’s shitty opinions.

Intro Chapters One and Two

Silly me thought, oh, twenty-four chapters, one thousand one hundred and thirty-eight pages, that’s about fifty pages per chapter, I can crank that out no problem. I was reading full novels over the course of a day when I was in school. Easy peasy. 

Real whoppers like this chapter have me doubting myself. I’ll probably have days where I’ll break the chapter in half just so I’m not reading for three straight hours like I was tonight. 

Anyways, on to the chapter itself. It’s really more like six chapters crammed into one, all introducing us to an individual Loser with the exception of Mike. 

Let me sum up my reaction to these intros with my own tweet, having just finished Bev’s introduction:

And like, I’ve seen the movies, I’ve read the fanworks, I know a lot of the lore. I even read past chapter three as a kid, I remember Bill’s intro so clearly now. I feel like I have my own form of amnesia, but the shitty memories I’m uncovering are of reading this book. So believe me when I say I knew going in that the Losers would be an amalgamation of mommy and daddy issues or just plain issues, anti-Semitism, misogyny, repression, trauma, long-buried PTSD, abuse…like, there’s a reason they’re Losers. 

But King feels like he needs to beat us over the head with this information. 

For example, let’s start with Stanley. Good old Stanley. Hey, did you know Stan was Jewish??? A simple mention wouldn’t be enough though, let’s throw every anti-Semitic word at the wall, but it’s okay because it’s from the viewpoint of a Jewish character, his wife. The Jewish wife can call herself a kike all day long, why not, let’s just go ahead and do that. 

Like. Come on Stephen. My notes say “at SOME point this just feels fuckin’ racist, dude.” 

Stan himself is lovely. We get to see him from Patty’s point of view (and, point of order, I just realized that all of the Losers are introduced from the viewpoint of another character, with the exception of Richie and Eddie), and Stan is a level-headed, smart, steady man. He seems to be “preternaturally confident” about his life choices, whether that’s choosing where Patty should apply to for work or starting his own accounting firm, and he always seems to find success. 

Stan also finds out about Bill and his books, but before the telephone call from Mike, before the Derry memories are supposed to rush in. Stan is reading Bill’s new book when he gets the call in fact. 

He also makes an oblique reference to the Turtle around Patty, “the Turtle couldn’t help us”, and then seems to shake it off without going into it with her. 

So. Either Stan remembered more than he let on, or something happened that made him aware. More aware than the rest of the Losers. Like, the Losers all seem to find wild success, supernatural success really, but to them it all seems to happen suddenly, at random. Not so with Stan. When Patty and Stan try to have children but can’t conceive, Stan says he knows the problem lies with him, he just doesn’t know why exactly. He then goes on to say that he’s in the eye of some storm, the calm between something terrible in his past and something terrible in his future. 

Of course we soon learn what terrible something is lurking in Stan’s future. One evening he gets a call from Mike Hanlon, telling him to come back to Derry. Stan answers the call, responds to Mike’s questions, then tells Patty he’s going to take a bath. She ends up watching TV a little too long, then realizes something is Off. She finds him locked in the bathroom with slit wrists and the word IT written in his own blood on the wall. 

The neighbors call the cops she screams so loud. 

We then move from Stan to Richie, whose name I have never been more happy to see in my whole life. Finally, finally, one of my favorite characters. Richie answers Mike’s phone call with nary a hiccup. He puts on a Voice to answer, not something silly but a sort of adult “everything’s going to be okay” Voice. He then arranges things with his travel agent and somewhere along the way he has to go back to his normal voice. “Now he had to go back to being himself, and that was hard–it got harder to do that every year.” Richie is building walls around parts of himself with his Voices, avoiding the real him. 

He does a couple of voices for the travel agent, she laughs hysterically, and he arranges his trip to Derry, and calls out of work. After it’s all taken care of, the memories start to rush back, the people, and he thinks of Georgie, with his arm ripped off, and then and only then does Richie vomit. He makes it to the toilet at least, but he empties himself entirely. He then removes his contacts. 

A rather short intro, but to me a nice reprieve. 

Ben’s intro is a lot better than I remember it being. I think I conflated it with his intro in the miniseries, where he brings home a girl and tells her about him being fat before they have sex. Here, not a whisper of that. There’s actually a bit where a woman asks Ben’s local bartender if Mister Hanscom is gay. “Mister Hanscom ain’t no sissy.” Cool. Thanks, Stephen. 

Basically, Ben haunts this one tiny bar in Nebraska in this tiny podunk “town”, where he gets to know the bartender, a Ricky Lee, very well over the years. He comes every Friday and Saturday night, no matter where he is. When he’s working on the BBC Communications Tower in London he still flies back home every Saturday to get his drinks. He never takes anyone home from the bar and he consistently tips well. The bartender enjoys his company. 

The night of the phone call, we see Ben head into the bar and there’s a terrible desolation hung over him. He tells Ricky there’s been bad news from home, and Ricky is sympathetic. He goes into some of the memories, of Bowers carving the H into his stomach, and shows Ricky the scar. He then orders a STEIN of whiskey, which Ricky, somewhat foolishly, gives to him, on the house. 

Ben then, mentioning an anecdote about the natives in Peru, snorts straight lemon juice and then downs the whiskey like beer. He then gives Ricky Lee three pure silver dollars that his father gave to him before he died. He makes mention of a fourth one that he gave to Bill…and a mysterious reference that Bill or Bev somehow used that silver dollar to save his life at some point. Meanwhile, Ricky is horrified. He keeps thinking of a bar patron that once hung himself after coming to the bar, and how Ben has the same look about him. He’s suddenly struck that Ben is dead, a dead man walking. 

But Ben walks out of the bar all the same, drives off, even while the waitress scolds Ricky for letting Ben drive, saying “he’ll kill himself”. And Ricky, who had thought the same thing not five minutes before says no he won’t. 

It’s a common through-line, the Losers being dead men (and woman) walking, everyone comments how scared they seem to be, how overwhelmed by fear, with the exception of Richie, who has no one with him, but Richie notes that he’s a dead man walking all the same. 

We move on to Eddie. In my notebook I wrote “EDDIE!!!” and immediately felt a renewed zeal to read. 

Eddie is introduced not by physical description but by what we find in his medicine cabinet. I couldn’t tell you the purpose of half of the items listed, a lot of them no longer exist, and as much as I’ve been busting out google for this book I wasn’t keen on looking up an entire pharmacy. I did note that one, there’s a lot of products for, as the book puts it, “moving the mail” (I wrote down “get the feeling Eds gets constipated a lot, needs more fiber in his diet”), and then I noted that Eddie also has some serious painkillers, along with some uppers and serious downers. You know a book was written in the eighties when “Quaaludes” gets name-dropped. 

I also wrote “Eddie is balding :C”, just so you know where my priorities lie. 

Of course we wouldn’t be able to talk about Eddie without mentioning Myra. Right after Eddie basically empties his medicine cabinet into his bag, Myra comes thundering up the stairs. Oh yeah, chalk down some good ol’ fatphobia from King. Literally every shitty character is fat in this book. 

Myra gets a bit of an interjection, though Eddie remains the central viewpoint for most of the chapter, and in her interjection she notes that she somewhat wants to trap Eddie (in the closet, jesus, very subtle) until “this madness had passed”. 

Eddie presses Myra into taking over for him in his driving business, and she hasn’t driven in years so she’s terrified, all while half trapped in his memories. He remembers his mom laying into his gym teacher for making Eddie take Phys. Ed. with asthma, but the teacher notes there’s nothing physically wrong with him. All the same, Eddie goes for his aspirator, takes a deep puff of it. 

He reflects that he knows how fucked up his marriage is, he knows he married his mother. Before he’d taken the plunge he’d placed a photo of Myra on the mantle next to his mother. He noted then that the two of them could be sisters. But he’d been weak and fallen into old habits. The jabs he could take, the jokes about Jack Sprat from his coworkers, but he really does seem ashamed of himself for taking the easier path, the one familiar to him. 

He truly cares for Myra if nothing else. He doesn’t want to hurt her in any way. Even semi-harsh words make him feel guilty and remorseful. He contemplates telling her everything, but it would only make her anxiety and distress worse. 

Also, two things of note: Eddie mentions that Myra “was really very sweet and had had even less experience with men than he’d had with women.” 👀 This and his pet-name for her, that makes her giggle to hear it, is “Marty.” I feel like this is far more telling of Eddie than the “marrying his mother” thing. He has affection for this woman, to be sure, but far more because she is safe, she doesn’t know much about men, she reminds him of familiar routines, she keeps him medicated and stable. He affectionately calls her a man’s name. 

And she? She wants to lock him in a closet to keep him safe and docile to her. 

As he leaves he briefly sees her transform (only for him, only mentally) into someone older, his mother back from the grave, “old and fat and crazy”, and a memory of his mother terrifying him in a shoe shop comes to mind. He shakes it off and asks her for a kiss, while saying to himself “if we were in water she’d drown us both.”

And then he flees to his taxi, on his way to the station and Derry. 

The next introduction is terrible. It made me so mad to read, I remember it disgusting me when I was kid, but it just infuriates me now. 

King’s only female protagonist, the only female in the Losers Club, Bev Marsh, is a walking punching bag. 

This part is told from the viewpoint of Tom Rogan, Bev’s husband, and he talks about how he got her under his thumb, how he could sense her vulnerability. And one, it reads like how every man assumes female abuse victims work, secretly wanting the abuse and having the choice to leave at any time but unable to, and two, it is some highly toxic misogynistic shit. And obviously it’s told from the viewpoint of a highly misogynistic character, an abuser through and through (who, by the way, is also fat, so there’s that fatphobia popping up again). 

But Tom knows that in times of extreme stress Bev is able to find her inner strength and push through. She becomes manic to do what she needs to do, and in those times Tom knows that his abuse wouldn’t be able to touch her. 

I filled up a quarter of a page with the words “FUCK TOM >:C” just so you know where my head was at as I read about him “teaching Bev a lesson” and beating her until she “learned”. He even knows that when he beats her she regresses back to being a child. A *gag* sexy child at that. His disgusting words, not mine. 

Of course Tom has parental issues of his own, of course! Match made in heaven. His mom beat him with a belt and he intends to do the same to Bev, put her in her place, give her a “whuppin’” as it’s phrased in the book. But Bev isn’t having any of that tonight. As Tom attempts to beat her for smoking and packing and daring to defy him, she fights back. She throws glass bottles at him and, as he gets more crazed, eventually tips the vanity on him. That isn’t even close to enough to keep him down though, so she snags the belt and whips him, first across the face, and then across the balls. Then and only then does he go down. 

She flees, shoeless and penniless into the night, and laughs once she realizes she’s out and probably out for good. My notes read “Tom can and will rot in hell.” 

Then my notes segue smoothly into “oh boy it’s Bill :|” and honestly, that could be the mood for the whole segment on Bill. 

Bill…Bill is so obviously Stephen King. Any time there’s a writer in a Stephen King novel you can bet that the writer is a stand-in for Stephen King. This is why it was amusing to me to have his cameo in It: Chapter Two roast Bill, his self-insert. I also should note that in the last chapter Adrian is noted to have been working on a long-languishing novel, and being in Derry inspired him, and just reading that made me groan. Not because I have anything against writers, lord knows, but because I know King included that detail to tie Adrian to himself and to Bill. I know it will come up later. I know King has to make every character him before he can empathize with them. 

Anyways, Bill gets the call from Mike all the way in England, where he’s staying in a cottage with his wife Audra. Beautiful, statuesque, red-haired Audra. “Why can’t you be the woman I want you to be” indeed. Not a line Bill says in the book by the way. At least not yet. 

Audra wants to know why Bill is shaking and why he pours himself a stiff drink before breakfast, so Bill begins filling her in on the details. And as he does we’re treated to memories of Bill in college, in his creative writing class. 

Now. Here is where I begin to lose patience with Bill and with King. King is clearly writing from experience. I know he had issues with his own college creative writing class. 

Basically, the class is pretentious, concerned with inserting political opinions into everything they write, going on about how war is sold by sexist capitalists and so on and you can just TELL that King is projecting hard. Bill’s works, fun sci-fi stories and mysteries, are given fairly low scores by the professor.

Then one day in class, during a period when another student is talking about her work, filled to the brim with socio-political commentary, Bill stands up and basically says that he doesn’t get what they’re talking about and “can’t you guys just let a story be a story?”

Which like, dude, okay, I get it on some level, this shit sounds pretentious as hell. But it’s COLLEGE. If you can’t get a chance to be pretentious in college then when else can you be? Also, you know for a fact that King is twisting this story to make himself look favorable, because it is clearly a story from his own past. So obviously the students have to be talking about buzzwords that have no meaning, instead of, oh I don’t know, expressing their political beliefs? Everything has politics in it dude! Even your shitty ass story reflects the political landscape of America in the eighties for fuck’s sake!! It, the novel, would not be what it is if it weren’t mired in politics. It has a lot to say about race, gender, and class, and if the message is muddled and directionless it’s only because the author, Mister King, didn’t put any thought into what he was trying to say, but rather wrote a story that was meant to shock. 

Anyways, Bill says the story thing, and it’s just the sort of malarky you would expect to see on the front page of r/braincels, with the top comment being “and then everyone clapped” because it is ridiculous. The teacher reprimands Bill, and Bill slinks out of class.

But OH BOY, Bill shows him! Because he writes his first horror story shortly after, and the story damn near pours out of him, and he brings it to class. The professor gives it an F and calls it pure pulp. 

Bill sells it for two hundred bucks to a shitty magazine, drops the class, and with the drop out note, well. I’ll let King take over here:

“Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor’s congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor’s door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving of its own accord, his fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket and across the cartoon he writes this: If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I’m going to kill myself, because I won’t know what else to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do.”

“Bill Denbrough,” my notes read, “kill yourself.” 

The rest of the section continues with Bill falling into the lap of success with his stories, meeting Audra while working on a screen adaptation of his novel, the shoot going unnaturally well according to Audra, and his following years of success. He slowly fills Audra in on the blanks. His brother’s murder. His scars, from the Losers’ vow, which have suddenly reappeared on his hand after the phone call. How Stan was the one that cut their hands, before turning the glass on himself. How Stan at first mimes slashing his wrists, as a supposed goof, but Bill almost stops him all the same. 

He then realizes he can’t tell Audra everything about what went down in Derry, but makes her promise not to come with him, to stay away from Derry. His stutter, which has slowly crept back in over the course of the conversation, scares her into promising

““And when do I see you again?” she asked softly. He put an arm around her and held her tightly, but he never answered her question.”

With that, thus ends chapter three. 

This chapter took it out of me. It was all so familiar and yet all so new and horrible at the same time. I honestly can’t say I’m having a good time, but I’m certainly interested in what I’m reading. It’s like reading about a parasitic wasp, what it does to the host. It’s gruesome and disgusting, but you keep reading because you want to see the end result. But the fun’s only just beginning.

Catch you all tomorrow, bye for now. 

[brunhiddensmusings]

Tell me more about this conspiracy theory about dragonball as a retelling of journey to the west please

okay, some of this is pretty surface level to the point its just face value but also just more ignored then denied firstly, i must establish ‘journey to the west’ to those not familliar with it- its a 2000+ page long chinese novel from the ming dynasty, like 1600 if i recall, but odd because it focuses on a buddist mindset in a time when china still considered buddism to be a foreign influence. the author uses fairly large sections to critisize the other contemporary options to buddism such as daoism (for being largely unconcerned with helping people or betterment) and confucianism (for being rigid to the point it cant adapt and promote extremely bloated beaurocracies incapable of doing much) as well as to extoll the upsides of budism (namely magic powers) and how badass demons are journey to the west is notable for being the origin of about 80% of all anime tropes and over a dozen anime and videogames are directly based on it son goku, unsurprisingly, is pretty much a dirrect anlouge for son wukong, the magical stone monkey king that was born with laser eyes spends the first 7 chapters becoming about (i lost count) 8+ kinds of immortal, learning how to shapeshift and fly from an old hermit monk, and pissing off most gods of any note and the entire bureaucracies of both heaven AND hell. as i said, this is face value to the point its pretty open

son wukong’s identifying features including a size-changing 8 ton iron staff, being pretty much indestructible even to major gods, being extremely impulsive and moderately arrogant, flight, and pretty much openly admits he has probably eaten some people. this should sound familiar however he is not the main character, Buddha himself buries him under a mountain (which has a magic seal on top because a regular mountain wouldnt be heavy enough to hold him) to try and teach him some humility (which fails) saying he needs to wait untill someone frees him in which case he will be endebted to and be the servant of said free-er. while we progress to the ACTUAL protagonist of the story a bald monk named Tang Sanzang is in fact the central charachter, although his name has been interpereted several ways including Tripiṭaka (also the name of the baskets of scrolls hes supposed to carry). the big B entasks he of the shiny head with the task of journeying from china to india to pick up said sacred scriptures so holy they can redeem anyone and then bring them back to filthy filthy china thats badly in need of these ‘morals’ things people keep talking about. but this is where you start to get a lot of ‘wait, that sounds familiar’ when i describe things like ‘bald monk’ and the adventures cueball the magical is going to go on with his companions of anime

because almost immediately after freeing son wukong from the magic mountain of sityerassdown and putting a magic circlet on his head that causes him great pain when baldy says a prayer to keep him in line (yes this is where inuyasha gets the ‘sit’ necklace) they come across a SHAPESHIFTING PIG DEMON who turns out inst all that bad a guy its just that his new wife is very upset because she thought she was marrying a handsome bishounen despite admitting hes a dilligent worker and treats her well because hes seeking attonement for having eaten people after being kicked out of heaven (where he used to actually be a bishounen in the celestial army) for hitting on women. yet another case of DOES THIS SOUND FAMILIAR

and i just now realize why he was wearing the chinese military officers uniform or at least would sound familiar to people who watched the original ‘dragonball’ and not just DBZ where oolong and the 50 other characters who were all established to be quite powerful when used cleverly were all relegated soely to be sideline cheer squad and ‘hey, remember these guys, from back when this wasnt the kiss goku’s butt show’- which is the point here following the original journey to the west story you started with the magical monkey shenanigans (check) then he learns from hermit (check) how to fly (check) and shapeshift (i guess they thought he was powerful enough without it despite it being one of his major go-to solutions in the story but i get that they already established thats a power someone else had so i understand leaving it out narratively) battling demons, gods, and pissing off the kings of hell and the emperor of heaven (check) and then gets humiliated by Buddha (absent, again i understand leaving this out for narrative tone and to avoid being overly religious in a kids cartoon despite actively leaving king Yema in the story) teams up with the bald monk who they initially clash but becomes his friend over time (check) who then becomes the main protagonist (major not-check) magical monkey jerk is repeatedly scolded for wantonly killing people and given a magical crown of headaches ( fail) teams up with shapeshifting pig who also becomes close ally with useful powers but has deep character flaws (check) and then team up with a dragon who ate their horse who then apologizes by transforming into a horse and then everyone forgets its a dragon (wait, what) and then team up with a river god named sandy (by this time the dragonball plot has already passed mars and is orbiting Jupiter because i think this is when frankenstein appeared and then king piccolo with his sons drum, tamborine, piano, and cymbal, i think goku kills one eats another and asked a samurai if he could eat the third but this is before they retcon piccolo to be a namek {eg- from the planet ‘slug’} instead of a demon because they keep waffling if demons are real) and is then followed by a long list of falling into traps laid by demons because the monk is naive, the pig is cowardly, the monkey is foolhardy, the dragon is too busy staying in his ponysona, and the river deity is carrying the bags narratively this is confusing for several reasons but i could literally teach a college level class on what DBZ does that no writer should ever, EVER, do and every friday to prevent unkind amounts of homework point at how original dragonball at least had narrative cohesion of purpose when it went off in left field but that's part of the journey- in original dragonball everything is a journey of the human spirit for self improvement, in original journey to the west everything is a journey of the human spirit for a shot at redemption, but in DBZ everything is goku is awesome and nobody else is worth his time unless they go ‘ha-ha, i am the most powerful fight punch guy in universe, we must fight’ because fuck anyone who isnt the most powerful being in the universe and even fuck them because they almost never have a reason for being the most powerful and its irritating how shit they are like some of them are mentally five years old who gave you the power to be this dangerous. whats odd is they specifically set it up several times that goku is supposed to narratively step aside and his son(s) step up to carry on the legacy in a return to the earlier more sensable formula, even presenting them as being less powerful as him as an attempt to move away form the absurd escalation issues the series had where goku can destroy a planet by farting yet every thursday they mysteriously find someone five times stronger then the last strongest person in the universe as that wasnt the point in either original dragonball or journey to the west where being clever was always far more important then being powerful, especially as son wukong was mostly more powerful then goku anyways but still got in monster of the week shenannegans not solvable by impulsive brutality. they knew this was a problem, they understood that the endless escalation had gone to the realm where the audience had lost any investment and nobody other then goku could be useful to the story to the point that they even had a WHOLE SERIES where to try and counteract the power creep they had some weird explanation goku is actually time traveled or cursed or some shit so hes only a kid and roughly as strong as he was in later episodes of the original dragonball..... close, so close to actually addressing the problem but also keeping so many other problems krillin moving into being the protagonist would have alleviated the majority of the problems DBZ had- the power escalation bullshittery and the complete lack of stakes as you know goku is going to punch the thing untill it explodes after six episodes of yelling and anything without ‘planet gonna go boom’ no longer seems like a problem worth caring about. goku being downgraded to being the impulsive muscle on a team that included others that were less overtly powerful but still narratively useful to the adventure would have also alleviated almost all the ‘everybody who isnt goku is a fragile useless  porcelain figurine of a child’ problems that are very counter-intuitive and kind of insulting: in original dragonball, for example, master roshi was the only known human capable of doing the kamehameha which took 50 years to learn (goku learns it by watching it once and that should have been the cap for him being overpowered{a rival teacher had a more powerful version that nobody else learns}), climbed the sacred tower which took 7 years (it took goku about a week, which is well within the realm of where escalation should be), and blew up the fucking moon but in dbz his ‘power level’ is lower then his pet turtle..... despite all of that and being the one who trained goku and krillin allowing them to be absurdly strong in the first place so they apparently forgot their own history.  so taking the actual good story points they aready had and throwing them in the trash is a running problem

they even had the setup for krillin being in peril continually, all the ‘krillin dies’ memes are about on par with how often every demon on the road (which they pass like gas stations) are kidnapping and trying to eat Tripitaka, whcih is framed as despite Tripitaka being powerful he isnt as powerful as his allies but never framed as useless, especially as even goku has to seek help frequently, often from non-martial sources instead of the ‘kung fu solves everything’ mindset im unsure if anyone will want to start a fight about my statements regarding daballz but im okay with an intelectual argument about its writing .... how do i tag this? i forgot replies dont let me do that but i need to learn how to tag my rants one of theese days in hopes they actually get feedback

[ekebolou]

New Book Prelude: The Armistice

Okay, I said I would create another blog for this, but I didn’t.  This is sort of a free-story lead in for New Book.  I’ve posted it before.  It’ll be in several parts.  I’m going to post the first chapter of New Book after I get done with this.  Maybe posting will force me to come up with a title.  You may have seen this before, since I’ve posted it before, but the first chapter should be new, I think...

Be warned: Naughty language ahead.  Link to the next part at the bottom of the post.

Anyway, here goes:

The Armistice: Part One

“I will tell you the great secret that so escapes you, muj – a soldier’s life is very simple.”

Each swept their own heavy flap of fabric back to enter the tent, but it was Boera who pushed to the front first – and truly pushed, for a good wager brought a good gathering.  Through a crowd made twice as thick by layers of armor and twice as loud by game, he trailed his dark company by the inexorable and – for his companion – unfortunately irresistible bond of friendship in vast parties. 

“This is what troubles your life – you don’t realize this.”

As they had settled into the front, a hand was instantly flat before him – whose hand, what kind of hand, how did it matter?  Gamely, Boera fished in the purse at his belt and took out few bits, pointing to his chosen contender to place his bet.  It was a fine contender, its shell shiny, its squeaking high and impassioned, and even his sour friend nodded his approval.  “It is only this: Do as you’re told!  And when nobody is telling you to do anything–”

He knelt and gestured down at the elaborately constructed dirt-track circus.  “’Ta! Rev, then you do as you like.”

The rat racers were ready to unleash their steeds; some even had intricately woven leashes, made from filched silver thread and scrounged bits of metal.  These were nothing compared to the finely worked hats perched delicately, even jauntily, between their tiny rodent ears.  One had wings, to match those fixed to the twine holding its turtle shell on! Boera repeated his enthusiastic gesture as the race began, bald tails scraping the ground as the rats scampered down the track.

“No, Boera,” Rev said.

Boera’s enthusiastic gesture wilted.  Rev stepped over his shoulder and walked to the edge of the track.

“I like the little hats, for instance,” Boera tried.  “That’s new.”

“Life is complicated when it’s short.”

“And there is Rev, our shining bright dawn,” Boera rose and stepped away from the crowd. 

“I am,” Rev said, grinning.

Over the objections of seven nations worth of soldiers, Rev took a hunk of cheese from his pocket and tempted one of the competitors away from its circuit around the circus so he could coo and scratch its chin.  The Sathian among the crowd threw their arms up, much as Boera had, while their Erro allies sighed.  The Baathians immediately tried to renegotiate the odds, Sivery as quickly trying to block them.  Felanese, Sulerian, and Tarkesh soldiers all shouted for their race to continue despite this interruption.  The tent, quite beyond the cacophony of rats, filled with the chittering, sliding, bellowing sound of a half-dozen languages mixing in a way that had no meaning to anyone, yet was understood.

Get the fuck out of the way, so we can lose money reasonably!

Shrugging, Rev let the rat down and stood, nodding his head for Boera to follow or not as was his wont.  Boera rolled his eyes, aggrieved at this faithless turn – of course it was against his wishes, but he would follow.

Rev kept his grin; his ears felt empty – nothing jangled, tugged, or rang – but that was what four years’ campaign would do to a man.  Each and every Sivernisat had gone back to their tent and carefully and with much thought removed the heavy bangles piercing their ears and set them aside. It was a grave and serious ritual, completed in a moment, which meant they could commence the labors of peace instead of shouldering the burdens of war. 

They could, for example, construct tiny hats for racing rats, and set odds using an elaborate system of tortoise shells for handicaps.  Or, as Boera would have pointed out, fuck an innumerable host of their former allies and enemies alike.

The labors of peace varied from Sivery to Sivery, Sivernisat and Sivereponet; the earrings were mostly the same.

They shouldered their way out of the tent, through a hole that probably shouldn’t have been in the tent wall.  Of course Boera would follow.  Boera had been his tentmate for the last eight months, since the others had died.

“All of the handicaps will have to be recalculated,” Rev cried, throwing his own hands up.

“Yes,” Borea said, leaning away as they walked, leading despite his implied intention to follow, “you’ve weighted that one with cheese.”

“That’s all it was fit for.”  Ren turned, roughly guessing his next trajectory and angling it to agree with Boera’s.  “Weighting rats.”

“And soldiers,” Boera agreed.

In truth, the cheese was the best cheese they’d had in nearly a year. It was certainly better than starving. Certainly better to have a companion.   Certainly better than the cold. But it was the soldier’s prerogative to complain, and they were still soldiers, if only for as long as the celebration.

As if to deny the cold of their memory, the night was warm, weather neutral as the armistice that gathered them here.  Loud, foreign insects did their best to drown out the celebrating ‘honor guards’ and ‘escorts’ and ‘name-your-dynasty’s-ruler’s vaunted immortals’ – the mighty survivors.  The moon was full and pendulous; the stars glittered under the few faintest wisps of gray-black cloud.  Warm as it was, Boera and Rev passed by numerous bonfires filling the camp, because, so it was: fires and festivals and soldiers and the end of war – warm or not: big, big fires. 

“Rats like soldiers,” Boera said, leaning in close, well aware the conversation had only begun to tiptoe around the actual subject.

“Rats,” Rev replied, “are so much more noble.”

“You were stood up.”

“Stood up!”  Rev threw his hands up, identical to a thwarted Sathian gambler.  Bringing them down, he seized an errant tall stalk of the local grass, not yet beaten down by the young festival, and stuck it in his teeth.

“Stood up,” Boera clucked.

“Almost stood up,” Rev admitted.

Boera nodded sagely.

“Eh...” Rev elaborated.

Boera waited.  A small troop of naked soldiers scampered by, no doubt aiming for the river nearby, by their trajectory going to miss it by some twenty yards.  Either that, or they really wanted to run through the tent that several others had set up to cover a very somber discussion of the philosophy of war and a rousing game of dice.  The chase to the river would be fantastic.

“It just didn’t last very long,” Rev said, tossing down his piece of grass. 

“How could it!”  Boera gestured out at the madness around them.  “How could it!” he repeated, gesturing with a remarkable lack of ambiguity at Rev.

This was not a compliment, but rather a statement of stale disbelief. As this was not the first day of the festival, nor the first day of their tentmate-ship, the conversation had been had long before.

“It’s been so long,” Boera snagged his own piece of grass, whipping Rev in the chest with it before sticking it in his teeth, “since you have let someone fully enjoy your... physique, you have become an infernal expert in the... extraneous arts.”  His gesture was amply illustrative.

“Don’t stress your Sivereponet tongue, Boera, you’ll want to use it later – and who calls those extraneous arts?”  Rev returned with an illustrative gesture of his own.

“Anyone who just wants a simple fuck!” Boera shouted, calling the attention of some thirty reveling soldiers around them.  They focused like hawks, howled like wolves – a few Felanese, by their uniforms, went so far as to queue up.  Rev raised his brows, then his shoulders, then had to glower and close his posture off with an elaborately undiplomatic line of Felanese (or – all the words he knew) to dissuade them. 

“You’d think we’d learned better than to volunteer,” Rev muttered.

“Eh,” Boera shrugged, “for war.  For fucking, why–” and he performed a little triple-step, ending in an elaborate presentation of himself that received scattered applause, “–begin the line here.”

Boera took his bows, and they continued their walk, now directed by his impeccable sense of ‘finding something to do.’  “You are a complex fuck.  You are the Alta-puzzle of fucks.  Scholars for generations will talk about what it takes to actually unlock to combination to your pants.  Actually – no, you’ll just test a man until he spends himself before he can touch you. And that means you’re not a puzzle at all, you’re actually just a choosy bastard.”

They’d had this conversation before.  They paced out its rhythms and responses as they walked, encased in the total silence of uncrowded merrymakers.  Until they got to the important part; call and response.

“You could choose me.”

Rev shook his head.  “The bed moves for lovers, but a wise men stakes down his tent.”

“It’s a fool’s adage, I tell you,” Boera groaned.  “A travesty to believe tentmates should not be lovers.”

“You’ve not yet broken it, and you’ve all the cause in the world.” He lifted a finger to correct himself. “All the character in the world.”

“With but your consent I would.”

Rev gave him a sideways look.  They walked in silence.  Relative silence.  There was a great deal of singing.

“Boera,” Rev said, and waited for his friend’s sly and eager glance. “That is a terrible notion.”

“Yist,” Boera chirped.  “But I, my dear, would consider it a personal achievement to be able to hold out against your extraneous enticements.  How long is the average?  Nevermind – to know would dissolve my dreams – how do you resist?”

Rev laughed, and kept his secrets as Boera entertained him with a series of exceedingly crude gestures.  This ended in another companionable silence while Rev pretended not to notice how Boera nudged, bumped, and directed him with false fronts of fleeting interest in yet-further-away displays of debauchery. It was no issue, until Rev noticed a decided turn in the tone of the slurred singing, a slight change in the way the camp sprawled around them, a different mixing of the colors of fabrics.

“Boera.”

“Mu’ vlastni?”

“Where are we going?”

Responding with only a look, Boera quickened his pace, dragging Rev behind yet again.  After a moment it became clear enough that Boera intended to go into a long tent bedecked with wildly colored flags.  That was part of the strangeness – the way the tents stretched to great lengths rather than peaking like the Erro or draping like the Felanese.

“This is the Baath camp,” Rev hissed.

“So you noticed?”

But Boera didn’t slow down, leaving Rev with little recourse beyond sulking silently in step behind him. 

“What are we doing here?”

“What, you think they’ll kidnap you in the middle of the armistice signing?”  Boera was slightly more delicate with his tone; he made sure to laugh.

“I think we were better off with the rats.”

“You mean back by the Sivereponet?”

“Them and the small rodents in shells.”

Letting himself be mocked was Boera’s concession, and he rounded it off with a laugh and an arm over Rev’s shoulder, bearing him down to have his ear tweaked as if Boera were an extra-heavy earring.  He did not, however, then let Rev go.

Rev’s incredulous and confused expression stood in for many words.

Wordless stammering was also the bones of an old conversation: Boera couldn’t possibly have brought Rev down here for a fight.  Though a soldier sick of war, as all soldiers always were, if they were sane, he would admit he picked fights because he enjoyed it.  The very notion disgusted Boera.  Like a spouse with a drinking habit, Rev had come to slinking about when he went abroad for trouble. 

This time, Rev refused to help as they barged into the tent and got a face full of canvas for his trouble.  Blinking back the light from what might have been the most furious bonfire of them all, he breathed the heavy, sweet scent of Baathian fruit-and-honey wines, as well as fresh timber and old sweat.  Several tables and benches pushed together created a single long table the length of the tent, blocking them from the impressive pit and chimney (those surely weren’t stone bricks – even Baathians weren’t so foolish as to have hauled stones to a treaty camp) over the bonfire, long and low as it could be made while still being ferocious. 

He freed himself from Boera’s arm and fixed his tentmate with a look of grave disapproval. 

“So, I have followed you here, Boera.  What business could even you have among Baathians?”

“Well, muj, the people I know, you know I know, and I must know at least a few Baathians...”

“Bullshit,” Rev said.

Boera looked mortally offended.  “You are a man of pressing needs, o tentmate, and I only seek to relieve you of them.”

Rev narrowed his eyes, pulling his head back in a gesture of suspicion that would have been much more effective if accompanied with the slow jangle of earrings.  “You didn’t bring me here for a fi–,”

Boera’s hand came up so fast, Rev thought he was going to be punched, but instead, he pressed soft fingers to Rev’s lips.  He only removed them after a tedious spate of muttering what Rev assumed must be highly sacrilegious prayers, as Boera believed in no gods.

Boera took a deep breath.  Seeing impatience still writ large on Rev’s face, he made a weighing gesture with his hands and started peering about. 

“There’s a man here I want you to meet.”

“I don’t want to meet any Baathians–” but before Rev had finished, Boera seized his elbow and dragged him towards a gap in the long benches. Whatever comforting noises Boera was making to try to ease the scowl on Rev’s face were soon lost in the raucous conversations of the soldiery at the tables.  Both of them had to skip lightly aside to avoid a man launched bodily over the back bench by a Sathian woman who’d mounted the table to plant her foot in his chest.  She paused to secure her footing, bare chest shining with sweat and hair backlit by the fire such that she seemed to embody the night itself, imbedded with stars, before she stomped down on the bench to step over her foe and continue a leisurely stroll towards the hogsheads. 

“Not that man, I hope,” Rev said.

“Ah, no,” Boera said, but as the soldier next to him slipped head-first backwards off the bench, he used the chance to throw Rev down in a the space just cleared.  Before he could protest, Boera slapped him on the shoulders, and made fading excuses as he disappeared after something for them to drink.

Rev refused to have anything to do with this.  He would demonstrate his displeasure with a sullen silence, completely useless as Boera wasn’t here to be bothered by it.  He adjusted his seat on the bench, considered eating a bit of cheese from his pocket, remembered he’d given most of it to the rat, renewed his scowl.

He didn’t like Baathians.  He would admit that Baathians in general had a pleasant aversion to shirts – or maybe that was just because they seemed to be mostly celebrating with Saathians, who saw shirts as a sign of weakness.  Maybe Baathians did, too, though everybody – Saathians included – wore something into battle.  He wouldn’t know, not liking Baathians one bit, and certainly not enough to have learned any of their cultural mores.  He demonstrated his distaste by not participating in them, which was completely useless because it amounted to sitting there doing nothing.

His scowl deepened when he realized just how unoccupied Boera had left him.  No one tried to speak to him, too busy being Baathian, which was simultaneously offensive and uninteresting.  He, of course, couldn’t understand Baathian, so he couldn’t even sneer derisively at the right moments to insult people who were speaking, no doubt of reprehensible Baathian things. 

He did really like the Baathian aversion to shirts.  Not being able – or, rather, unwilling at least while Boera was waiting upon him – to pick a fight, and so cruelly forced to idleness, he could do nothing but watch people parade past, and kick away the soldier trying to take her seat back when he woke up.  The other Baathians seemed to approve of this, as the woman next to him issued something that was either a congratulatory cheer or the final stages of a wasting disease, and slapped him on the back.  This did not lead to fight, but rather, due to his morally-maintained silence, to more watching people parade past.  He was rather more relaxed when Boera returned. 

“I see no man,” Rev said, peering around Boera and raising his hands.

Boera knocked him in the forehead with one of the mugs he was holding and threw a leg over the bench.  “You see your favorite man.”

“I see a man who abandoned me amongst savages.”

“And who brought you delicious Baathian wine, gained at great personal risk from the horde of savages by the barrels, without you so much as even having to move or attempt to summon to your tongue enough Baathian to order it.”

Rev checked his hair for spilled wine, and sipped what was obviously meant as a libation of appeasement.

“Who do you see?”  Boera grinned at him.

“I see... very nearly my favorite man,” Rev replied.  He glowered at the Baathians around them.  “If only he kept better company.”

“I could not agree more,” Boera grumbled.  Before Rev could grasp this reversal, Boera had turned and said something witty enough in Baathian to get his own slap on the back, not that Rev was jealous.

The Baathian wine was good enough – and alcoholic enough – that Rev fell easily into the business of getting drunk.  Decently drunk, that is; not nearly sober, but just drunk enough to ensure he wouldn’t cause someone to come over the table at them.  Also not drunk enough to try to speak to any Baathians, no matter what language they chose, so the burden fell to Boera, who was able to slide into the conversation smooth a snake in a mail suit. 

Boera, in turn, felt far more comfortable when he finally noticed Rev falling into a pleasant and languid silence beside him, almost half as drunk as he needed to be to not start any fights at all.  In fact, for the past few minutes of mindless, half-Sivery, quarter-Felanese, quarter-mimed conversation, Rev had paid no attention at all, no doubt due to some ridiculous notion he was somehow being both superior and insulting.  So Boera let his own attention wander – he let his smile grow warm, let his pose grow alluring, let his current company knowingly begin a grinning departure and smiled broadly as decidedly different sort of company approached.

Boera sampled and rejected a few, who did not take it poorly.  After all, the armistice signing was a veritable open feast, full of soldiers happy to no longer be dying, and eager to express their zeal of life by wasting copious amounts of its generative fluids. 

But finally, a very smooth-looking Baathian, sadly shirted, slid onto the bench beside Boera.  They ran through a few different greetings in sundry languages until it turned out the Baathian spoke decent Sivery.  He passed a number of tests Boera lobbed his way in the form of gratuitous insults, ridiculous challenges, and pointless diversions, proving he could survive a conversation with Rev.  In fact, Boera dared even believe he might thrive.  Then, with his most practiced lascivious and welcoming smile, Boera turned, seized Rev’s lapel, and used shunting him into the Baathian’s lap as a means of levering himself off the bench. 

“Let me get us drinks,” Boera said, then turned his grin to Rev. “Stesti!”

“Stesti-fuck!  Boera!” but Rev called to a hand waving farewell over the passing walls of Baathian soldiers.

“That went poorly.  Is that your friend?” the Baathian asked.

“No.”  Rev seized his flagon – full, he noticed, which it hadn’t been a second ago but somehow Boera must have dumped his in before he disappeared, which meant Rev now had a disgusting mix of peachy-berry wine Boera had been drinking and the salty-bloody wine he’d been drinking.

“You’re the only Siver here,” the Baathian pointed out.  “I think.”

“That Eponet, horse-thieving scum is not my countryman,” Rev growled.  In his furor he took a drink of the wine, which was worth spitting on the table. 

The Baathian laughed.  “Baathian wine doesn’t agree with you?”

“Nothing Baathian agrees with me,” Rev growled, topping his threat off with a grin. 

“I agree with you,” the Baathian said.  When Rev gave him a skeptical look, he half-stood to reach over and sniff the wine in Rev’s cup.  “That would taste terrible.  Why did you mix them?”

Pulling back, Rev slopped wine up his sleeve and cursed.  “You know I didn’t, you fool.”

“Better a fool than a lush,” the Baathian said, still sporting a small smile, perfectly undisturbed.

Rev was getting a good look at that smile because the Baathian hadn’t moved back.  Rev would have, of course, leaned forward so to follow up on his threatening tone, but the Baathian had moved in for him.  It didn’t feel properly threatening that he only to had to lean forward an inch or so to put himself in biting distance of the Baathian’s face, but he did it anyway. 

“Better anything than a slaver.”

The Baathian’s expression didn’t waver.  That, Rev had to admit, was the teeniest bit admirable.

“We agree again,” he said.  This close to his face, Rev noticed that he said it with delightfully curved lips. 

The Baathian’s hand was moving somewhere over to Rev’s right, but Rev wouldn’t let himself look; it’d break his intimidating stare. 

He needn’t have worried.  The Baathian broke first, as he brought Rev’s cup up to his lips, and glanced down at the liquid before turning – only just enough to sip. 

His expression folded instantly into disgust, and he pushed away, laughing.  “Dear God, that’s disgusting, Siver.”

“Yes!”  Boera said, appearing from behind with three newly filled cups.  He intervened between them only long enough to set the cups down, then forcefully and with several intrusive nudges forced Rev over on the bench so he’d be next to the Baathian.  Actually ‘next to’ didn’t cover it, as Boera pushed so close Rev could barely move his arms with elbowing one or the other.  With unobliging eagerness, strangers pushed onto the space Boera cleared, leaving Rev with nowhere to run. 

Rev was all right with that, for the most part, as Boera had noticed. Boera reached across to push a cup towards the Baathian, whose confusion at Boera’s change in position didn’t go so far as to refuse a drink.  At the same time Boera blocked all of Rev’s attempts to use his right hand to grab his drink, forcing it into his left so he couldn’t elbow the Baathian without spilling on himself.  

“How are we going to get you properly drunk with that disgusting slop?” Boera said, with rather more teeth than were strictly friendly. 

“How am I responsible for that disgusting slop?” Rev hissed back.

“How can either of you get drunk on wine?”  the Baathian asked.

Both Sivery turned, and he shrugged at his cup.  “I always end up behind a tree first.”

After a moment’s shared silence, Boera threw his hands up.  “What a manly constitution!”

“What a crock of shit,” Rev said.

“What is going on here, exactly?” the Baathian asked.

“A pleasant evening among friends and allies,” Boera replied.

“Baathians are not friends,” Rev hissed.

“Nor is that Siver, according to you,” the Baathian said cooly, sipping his wine.  “Horse-thieving epo-something scum, wasn’t it?”

Rev’s head sunk between his shoulders; it had been a bit much, the horse-thieving part.  Through one squinted eye, he glanced at Boera, whose expression bore the marks of infinite hurt.  Reaching out, Boera slapped the back of Rev’s head so hard his forehead hit the table.

“I need someone to fuck my friend,” Boera said, while Rev whined like a kicked dog.

“That one?” the Baathian said, glancing at Rev.

Boera’s expression confirmed this, with the utmost reluctance. “Though if you pass him over, I’m not too proud to become a runner-up.”

“I am not to be passed over, for I’m not being offered – offering – and I wouldn’t be passed over, anyway, were I even on the table, which I’m not.”

“You’re on the bench,” the Baathian observed.

Having confused himself in his own retort – perhaps he’d already drunk too much – Rev chose to ignore him.  “I am not involved in this!  Boera, are you insane?  And if I were, it would certainly not be for a Baathian!”

“Muj – muj Povstalec,” Boera said, seizing Rev by the back of the collar.  Generally a peaceable fellow, it wasn’t so much that Boera was being so confrontational as it was that he’d called Rev by his real name – or as close as the Eponet got – that told Rev he was serious. 

“We are all so very aware of your opinion on Baathians.  How could you doubt me, think I would not take this into consideration?  Have you not courted every other breed of soldier around here?  Have you not found yourself disappointed at the end of each one? Are you not, infected by your madness, beginning to yearn to fight someone, you great idiot?  It is an armistice.  In the war, it was madness to try to get yourself killed when three other nations were offering to do it for you, but now it is insanity.  Tasteless insanity, too!  Even the great, be-medaled fucks and flouncing court fops have finally seen that we should not be fighting anymore.  The insanity that afflicts you is now out of place, even more so than usual.  Fuck someone, please, so that I don’t have to deal with your madness disturbing our nice and peaceful tent while the armistice is being signed, so I can fuck whomsoever I like without you deciding to fight them when they wake up.”

“That was once!”

“Three times!”

“Those other two were assholes!”

“Which I thoroughly enjoyed, and you had no right to treat any of them that way and you know it, you bastard!”

Releasing Rev’s collar, Boera gave him a great clap on the shoulder, pushing him towards the Baathian.  “Look – if you do not like him enough to fuck him, then you can fight him instead; either way you will finally be satisfied.  I would put my money on a little bit of both.”

“You know, I’m right here,” the Baathian said.  “Don’t I get a say?”

Both Sivery fixed him with stares like a pair of cats in the dark. 

“It’s an armistice!  Who’s being picky?” Boera said, ignoring Rev’s glare.  “Besides, don’t you like my friend?”

“I can’t say he’s taken a shine to me.  If I say I do, do I still have to fight him?”

“Well, I don’t like you,” Rev replied, “and I’ll fight you any time.”

“Well, if any time includes never, then we have a deal,” the Baathian said, sipping his wine.  “But there are quite a few others here who I would neither fight, nor fuck, and your friend here hasn’t exactly been charming me from my cup.”

“Ah,” said Boera, sweeping himself up from the bench to put a hand on each of their shoulders.  “But that’s because you haven’t heard the best part.”

“Is it not the fighting?”  Rev asked.

“Is it not you?”  The Baathian said, and smiled. 

The shine of that smile made him completely impervious to Rev’s burning glare.

“I like him,” Boera said.  “I’m reconsidering this plan.”

“Then I can fight him in the morning?” Rev asked.

“The best part,” Boera said, leaning heavily on the Baathian, “is that nobody gets to fuck him.”

“How is that the best part?”  The Baathian asked, genuinely confused.

“You have not heard my challenge,” Boera said, gesturing grandly.

“I am not a challenge,” Rev roared, and stood, and the standing was an issue, or at least standing so suddenly.  He didn’t quite fall, and didn’t quite trip, but did get an uncomfortable rush of blood, and the bench didn’t help him stand.  Boera caught his shoulders -

Boera grinned at him.  Rev’s eyes widened, and he shook his head, but Boera’s grin only widened.

Twisting his grip, he threw Rev’s unsettled weight into the Baathian’s lap. 

It was not for nothing that the Baathian had on that soldier’s uniform, for he dodged any untoward damage from Rev’s violent upheaval by throwing himself into the drinkers behind him.  Could not have been more than a second Rev spent in his lap.  In his fury at being so mishandled, Rev only managed to clip Boera’s temple with an open-handed slap, stinging his fingertips to a degree that nonetheless satisfied his vengeful impulses.  He ground the dirt under his heel as he turned to stalk out of the tent, a meaningless and rising cacophony of Baathian following him out.

Part Two

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Unadulterated Crack Part 14

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word Count: 1,473

warnings: Dragon sickness, possessiveness, fear, angst

— Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7— Part 8 — Part 9— Part 10 — Part 11— Part 12 — Part 13 —Part 14 — Part 15— Part 16— Part 17 — Part 18 — Part 19 — Part 20 — Part 21 —  

    You woke up the next morning when someone knocked on Thorin’s door. A familiar gruff voice hollered, “Thorin, I need to talk to you.”

     Thorin, who was spooning your naked body, called out, “ Come in Dwalin.”

      When the bald Dwarf entered, and saw Thorin curled around your form, he went rigid, and stammered, “I can come back later!”

      Thorin growled, “Now is fine, what do you need?”

     “We need to get leaving soon.” Dwalin muttered, standing there awkwardly, while keeping his eyes on his shoes.

     Thorin grumbled, “We will be down in ten minutes, thank you my friend.” sitting up in bed. Dwalin grunted, and practically sprinted out of the room.

     You snickered, “He’s such an awkward turtle.” stretching your back.

    Thorin muttered, “Go back to sleep, you’re staying here.” stroking your hair.     You sat bolt upright, tackled him, and pinned him to the bed. You snapped, “There is absolutely no way in hell that I am staying here! I will not allow it!”     Thorin did not react, he just calmly stated, “You stay here, it is safe here.”     “Over my dead body!” you snarled.

     He glared at you, before overpowering you, spinning you onto your back, and rolling on top of you so he was holding your back to his chest as he supported himself on his elbows and knees. Thorin barked, “That is exactly what I am trying to avoid! I could not bare to live another day knowing that I got you killed!” pressing you into the mattress. He begged, “Please stay here, listen to me for once in your life!” burring his head into your hair.

     You shook your head, and shot back, “I would not be able to forgive myself if you died and I did not even try to save you. Thorin, remember if you die so do I! I cannot die until you do! Even if I am hurt I will not die! You are not going anywhere without me!” Struggling against him.

     He pressed his weight against you, and whined, “Please listen to me! You mean so much more to me than some forsaken rock!”

     “No Thorin, you listen to me, where you go I will follow, I have to follow, I cannot be more than a mile away from you! You have no choice but to bring me along!” You sobbed. Thorin gave in after several minutes of arguing.

    As you reached the mountain, Thorin looked at you and asked, “Do you know where the door is?”

     “Yes, but it’s not for me to tell, Bilbo will find it.” You reply, “if he cannot find it I will give him a hint.” going over to Bilbo, you still had not forgiven Thorin for attempting to leave you behind. You teamed up with Bilbo, and suggested you look over by one of the statues. He quickly found it without much help, and went to tell Thorin. You had to stop briefly to catch your breath halfway up the stairs. At the top, you watched them beat the rock wall in amusement. After the sun had set, and the company lost faith, you stayed behind with Bilbo. Who started to leave as well, when he realized you were not following, he asked, “You coming?”

     “The last light the map mentions, does not refer to sun light.” You sang, pointing at the wall, as the moonlight shown on it, and the key hole appeared. Bilbo called for the Dwarves, and went in search for the key, ending up kicking towards the ledge. Thorin managed to save it just in time. Once the door was open, and Bilbo went in, and the ground began to rumble, and quake. You sighed, “The beast awakens.” to yourself. 

    You followed Thorin into the mountain as he went after Bilbo. When Smaug saw you with Thorin, he boomed, “I will kill you all, except that delicious looking woman with you.”

      When all of you were in a place safe from the dragon fire, Thorin tried to think of a plan, after five minutes, you whispered the plan to drown the dragon in gold to him. Then Thorin leapt into action, and started giving orders. Dwalin pulled you to his side and barked, “Stay by me.”

      You watched as Thorin held onto the chain while watching the sea of gold consume the drake. The company cheered, you turned and snapped, “This is not over!” then Smaug breached the surface of the gold, and ran out of the mountain yelling that about burns. You turned back, and said, “Alright, now you can celebrate.”

     After they had gotten Thorin down, he disappeared for close to three hours.   When Thorin reappeared, he was dressed in a long robe with fur lining, and his body covered in golden armor, and a crown adorning his head. You sat quietly back and watched him with sadness filling your heart. He was no longer the dwarf you knew and loved. Balin noticed your gloom first, and asked, “What is wrong lass?”

     “That is no longer the Thorin we know, he has fallen prey to the dragon within all of us.” You whispered, “He no longer knows or sees friend from foe.”

      "Thorin is just eager to get started you’ll see.“ He assured you, with a big smile.

     As the company followed their leader to the treasury, you slunked off the the balcony overlooking the sea of gold, lurked in the shadows, and watched as Thorin started ordering your friends around.

      When Thorin noticed you were nowhere to be seen you saw the panic on his face, and he roared, ‘Where is my Queen, where is (y/n)!”

     All of them looked around, apparently they had thought you were behind them. When Thorin started yelling your name you stepped into the light, and called out, “I’m up here, mein Schatz, fret not, I am well.“ 

  Thorin’s frigid and hungry eyes locked on to you making the hair on the back of your neck and arms stand on end, he smirked and beckoned, “Come down here my precious gem.”

      You reluctantly entered the treasury, and went over to him. Thorin wrapped his arm around your hips, and pulled you against his chest. He raves, “Everything in this room is yours as well as mine my Queen.” throwing his hand out gesturing to the piles of gold.

      You nervously gulped, and muttered, “I don’t want any of it.”

     He shot you a dangerous look, and growled, “What?”

     “You are all I need Thorin, as long as I have you I will be happy.” You clarify.

     A brilliant smile envelops his handsome face, he laughed, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, come let me pick out some jewelry for you.” groping your hips briefly, before pulling you deeper into the room.

      You smiled and replied, “No, but it’ll get you to smile, and that’s all I could hope for.”

    During this exchange the company watched you and Thorin in nervous anticipation, they knew something was off with Thorin, and were worried about you being alone with him. As Thorin led you away, you gestured for them to obey Thorin, they did not move. When Thorin noticed his subjects weren’t moving, he turned around and yelled, “Find me my Arkenstone!” making you jump and yelp, as he squeezed your hand too tightly. They scrambled around the room and began looking through the treasure. Then Thorin pulled you to a large chest next to an elegant sofa. He threw it open and ordered you to sit down, as you did so he rifled through the chest. After a second, he growled, “These ones are not fit to adorn my queen.” grabbing a handful of the jewelry, and throwing it as far and hard as he could. You flinched back because most of them struck the wall, and the gems in them shattered, showering the ground with their shards. Thorin huffed hotly and started to fish through the trunk again. Whenever he found a piece he liked he placed it on your person. After about thirty minutes you had so much jewelry on that you were having a hard time sitting up, and breathing. You gasped, “Thorin, no more, please.”

     He peered over at you and asked, “What is wrong my love?”

     You begged, “I can’t breathe under all of this Thorin, please.” going to take some of it off.

     Thorin muttered, “are you not grateful of my gifts?” dangerously, narrowing his eyes at you.

     “Of course I am Thorin, it’s just I can’t wear it all at the same time. Not to mention if I did wear all of it at once, then it would not make them special.” you exclaimed, after some convincing he allowed you to take all but one necklace, a bracelet, a ring, a pair of earrings, and a crown off. 

— Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7— Part 8 — Part 9— Part 10 — Part 11— Part 12 — Part 13 —Part 14 (here)— Part 15— Part 16— Part 17 — Part 18 — Part 19 — Part 20 — Part 21 —  

TAG LIST: @fictionalquintessence @life-is-righteous@wowjustwow002 @17baldwinn @jumpingmanatee @savvythedork@savvym0use @tschrist1@imaginesreblogged @dracsgirl  @lady-of-fandoms @jotink78 @enkelin @arabellaelliana @a-midwinter-night-dream-86 @nelswp @imagines-for-multiple-fandoms @fentah @evyiione

[mypunkpansexualtwin]

Pathfinder Campaign weeks 3, 4, and 5! Partly as one post to keep one dungeon run in one place, partly because I’m lazy and kept putting it off. Once again we had:

@theta-thoughts​ The Benevolent GM (^^)

@actnonsense​ The Kitsune Magus, Yamato Nobuyuki/Akira Kuruso (++)

@babebot​ The Ratfolk Alchemist, Durn (–)

@tobiyond​ The Tengu Rogue, Cial (~~)

and me, The Kval Barbarian, Blink Tehnk (==)

(Those little bits in the parentheses are for when I’m typing out quotes, so y’all know who’s talking. 1 for in character, 2 for OOC. Also, to my gaymers, feel free to reblog with the stuff you remember, or you liked better, or stuff I missed. It’s our game and I like seeing your thoughts too. Since these are from my perspective they get a little Blink centric.)

Week 3

  ^^ “Okay, Tobi wasn’t here last week, anyone wanna give him the summary of everything you found out shopping?”   == “*quick and dirty rundown of everything I remembered, which I’m impressed with remembering as much as I did cause dissociation.* Plus the big stuff got added to the story tab in discord Theta left for us. I’m pretty sure I forgot something though.”   ~~ ”Alright, cool.”   ^^ ”No, yeah, you got it. Wanna go over it again in voice where we can all hear you or are we all good with what they wrote?”   == “Uhhhhhh…..”   ~~ ”Nah, we good.”

Waking up Act again, this time with the ps messenger app, feeling a little bad about it cause I’m well versed in the ways of the fucked up sleep schedule.

  ^^ ”Alright, so Lady Origena has summoned you four to talk about the kobold clan that’s becoming a threat to the city.”   == “THAT’S what I forgot. Tobi, the kobolds are restless.”   ~~ ”Thanks, Momo.”

Theta giving us the rundown on the whole situation as the NPC, asking us if we have any questions, and getting a solid 10 seconds of “Uuhhhhhhhhhhh.” 

Getting to the quarry where the kobolds made their home and immediately getting into a fight. Akira/Yamato using magic match #1 to set a kobold on fire, and watching them jump off the cliff and into the lake 30 feet down.

  = “Oh god durn it.” (After Durn walked out into the open, prompting that fight.)   ~~ “Goddammit Momo.”   == “I’m hilarious.”

Theta showing off the benefits of his newly acquired roll20 premium account and all the neato lighting effects that came with it.

  ++ “Okay, I cast color spray on these guys.”   ^^ “Blink is standing right there.”   ++ “What? He’s tiny, he should be able to duck under it. I’m casting.”   ^^ “Momo, roll a will save…. Okay, you took the blast, but shake the effects off easily.”   == “Oh good.”

Cial also getting a nat 20 on seeing through the “No I’m not a kitsune, we’re two different people” thing that Act has going for Yamato/Akira, but all of us agreeing to go with it anyway.

  ^^ “Guys, don’t split the party.”

Immediately splitting the party when Akira/Yamato takes off after a kobold that bolted but the rest of us stay to loot the ones we beat, then follow a different tunnel.

Nothing especially eventful for most of the route that Blink, Durn, and Cial took except avoiding a small pitfall trap.

Yamato/Akira’s route, on the other hand, had an ambush of like a dozen kobolds.

Switching between us and Act doing our things like some kind of action comedy sequence as we’re talking to a newly found NPC, Nighttail.

  ^ “Help me kill the Chief and let me take over, the rest of these guys will fall in line. You don’t need to kill everyone.” *Hard cut to Akira/Yamato literally setting fire to a group of kobolds with  magic match #2.*   ^ “I can get you around the traps in this area with almost no trouble.” *Cue failed stealth check as he walks into the line of fire for yet another group of kobolds* And so on and so forth.

Getting her out of the trash heap, giving her stuff back, then helping her get her pet velociraptor thing, Hack, back.

  ^^ “Roll knowledge nature.” *two nat 1s from Blink and Durn.*   - “The fuck is a lizard?”   = “Well, I think it has two legs.”

Everyone taking a moment to pet Hack.

  ^^ “Roll perception guys.”   ~~ “Uh oh.”   ^^ “You all notice you haven’t seen Akira in a while.”   ++ “You don’t say.”   = “Shit, we lost Fluffy.”

Hearing Act’s big fight down the tunnel fork we didn’t take before, which was a much shorter, easier trip than he had.

  ^ “Wait, your friend is in there? That’s the room we use to trick stupid adventurers into walking into a crossfire. It’s a complete dead end.”

The group snickering while we help wrap up the fight because the npc (and by extension, Theta) basically just called Akira/Yamato an idiot.

The repeated interaction:     - “I’m gonna throw a bomb!”   + “Try not to throw it at me again.”   - “That was one time! I panicked! I got shot!”   + “Yeah, you don’t see me with the friendly fire.”   = “No, because you tried to blind me with it.”   + “Listen, that is not the same.”   - “Maybe I’m still dazzled by color spray, but I don’t actually see much difference.”

Seriously, some variation of that argument was had at least 3 times each session between David, Act, and me.

  ^ “I’m sure you’re here to free the slaves my clan has taken as well.” Yes, we are absolutely here to do that. Definitely the main reason why we came.

Getting into a fight with the kobolds keeping the human slaves penned up and killing them all. (The kobolds, not the hostages, although we did have a brief scare with a missed shot.) Blink being deeply bothered by killing the one about to surrender because that’s what happens when you’re Good.

Durn and Akira/Yamato demolishing a group of rats that came up behind us as we were getting ready to lead the people back to town. Neither Cial or Blink even had a chance to react before they were all dead.

Week 4

Going deeper into the cave system and literally dropping in on a kobold while he’s fishing. Blink charging in and hitting him in the kneecap so hard he passes out. 

Cial touching things with his little crow feet. Standing on dead bodies and squishing his toes, dipping his feet into the water in the caves, at one point using his foot to save a teammate from falling into a pit, that sort of thing.

Foiling an ambush that would have dropped us into water traps with snapping turtles. Accidentally knocking one of the dead kobolds into the water and finding out that they were most definitely carnivorous snapping turtles.

Theta talking to himself to make NPCs interact. (That one is pretty much a given in every campaign.)

  = “I won’t argue with y’all about killing these guys since they were grabbing slaves, but since they’ll fall in line when we get Nighttail here put in charge, I’m sticking with nonlethal until we get to Chief Dicksplat.”   ^ “Hah! Yes, Chief Dicksplat!”

Blink is Tiny and can therefore occupy the same space as other creatures and it is in fact the only way he can land a melee attack. However, when using a sling, it is not recommended. For example, he might miss and accidentally almost break Durn’s kneecap. That is not hypothetical. He felt terrible.

  - “It’s okay, it’ll heal. (–) And I’d be a real jerk if I kept bringing it up.”   ++ “Listen.”

The party briefly splitting up again to check the room, thankfully not going very far this time.

Cial apparently being Blink’s lucky charm when it comes to finding sweet sweet loot. Or vice versa. Either way, they found the armory.

  ~ “The rest of you guys can take what you like, but I’m keeping the masterwork longsword and selling it.”   = “I could use it, but that’s cool. Dibs on the sling bullets though. All 120 of them. Plus a backup sling cause there’s 4.”

Cial dejectedly passing the sword off to Blink cause he can use it and it’s also better than his mace, plus Cold Iron is good against demons. Blink has a thing about demons.

Returning to Yamato/Akira and Durn to find an ancient kobold on his deathbed with long-term storyline info.

Theta playing the audio for said info, someone’s mic picking it up on discord, and creating an echo which made the foreboding exposition about 10000% more fuckin foreboding. Couldn’t have planned that shit. Unfortunately it made him basically impossible to understand, but Theta kindly transcribed it into the chat too.

Durn checking a closed but unlocked room ahead of us while stealthed and finding a dead-end room full of gigantic dire rats. Immediately needing them as pets.

  + “Does he see these rats at like… puppies or something?”   = “Probably more like how humans see monkeys.”   + “… How the hell do humans see monkeys? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a monkey. Pretty sure any monkey back home would have been made lunch immediately.”   = “Well I’ve gotten compared to little ones with mixed reactions. My guess is they usually think they’re cute judging by the fact they called me "freaky bald blue monkey thing.”   + “That… doesn’t seem like a sign of affection. But I can see your point, sorta.”   = “Well y'know, if they had to specify "freaky thing” they are not usually… blue and bald. With horns. And huge teeth. My impression is they’re supposed to be cute and funny. And before you get smart with me, I know that I’m very much not cute or funny.“   + "Did… did anyone else here an explosion?” (Durn was using some of his alchemy bombs.)

Half an hour later, Durn walking out with one drugged, slightly dazed, but loyal dire rat, now named Pickles. (Blink’s suggestion, made at random.)

Almost immediately walking into another crossfire booby trap.

  ^ “Did he just hit me with one of our bullets?”

  ~ “Lemme just straddle Blink here so I can line up my shot.”   == “Kinky. Or it would be, if there was anything to straddle.”

Having the party drag me along by my tail after that fight so I can set up macros for my new sword in roll20 and immediately coming up against a miniboss. Who summoned skeletons. That have high resistance to piercing and slashing damage. Like a sword would do. But are weak against bludgeoning damage. Like a mace would do. Like the mace that I had just unequipped and put in my bag.

  ^^ “Akira, you recognize the spell she just used as a protect spell that increases her AC against good-aligned characters.”   + “She cast protect good, not realizing that half of this party doesn’t give a shit and are just here for the money/adventure.”   - “Hah!”   ~ “Shit.”   = “Oh goddammit.”

“Nighttail” reminding us that since skeletons are undead, healing hurts them. Blink using one of his potions and finally damaging the skeleton he was up against.

  ^^ “The sorceress uses a spell and restores the hp of her minions.”   = “Well that just wasted my damn potion.”

Blink standing there basically just taking a beating so his skeleton doesn’t try and go after someone squishier.

  ++ “I’m gonna use my last match on her.”   ^^ “Alright. Aaand…. She made the save. She pats out the fire easily and gives you a dirty look.”   ++ “Well, fuck.”

The fight looking pretty grim until Nighttail and Hack charge in a second time (they missed the first time) and fucking skewer the sorceress beating our asses.

Blink basically immediately falling in love with her right there and being deeply confused and perturbed by this because this is a New Feeling he has no name for. When you spontaneously manifest fully formed and live for over a century and a half, you think you’ve got yourself figured out. New is nerve-wracking.

Cial getting dibs on her cloak of resistance, which Akira points out should have a big hole in it. GM rolls a d1 and says “nah dude, magic.”

  ^^ “Alright it’s late enough I’m not gonna add up all your experience for this run, but I know you all were really close to leveling so go ahead and start working on that and if you guys want we can roll for your next magic items.”

Blink got a Saddle of Transformation, which turns any creature you put it on into a horse, and the wearer can’t take it off by themself. Yes, it works on humanoids.

Durn got a Preservative Jar. “Anything placed in this jar enters stasis. Cannot hold anything bigger than a toad. Currently holds a toad.” 

Akira/Yamato got a Seed of Moon Ice. If dropped in a body of water, will “freeze” an area up to 20’ diameter. If swallowed, you die. If touched, save or die. Leaves awesomely frozen corpses that are not cold to the touch and never thaw.

Can’t remember for the life of me if Cial got one this run or what it was, but last time he got the Wand of Necromantic Cooking, which can enchant a corpse or cut of meat to cut, prepare, marinate, and cook itself. A slaughtered pig will seek out gravy to roll around in. Sausages will jump into the saucepan, and then seek out your plate when cooked. Which sounds awesome, I’d love that in real life.

Week 5

Late start by a few hours, partly due to scheduling, partly because I was the only good little cookie who actually did their dang leveling. (Admittedly I did that mostly because I didn’t wanna forget to do all the stuff I needed to switch over to the Titan Mauler archetype. When you’re Tiny, it pays to have bonuses against enemies bigger than you, because that’s pretty much everything we fight.)

While doing my changes, I double checked my weapon damage types. Apparently there were four slings for a reason. At least we know that for the next time we run into skeleleletons.

  == “I already did my character stuff, Theta, do I get a sticker?”   ^^ “Yes.”   == “Yaaayyyy, stickers!”

Akira/Yamato getting to level 3, meaning he gets his black blade, which is a sentient sword that’ll get more powerful and more full of itself as he levels. This took the form of a cane sword that he found in the base of the statue that the miniboss was praying at before she was so rudely impaled interrupted.

  ^^ “…And reflects the user’s personality.”   == “What? No, I’m a cane not a sword, that’s the other guy. Frankly I’m insulted you’d even insinuate such a thing.”   ++ “I… well shit. Yeah.”

Akira growing a second tail. The meaty crunching noise described was gross and disturbing.

  ~ “Should you be picking up the sword that came out of the statue that the evil sorceress was praying to?”   + “Pshh, it’ll be fine. It’s calling to me, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to have this.”   == “In pathfinder game, sword seduce you.”

Finding the Guards of the Future, which initially intrigued us because Durn failed his stealth check and they didn’t immediately attack us.

The literal squealing in delight from me, Tobi, and David when a kobold baby darted out from behind the guards and hugged Durn, making him very homesick for his own siblings. (Admittedly the squealing was mostly me, and I’m counting it all as “in character” especially cause babies are a novelty for Blink.)

The guards warning us about a nasty trap up ahead in return for us leaving the babies alone. Seriously, this trap would have shredded us in a ball of fiery death. Instead, Durn disarmed it and we each got 3 flasks of Alchemist’s Fire.

Promptly using that fire on a handful of guards between us and the dungeon boss and setting like 4 of them on fire. It was nice that we were the ones who got to make the dramatic entrance for once.

Another instance where Theta played dialog from a character and the echo made it super foreboding, but also almost completely unintelligible. Thankfully another transcription was provided.

  == “Alright, I’m gonna use my detect evil spell-like, cause I get bonuses against evil characters.”   ^^ “Every enemy in this room is Lawful Evil.”   == “Yessssss. I’m gonna rage too, these guys are fucked.

Killing the guards that were on fire before the fire actually had a chance to do any damage.

Cial squishing his toes in burnt corpse.

Chief Roaghaz making illusion clones of himself, and me having the idea to ask if my detect evil would still show him or if all of them counted. Didn’t work, but it was a solid plan.

Blink yelling his permission to Durn to throw another flask of Alchemist’s Fire at the swarm of boss. That Blink was standing directly under.

  - “You sure?”   = “Do it!”   ^^ “Roll a reflex save, Momo… You dodge it and take no damage.”   = “Fuck yeah!”   ^^ “And three of the illusions disappear.”

Blink having the time of his damn life because of the rage, killing evil, and dodging friendly fire entirely unscathed for the second time that day. Less pleased about missing all his attacks of opportunity. (And I didn’t make any jokes about missed opportunities. Which feels like exactly that.)

  ^^ “Roaghaz’s teeth grow to immense size and he tries to take a bite out of Nighttail. He really seems to have it in for her.”   - “He’s a vampire!”   ^^ “No, it was all his teeth that grew, not just the two.”   – “Oh.”

Continuing to beat on Chief Dicksplat and wondering more than once how many hit points does this asshole have?

Theta talking to himself some more to make Nighttail and Roaghaz argue with each other while they fought.

Act (Akira/Yamato) using up his hero points to finally just fucking kill the bastard.

Finally just fucking killing the bastard.

The Guards of the Future coming in after the fight, relieved to find Chief Dicksplat dead and satisfied to put Nighttail in charge. Babby kobold happy to see Durn again.

  = “Well I was gonna butcher this guy here to add to my rations, but there’s guards and a kid here, so I don’t think I’m comfortable with that anymore.”   ^^ “The guards usher the child back to her room and Nighttail follows them to go and get things sorted out.”   == “Thank you.”   ~ “I can use my wand if you want, he’ll butcher himself.”   = “Nah, I’m good. This is my favorite part.” (Kval can eat pretty much anything and Evil is especially tasty.)

Getting like two rations’ worth of meat off of him while the others search his stuff, and finding dragon’s scales among his things. Definitely not foreshadowing.

Divvying up the Chief’s stuff between us, but Blink not really paying attention besides the cash because he didn’t really have anything he wanted. Akira/Yamato got a scroll to add to his permanent spellbook though, so that was cool. Basically an upgraded version of color spray, less thrilled about that.

Getting back to Lady Origena to explain the whole situation and ending up kinda babbling over each other. She’s not convinced until Cial steps in and explains in a concise manner that none of the rest of us were able to.

Akira/Yamato going back to talk with Bassy, the gnome woman from week 2 to regale her with the story, and the rest of us stocking up for our next adventure.

And that session wrapped up Chapter 1 of the long-term campaign. We did more for Week 5, but I’m gonna make that the beginning of next week’s post for the sake of keeping the next dungeon together.

[technewss15-blog]

Funny To A Point – Heeding The Call In Destiny 2

After years of listening to gamers gripe about how the original Destiny ruined their lives in every conceivable way (even as they logged in hundreds of hours), Destiny 2 is finally here. Does the shiny new sequel provide Bungie with the redemption it doesn’t really need and has never asked for? Seeing as how all the early criticism has focused on the way shaders are used to paint your guardian pretty colors, it seems like the answer is yes. But we all know that the real verdict won’t be rendered until the professional critics weigh in – and we all know that the only professional critic that really matters is ME. Well, fear not, dear readers: Like my hideous Smurfette of a guardian, I am up to the task and ready to save the day!

Full disclosure: I never actually managed to finish the original Destiny. I played for about a week or so when the game first came out, but lost interest when that weird emo prince showed up in the incomprehensible-yet-paradoxically-simple story. My experience with Destiny since then has been downloading every new expansion and then feeling progressively more guilty for not actually playing them.

So what imbues me with the expertise needed to weigh in on Destiny 2, you ask? Well, for starters I was one of the first critics to identify and outline some of the major problems of the first Destiny – I was so early, in fact, that I received a massive amount of hate from the same super fans who would become Destiny’s super haters once they realized I knew what the hell I was talking about. I also cracked Destiny’s biggest secret, which has still eluded everyone else, so I think that makes me the King of Destiny? I dunno. Anywho, let’s get on with it, shall we?

Note: You can click on any of the pictures for a better look at whatever misadventures are being documented.

Destiny 2’s opening cinematic lays out the series’ plot like it’s reading a picture book to a child, and it’s a decision that I wholly appreciate. At this point, all I really remember about the first game is that a giant ping-pong ball gave my zombie soldier some sweet superpowers, which I used to kill a bunch of angry aliens as I searched for shiny balls engrams to score more loot. The intro doesn’t contain any huge revelations (“a mysterious good force is fighting a mysterious evil force!”), but I no longer felt the need to look up a plot synopsis on a Destiny fan wiki after watching it, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

Actually, Destiny 2’s intro did contain one particularly rude revelation: Because I didn’t max out my Destiny 1 guardian (I’m going to go ahead and blame Prince Creep for that), I can’t import her into the sequel. So as far as I can tell, from a lore perspective my original guardian gets blasted to smithereens during the cabal attack that kicks off Destiny 2. Not being able to carry over my character isn’t a huge loss, but it does undermine the fantasy a bit:

The Speaker: “You are the chosen Guardian, who will rise from the dead and save humanity from the galaxy’s greatest thr–“

*BLAMMO!!!* [Guardian’s head explodes into a fine mist.]

The Speaker: [Shuffling over to the next corpse] “Ahem…You are the chosen guardian…”

Anyway, with my old guardian now super-forever dead, I resign myself to creating a new character from scratch. I go with the Hunter class, because like me they are crafty and roguish and it’s my fantasy world so I’ll believe whatever I want! I also opt for a female Awoken, because humans are boring and robots are probably going to kill us all one day and I don’t need to be reminded of it every time I pull the trigger. At this point I realize I’ve remade all the same class choices I did in the first game, so I decide to just remake my character entirely. Think you’re getting rid of my guardian that easy? Think again!

Creating a character in a game usually turns into an all-night affair for me, as I obsessively shift every slider back and forth to its extremes before settling on the default position. Not so in Destiny 2! You get to create the exact hero of your dreams – by choosing from 7 stock faces and a handful of the ugliest hairstyles imaginable, because apparently the barbers were the first ones to be killed off in the apocalypse. Normally my wife weighs in on every minute detail during the character creation process, but the only feedback she offers me about Destiny 2’s limited options is that one hairstyle in particular makes my character “look like a heathen.” I’m not even sure what that means.

This just looks like Conan The Barbarian’s haircut to me, though come to think of it he probably was a heathen, so I guess she was right after all.

I opt for a crazy space mohawk instead, then move on to the face tattoos, which are always being as pointless and ill-advised in character creators as they are in real-life. Even so, Destiny 2 sets a new low bar for the extraneous category. Once again, I imagine an intern – possibly the same one who made Andromeda’s preset faces for BioWare – whipped them up in a matter of minutes.

Intern: “Hey, here are some face dots.”

Bungie Employee: “…You mean freckles?”

Intern: “Nah man, just face dots.”

Bungie Employee: “Alrighty then. Next!”

Somehow my guardian ends up looking vaguely like Margaery Tyrell, if she was thrown into the Mad Max universe and also purple for some reason. As totally rad as that sounds, I immediately regret every decision I made as soon as she pops up in the first actual cutscene – the gaming equivalent of getting dressed in the dark and then realizing you’re wearing your wife’s shirt as soon as you step out into the sunlight.* My wife also didn’t seem impressed, simply stating, “she looks quite striking,” which I assume is a polite euphemism for fugly. But whatever – at least it’s time to finally start playing!

Destiny 2 wastes no time getting into the action; after a brief cutscene starring the three characters from the first game that actually had faces, players are thrust into battle against a new faction of turtle-looking enemies called the Cabal. The Cabal are hellbent on destroying The Last City, which would normally be the name of a piece of armor or some robot butler in a Bungie game, but in this case it’s an actual city. Come to think of it, the Cabal is also a perfectly adequate name for an enemy faction…has Bungie lost its edge?!

What the heck are the space moles from Mass Effect doing in Destiny? And why are they so mean?!

The gameplay opens with your guardian returning to The Last City after some kind of patrol (or a sandwich run for we all know), and landing on the outskirts of the siege. I spend a few minutes of getting reacquainted with the controls, which includes immediately throwing a grenade at my feet and blasting away half my health. From there it’s on to the first battle, though things don’t go quite how I expect.

Even after all these years, I still remember my first open-ended skirmish in Halo; how dynamic the battle felt, and how the A.I. enemies seemed to be thinking and reacting for themselves. In contrast, much of the opening level in Destiny 2 feels more like Disney’s It’s A Small World ride than an FPS, as you’re guided from one small murder diorama to the next. Even for a self-grenading chump like myself, the initial enemies you face are about as threatening as the paper silhouettes at a shooting range, taking a step or two and then waiting politely for you to shoot their heads into some kind of ghost vapor. On the positive side, the controls feel as silky smooth as ever, and the first two guns I picked up were called Origin Story and The Last Dance, so at least Bungie’s still got it!

After a few more underwhelming encounters, the game’s seamless co-op kicks in – another guardian is just over the ridge and is in need of reviving! I’m not sure how he managed to die during this dog and pony show, but by the time I get over to him, a third player has him back up on his feet. It’s the thought that counts though, right?

Our improvised trio rallies around the bald dude who despite being a blue alien is always going to be Captain Daniels to me and anyone else who has seen The Wire (to my wife he’s the captain from Fringe, which is basically the same role only with parallel universes thrown into the mix). Daniels tells me that I should stay behind his shield, but I get annihilated by an incoming missile before it’s even deployed. So that’s how my co-op buddy died…

The Night King shows up in Destiny 2, but apparently he’s a good guy now.

One of my anonymous pals revives me and we hunker down and fight off a few waves of enemies together. It’s a cool, ships-passing-in-the-night kind of moment that reminds me of Journey, albeit with more guns and grenades and slaughtering aliens as they mindlessly funnel into my murder canal.** Once the assault ends, I turn to wave to my teammates, only to see that they have disappeared without so much as a goodbye –apparently manners were also a casualty of the apocalypse.

I move onto the next area and run into another NPC who I should probably know from the first game, but she promptly tells me that she’s going to “kick the Cabal where it hurts,” and then jumps onto the nose of a spaceship and disappears. I assume she’s talking about their space nards, though that’s an assumption in and of itself – how does she know the Cabal are males? Way to assume their gender, only human lady left on whatever planet this is. Seriously, is this Earth? Whatever. On to the next fight!

The next encounter actually gives me a run for my money, thanks to one enemy in particular: Pashk, The Searing Will. I know that’s his name because I actually took extra damage just to grab a screen of it.

No wonder he’s fighting so hard – people have probably made fun of his name for his whole life!

Unfortunately for him, Pashk is no match for Ode To An Unbroken Heart, which is the name I just gave my melee knife because two can play that game, Bungie!

With Pashk’s searing will extinguished, I head onto the next area, only to trigger a cutscene that introduces Destiny 2’s villain: a massive Cabal warrior named Ghaul. Well, mostly massive – his tiny bald head makes him look like a dude in a mascot suit who took his head off for a breather. Also, what is with villains wearing masks that distort their voices? Have we learned nothing from Bane?

I’m sorry, a world without what? Work on your enunciation, Ghaul! Also, why yo head so tiny?

Regardless, Ghaul gives a little speech about how puny guardians are, then drives the point home by planting his foot in my face and kicking me off of the magic tower we were trying to defend. As if that’s not bad enough, he also puts some kind of massive chastity belt on the ping-pong ball Traveler, which sucks away all the guardians’ superpowers. Talk about rude!

Despite just being a regular alien lady again, my guardian somehow survives the stories-high fall off the magic tower – though I guess that’s probably because it wouldn’t be much of a game otherwise (“And so the final guardian perished, and the might Cabal took over the galaxy. Thanks for playing!”). I limp out of the burning city with only a pistol, shooting some strange spikey dog creatures that also barf up their souls when they die (seriously, what kind of bullets are you shooting in this game?). Eventually a woman with a hawk shows up and invites me back to her village, which serves as the game’s first social hub. By that point in the evening my narcolepsy starts kicking in, and I repeatedly fall asleep while kicking around a giant soccer ball, only to wake up a few minutes later to sight of my character being nuked for wandering out of bounds – always a good time to call it quits.

You thought I was joking about falling asleep, didn’t you? Think again!

While Destiny 2’s opening doesn’t leave the strongest impression (even by tutorial-level standards), it contains at least a few sparks of Bungie’s patented dynamic combat, and does a much better job setting up a story and villain than the first game. And while I wasn’t particularly blown away by anything in my first night (well, except for the out-of-bounds limit), my subsequent play sessions have been more emblematic of what Destiny 2 strives for: tense and challenging fire fights against formidable enemies; an addictive loot loop that has me switching up my arsenal at a satisfying pace; and fun public events that you can jump into during the final few seconds and still nab the rewards. There’s also the PvP that I’m sure I’ll get obliterated in, and co-op strikes and raids if I can ever get Jeff Cork to put down Path of Exile and play with me (oh how the tables have turned).

Oftentimes in my column I tend to either gush endless praise for a game or take a big dump on it, but so far Destiny 2 hasn’t elicited anything quite so extreme from me. I’m enjoying the combat and the sense of progression, despite the fact that my character feels more like a mute marionette puppet than a super hero (seriously, a silent protagonist? In 2017?). And while I’m enjoying the game more and more every night, I don’t know that I’ll be one of those crazy people who plays it obsessively for years on end.

Anyway, I continued writing down more impressions and anecdotes in the subsequent play sessions, but rather than weaving them all into a(n even) long(er) and (more) boring narrative, I’ll just throw them in with some pictures and videos, and use the extra time to play more of the game. If that’s not a ringing endorsement, I don’t know what is!

Few games take the term “monster closet” more literally than Destiny 2. It’s seriously just a door with mysterious black smoke!

The European Dead Zone is like a taxi zone at the airport – ships are constantly coming in and dropping aliens off on the same street. You’d think they’d have a better invasion plan.

All joking aside, Bungie serves up some awesome sci-fi environments every now and then.

The hawk lady seems pretty cool. Even if she fell for the face dots.

Titan looks like an awesome neon-blue planet when you view it on the map, but it turns out it’s just Mother Base. Also, what’s with all these potato-chip bags?!

Sometimes Destiny 2’s combat suffers from the level design, with enemies funneling into murder canals because it’s the only path through the environment. Then again, sometimes it’s also fun to rack up a billion headshots in a row.

I ran across these two little frog aliens, which I’m assuming are Destiny’s equivalent of Statler and Waldorf. I’m hoping they play a big role in the story later on.

Not to get too deep into spoiler territory, but Cayde’s torrid love affair with this chicken is as emotionally touching as it is sexually graphic.

There are a lot of big balls in Destiny 2. Just saying.

Seriously, they’re all over the place.

Bungie says the EDZ is the biggest zone they’ve ever created, but I don’t know how that’s possible when every rig on Titan contains an endless sprawl of identical rooms and corridors. One time when I was hopelessly looking for an exit, I ran into a big knight-looking dude and received a Lost Sector banner when I defeated him. In my case the “Lost” was quite literal. Also, does anyone else find it weird that Titan is a class in Destiny 2 and also a planet? Too many Titans, Bungie!

I don’t even want to know what that is.

Breaking news: The totally useless spaceships return in Destiny 2! They’re not fooling anyone, but they do make for a pretty snazzy-looking loading screen.

Everyone spawns into the same location on The Farm, making you look like some horrific, multi-headed mutant. The extra arms would probably come in handy during battle, though.

I was super excited when I got sword from a treasure chest. A sword! Then I found out it’s some kind of weird magic sword that needs ammo. How the hell is that better than a rocket launcher?!

And finally, it’s not a sci-fi game if you don’t have floating rocks – and also point out said floating rocks to the player via NPC dialogue. In this case, ghost speculates that they’re caused by some kind of Hive magic. How’s that for science fiction!***

Need a few more laughs? Click on the banner below to check out Funny To A Point’s fancy-pants hub!

Funny To A Point – Heeding The Call In Destiny 2 was originally published on Tech News Center The Digital Generation

[garyzarrt-blog]

My Wall 7 & 8

7          The battle of the diner!

“Leave him alone!” a tall man I had seen my building shouted at the diner owner. “Take your hands off him!” cried a Haitian nurse who worked in the nearby hospital (the one with the excellent ER unit that I had used when several of my girlfriends were hurt when my rather heavy gentle tortoise, Freedom, nested peacefully on their chests in bed causing suffocation and even in serious cases, afib. At least there weren't any severe allergic reactions like with cats. I'm not sure this mattered to my hospitalized girlfriends.) “No, throw him out – he is a scumbag! The wall stands of exclusion!” “Social justice for all!” “Give him his eggs and toast!” “Go fuck yourself!” “No, you go fuck yourself!” The fat owner was beside himself – he had no hair so he rubbed his head like a madman. “You are bad for my business! I always knew it! I always knew it about you!  Even though you were a good eater – you want to kill my business!” He punched my wall but his hand bounced off the surface. (I laughed the way truly great celebrities and giants of history do when they are under attack by pygmies.) “Call the cops!” “They won’t do shit!” “The cops are the walls themselves! They kill black men!  They kill the poor! They kill innocent people!" “The police keep us safe! Fuck you! They have nothing to do with this moron and his wall or any other walls. They keep us safe.” Some people clapped. Others jeered. I had no idea, really, that my wall would have this immediate impact. I had no idea of the virulence it would unleash. “The cops will only ask for a free breakfast."  Laughter. "So let them have it – they work their asses off like us.” More laughter. But then more screaming and cursing and yelling. I noticed everyone in my neighborhood diner – African-Americans, Asians, older white retirees, Millennials, students, Latinos, even children with their mothers -- began to stand up. The middle-aged Korean guy who ran the dry cleaner across the street was jumping up and down. “I am for the wall! I am for the wall! We need law and order!  The wall will bring law and order! I am for the wall!" The diner owner was right – my invention had uncorked long dormant emotions inside his usually placid customers.  The truth of my wall was America's truth, too. In some ways my wall showed the divisions among people who rarely talked politics or religion or other heavy topics. Spam and hash fries flew around me. I ducked further within my wall for protection. Dishes and bialys splattered against the colored stucco walls painted with bulky, malformed Greek gods and goddesses and voluptuous nymphs with tiny eyes who seemed to be doing steroids. Bowls of oatmeal, and cups of the watered-down diner coffee I knew and loved (and which powered most of New York) were being hurled by diners with varying degrees of accuracy, at each other, at the bald owner, and at me. My hair was sticky from the maple syrup that had splashed over the top of my wall when I suffered a direct hit with a buttered short stack. (But, otherwise, my Stayaway walls made me impregnable.) My wall had incited a full scale riot in my neighborhood diner. Later, I would become the darling of some and a pariah to others. I feared for my life. Food was flying, the shouting was making my wall vibrate. Then I heard sirens. I escaped by plunging under the fat Greek owner’s flailing arms, and past Elvis, who was trying to mop up the floor which was slick and treacherous.  Two frail senior citizens in wheelchairs and oxygen tanks struggled, and held each other by the throat in a prehistoric death lock. I ran out, no, more accurately, I hopped and skipped, because my wall, at least during this early phase, didn’t permit Olympic dashes or long distance running. Not seeing where I was going, once on the sidewalk, I rushed west, towards Broadway.

8          I flee

I was starting to feel cold; even with my coat on (I had gotten my coat extended at the tailor so it fit nicely beneath my wall), I began to shiver. I found it tricky to trot. I bumped into passersby, many of them smiled and nodded, and at one point I found myself face-to-face with the sweet man from Yemen who sells coffee from behind one of those steaming street carts. (His coffee is no better than the diner, but I felt compelled to buy one since Jose, and even Elvis, never got around to serving me.) “I have to get out of here -- fast,” I said in a harried voice since I figured the police would be following me after the riot in the diner. My hands may have been shaking as I reached over the top of my wall. The coffee man from Yemen, who once showed me a photo of his young family in Queens, also had an odd American-sounding name, I mean for a person like him. It was Willie. (Note to self and the world – immigrants use ultra-American-sounding names because they want to fit in, they want to make it in America, because they are seeking their own golden bowling alley like my Dad back home leading to wealth and fame. How admirable. Wait till they all have their own walls!) Willie handed the coffee to me over the wall. “Thanks, I wish I could stay to talk, but I have to get out of here fast,” I yelled. (I screamed to make sure people beyond my wall would hear me.) “Inshallah,” Willie replied, beaming as always, trying to shove a blueberry doughnut the size of a baseball mitt over the wall.  (Sensing my distress, Willie wanted to make sure I had enough food – this is another touching American trait, in particular among groups who overly harsh critics of our country choose to call “marginalized.” These recent Americans make sure to eat a lot, and as quickly and often as possible, most likely because their nutrition is never assured. (My turtle, Freedom, used to eat this way when I first got her. She was very skittish. Back then, Freedom barfed a lot. I guess gorging is a survival instinct.  It’s certainly American.) I’m not sure what Willie meant when he spoke in his language (I think it was Arabic) but it sounded very kind. Feverish and expecting the worst at any moment, I headed in the direction of the subway, with Willie waving the sugary baseball mitt-size doughnut. An accountant I knew from the neighborhood advised me, “Take it. Take it. Don’t be proud. Willie’s a generous man. Take it. Take it.” I knew I didn’t have time. And I didn't have to go to work. (I could get away with a few more mental health days). While I had always found the subway to be an escape, right now it was a literal escape – from the police and the bald diner owner, and perhaps others who seemed to be trailing me as I made my way along 23rd Street. I knew people from the diner were running after me, too – either to carry me on their shoulders like a modern day hero, or to trash my wall which I knew (and hope you understand) is impossible because of how it was constructed – the material and design. (I didn’t realize until much later in the day, when my fortune had been made in the most unlikely way, when I saw the chaos of my retreat from the diner captured on local evening TV news, that I had caused chaos during morning rush hour on East 23rd Street. Months after, when some of my supporters in Miami filed a Freedom of Information Act with the government, I found out that because of what had happened when I went outside the first time wearing my wall, I was considered such a threat that Homeland Security had been called just in case my wall was evaluated to be an act of homegrown terrorism. I was on the edge of disappearing into a black ops site, which I hear are mostly located on Staten Island; there are many in New Jersey, too. In the midst of my confusion, a homeless guy asked me for money. He took a swing at me when I rushed past, and because of the Stayaway protection of my wall he bounced, not just his left fist but all of him, out into traffic. (Note to self and the world – my wall, when used by others can become the central part of an American self-defense system. Another sign of the relevance and timelessness of my idea!) I heard a clanging Salvation Army bell. I looked up at the green neon sign of a bar I knew but had avoided because the music was way too low, making conversation actually audible, something I found undesirable when socializing with others; particularly on dates.  (Note to self and the world – perhaps the fact that my wall baffles sound is grounded in the deep need we Americans have to stay in our own worlds, to maintain our mental space. It enhances the suspicion we seem to have for each other, and especially for strangers, people who don’t look like us. There are so many – in a place like New York. My wall will sell like hot cakes!) I could hardly breathe. I did not want know what was going to happen next. I was blacking out. (Note to self and the world – doing things in the real world is way more stressful than online. Why is this so?) That’s when I heard the consoling rumble beneath me. I knew I had reached the subway near Madison Square Park. For a moment, very hungry, I thought about seeing if the original Shake Shack was open. (I was hungry because I had never had my scrambled eggs and buttered whole wheat toast.) I had refused the jelly doughnut from Willie.  But, Shake Shack opened later, of course. I was delirious, and anyway there would be the usual endless line.   I couldn’t wait.  I had not time to waste. “Get him!” They weren’t far behind. I tried to turn to see through the holes in the wall who was behind me. I saw a mob not far away. “That’s him! That’s the crazy scrambled eggs guy!” "He's a martyr for all progressives!" A couple, tourists, started taking photos of me. “Hey, check out that guy with the walls!” “What a cool costume!” I gulped the rest of my coffee and sky hooked the cup out from behind my wall into the closest litter basket. (I played basketball in high school. Kareem Abdul Jabar was one of my Dad's idols.) I peered through my wall and saw the subway steps.  Before I could move, I felt something warm and wet on my left shoe. A small dog that was walked by a sad pretty young girl stopped, sniffed, deliberated, and then decided to use my impervious Stayaway wall as the perfect new spot to mark his territory.  As the warm liquid, ran down my ankle and into my sock, the girl giggled, said “Woah,” and tugged on the leash. The midget dog yapped and nipped the bottom of my pants. I got in one good kick before I practically fell down the subway steps. The urination was public shaming, if you ask me. It was time to get our country back - to fight back - even against entitled miniature dogs with serious attitude. Revolutions always start small.

Monday afternoon January 9, 2017

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My Wall 5 & 6

5    I summon the courage to go out into the world

I have to admit that with my wall around me, with Freedom feeling a bit under the weather (I thought about getting one of those dog or cat collars that you see around New York for well-tended pets, but didn’t think they were made small enough for turtles, even though mine is quite large), I wondered if I could go on. My radical innovation in creating my wall had upset the balance of my day-to-day existence, not that is was anything special; it was really routine. By this time, it was Wednesday. I called in sick to work. They call these kinds of days “mental health days” in New York. I have always found this an odd expression. Each day in New York, thousands of people call in sick because they have basically given up and can’t go on – they are totally fed up. These are “mental health days,” though, of course, HR departments don’t call them by this name. Considering the insane behavior I see (it can’t be just me, I feel) around me in the city, I can’t imagine why anyone is actually going to work at all since everyone must be in need of “mental health” days. I know that I am in constant need of a break from the relentless pace of life in New York. (I believe this is common around the country.) This is yet another reason my wall is so brilliant. I am just being candid and not bragging – this is a factual account of the importance of my wall and the impact it has had on the world – as you will see. (Note to self and the world – derangement is a common occurrence and therefore personal walls, like the one I have invented, are even more important and will usher in a new era of sanity and balance and world harmony.) Even though I was in a crisis caused my great invention, I decided to make my first trip outside my apartment wearing my wall. I admit that I was afraid – in fact, I was terrified. Success was not assured. Of course, walls were being spoken and written about, but in the most general sense, by pundits, politicians, late night comics, business leaders, politicians of all stripes, and overheated radio hosts. The subject was on the TV (yet again) as I put on my wall harness apparatus, picked up Freedom and placed her injured little body into the sink which I filled with cool water. (I also put on R&B for Freedom since I knew the music soothed her. I could swear she tried to dance with me some Saturday mornings when I listened to WBGO, but that may have been my own excitement.) I opened the door, and set off into the world. People talk about walls, I thought, from behind my four Stayaway lightweight panels, but how many actually make their own personal wall, live with it, own it, declare they are themselves one with their walls. Few – actually, none that I knew of at the time. I was a true American pioneer! I was at the vanguard of the American Dream and I was set to orbit the planet – and even ready for my ticker tape parade. (Note to self and the world – true American achievement always deserves a ticker tape parade and 24/7 coverage in the media.) Since I made sure to leave my apartment very early I didn’t have to worry about knocking down neighbors in the hall.  Fortunately, the elevator, which was small and always had an unidentifiable odd odor, was empty since I took up most of the space. You might wonder how I actually pressed the correct button for the ground floor. (You must be making these mental notes as you read my narrative, which has become part of our contemporary history and which I understand is part of pop-up curricula at schools and universities around the country). The night before, when I couldn’t sleep, I practiced wearing my wall and tipping over in a way that I was able to reach the wall outside and, in fact, touch any object I wanted. (I was a gymnast in high school in addition to being a runner so I was athletic and my body remains fairly limber and strong.) Standing in the elevator I made a mental note to do more flexibility exercises so I would be able to reach even further since I knew that my journey wearing my wall would take to places beyond my imagination. Such was the force of my invention!) My apartment doesn’t have a door man. This was another plus for me and one less person to content with now that I was wearing my wall.  Of course, since it wasn’t Christmas tip time, the super of my building was nowhere to be seen. But little did I realize, as I bumped into the front door (I was barely able to get the door open because the hinges hadn’t been oiled since the days of hippies and Love Generation – this historical allusion makes me smile), that I would enter a literal battleground – and just around the corner.

6     I participate in the Battle of the Diner

I was determined to keep to my daily routine even though I was debuting my revolutionary personal wall. Wearing my wall was a statement, yes, and a very powerful one as I well knew, but I wanted to carry it off with style, with the cool, level-headedness that true celebrities embody. So as usual, after I left my apartment I went for coffee and breakfast at my neighborhood diner, which is only a block away. I had no idea that my presence, really the startling reality of my wall, would spark an incident that would later become a story that fascinated the world and become part of the saga of my wall. I sat in my usual spot at the counter between the elderly African American post office worker with a short beard and a harried grammar school teacher with thick glasses and a tightly wound hair bun. I waited for my coffee. The stocky young Mexican bus boy with spiked hair -- he told me the first time we met that his name was Elvis –instead and immediately getting me my coffee seemed to be staring at me in an odd way. Elvis was usually very friendly – we usually talked about Mexico’s soccer team, pretty girls in the dinner or on the street, and the lottery, which Elvis thought we would one day win. But this morning, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. Elvis seemed nervous, almost frozen – his eyes were wide and he seemed a bit scared. I noticed that he was looking over my shoulder. I noticed it had become very quiet in the diner. There were the usual diner sounds -- spoons and dishes clattering, TVs with talk shows and news channels. But there were no human voices – no one was talking. I began to sweat; I was able to pull a napkin behind my wall to wipe my face. I still hadn’t gotten my coffee and I was beginning to get irritated. (It didn’t dawn on me that my wall was creating such a stir in the diner. I was very naïve at this stage, and didn’t realize, although I had hope it would happen, that my wall would literally create waves of reaction among people who usually seemed to be going about their business. My wall detonated emotions and captured a feeling that was lying beneath the surface of America. (Note to self and world – My wall is a lightning rod -- and it is a mirror showing the true face of our great nation.) Jose, Elvis’ friend who ruled the diner from behind the counter, was always fast and efficient and friendly in a hard, tough street-minded way. But, he seemed frozen in place, too. I asked for coffee several more times. And I asked for scrambled eggs which was my usual breakfast. José knew what I had every day, and he knew I liked my whole wheat toast buttered and my home fries very well done. But he didn’t seem to want to move. I couldn’t fathom what was going on. The diner was like an extension of my apartment so all of this seemed surreal. I was disoriented. “Coffee!  Scrambled eggs!  And toast the butter!” I found myself shouting at the top of my lungs, and I assumed that I could not be heard beyond my wall.  (I had altered the design of my wall by making invisible slits in the Stayaway in order to let sound waves through. I couldn’t tell if this brilliant design was helping the sound get to the outside world or I was just being ignored.) It was hard for me to turn around while wearing my wall but I swiveled on the counter seat. I was half-standing, half-leaning, on the counter. I scanned the diner. Every face was focused on me. It was like I was watching a bad movie, except I was in it, and I was the star. (Note to self and world – when you dare to be great, stand out from others, you become a start, you become something even more valuable in today’s world – you become a celebrity.) Some of the faces confronting me seemed angry, others smiled, and still others seemed dumb struck. (As I said, I was able to assess the situation in the diner because I had improved the small eye holes in my wall.) Elvis the bus boy walked up to me and asked, “Sir, is that you behind the wall? I cannot understand what you are saying but I think you are asking for coffee and scrambled eggs, and I think you are threatening me about buttering your toast.” “I just want my scrambled eggs and coffee and the toast -- the usual way! And, of course, I am not threatening you. I am just raising my voice so you can hear me!” Elvis laughed, and Jose even smiled – now they knew it was me. “Is it Halloween, sir?” Jose asked seriously. I started to hear loud voices, arguing. “No, it isn’t Halloween! Why are you asking me that question, Joes?” Then the owner of the diner, a fat bald man from the island called Samos in Greece, who always sat by the hot Russian girl at the register, came up to me. From what I could see through my wall, he was scowling. "What do you think you’re doing?" he said in a cold tone. (Remember, I had been in this diner every day for at least two years.) “What you think you’re doing?” “What? What do you mean -- What am I doing?’”  He couldn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to. “What are you doing coming in my diner like this?” He raised his voice and was almost shouting; the blood vessels in his neck were bulging. I was intrigued by the way his belly moved as he got closer to me. Was he going to physically throw me out? Like a giant wave overtaking me, the sound of the other people in the diner suddenly crashed into me and the slow motion movie speeded into real time. I couldn’t see the people but the sounds weren’t promising. I found it hard to believe, in those early days that my wall had succeeded in detonating an emotional tsunami in the diner (I would see this happen worldwide later) and cause usually calm people seemed to work themselves into a frenzy of emotions. “Get out of my diner!” the bald man cried. “You are creating a riot. You are not welcome here anymore. You are no longer a good customer!  You are no longer a good eater!” “I just want my scrambled eggs,” I repeated in lower voice, unsure if I was speaking to him or myself. The bald owner began to tug on my Stayaway wall. The plastic material, battle-tested in China and in the Mideast by governments and security forces for a multinational corporation and retested in urban areas of our own country, performed admirably.  No matter how the fat diner owner pulled and pushed my wall, he was unable to make a dent, or reach my body, which I admit now, was shivering a bit since I sensed the onslaught about to come.

Saturday

January 14, 2017 (done before)

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