#by city era. by district .

[zeebreezin]

Major in Linguistics, they said! It’ll be fun, they said………

[centrally-unplanned]

Though actually, cute thing: there are "standard" photos of the Kowloon Walled City that are always passed around, and they tend to be the most modern ones due to quality & availability reasons:

But these are from a unique period in its history, namely the end of its history - right before it was demolished. However, it wasn't the only thing to go; its removal was part of a much wider project to level and redevelop the entire area of the Kowloon City District. It just happened to be the last part to go due to its size and legal complexity. That "island of concrete in a desert" look is essentially a fiction:

It was really the heart of a dense urban ecology of low-income development that had emerged over 30+ years in the postwar era.

And you can see how integrated it was with its surroundings, the "walls" were after all purely a legal concept:

The common photos imo are also popular because they heighten the dystopian aspects of the city, making it appear like a tumor infecting the area. Once you see it in its proper context its place as an organic part of the city is much more clear.

[niteshade925]

April 13, Xi'an, China, Shaanxi Archaeology Museum/陕西考古博物馆 (Part 4 - Sui and Tang dynasties):

This is another star of the museum, a Tang dynasty (618 - 907 AD) bronze mirror, the back of which is decorated with carved luodian/���钿 (mother of pearl). Near the edge are various birds, while the inner ring is arranged in a "sunflower" shape. Kinda wish I can see a modern replica of this one without all these marks and discolorations from the passage of time:

A Tang dynasty yupei/玉佩 (jade pendant). Unlike the Western Zhou dynasty yupei in part 2, this type is most definitely supposed to be hung from the waist. This one in particular was one of a set of two (both worn on waist, one on each side), and these were part of the formal wear of first to fifth rank officials during Tang dynasty:

Luo Wanshun's Epitaph/罗婉顺墓志. As mentioned in the first Beilin museum post, ancient Chinese epitaphs have a two-piece structure, consisting of a tablet and the protective covering on top. This is the protective covering on top, with the large inscription identifying this as the epitaph stone of Luo Wanshun, engraved in seal script/zhuanshu/篆书:

And here's the actual body of the epitaph. This particular epitaph was drafted by one of the "Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup"/饮中八仙, Li Jin/李琎 (he was also the nephew of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang/唐玄宗), and the calligraphy was provided by the famous calligrapher Yan Zhenqing/颜真卿:

Tang-era pottery figurines of the Chinese zodiac animals. This set is sadly incomplete, but the way these zodiac animals are partially anthropomorphized is pretty interesting. From left to right, these are tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, sheep, and dog (yep that is a dog head, apparently). Not sure why rabbit and dog figurines are missing their ears though, maybe the ears broke off and are lost?

Sui dynasty (581 - 618 AD) green-glazed boshanlu/博山炉 incense burner. Note the panlong/蟠龙 dragon curled around the base:

Left: Sui dynasty white-glazed ewer with a chicken head-shaped handle. Right: Sui dynasty white-glazed vase. The curves on this one is *chef kiss*

More Sui dynasty white glazed pottery, but the most incredible thing is the white porcelain cup in the middle. The lip of that cup is 1mm (~1/32 in) thick, and the sides are so thin, it's almost see through:

Tang-era sancai/三彩 glazed conjoined flasks that is shaped like a pair of fish. Similar twin-fish motif can be found in numerous traditional Chinese holiday decor, and symbolize auspiciousness, wealth, and surplus--especially surplus, since fish in Chinese (鱼) is pronounced yú, and "surplus" in Chinese (余) is also pronounced yú. This is why the phrase 年年有余 ("may there be a surplus every year") is often paired up with imagery of carps, children holding giant carps, or a twin-fish motif.

Absolutely beautiful Tang-era wall mural of a tiger, which was very sadly damaged over time. But from the pieces left, you can still appreciate the raw power of the tiger captured by these lines:

Another beautiful Tang-era wall mural depicting men on horseback playing "polo", called maqiu/马球 (lit. "horse ball") in Chinese. It's unclear whether the maqiu depicted here originated in China in late Eastern Han dynasty (25 - 220 AD) or was brought to China via the Silk Road at the beginning of Tang dynasty, but anyway this sport was very popular during Tang dynasty, and there were many female players at the time too.

The women of Tang dynasty as depicted by pottery figurines:

A small model of Tang-era triple que/阙 gate towers. Que gate towers first appeared in Western Zhou dynasty (1046 - 771 BC) and have been a part of Chinese architecture ever since. Que gate towers usually come in pairs, one on each side of the gate, and they were used to display status.

A map of Tang dynasty Chang'an city laid on top of the current map of Xi'an city, showing the imperial palace (top center), the East Market/东市 and West Market/西市, and the 108 districts (called fang/坊):

A Tang-era chiwen/鸱吻 (螭吻 is the original name, 鸱吻 is the alternative name, another alternative name is 蚩吻, but the pronunciation remains the same for all three) roof ornament. These are the pairs of horn-shaped pieces on the top of the roof of traditional Chinese architecture. These ornaments are made to represent the Ninth Son of the Dragon, called Chiwen/螭吻, which looks like a dragon-headed fish and has the power to control water, thus it's used in traditional Chinese architecture to ward off fires:

Sui-era gold gilded handle of a stone sarcophagus:

A pottery jar found buried in the tomb of Crown Prince Jiemin/节愍太子 (Li Chongjun/李重俊, son of Emperor Zhongzong of Tang/唐中宗 Li Xian/李显), partially shaped like a pagoda and decorated with various Buddhist motifs such as lotus petals and elephant heads. This is speculated to be a representation of a granary, which would hold grains for the crown prince in the afterlife:

And last but not least, a Sui-era pottery camel bearing sacks that have the imagery of the Greek god of wine Dionysus upon them, which shows the great amount of cultural exchange that took place back then:

[slowd1ving]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Worldbuilding Worksheets

Worksheets & Templates Geography; World History; City; Fictional Plant

GEOGRAPHY

Major…

Geographical features:

Geographical events:

Climate / flora zones:

Landscapes:

Resources:

Boundaries:

Routes:

Questions to consider…

How does the geography change over time?

What lies outside the boundaries of the world?

Are there unexplained geographical phenomena?

How does geography affect transport?

Are there cycles of change?

How do people interact with the landscape?

How do their activities alter the landscape?

How well are people adapted to the landscape?

How do people study and record their world's geography?

How well do people know the geography of their world?

What are some misconceptions about their landscapes?

Does the landscape provide enough resources?

How does the landscape change people?

Are there unreachable or unexplored places?

How do people feel about the landscape?

How does geography inform science?

How does geography inform art?

Settlement:

Resources:

Features:

Borders:

Geographical Features:

How was it formed?

When was it formed?

How do people use it?

Draw a map of your world (or settlement).

Doodle of a landscape.

WORLD HISTORY

Major...

Eras:

Cultures:

Wars/Cultures:

Events:

Movements:

Disasters:

Leaders:

Alliances:

Polarisations:

Advances:

Regressions:

Discernible Patterns:

Questions to consider...

How is history recorded?

How far back do records date?

Is any history lost and forgotten?

How biased are different cultures' historical accounts?

Is historical knowledge available to everyone?

How seriously do cultures take the study of history?

What are some points of contention?

Are there "natural" historical records?

What is considered the purpose of recording or studying history?

CITY

What is the city’s name?

What defines the settlement as a city?

Who lives here and what are they called?

Why do they live here?

What do the inhabitants do?

What are the city’s resources?

What resources need to be imported?

What is the main source of income?

Where is the city?

Who are its closest neighbours?

Why was the city built here?

How large is the city?

What do the dwellings look like?

Why do they look the way they do?

Are there threats to the city?

If yes, how has the city adapted?

What is the prevalent architectural style?

Who are the city leaders?

Who are the outsiders?

Where do they live?

Is there crime?

If yes, what do the criminals want?

Is there a large rich-poor gap?

How are the thoroughfares arranged?

Where do the inhabitants work?

What are the modes of travel?

How has transportation shaped the city?

Is it easy to leave & re-enter the city?

Are there many foreigners?

How are religions and rites accommodated?

What are the main districts?

What other factors might have affected the city’s development?

What are its landmarks?

What is the air like?

Does the city create its own microclimate?

How is the city regarded by its inhabitants?

How is the city regarded by outsiders?

How old is the city?

Have parts been redeveloped?

Has the city been planned?

How are resources distributed?

How are dwellings laid out?

What materials are used in construction?

What flora and fauna live in the city?

What is characteristic of the citizens?

How does the city reflect the tastes of its inhabitants?

Is the city famous for anything?

What is the city’s emblem / mascot / coat of arms?

What language is spoken?

Do the citizens have a distinct dialect / accent?

FICTIONAL PLANT

Who or what planted this plant?

What does this plant see or sense?

How does this plant get on with its neighbours?

How is this plant adapting to its environment?

What is at the root of this plant?

Who was this plant’s last visitor?

Where are this plant’s parents or progeny?

How did this plant look when it was younger?

Follow this plant through the seasons.

If this plant could talk, what would it tell you?

What makes this plant unique?

Look up the botanical description of this plant.

What makes this plant perfect?

What makes this plant imperfect?

What is this plant’s greatest desire?

What is this plant’s greatest fear?

How does this plant defend itself?

How does this plant deal with adversity?

What will happen after this plant dies?

What is this plant’s favourite memory?

What does this plant think about itself?

How does this plant move?

What do you feel when you touch this plant?

What can this plant sense that you can’t?

How is this plant like you?

What can you learn from this plant?

Source Writing References: Worldbuilding ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character

[adachimoe]

2009 Persona Club P4 Profiles

I've posted Adachi and Yukiko's before, but this is a collection of all their "YHVH" (Yasogami High Visual H) social media profiles.

The protagonist doesn't have a profile due to him being the silent protagonist.

Yosuke

Nickname: Isn't "Prince Walking Disappointment" kinda mean?

Greeting: Yo!-Sup? This is Yo!-Su?-Ke's room (... I tried ...)

Favorite music: Something you can listen to and play. Guitar owns!

Favorite Food: Fruit flavored throat drops cause they're good for karaoke (Yosuke can give the protagonist a Fruity Fruity Throat Lozenge in dungeon chats; also in the evening hangouts during Golden)

Least Favorite Food: Tofu - sorry Rise!

Dislikes: Cockroaches they're black and rustle around and move so quickly ugh

Clubs: People who commute on bikes, Wanna go to Junes?, Delicious Homemade Food, Trial of the Dragon

Inbox: "DVD!!! DVD!!!" (from Chie)

Parting words: Saving up for a scooter (these profiles are before Golden came out)

Chie

Nickname: Kung Fu Girl

Greeting: Check this! Hyah!

Gender: Girl!!!

Favorite food: Meat

Favorite animals: Hamsters, bunnies, and other tiny animals

Dislikes: Math, insects - the enemy of all mankind

Favorite movies: Kung fu

Clubs: Trial of the Dragon, Burning Dragon, Fans of Animals w/Tiny Eyes, Meat Lovers

Inbox: "Return my world history notebook" (from Yukiko)

Yukiko

Nickname: Yukiko, the lady of the house... Sigh...

Greeting: Hello~ Chie invited me

Likes: Japanese food, dogs (you see, one fateful day on the Samegawa... [omitted]) (Talking about her and Chie meeting due to a dog from Chie's SLink and the Golden audio drama)

Dislikes: Nothing in particular, but I don't take well to sex jokes / dirty talk

Special skills: Kimono dressing and table / place setting

Clubs: Japanese clothing fans, the Go Home club (for people who aren't in clubs), Let's visit the dam, Fans of Showa Era music

Inbox: "Lemme bathe in the hot springs again" (from Yosuke)

Kanji

Nickname: If you call me bald, imma punch you in the face

Greeting: I'm Inaba's Runaway Train

Likes: Ototo (animal crackers), Homerun Bars (topsicles)

Hobbies: Sewing, knitting, peeling the wrappers off of Homerun Bars

Clubs: Let's Sew, Knitting Cafe, Delicious Shops in the Central Shopping District, Hawaiian Quilt Enjoyers

Ideal fight: One without rules

Inbox: "Hey, I got the rare submarine!" (from Yosuke; this was "rare penguin animal cracker" in English)

Rise

Nickname: Risechi / Risette, duh!

Greeting: Where a young maiden's secrets get revealed

Likes: Hagakure special from Hagakure Ramen

Hates: Japanese ginger and royal fern

Favorite people: Senpai / the protagonist, grandma

Least favorite people: Indecisive and unreliable people

Clubs: Cafes and Sweets of Okina city, Tofu Lovers, How about Kanami Mashita?, Fans of Animals w/Tiny Eyes

Inbox: "The best sweets around are..." (from Teddie)

Naoto

Nickname: The detective prince

Greeting: Hi there, my upperclassmen invited me

Gender: No comment (As in, Naoto wrote "no comment")

Favorite book genre: Detective novels due to work

Likes: Putting myself in danger (longer explanation of what it says in Japanese)

Dislikes: Women's clothing - especially anything revealing

Specialty: Working with machines, been doing it since I was young

Clubs: Linux Fans, DIY PC Builders, Fans of Mystery Novel Narrative Tricks, Beginners Fashion

Inbox: "Let's get a bucket ice cream parfait tomorrow" (from Rise)

Lastly, Nanako, Dojima, and Adachi don't have the high school social media profiles, but they still have regular profiles nonetheless.

Nanako

Likes: Dad, big brother, Risechi / Risette, everyone else in the Investigation Team, Junes

Dislikes: Fighting, shiokara (fermented fish guts; it seems that Dojima keeps these in the fridge in P4 lol. She uses some of them to make the Slime chocolate in Golden.)

Specialty: Singing the Junes theme

Dojima

Likes: Nanako, beer

Dislikes: Working, physical tasks that require attention to detail (I'm clumsy)

Specialty: Judo, reading one's character

Adachi

Likes: Sushi (especially uni), beef, cabbage dishes

Dislikes: Paperwork, cleaning his room

Specialty: Revolver maintenance

Here's the full post of Adachi's profile w/the fanart pages too

Teddie's is. Uh. An experience. I'll post his sometime else cause I think I'm not 100% sure how it should be handled. Like he fills out [gender/sex] (they're the same character in JP) as an emoji of a woman and the words "I live for love". Which I feel like is best interpreted as, "Sex: Yes please". But hmmmMMMmmm.

[kaylopolis]

Alastor's Shadow (18+) - My Fawn & My Shadow: Epilogue

Alastor x F!Reader

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months earlier than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. After all, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plan brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down but also challenge your grab for power… 

Tag List: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

____________________________________________

Dear Hoteliers,

Helluva Boss events take place after Apology Tour and after the most recent Helluva Boss short “Mission 4: Chupacabra.”

<3 Stay smutty

My Fawn & My Shadow: Epilogue

Content Warning: Self Harm, abuse, mental health, mentions of suicide

Just Outside Levittown, Envy

Tom Trench: “Five years after 'The Massacre,' V Tower is finally being rebuilt!”

Katie Killjoy: “That’s right, Tom! The Sins of Lust and Gluttony purchased a 50/50 share of the building three years ago, but after a long legal battle with Lucifer Morningstar, reconstruction can finally begin!”

Tom: “Today marks a new era between Hell Natives and Human Sinners after the Sins won the right to purchase property and run business within the once forbidden Circle! What does this mean for the travel ban on the other Rings? What does this mean for the economy now that Hell Natives can run and own businesses within the Pride Ring? And who will soothe the King’s butt after it was kicked in court?“

Katie: “In other news, Massacre memorials are set to begin tonight…”

You clicked the radio off.

Has it truly been five years already?

Vox.

Velvette.

Crim.

The hundreds of Souls who all got in the way.

Carmilla who tried to stop you but died trying.

The THOUSANDS of Souls after who died for no reason.

Massacred.

Charlie tried to intervene, but Vaggie wouldn’t let her near you.

Rosie focused on getting everyone away from you.

Lucifer was hurt but thankfully lived.

In the end it was Angel who stopped you. Angel who knew the truth. Angel who told you to think of the baby…

Then it was Husk who carried you through the portal to this safe house where you still remained.

The Entertainment District had been leveled by the time you had finished.

And the red staining your fingers still hadn’t faded, no matter how hard you scrubbed.

It was the least you deserved.

Eve has been quiet since then, popping up for short moments of conversation and then disappearing. It’s almost as if all the power used to take out half of Pentagram City had drained her batteries.

Or…

Perhaps she had known that, after the destruction, you had truly given up.

No more Endgame. No more games in general. No schemes or plans or revenge.

You simply just wanted to be.

You would have ended it all had you not had a reason to go on.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Turning off the faucet, you start the kettle and head for the door.

“Tomatuh!” Rosie pressed a kiss to your cheek, her arms filled with supplies she often brought along despite your protests. Mostly food but sometimes gifts - clothes she made herself.

“Shh,” you took the goods from her. “You’re early, she’s still asleep.”

Rosie hesitated in the doorway.

“Is something wrong?”

“Well,” Rosie adjusted her gloves.

Something was wrong.

“Tomatuh, you know I love you and that little tyke.”

You raised an eyebrow. “But…?”

“Can I come in yet or what?” Vaggie stepped into the kitchen.

You grit your teeth. “Rosie!”

“Hey!” The moth demon stepped in front of the Overlord. Still the warrior she was created to be. “Rosie forbade me from coming but I pushed myself through your stupid portal anyway!”

“That portal,” You held your ground, trying to look as formidable as possible - which admittedly was more pathetic than you assumed given the state of your health. “Is for Rosie only. It is not to be used for gallivanting across the Rings!”

No one was allowed here save for Rosie. The portal opened at the same time everyday - automatic magic she helped you to set up. It opened right on the porch and closed the moment she stepped through.

For Rosie. It was too much of a risk for the others to know your location. They can be captured and they can be interrogated by Heaven. Rosie was a much bigger fish to go after than say someone such as Husk.

“Listen here, asshole! I’m here because Charlie asked me to deliver this personally!” The ex-Exorcist shoved a box into your chest. “The only reason she isn’t here is because she’s at home in our bed balling her eyes out!”

The box…

“Vaggie,” Rosie pulled her back. “That’s enough.”

…it smells like…

No. That can’t be.

“…so ungrateful for everything we did for you!”

“Vagatha, that is enough! Go wait outside.”

The forest after a storm…

“She didn’t mean it.” Rosie grabbed your attention.

Your fingers started to tremble. “Where did this come from?”

Rosie pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Charlie had it boxed up at the Hotel. Apparently they did some fall cleaning with all the new Hotel guests and Angel accidentally unboxed it.”

Oh, Angel.

“Charlie’s been a mess ever since. She insisted that be sent to you right away.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“I think I’ll take my tea at home today.” Rosie pulled you into a hug. “I love ya, tomatuh. Don’t you ever forget that. Tell the little tyke I’ll bring her somethun’ special tomorruh!”

And then she left.

Leaving you alone with a piece of him.

Oh! What could it be? Eve materialized on your kitchen counter.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer. Your entire body and mind froze, completely entranced with the box in your hand.

All of Alastor’s stuff had been boxed up and either moved to his radio tower or to Rosie. You forbade anyone from going to the tower - not that you yourself had returned to it since. Rosie has been there a few times to clean and check on the place but other than that…

“There were only a few things missing…” The package was wrapped in a thick layer of dust. The only evidence that the box had been opened was the few fingerprints around the edges. Angel's fingerprints? Charlie's?

You peeled the tape off carefully, afraid that ripping the box would somehow mare his memory.

"Holy shit," you collapsed over the box and sobbed.

Alastor's coat lay folded inside - the black pinstripe suit jacket he died in. Speckles of golden and red blood crusted the surface, the fabric ripped diagonally across the chest. Atop sat Alastor's microphone, busted in half along the pole.

Something inside your chest snapped as your fingers traced the cut.

“Mourir d’amour, vivre de haine…" You mumbled.

That’s what Alastor had said to you when he died.

Dying for love.

I miss him too. The embodiment of power leans over your shoulder and huffs. Eve was fun for a while, but I agreed with you. Her plans were small and easily fixed. I never even introduced myself to her. Then I met you, and your plans were extraordinary - I didn’t even think of making Heaven destroy itself. Then we met him. She motioned to the jacket. You fell in love with the man, but I’m why you fell in love with his thirst for power and chaos.

You rubbed the tears from your eyes, afraid of crying too loud for fear of waking the toddler in the next room. “I could feel his magic even before we met. That day I came to the Hotel and Sir Pentious attacked, I felt his static moments before he appeared. I always knew before he was going to enter a room and when his shadow was nearby. Others could not. We had a connection long before the deal we made atop his radio tower - a pull I could never quite put my finger on. I've never had that with anyone else, not even Eve. You’re the reason why I could always feel his magic? Why I had access to his static even though I voided the contract? Why I could summon static during the Extermination?”

Oh, no. She waived her hands. I have nothing to do with Soulmates and Magic Bridges.

“Wh-what?” You stammered.

Look I know things but my magic can’t do everything…

“No. Not that. Can you explain the Soulmate part?”

Wait. You didn’t know? Ha! Oh, my God this is rich!

You blinked. “But Angels don’t have Souls…”

She shot you a dumb look, And who told you that?

You shrugged sheepishly, “Dad?”

Ugh! She rubbed her face. How can you be so smart and yet so dumb at the same time?

“Hey!”

Angel’s have Souls, babe. Soulmates share their Souls. One Soul in two bodies.

“But why would Dad make me a Soulmate?”

Answer: he didn’t. He’s a dick. But hear me out. You have been so sad and so alone for so long, do you ever think that maybe you wanted it enough that YOU made it happen. YOU willed it into being? Your upbringing wasn't precisely the picture-perfect happy childhood.

“That’s insane!”

Oh, well. Excuse me. I’m just the Book of Knowledge, I don’t know anything.

“I made Alastor?”

No! Eve threw her hands in the air. You'd shush her but no one else but you could hear her. You made a Soulmate! Fate decided who. Fuck, girl. It took thousands of years to find him, not like the Soul just popped into a body and called it yours. The Soul is made and ripped into two, it’s probably been floating around the Ether waiting for him.

“Oh…” You fisted the lapel of the jacket, finding comfort in the feel of the jacket in your hand.

That’s a compliment. Some people get shit Soulmates. Sounds like Fate was picky with you.

That made you feel a bit better.

Wait.

“Why are you trying to comfort me? You never try to comfort me.”

It’s not comfort, bitch. It’s pity.

You rolled your eyes, “Thanks.”

Eve didn’t disappear. She sat back on the armchair and watched as you folded the jacket into a nice pile on the table. “What?”

The embodiment of power crossed her legs and rested her chin in her hand. Nothing. Just waiting.

“Waiting for what?”

For you to figure it out.

“Figure what…”

Why I'm pitying you with this knowledge.

Whatever...

You grabbed for the pieces of microphone left inside the box but accidentally knocked it off the table instead. The cardboard came crashing down along with the metal. It smacked against the tile, eliciting a wave if green sparks as the microphone came to rest a few feet away.

Holy shit.

… green static.

Oh, shit!

There it is. Eve smiled.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait.

That's not possible. Green static was Alastor's magic. Alastor is gone. Therefore, so should his magic.

But if his magic was still here...

Angel’s have Souls, babe. Soulmates share their Souls. One Soul in two bodies.

You looked at your hands.

It wasn't possible.

You grabbed the jacket and held it against your chest, letting Alastor's natural musk drown you in a sea of his memory. Of his hands in your hair. Of his cockeyed smile whenever his true self shined through. Of his laugh, absent of the radio static.

Blue flame lit up your right hand and in your left...

Green.

Holy shit.

“Wait but how do I…?” You spun, preparing a barrage of questions to through at Even, but just as you had figured it out, the embodiment of power disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Bitch.

Eve wasn’t going dormant, she was just ghosting you - literally.

But then again, you already knew where to start.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath as you made your way to the bedroom.

You practically tripped over yourself as you flipped on the lights. “Mary Marie, it’s time to wake up.”

“Maman?”

“I’m sorry, my fawn, but it’s time to go.” You threw clothes into a bag, along with a few essentials such as a pink bedazzled hair brush and a singing toothbrush that played Verosika Mayday as you brushed.

The small child, previously tucked into her crib for her daily nap, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, “Mais, maman, où allons-nous?”

Flinging the backpack over your shoulder, you wrapped her favorite pink fuzzy blanket around her and pulled her from the crib. “We are going to visit Auntie Rosie.”

“No! My Angel!” She screamed, reaching for the stuffed animal in her crib.

You tucked the black cat into her arms and sped from the room. Perhaps one day you’d explain the irony to her, but today was not that day.

As you ran from the house, child in one arm and jacket and staff in the other, you felt small hands on your cheeks demanding your attention. “Maman, pourquoi es-tu si triste?”

You paused. “What?”

SNAP! The portal to Rosie’s Emporium cracked through the wall of reality.

“Why are you so sad?” She rubbed the tears from your cheeks.

You paused.

Were you still crying?

“I don’t know…”

You did know, but how did you tell your almost five year old that there was a chance - a minuscule chance but still a chance - that her father might still be alive.

And that bringing him back might kill you in the process.

She dug her small hands into your cheeks and forced the edges of your mouth up. “You should smile more, Maman.”

A sob tore its way through your chest.

Mary Marie Hartfelt was born 7lbs and 3oz in a beachside safe house outside of Levittown, Envy. Named for her grandmother on her father’s side, Rosie would tell you that she’s the spitting image of you but that was due large in part to her blonde hair and pale complexion. In reality, you couldn’t look at her and not see her father.

She had the same small tuft of red fur for a tail, which she hated you pulling, and a matching set of ears, which she demanded you scratched every night before bed. Her legs ended in red hooves that she loved when you painted pink - her favorite color - and her eyes…

She had her father’s red irises.

And her father’s temper. God forbid she didn’t get her way - she was a total spitfire. At least she hadn’t sprouted wings, the crawling phase was already too much to bear as a single parent - despite Rosie’s help. Actually the only time she calmed down was when Rosie came over for tea.

Chai - Mary Marie’s favorite.

She had her father’s appetite and her mother’s knack for weaponry. God forbid she get into any weapons unsupervised.

Her magic started showing early - most notably during her terrible twos when she almost burned down the house: electricity. Your blue fire plus her father’s green static gave birth to red electricity.

Thankfully none of the power from the Book of Knowledge seeped into her or impacted the pregnancy in anyway. Either Eve was quite attached to you or you got lucky - really lucky.

Hell have no furry like existence’s most powerful toddler throwing a tantrum.

That was your fault however. After the battle and the Massacre, Heaven was on high alert. Everyone now knew that God was missing and Mikaela Morningstar was a traitor. So, naturally, the story became that you killed God and were on the run.

If only the first part were true…

But you were on the run. Only Rosie knew your location - all communications had to go through her. Which meant you hadn’t seen Husk or Angel in years. They wrote you letters though and you wrote back (Vox was dead but you still wouldn’t risk a phone or television). Mary Marie even drew a few pictures for you to include.

What you didn’t tell her was that you ordered everything burned once they read it.

One day, when everything has calmed down, you and Mary Marie would return home.

Huh, funny how the Hotel was now home in your mind.

“I love you, my fawn.” You tickled her belly, eliciting the cutest giggle before stepping through the portal.

The day hadn't yet come when Mary Marie asked about her father, but you knew one day it would. She had seen parents during your outings and knew of relationships, but she hadn't fully grasped the concept that something was amiss.

Yes, you were sad - a lot - but, unfortunately, it was something the child had come to understand as normal. There were times when her mother would break down crying for no reason or days when she couldn't get out of bed when it was raining. There were songs she refused to listen to on the radio and recipes she'd spend hours in the kitchen trying to perfect: gumbo, Mary Marie was sick of it.

And, no matter what, she always wore her hair in a red hair clip.

Her mother was odd and always a little sad despite her smile but thankfully Mary Marie did not yet have to be burdened with the truth. Where was her father? Why did they always have to wear cloaks when they went outside? Why couldn't they meet any of mother's friends besides Rosie? Why couldn't she play with any of the other children?

“Oh, my stars!” Rosie was curled up on her couch, tea cup in hand, clearly enveloped in some book on her coffee table.

Right. You kicked her out before her daily tea time.

“Auntie!” Mary Marie jumped from your arms. Enveloped in her pink blanket, the tiny tyke jumped into Rosie’s awaiting arms.

“Hello, my sweet.” The Overlord hugged her back.

You threw her bags on the loveseat. “I need a favor.”

Rosie’s look of confusion turned serious, “Okay.”

Mary Marie played with Rosie’s collection of Build-A-Bones while you talked - creating small towers of remains which she proceeded to zap with electricity till they turned to ash.

Told you she was a spitfire.

While you told your tale to Rosie, you watched her look of concern turn to outright denial. “No!”

Mary Marie jumped at the sudden turn in conversation.

“Rosie,” you grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the other room, one eye still on the fawn as she returned to her undead masterpiece. “If there is even a small chance that this could work -.”

“And you die in the process?” She interrupted in a whisper. “You’d be robbing that beautiful child of both her father and mother.”

“I owe it to that child to try. To bring her father back-!”

“Is that what this is truly about, tomatuh? It sounds like you’re doing this for you.”

“Rosie-.”

“Don’t interrupt me.” She put up a hand. “This is irresponsible and based off of knowledge fed to you by her. Remember the last time you let Eve influence you?”

How could you forget? You took out half of Pentagram City.

You stepped back, your teeth clenched in anger. Not at Rosie, you could never get made at Rosie, but she was making it so easy to. “I’m doing this Rosie - with or without your blessing.” You nodded to your child, who was completely unaware of the happenings in the adjacent room. “Look after her, for me. Please?”

She huffed, “If Angel were here, he’d talk some sense into you.”

“Good thing he isn’t.”

Rosie stared you down for a long time, waiting for you to break, but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

“You know," she said, placing a hand on your cheek, her pupilless eyes softening. "I think of you like a daughter."

"I know, Rosie."

"I'm supposed to stop you." She smiled sweetly.

"I know."

"I'm not going to."

Your shoulders relaxed. "I know."

Rosie knows how powerful you are. She knew the day you practically fell on top of her that first day in Hell, and she knows now, even with tears in your eyes. She saw your resilience despite the countless days Carmilla tortured you. She knew your past and what you had come to endure. If Rosie truly believed this would kill you, she'd stop you.

Mary Marie had become her granddaughter - she'd never let that child come to harm. She'd never let that child lose a mother, but at the same time, she knew - she knew - that you had to do this.

You have been slowly decaying over the years. Alastor's death had taken its toll.

At the beginning, you couldn’t get out of bed. Save for the morning sickness and to use the bathroom. Rosie kept you alive, kept you fed and clean. If it wasn’t for this woman, who knows where you’d be right now.

Then Mary Marie was born and things got a little better - the days got a little brighter. Yet you still found yourself crying in the kitchen whenever jazz came on on the radio. Or felt your heart skip a beat whenever a man in a dark suit and fedora walked past. Or felt that you couldn’t go outside for days after it rained for fear of it smelling too much like him.

You could barely maintain weight as you found it hard to eat. Your muscle was long gone and eyes permanently sunken from the years of crying.

Everything felt heavier. The world felt heavier.

But you kept yourself going, your only function to be a mother, to keep the last bit of Alastor alive.

Yet, Mary Marie was a walking memory of him: a living ghost. Which made it all the easier to love her but all the harder to stay strong.

The Overlord dropped her guard. “If you somehow get your hands on the Grimoire to do this, and that is a big ‘if,’ be safe. If not for my sake, then for hers."

You beamed, the first time you had truly smiled about something that didn’t regard Mary Marie in years. “Thank you, Rosie!” You pulled her into a hug. “I need one more thing before I go.”

After the battle atop V Tower, Lucifer had taken your cloak - the one inscribed in Leviathan. At some point over the years, your brother didn’t know what to do with it, but he certainly didn’t want to keep it. Not after the destruction you caused at the Massacre. The cloak - along with your things at the Hotel that the Hotel Natives helped clear out - were sent to Rosie. You reclaimed most of it for your beach house in Envy, but what you didn’t use Rosie stored for you.

Including the infamous cloak which started all your Shadow Overlord business.

After a quick kiss for Mary Marie and a hug ensuring you’d be right back, you snapped a portal to visit an old friend.

“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” The imp dove behind his desk. “There’s a front door for a fucking reason people!”

The office was empty, save for Blitz sulking in his chair while he cleaned some sort of jewel on his desk. Where the others were at you didn’t know but were thankful for it. Normally this office was chaos and you really didn’t want that right now.

“Hello Blitz,” you pulled back the hood.

“Whaaaaaaaaat?” The imp’s jaw fell.

“I need the book.” Straight to the point.

His eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead or something?” Blitz slowly climbed back into his chair.

Fuck, why did it smell like a barnyard in here?

“Not quite,” you took a seat.

When was the last time you did something like this? The last time you played the role of Shadow Overlord? When was the last time you donned this dusty cloak, sat lax in a chair, and demanded something of a Soul so nonchalantly as if it wasn’t important at all?

Did you miss those days?

“I need the Grimoire,” you repeated.

Blitz did not like the lack of explanation that you were giving him. His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

You clenched your fist beneath your cloak. That’s when you noticed the inter-dimensional gem sitting atop the table.

He doesn’t have it.

“How is Stolas these days?” You asked, running a finger across his desk.

The imp slowly pulled the gem back. You could literally portal across dimensions, if the imp thinks you seek a little trinket from Asmodeus then he wasn’t as smart as you gave him credit for.

“You know, bitch. You can’t just show up here making demands after all these years and expect us to jump when you say how high!” He jutted a finger out in your direction.

This was going swimmingly.

You stood. “It was so nice to see you again, Blitzy.”

“Fuck you, Angel bitch!” He flipped you off as you stepped through the portal.

Blitz is clearly pissed about something. Given that he now had an inter-dimensional gem and not the Grimoire, you were about to find out why as you knocked on the door of its owner.

“Gerald, if my dad Hell Eats one more pint of ice cream, just cancel the fuckin’-. Oh.”

Octavia answered the door.

You pulled back your hood just a touch and waived awkwardly, “Hey.”

And then she slammed the door in your face.

“Octavia, wait!” You practically jumped on the door, panic building in your chest. “Please! I need your help!”

Silence and then, “You left me!”

You blinked. What is she talking about?

“You dropped me off after the hospital and you left! I never saw you again!”

Oh… She means after Stolas told you off and forbade you from seeing her again.

“Your dad -!”

“I know what my dad said!”

“Then you know -!”

“Who cares what my dad said, that isn’t the point! I thought you were my friend, but it turns out you’re just like everyone else!” You heard feet stomping away.

Shit. Leaning against the door, you slowly sank to the ground. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to be left behind too.”

Great. Now what are you going to do?

You pulled the chain from beneath your shirt and held it between your fingers. Eve was right, Alastor was an emerald man.

Wrapped in gold as if rays of the sun, was a green emerald ring. You had thought it would be a ruby or a diamond, but green represented Alastor’s magic and that felt more suiting.

“I miss you so much it hurts.” You choked.

It had taken exactly one year before you could open the leather box Alastor left behind. You felt so guilty doing so, knowing it would never be his hand which placed it upon your finger. So, you never put it on, but you couldn’t let it go either. Thus, here it sat, hooked around a chain hanging over your heart.

“Octavia, is that my ice cream?”

SLAM!

The back of your head smacked tile as the door swung open.

“Oh, my,” A blurry Stolas put a hand to his lips.

“Hey, Stolas,” You grunted.

“Thestral?” Then his face fell flat. “Mikaela Morningstar. I thought I told you -“

“Wait!” You held your hands up. “I need your help. Please, just hear me out!”

The Prince took a look around, noticing the eyes stopping in the street to stare. “Come inside.”

One cup of tea and an ice pack later…

“You know, I don’t always harbor fugitives in my home.” The Prince stood astutely, one pinky feather out as he sipped from the fine china.

“I’m not looking for you to hide me.” You ignored the tea, the bubbles of anxiety in your chest too much to handle right now. “I’m looking to borrow the Grimoire.”

Stolas did not look surprised.

And then you explained why.

“… I loved him and he’s gone. If you had a chance to save someone you loved, wouldn’t you?”

Stolas eyed you, “And you’d be willing to die for him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“This goes against everything the Goetia stands for.”

“I know.”

“Everything I’m supposed to represent.”

“I know.”

“Why are you asking me and not trying to steal it?”

You huffed. “I’m tired, Stolas. I’m so very tired.”

So tired your bones felt like led.

The Prince sighed. “I’ve always wanted that.” He placed the cup down gently. “I just... want someone to care, if I stay or go. I want someone to want me. To want to see me. To hold me. To look at me and think 'You're the only one I want! I desire to hold you and talk to you, and never let you feel so... alone…”

Ah, now you understood.

You placed a hand atop his wing. “I’m sorry about Blitz.”

And he lay his other atop yours. “Follow me.”

____________________________________________

You landed atop the balcony, a layer of dust parting in your wake.

The metal was absent of any signs of what took place here. You had Rosie to thank for that. She came by and cleaned up everything after…

His stuff was still here, but the curtains were drawn so you didn’t have to see any of it. You might break down again if you did.

Nothing’s changed. Eve materialized in a puff of black smoke wearing the same clothes she died in. The same clothes you killed her in.

You didn’t let your mind dwell on it too long. “Let’s get started.”

You drew the Circle of Rebirth in the same spot Alastor died - courtesy of Stolas' Grimoire. The Circle is a form of ancient and forbidden magic, guarded by the Goetia but not forgotten entirely. You vaguely remember hearing rumors of it from a time you could no longer remember.

Different from a Summoning Circle - which knew the recipient’s Soul location - or a Trapping Circle - which trapped beings of other planes within it (the same Circle Eve used to trap you in the airplane hanger a millennia ago), a Circle of Rebirth was meant to trap a dying Soul’s fragments so one could piece them back together.

Technically, that meant the person had to die while in the circle for it to work.

Do you get where I am going with this?

You stood, hand covered in red chalk, and talked with Eve as you finished up the final touches. “So, a Soulmate is of one Soul in two bodies. That means Alastor’s Soul did not fade when he died. I’m carrying it.”

But it’s also technically yours. Eve sat back against the railing, a smug look on her face.

“So, we do what I did accidentally all those years ago. We rip my Soul in half.”

I like it! Eve practically cheered.

And if it doesn’t work then you die… Cool. Okay. No stress at all.

You grabbed Alastor’s jacket and cane, and placed it on your lap as you sat at the center of the Circle.

Eve bent over so she was eye level with you. Are you ready to die?

You died five years ago when Alastor took that bullet for you…

“If I die, what happens to you?” You lifted a brow.

Hmmm, Eve thought a moment. There’s this adorable little product of power and chaos I’ve been dying to play with.

You saw red. “Eve!”

But before you had a chance to lunge, Eve melted into a mass of ink and began the spell.

A hurricane erupted around you, whipping your hair about your face and blinding you from the world.

It exploded into the sky, bringing with it lightning and rain. A cacophony of torrential pain fell upon you as the rain pelted your skin and the wind tore at your flesh.

It felt as if your entire being, every molecular connection, was slowly being ripped in half. Green and blue light exploded from your scar as your Soul slowly seeped out from your form.

Eyes filled with burning tears, you watched as the specks of green slowly floated away and collected into a solid mass before your eyes.

The mass slowly took shape, giving birth to arms and legs…

Power is of two kinds…

...and tall ears…

One is obtained by fear…

Details set in. Alastor’s face took form in a hue of green. His eyes… His lips…

And the other by love…

“Alastor?” You screamed over the wind. You screamed through the pain.

Power derived from love…

And then the ink set in. From the wind itself the liquid trailed into the blue, swirling about as if oil in water.

The demon smiled.

…is a thousand times more powerful than fear.

And then everything exploded.

____________________________________________

As if submerged in a river of silk, your body slipped away.

No sights. No sounds. No touch.

You were the world, and the world was nothing. Everything existed all at once and yet not at all.

You were the absence of existence, yet you continued to exist. Without form and body, you were consciousness as its birth and end.

You were dying.

If you had told yourself at the beginning of time that this is where you would end up, you would have said to yourself that you were nuts.

Before everything, you were a soldier. A general. A physical representation of God’s Will.

And everything was perfect.

Carry out missions. Train. Report. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Existence was simple and predictable, but that's what you liked about it.

Then the beatings began.

You questioned it at first. Why did God only ever call you to his office alone? Why were you the only Angel with bruises and marks not born from war?

Why was he so angry?

Then the answer became apparent because he told you.

Everything that went wrong in his life was your fault.

YOUR FAULT.

Even if it had nothing to do with you or your missions… It was your fault.

Then you tried to control the uncontrollable in order to lessen the beatings.

Which just made things worse.

Because it was your fault.

You kept it hidden because you were ordered to. But also because it would have been embarrassing.

How could God’s General, leader of his armies and vanquisher of the Leviathans not even protect herself?

Things changed; you rebelled and ran away with Eve, thinking that was the fix you needed. You thought you had moved on. You thought you had healed. But trauma is a scar that never heals, doomed to rip open again and again.

There might have come a day when you had moved on. When God was cold and dead beneath your feet, and everyone who let this happen had been destroyed or long gone by the time you broke down Heaven’s Gate.

That was the plan at least.

Power and chaos and revenge… That was what was missing from your mantra: revenge.

But, here you are: a pesky story of revenge that went nowhere.

And now you’re dead.

And it’s all your fault.

You wonder what would have happened had you not met Alastor. Had you shown up to the Hotel that day and he was woefully absent from the cast, still in Heaven with Lilith - or if Lilith had never recruited the Overlord to begin with.

You wouldn't have Mary Marie...

Wait, who is Mary Marie?

You felt your thoughts starting to slip away.

Dying is confusing.

But painless.

The end of existence began creeping in, growing ever closer as if tidal waves on either side of you.

Thankfully, painless.

And you were okay with that.

"Not so fast, my doe."

____________________________________________

In an explosion of greens and blues, you were flung back. Your head hit the wall of glass with a loud crack, and your body scorched from the heat as the explosion dissipated.

The thunder ceased. The rain dried. The wind slowed.

Nothing but the silence of death filled your ears - is what you thought, anyway, but death had been painless. This was not death.

"Fuck," you groaned. The scar across your front burned as you sat up. The skin beneath your shirt felt fragile as if newly minted during the moments of your... hallucination?

And when the world stopped spinning, you froze.

A body lay curled in the fetal position, directly at the center of the Circle of Rebirth. Green steam floated off the figure, now wrapped in the black jacket he died in. In his hands, he held a microphone he often used as a cane, freshly made whole once more.

The demon groaned as words flew across his bare skin.

Holy shit.

"Alastor?" Hesitantly, you crawled to the Circle.

An ear popped up, turning in your direction as you stopped just at the edge.

"Alastor Hartfelt?" You reached slowly for his shoulder.

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

A sob tore through your chest. "It's me. It's..."

"My doe."

The next thing you know, you had arms wrapped around you and warm lips on your own. You sobbed into his mouth, the same familiar mouth belonging to the demon you loved.

His hands were soft as they cupped your cheeks, as the scent of the forest after a rainstorm filled your nose. His hair curled around your fingers, knotting itself as you plunged them deeper.

Alastor pulled you into his lap. Cocooning you in his warmth. He was always so warm...

The demon broke the kiss, catching his breath as he said, "Shed not tears for me, my doe."

Red irises glinted with tears of their own. A green "X" was now present between his eyes were the bullet once hit.

"You left me," you sobbed. Rivers of woe flooded down your face and soaked into his gloves.

"I did not." He rested his forehead on yours. The demon breathed, simply enjoying the mere presence of you. "I never left. I have been here the entire time."

You blinked. "What?"

"I have held you long into the night when you could not sleep and guarded you when you did. I was the shoulder you cried on when you needed to and dried your tears when you were done. I caught you when you crumbled and helped you find your feet once more. I ensured no harm ever came to you and no enemy ever found you." Alastor dried the tears on your cheeks.

"I have stood by your side every moment since that day." He went for the chain around your neck and broke it in two.

"I promised you I would never leave, and I did not. I have been at your side for the past five years." He unhooked the ring, and you watched as he slipped it on your finger. "You just didn't know it." The demon pressed a kiss to your hand. “Your personal guardian angel.”

Life flooded back into your body. "Alastor!" You flung your arms around the demon, burying your face in his jacket as you sobbed.

"I love you, my doe." He held you tight.

You shook your head, "Al, I am so sorry. It's all my..."

"Stop," He held your face in his hands, his claws brushing your cheeks. "Saving you was my choice, and I'd do it again, given the chance. Your death is mine to claim, remember?"

You chuckled. How ridiculous that sounded, given the current circumstances. "How could I forget?"

Pressing another kiss to your cheek, he chuckled.

God, you missed that sound.

With his hand in yours, you watched the words from the Book of Knowledge flow from your skin into his. "How is this possible?"

Blue fire erupted along your fingers, calling to his green static.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Alastor's heart.

"My Soulmate." The demon's purr filled your chest with warmth. "That explains everything."

"I always thought it was an old wives' tale, something you told children at night before bed." You watched the green static dance across your arm, bending and moving at your will.

And the ink. The ink flowed along Alastor's jacket as if it were his own.

Long ago, you killed the Second Lady because she had tied her Soul with the power from the Book of Knowledge, thus tying it to yours. By splitting it in half, the two of you now share it, along with your original magic.

Power and chaos and love...

"Thankfully not." Alastor was solid beneath your touch. His breath filled your lungs with new life. His magic tore the weight from your bones. His heartbeat synced with yours and willed it back to full strength.

You felt reborn.

Al brushed the hair from your face, the warmth from his breath hot on your skin.

Alive. Alive. Alive. Your body chanted.

Alastor was alive.

The demon cupped your cheeks and tilted your face up to his. "Now, where is she?"

You scrunched your nose, "Who?"

The demon smile went cockeyed - a soft, toothless grin.

"My daughter."

And then the Radio Demon kissed his Shadow, marking the beginning of a very long afterlife together.

To power, chaos, and love, dear readers… 

Thanks for reading, Hoteliers <3

-> Afterword

Tagged Hoteliers:

@sirens-and-moonflowers @wonderlandangelsposts @saccharine-nectarine @goyablogsstuff @mommymilkers0526 @eris-norwega @missgirlsstuff @alastor-the-radio-demons-blog @sillywormtrixareforkids @its-a-dam-blue-brick @cloverresin20 @blue-bird251 @speedycoffeedelight @littlebluefishtail @sawi1987 @mopeyghost @beelz3bub @fraugwinska @minamilinaqueen @demoarah @diffidentphantom @divineknightmare @animecrazy76 @sleepykittycx @graunta @reath-solia @satansdaughter123 @mysticatto @freshonyourpages @chibistar45 @rapunzelbro @stephydearestxo

[wirewitchviolet]

I miss games conveying a sense of Bigness

As you know if you watch my twitch streams, I play a lot of games, and games from a lot of eras, and there's a whole bunch of industry trends you pick up on from certain time periods. The one I really feel like talking about was a definite thing from oh... 1998 through... 2010 or thereabouts? Basically the aughts, give or take a couple years. Or if you prefer, the first two Playstations' run and a bit of the third. It was a period where games in general were really committed to feeling Big.

It feels a little weird to say that when major releases are priding themselves on stuff like measuring how much disk space they need in terrabytes and maps that sprawl out everywhere, but that's not what I'm talking about here. Games trying to feel Big is more of an attitude thing, and ironically enough I'd say it fell out of fashion almost immediately when Open Worlds became the new big thing. We hit a point where people actually made the maps for their games super big (even if most of that space was just kinda vast stretches of unremarkable rocks) so there's no more need to fake it, right? But faking it was kinda great.

I was thinking about this a lot playing the Resident Evil 2 remake, and comparing it to the original PSX game. See the original Resident Evil was set in a spooky mansion out in the middle of nowhere, but RE2 was the Bigger Better Sequel. So now we have a zombie outbreak happening in a whole major city, not just this single mansion. And how do we accomplish that? Do we actually model hundreds of buildings and have a big meandering adventure through all of them, or even a good swath? No not at all. Let's compare the actual maps side by side...

[There WAS a full map of RE2 here it was causing the post button to bug out. Look it up on your own?]

It's a little bigger. There's maybe a dozen more total rooms? But mostly, it's a smoke and mirrors thing. We've still got one big primary location, an animal-filled hike to a side location and back, and an underground science facility, but it feels like we've increased the scope to an entire city. The first playable moments have us out on the streets of the city, objectively in a few quick hallways, but presented as streets packed with dozens of crashed cars, raging fires everywhere, dead bodies littering the streets, and what again feels like innumerable zombies feasting in scattered packs. Once inside, arms of several zombies outside will reach in clawing at you, or later in the game finally breaching through. The remake completely loses that feeling. It feels like there's maybe a dozen zombies out on the streets.

Not to focus on just the one game though. How about GTA3? Remember how even when you're just on the first island, it feels like you're exploring this vast sprawling city?

Here's a more elevated angle from about the same point. I'm looking at this with noclip.website by the way, it's a really cool little toy.

The actual map is LAUGHABLY small. But it FEELS huge. They were really careful to avoid straight roads, and place a couple big vision blocking buildings, even if they're basically just a cube or two so that when you're actually on the ground, it always feels like there's so much more around you. Have another side by side, and a rough estimate of what's visible on the ground in the bird's eye.

RPGs around this time were also having a lot of fun playing with scale comparisons. FF7 is the obvious go-to. The world map is on par with any other in the series, but Big Cities are presented as such, making it very clear that you're just seeing parts of a single district in Midgar, really just the main street in Junon. Dragon Quest 8 had this very bold idea to keep the same visual scale on the world map as in the streets of the towns, with forests made of actual individual trees.

And I'm not even getting into the biggest elephants in the room. Are you old enough to remember how mind-bogglingly sprawling Hyrule Field felt? Maybe a bad example when sequels have kept that focus on selling their worlds as staggeringly Big. Shenmue? Objectively, looking at this map, there's not much there, but damn if I don't feel like this was a real town I lived in for a while 20 years ago. It's the way the detailing gets finer and finer the closer you get to Ryo's bedroom, where you can open every drawer, turn on every light, turn that orange in your hand, you know? I believe that bus you take to the docks has to stop in several other neighborhoods like this one.

And of course, then there's the one other series, maybe worth mentioning, perhaps.

Years later I'm still just speechless.

Again though, I don't actually WANT games with worlds as big as some of these feel. There just isn't the time and the money and the ability for a creative team not to burn out to fully realize that in a handcrafted caring way. I want some kind of inverted Plato's Cave, where it feels like there's a vast breathing world out there, but I'm really in a small cozy space watching masters of the craft put on a shadow puppet show.

[blueiscoool]

Turkish Archaeologists Unearth Sculpted Heads of Ancient Greek Deities

The excavations in Kutahya province’s ancient city of Aizanoi, which is the site of many ancient Greek and Roman-era settlements, discover the statue heads of Dionysus and Aphrodite.

Turkish archaeologists have discovered more sculpted heads of ancient Greek deities during excavations in Türkiye's western Kutahya province.

The statue head of Aphrodite, known as the goddess of love and beauty in Greek mythology, and the statue head of Dionysus, the deity of wine, were discovered during excavation work in an ancient city in central Türkiye.

Modern Türkiye is the site of many ancient Greek and Roman-era settlements.

With a history dating back 5,000 years, Aizanoi, situated 50 kilometres (31 miles) from the Kutahya city centre, was included in the UNESCO World Heritage Tentative List in 2012.

Archaeological excavations are currently underway in Aizanoi, which is located in the Cavdarhisar district of Kutahya province and is home to Anatolia's best-preserved Temple of Zeus.

Archaeology professor and excavation team leader Gokhan Coskun told Anadolu Agency that numerous statue pieces were discovered during the excavation.

"The most exciting development for us this season is uncovering new heads of the goddess of love and beauty, Aphrodite, and the deity of wine Dionysus," Coskun said.

"In the excavation works we have conducted in the region so far, we have unearthed more than 100 statue pieces. Some of the heads found are from statues that are 2-3 meters long," he noted.

"These statue heads, which we first discovered three years ago, are in very well-preserved condition. During our excavations, so far we have discovered two Aphrodite and three Dionysus statue heads," Coskun said.

The excavation season, which began in the ancient city last April, will be completed by the end of this month, Coskun added.

[lifeafterdeath-if]

Life After Death is a Slice of Death Romantic Drama that takes place within the afterlife. It’s rated 18+ for depictions of violence, sexual themes, alcohol use, explicit language, and, of course, death.

You’re dead.

It’s still something that you have to get used to. That you were happily, or at least you told yourself anyway, living your life within the world of the living only to end up in the world of the dead by nightfall— Elysium isn’t exactly what you were expecting, the bustling city being an eclectic mix of various points in history, but you’re certain you could be in worse places.

Making a new “life” within the walls of the ever-growing city seems an almost impossible task.

That is until a kind stranger, garbed in Victorian-Era clothing, offers you a place to stay at the Silver Towers; an apartment complex that has all walks of life seemingly crammed into its well-structured walls.

Will you be able to find your place among the new ensemble of people? Will you be able to find a connection with someone that you had never been able to create in life?

Only time will tell as your afterlife commences.

Customizable MC: Name, appearance, gender (female, male, and non-binary), sexuality, smattering facets of your life before death, and more!

Detail how your MC feels about their death and the world that they’ve left behind? Happy, sad, angry?

Discover all that Elysium, and its many Districts, have to offer as you meet more and more people.

Engage in a romance with 1 of 6 romantic options— from the kindly stranger to an ancient warrior. Each one gives you an insight into a world that seems so far from your own.

Forge friendships that will last through time.

Follow your MCs journey as they discover what their Life After Death will truly entail.

Edward/Elizabeth Clarke: A soft-spoken individual, with a heart of gold, and a penchant to help those in need. They also happen to be the very individual that offers you a place to stay within the Silver Towers. [PROFILE]

Kaspian/Kassandra Drakos: Hot-blooded and slightly obtuse, Kas is an individual from Ancient Greece; a Spartan Warrior that still has some of their old teachings ingrained in their very being, even after all these years. [PROFILE]

Jace/Jade Reed: Your new roommate who, fortunately for you, seems to have come from the same time as you. With a sunny smile and excitable disposition, they’re clearly a person that anyone could go to if they needed a shoulder to cry on. Only time will tell if they have one as well. [PROFILE]

Yvan/Yvonne DeLuca: The owner of the most influential club within all of Elysium— Afterlife. A rather on-the-nose name, of course, but that doesn’t stop the lines from forming throughout the night. With ambition running through their veins, and a silver tongue, nothing has ever made them slow down. [PROFILE]

Gabriel/Gabriella Caelius: An Angel sent from Heaven to watch over Elysium— a post that seems to have been subjected to for quite some time if their total apathy towards the city at large is anything to go by. It’s clear they want nothing more than to leave, but aren’t able to. [PROFILE]

Celian/Céline Keres: The Mayor of Elysium, maintaining order within a place that is simply a waiting room for most of the inhabitants within, who has a reputation for being cold; not wanting anything to mess with the city they love so much. Of course, another moniker is commonly attached alongside their name— The Grim Reaper. [PROFILE]

DEMO TBA

[foreficfandom]

Alastor - Historical Trivia And Headcanons

Alastor was a mixed-race Creole man living in New Orleans, and was in his 30's/40's when he died in 1933. We don't know much else about him, but historical context can provide us with possible additional details:

The population of New Orleans in 1930 was 458,762, more than it is now. 27.2% of the people were black, 3.1% were foreign-born, and roughly half of America's bipoc population was unemployed thanks to the Great Depression. New Orleans' original Francophonication was still strong, and it was common to run into locals who only spoke French dialects (Cajun French, Louisiana Creole). The city has had a huge Chinatown, a small Little Italy, and multiple other districts known for their immigrant African/colonized French cultures.

The Jim Crow laws were heavily enforced, as was the 'One Drop' rule. If Alastor was a mixed race black man, he would not have been able to attend a white school, use the same public transport, and would have shopped at black-local stores and restaurants under threat of violence. If he was mixed with any other race, some Jim Crow laws didn't apply, but state or city laws might specify differently.

Just because Alastor wears a suit, it doesn't mean he was rich in life. Radio personalities often didn't earn a fortune. Unless he owned his own broadcast, he was paid by a private company for long shifts of hosting music, news, and radio plays. In 1930, 40% of households owned at least one radio, which means that a popular radio host would have been easily recognized.

If he was in his late 30's in 1933, he might have fought in WW1, so long as he was over the age of 21. Some cities gave veterans small benefits, or encouraged the community to give them jobs. This often did not include veterans of color.

New Orleans was famous for being one of the least Christian cities in America, thanks to its unique immigrant and slave population. Haitian-based faiths and practices (such as voudo), indigenous cultures, Asian Buddhism, and atheism were common. But Christianity was still the official, law-enforced religion. Schooling involved reading the Bible, laws were sworn to Jesus, etc.

Alastor's outfit in Hazbin Hotel isn't very accurate to real-life American men's fashions of the time. Back then, deviating from the norm with the smallest detail would have stuck out like a sore thumb - like his white-lined lapels. Men always wore a hat. They were allowed to go without a waistcoat, but not a jacket. Belts were becoming more popular than suspenders. The silhouette was bulkier than the slimmer, Italian cuts of our modern times, especially the pants. Hair was kept short, and oiled down in a side part. Americans preferred the clean shaven look. Ties were essential unless you were a blue-collar laborer. Colors were almost universally muted neutral tones for everyday wear. The most colorful textiles for men were sporting outfits, like a tennis jacket.

If Alastor was a middle-class single man, he likely would have lived in an inner-city apartment, in an ethnic neighborhood. He probably didn't own a car, and took public transit like the streetcars. If he owned a house, it would likely have been an inheritance, and even the more opulent houses of the time would have looked small and plain to our eyes.

Because of the Great Depression, unmarried men were becoming the norm, rather than the exception. Men of the community who were sought after but remained single were suspect to gossip, but less ire than you might think; in the '30s, American queer culture was going through a very sharp revival, escaping the rigid Victorian era and before the puritan 40's/50's. But as a mixed-race man, it may have been illegal for a white woman to marry him, as the Jim Crow laws forbade the marriage of white people and Black/Asian people.

A middle class city household would have had electricity, gas heating, indoor plumbing, but may not have had running taps or a gas stove. Even with decent means, Alastor might have been using a potbelly woodburning stove, a dry sink/washbasin, wooden bathtub, and did his own laundry instead of sending it to the neighborhood laundresses. He may or may not have bothered with an icebox. Fresh groceries needed to be cooked and eaten soon, as things like pasteurized milk or store refrigeration wasn't a thing.

If he had enough money, then he almost certainly hired maids or other servants. Whether the maid came over just once a week, or did the shopping and laundry every other day, hired help was much more common back then, especially if he had no wife.

The most popular musicians in 1933 were Bing Crosby, George Olsen, and Leo Reisman. As you might have noticed, it was trendy for the lead singer to be backed by an orchestra, not a 'band' of just four other people like today. The most popular radio shows were Dick Tracy, Sherlock Holmes, and Doc Savage. They were recordings the radio station would buy and then broadcast, or sometimes the actors were live on the air. The radio host was usually not the journalist - the production team was responsible for writing his script.

[witchwithmermaideyesblog]

Lucifer, Satan & other Devils: The Occult art of Rosaleen Norton, the Witch of Kings Cross

‘Lucifer and the Goat Mendes.’

The most notorious witch in Australian history was an artist named Rosaleen Norton (1917-79) who scandalized her ultra-conservative homeland with her outrageous bohemian lifestyle and strange occult beliefs during the 1950s.

The press dubbed Norton the “Witch of Kings Cross”—a low-rent artists’ quarter and red light district in Sydney, New South Wales. They claimed she was an evil Satanist who revelled in perverted Black Masses and unnatural orgies with her sex-mad coven. It was true Rosaleen (Roie to her friends) liked sex with both men and women. She enjoyed sex and saw no shame in admitting that she did. She also practised sex magick and made no secret of its powers. But Rosaleen was no Satanist. She was a pagan who followed her own particular belief in Pan.

From earliest childhood Rosaleen felt she was different—and felt compelled to prove this indeed was the case. As her friend and biographer Nevill Drury later recalled:

[Rosaleen] revelled in being the odd one out, purporting to despise her schoolmates. She argued continuously with her mother. She ‘hated’ authority figures like headmistresses, policemen, politicians and priests. She had no time at all for organised religion, and the gods she embraced - a cluster of ancient gods centred around Pan - were, of course, pagan to the hilt. She regarded Pan as the God of Infinite Being.

Pan was undoubtedly a rather unusual god for a young woman to be worshipping in Australia. But then Roie was different. And she was different in an age when it was quite a lot harder to be different than it is now. She was bohemian, bisexual, outspoken, rebellious and thoroughly independent in an era when most young ladies growing up on Sydney’s North Shore would be thinking simply of staying home, happily married with a husband and children. Roie was not afraid to say what she thought, draw her pagan images on city pavements, or flaunt her occult beliefs in the pages of the tabloids. To most people who read about her in newspapers and magazines she was simply outrageous.

Rosaleen was certainly outrageous. She was expelled from school for drawing pictures of vampires, pentagrams and demons during art class, which were claimed to have terrified her fellow classmates. In 1952, when a collection of her work was first published in book form as The Art of Rosaleen Norton three of the images contained therein—“Black Magic” (which depicted Rosaleen herself having sex with a panther), “Rites of Baron Samedi” and “Fohat” (which depicted a demon with a large muscled snake for a penis)—caused such offence that the publisher was prosecuted for obscenity and the pictures removed from all future printings. In America the book was deemed so pornographic that all imported copies were destroyed by custom officials.

Worse was to follow in 1955 when a woman named Anna Karina Hoffman was arrested for vagrancy. When questioned by police, Hoffman claimed she had participated in horrific Satanic black masses organized by Rosaleen. It was this accusation that led the tabloid press to dub Rosaleen the “Witch of Kings Cross” and promulgate the series of trumped-up news stories about her lurid (s)excesses.

However, the following year, one of her lovers, the highly respected composer Sir Eugene Goossens was arrested by Australian customs for attempting to bring some 800 pornographic images into the country—many of them marked “SM” for “sex magick.” The ensuing investigation by officials was heavily detailed by the press. It destroyed Goossens’ career and further denigrated Rosaleen’s character.

Still Rosaleen continued on her own way—painting pictures, following her own religious beliefs, enjoying a varied and active sex life and even dropping LSD to “induce visionary states” to enhance her awareness as an artist.

It was this visionary aspect which was at the heart of Rosaleen’s art:

From an early age she had a remarkable capacity to explore the visionary depths of her subconscious mind, and the archetypal beings she encountered on those occasions became the focus of her art. It was only later that Roie was labelled a witch, was described as such in the popular press, and began to develop the persona which accompanied that description. As this process gathered momentum, Roie in turn became intent on trying to demonstrate that she had been born a witch. After all, she had somewhat pointed ears, small blue markings on her left knee, and also a long strand of flesh which hung from underneath her armpit to her waist - a variant on the extra nipple sometimes ascribed to witches in the Middle Ages.

Roie’s personal beliefs were a strange mix of magic, mythology and fantasy, but derived substantially from mystical experiences which, for her, were completely real. She was no theoretician. Part of her disdain for the public at large, I believe, derived from the fact that she felt she had access to a wondrous visionary universe - while most people lived lives that were narrow, bigoted, and based on fear. Roie was very much an adventurer - a free spirit - and she liked to fly through the worlds opened to her by her imagination.

Roie’s art reflected this. It was her main passion, her main reason for living. She had no career ambitions other than to reflect on the forces within her essential being, and to manifest these psychic and magical energies in the only way she knew how. As Roie’s older sister Cecily later told me, art was the very centre of her life, and Roie took great pride in the brief recognition she received when the English critic and landscape artist John Sackville-West described her in 1970 as one of Australia’s finest artists, alongside Norman Lindsay. It was praise from an unexpected quarter, and it heartened Roie considerably because she felt that at last someone had understood her art and had responded to it positively. All too often her critics had responded only to her outer veneer - the bizarre and often distorted persona created by the media - and this was not the ‘real’ Roie at all.

Today no one would I doubt if anyone would bat an eyelid at Rosaleen’s lifestyle or beliefs—which shows how much our world has evolved. This year marks the centenary of her birth which should bring a new assessment of her life and work and introduce a new generation to the artist behind Australia’s most notorious witch.

‘Black Magic.’

‘Self Portrait with Occult Animals and Symbols.’

‘Fohat’—a demon with a snake dick or as Rosaleen described it: ‘The goat is the symbol of energy and creativity: the serpent of elemental force and eternity.’

‘Untitled.’

‘Bacchanal.’

‘Jester.’

Black Magick.’

‘Wer-Plon.’

‘Geburah.’

‘Belpiglet.’

‘The Blueprint.’

‘Triumph.’

Rosaleen Norton, January 1950.

|

[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan’s Crash Course in Becoming Trump

After a long tour of duty in the Marvel universe, the Romanian-born actor is conquering the festival circuit, with starring roles in “The Apprentice” and “A Different Man.”

Illustration by João Fazenda

By Alex Barasch

The actor Sebastian Stan glanced approvingly at the neon signage and old-school menus at the Pearl Diner, in the financial district, the other day. He’s lived in and near New York since he was twelve—around the time Donald Trump swapped his first wife, Ivana, for Marla Maples—and has watched the city evolve. “It’s funny. It’s changed, but it’s also the same buildings,” he said. “And then you’re, like, ‘The buildings are there, but you are not the same.’ ”

Stan took off a white ball cap and ordered coffee with cream; he was jet-lagged, fresh from the Deauville American Film Festival, where he’d received the Hollywood Rising-Star Award. “Rising” is a stretch for the forty-two-year-old, who’s appeared in a dozen Marvel projects, but Stan has lately reached a different echelon. In May, he went to Cannes for “The Apprentice,” in which he plays seventies-era Trump. In Berlin, he’d won the Silver Bear, an award whose previous recipients include Denzel Washington and Paul Newman. “Everyone was, like, ‘Oh, the Silver Bear!’ ” Stan said. “Then you go back and you’re, like, ‘Do we know what the Silver Bear is in America?’ ”

The prize was for his role in “A Different Man,” Aaron Schimberg’s surreal black comedy, which nods to “Cyrano de Bergerac.” Stan stars as a man whose lifelong disfigurement is miraculously reversed; the shoot included a grisly three-and-a-half-hour session spent peeling off chunks of his face.

“The Apprentice” demanded a transformation of a different sort. At the diner, Stan pulled out his phone and swiped through an album labelled “DT physicality”—a hundred and thirty videos of Trump, which capture his tiniest gestures and his over-all mien. Marinating in Trump content was, Stan said cheerfully, “a psychotic experience.” He watched the clips so many times that when the director, Ali Abbasi, asked him to improvise in a scene about marketing Trump Tower, he could rattle off the stats: sixty-eight stories of marble in a peachy hue chosen by Ivana, because, as the real Trump put it in a promo, “people feel they look better in the pink.” (It turned out that he’d also memorized Trump’s lie: the tower is actually fifty-eight floors.)

Growing up in Communist Romania, Stan had just an hour of TV news each night; New Year’s Eve was an event because it meant twelve hours of programming. His instinct for mimicry—he had a habit of imitating family members and neighbors—was the earliest tell that he might be an actor. After he and his mother fled to Vienna, in 1989, Stan got his first credit, in a Michael Haneke film—an experience that nearly put him off show business. “I stood in line with, like, a thousand kids, for I don’t know how many hours—which I hated,” he said. “If I could fucking meet Haneke now, it would be amazing!”

When the family moved again, to America, he experienced pop-culture shock. He binged every movie he’d missed—from “Back to the Future” to “Ace Ventura”—in a pal’s basement. Another friend roped him into the school play. “My high school was really, really small, so I didn’t have a lot of competition,” Stan said. “They were, like, ‘Please be in the play!’ ” Soon he was playing Cyrano himself.

After stints on Broadway, and on “Gossip Girl,” Stan was scooped up by Marvel. “I’ve been lucky to play a character for fifteen years,” he said. The blockbuster paychecks freed him up to explore edgier material. “I, Tonya,” in which he played the ice-skater Tonya Harding’s dirtbag husband, was a turning point. “It allowed me to see that a good director will bring out more in you than you can,” Stan said. It was also his first time portraying a real person—a feat that he repeated in “Pam & Tommy,” as the Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, and now in “The Apprentice.”

“It’s like learning a piece of music,” Stan said, of nailing an impression. “You’ve got to start out slow—it requires practice. Suddenly, you’re getting it more. You’re still making mistakes—but you’re playing the music. You’re playing the music every day until you can do it in your sleep. That’s when the fun starts.” He sliced the air for emphasis, then caught himself and grinned. “And sometimes it’s months later at a diner, and you’re, like, ‘Why am I doing that with my hands?’ ”

[twstfanblog]

Intro to the Brothel AU

First things first, setting. Twisted Wonderland but in a more Japanese centered olden era. Lots of traditional dress and minor modern technologies. The Brothel is located in the capital city in the heart of the red light district. Crewel owns and operates the brothel. He's got a deal going with the Leech Family mafia who act as the brothels protectors. As such the Tweels are allowed free meals and sessions so long as they dont break anything.

Smutty and Angst elements come from the fact that the entertainers must have their nipples pierced. Its basically their employee badge.

Now! The cast!

"Entertainers"

Riddle, Leona, Jamil, Vil, and Epel

Normal Brothel Staff

Trey, Ace, Deuce, and Silver

Mafia Family

Jade and Floyd, Azul

Others in the City

Cater- Child of a noble family

Ruggie- Hand for hire

Jack- City Guard

Kalim- Foreign Merchant

Rook- ??????

Idia and Ortho- Children of a noble family

Malleus, Lilia, and Sebek- Fae/yokai, who visit the brothel, every full moon to visit Silver.

My Yuu OC is in this AU as Crewel’s child.

[alatismeni-theitsa]

Sorry if my question was uncomfortable, but I'm a foreigner and would like to understand more about the "feud" between Greece and North Macedonia. I've seen (heated) discussions between Greeks and Macedonians about culture, but I don't know much about the context. Again, sorry if the question is uncomfortable or insensitive.

I think this Geography Now! video does a good job of explaining the controversy. Basically, the Greek position is that since Slavs came a thousand years after Alexander in the area, and the culture and language of North Macedonians are largely Slavic it's illogical for them to name their country after a Hellenistic kingdom and claim many Greek figures, and also Alexander the Great, as people from their culture.

For clarification, Alexander the Great was certainly Greek and he spoke the Macedonian dialect of Greek which was Doric (for reference the Spartans also spoke the Doric dialect). When North Macedonians say "he was Macedonian" they mean he was from their culture and he spoke their language, and he wasn't Greek.

North Macedonian history tends to confuse the administrative regions with culture and ethnicity because it's convenient to them. It doesn't matter if Kyrillos and Methodios were two Greek brothers from Thessaloniki. To N. Macedonians, because these two brothers were in a region that was occasionally the administrative region of Macedonia, they were "Macedonians", hence "from North Macedonia". To them it doesn't matter that Alexander's birthplace and all important cities of the Hellenistic Macedonian Kingdom are in Greece.

What is crucial to understand about this controversy is that Macedonia for a long, long time, was basically "a geographical region of many mountains". The Greek word Μακεδονία literally means "Mountainous Region", and because it's kind of a distinct region it was a district on its own many times. That's an approximation of the limits of "Macedonia" as a geographical region with distinct characteristics.

Below is the ancient Greek kingdom of Macedonia. However, the people who are now residents of N. Macedonia won't be here for another thousand years!

The guy in the video says the Macedonian kingdom expanded, but then he doesn't say that it was separated into more kingdoms for better governance, and one of those kingdoms was this controversial region (in Green) which is now part of Greece and North Macedonia. (Slavs were still not in the area)

When Romans conquered these kingdoms they also separated the area into administrative regions. The province of Macedonia within the Roman Empire, circa 125 (Slavs were still not in the area):

Later administrative departments of Roman empire (Slavs were still not in the area). In fact, "Provincia Macedoniae" changed almost at the time the Slavs arrived, in the 7th century.

Within the Eastern Roman Empire there was later separation into Themata, but now the department of Macedonia was moved to the West, occasionally including parts of the region where N. Macedonia is today. (Slavs in the area after 7th c. ACE)

Theeeen came the Turks, and separated the regions differently. Now everyone, Turks, Greeks, Slavs, Hebrews and whoever else lived in that region, are all part of the same "millet", the Rum Millet. "Macedonia" wasn't an administrative area then.

In the 19th century, Turks and Slavs were the majority in the region of Macedonia, with Greeks coming third population-wise, and Hebrews also having very large communities.

(Greeks might not like this fact, or they may ignore it completely, but if you open actual historical books and maps, you'll see the demographics. We have censuses from that era. I learned the old Slavic and Turkic names that villages and places in my region had. There's also a reason Kemal Ataturk's mother wrote to him "They took our Salonik" when Greeks reclaimed the city after 600 years. We can still love our country and appreciate our history, without erasing parts of it.)

In 1912, the largest part of the region of Macedonia was claimed by Greeks. In time more Greeks came to it as immigrants from Anatolia and other Greek regions, shifting the population in such a way that Greeks were now the majority. (North Macedonia still doesn't exist as a country)

In 1991, when the country of North Macedonia was created, Greece already had an administrative region of Macedonia which covered most of the Macedonian geographical area, also the ancient Greek cities of the kingdom, and the emblem of Greek Macedonia was the ancient Greek Macedonian star. The Vergina Star, and the ancient Greek city of Vergina is also in Greek ground today. (Our Emblem and Flag)

So you can imagine it came as a shock to Greeks when a newly founded country used not only their symbols, but also distinctly Greek symbols. People who are now residents of N. Macedonia lived in the geographical region that a few centuries ago was also "Macedonia" in the administrative sense, so I get where they're coming from. However, when culture gets appropriated, when the culture of important ethnically Greek figures is erased, when Greek words are claimed to be "Macedonian" all of a sudden since 1991, things get tense.

It's a political matter, as the video says. People from the two countries usually have normal interactions if the matter doesn't come up. And I don't think there's hate between the simple people.

[docgold13]

Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Commissioner Barbara Gordon

In the future era of Batman Beyond, Barbara Gordon retired from her role as Batgirl and followed her father in pursuing a career in law enforcement.  She excelled as a police officer, matriculating through the academy and earning the rank of detective in record time.  Her tremendous natural capabilities coupled with her past experiences training under Batman helped Barbara become a decorated, renown and respected officer; she was ultimately named police commissioner of Gotham City, taking the same post once occupied by her father.  

Barbara lost touch with her former love, Dick Grayson.  She tried to maintain a friendship with Bruce Wayne but he had grown reclusive and distant.  The terrible injury that had befallen Tim Drake greatly affected Bruce and pushed everyone away.  Barbara eventually gave up and moved on with her life.  She fell in love with district attorney Samuel Young and the two were married.

When Terry McGinnis began operating as the new Batman it was easy for Barbara to ascertain Bruce’s involvement.  Barbara tried to dissuade Terry and Bruce from continuing on this path yet it was no use and she found herself in the same position as her father had once been in: reluctantly having to condone a vigilante fighting crime under her watch.  After Terry had saved her husband’s life, however, Barbara’s feelings toward this new Batman changed.  She became more open to working in tandem with Batman and it eventually led to a reconciliation between her and Bruce.  

Actresses Stockard Channing and Angie Harmon provided the voice for the adult Barbara Gordon with the new Commissioner first appearing in the third episode of the first season of Batman Beyond, ‘Blackout.’