#creativity crusader

[dragonpigeons]

My full piece for @/stardustovazine on twitter : Jotaro vs Avdol ⭐️ This took me a long time to do because I love to suffer. Leftover sales are open until Jan 4, 2024!

[woahspacewizards]

THE GREAT CRUSADE! THE HORUS HERESY! THE SCOURING! What do these all have in common? Probably having your blorbos be in control by people who write them well but don't show up.

What if however, you were in control? You made a Legion, the blorbos within, and their Primarch? Well today I'm giving that chance in a group collaborative writing effort! Join other goobers in creating new Legions, making decisions that will affect the galaxy, and causing deep irreversible trauma. If you're interested do keep reading!

Now, while this is a group writing project first and foremost there is always a need to have some restrictions and rules. However, most of these rules will boil down to keeping a certain number of "archetypes" down; after all the universe doesn't need 5 emperor's executioners.

There will also be visuals, while I'm no master artist I can definitely draw some way of seeing the progress of the crusade and what attacks happen throughout. Giving that extra bit of spice needed.

Overall, it'll be a great time and if you're interested message me on Tumblr or hit me up on discord at Mage8500, can't wait to see your messages!

[alexdti]

Cameo OC belongs to @screwpinecaprice and JavaThePone

Quest for friendship RETOLD - Page 33 New page each Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday

[deusluxuria]

jjba characters with the most difficult outfits to hide a whole pizza in, ranked:

1. pillar men

2. anasui

3. vanilla ice

4. ¡Oye cómo va mi ritmo! Bueno pa' gozar, Mulata.

5. melone

6. narancia

7. mariah

[zmasters]

Promises Lost - A Trench Crusade Fan Fic

"Is it bad to say I'm numb to the screaming?"

"I hope not, Sister Marianne."

The combat medic continued to clean the bandages of the pilgrim, a young, blonde man named Sven. The damp, dirty trenches that the hospital was built into requiring any wounds to be cleaned many times a day to avoid infection. All a while pretending to be ignorant of the roars of pain coming from mere meters away, slightly muffled by the mud walls supported by wooden plants. It wasn't a medical issue, at least, not for this warband of the faithful. A group of ecclesiastic prisoners were being whipped, punishment for the failure of dying in battle.

"It's my divine duty to cull the suffering of the warriors of the faith." She sighed, slowly wrapping clean bandages around the mangled stump that was once the pilgrim's left leg. "I know that those prisoners sinned in some way, but-"

"You don't have to be shameful for caring, Sister." Sven interrupted, trying his best to keep his eye off of the wound. "God is a forgiving figure, something some of the other faithful forget."

"Then I pray God will forgive you for leaving the front."

His face dropped. "Are my injuries that bad?"

"I'm afraid that you may never be able to walk again." She placed the dirty bandages in a small container, to be disposed of later.

"I can still fight." He groaned as he tried to get out of bed.

Marianne placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into bed as softly as possible. "You can still give your life to the war effort without needless sacrifice. I'll talk to the war prophet about sending you back to New Antioch. God would want you to live another day, your family more so."

Sven was quiet. Marianne could tell he was struggling to hold back tears.

"I don't have a family to go back to."

She took his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn-"

"You don't need to apologize, you had no idea."

“Thank you friend, but my statement still stands. As much as you want to die and join your family in heaven, they'd want you to continue going. They wouldn't want you to die for them, they'd want you to live for them. I promise you that." She stood up and collected her tools.

As Sister Marianne was leaving the field hospital, Sven called out to her. "How would you know?"

"I was in your place before."

She stepped out into the open air of the trench, stale and rancid from the smell of death and spent ammunition. She was thankful that the iron mask she wore doubled as a gas mask, it filtered out the smell. Mostly.

It was a quiet day on the Front. Cold and dreary, but quiet. The sound of gunfire could still be heard in the distance, but it was quiet by trench standards.

There has been no signs of heretics in the past nine days, so the men were preparing to move further ahead. There are more demon worshippers closer to the Hellgate, and more chances for martyrdom. All they just needed to do was wait for that contact the prophet has. They’d donate some food and ammo, just small enough to keep it off the books, drop off a few new pilgrims, and take those returning back to New Antioch. Though not much leaves the front, at least, not alive. It would just be her, and Sven if she could convince the prophet.

Marianne heard a wet smack from behind her. She initially passed it off as something falling off the cargo the pilgrims were carrying and landing in the mud, but something told her to turn her head.

It was a small, roundish object, partially submerged in mud. The metallic orb was partially rusted, and it radiated a noxious stench. A stench Marianne was all too familiar with.

“Black Grail!” She yelled, pushing the closest pilgrim away from the gas grenade. As the green gas spurted out of the bomb, soldiers of faith scrambled to put on gas masks. Those not quick enough or didn’t have a mask on hand quickly began to suffocate, falling to the ground as they struggled to breath.

The first thrall stumbled into the trench shortly after. The sickly green, bloated corpse carried a blunderbuss in its hands, which it fired at Marianne. The shot mostly missed, with a few rusted nails harmlessly bouncing off of her metal cuirass. The pilgrim she had pushed out of the way pulled his pistol and fired. Two bullets struck its head, while a second pilgrim fired into its back with a rifle. It took Marianne stabbing its neck with a misericorde for the undead creature to collapse to the ground.

Before anyone could take a breath, more bodies began to fall into the trench, the sounds of heavy bodies striking mud and gunfire filling the gas cloud. The pilgrims refocused to fighting the heretics, and Marianne began her dark duty.

With a second, clean misericorde in hand, she knelt by the closest pilgrim struggling to breath. He didn’t have a gas mask on him, and he would likely be dead by the time she found one he could use. If he couldn’t be saved, he would be granted mercy. A quick insertion through the head, and he wouldn’t need to suffer anymore.

Before the poor pilgrim stopped flailing, his last words escaped his lips.

“Don’t leave me.”

Marianne paused. That wasn’t the pilgrim’s voice.

She shook her head, there was another pilgrim injured nearby. She raced over. Again, no gas mask. Mercy must be given.

“Help me Marianne.”

A pilgrim collapsed right next to her, the cursed, maggot filled rounds of the Grail’s weaponry slowly consuming his flesh. Her attempts at healing failed to close the wound, only causing his screams of pain to worsen. I panic, she drew her knife and put him out of his misery.

“I didn’t do it.”

Marianne’s eyes widen, her breaths becoming heavier and heavier. The gas faded away, revealing that she was no longer in the trench, but instead a village street.

She wandered down the familiar street, diseased corpses littered the street, teams of flamethrower wielding priests setting them and the buildings a light. As she slowly moved towards the village center, a crowd had formed.

The crowd faced the steps of the church, listening to the priest chant. Next to him was a soldier with an ax and holding a chain. The chain led to a pair of handcuffs, which kept a little girl bound. This girl was sickly pale and thin, with her clothes ragged and torn.

“This girl has brought a sickness into our community!” The priest roared. “Our friends and family lay dead and burning at our feet, yet she still lives! Her vitality despite the illness that grips our lands is proof enough of her pact with the Lord of Flies!”

“I didn’t!” She cried. “Marianne! Help me!”

Marianne covered her mouth, her eyes welling up.

“For her sins, she will burn with the people she has killed.”

“Marianne…” The girl’s eyes met hers. “Please…”

“I’m sorry Vera…” She turned away.

“Marianne!” She cried as the soldier dragged her into the church. “Don’t leave me!”

“I’ll see you soon, Vera.” Marianne whispered to herself. “I’ll make sure we’ll make it to heaven.”

The smell of burning flesh filled the air as smoke and tears blocked out the church. From there, Marianne would pack her things and leave. She would eventually find her way to the front. The herbalist of a small village now stood against the forces of Hell itself, all because she couldn’t, no, wouldn’t, save her sister.

Marianne dropped her knife, ignoring the heat of flames, sounds of gunfire, and the stench of burning flesh as she ran into the old church. She ignored the bodies that lay at her feet, all in a last-chance effort to save the one she failed to protect.

She burst through the heavy church doors, ash and mud covering her body as she tripped over the slick ground. “Vera!” She stumbled to her feet. “I promise that I’ll prove us worthy of God’s Grace!”

“Are we, sister?”

Marianne stared forward. The sickly pale form of her little sister stood in front of her. She held the hand of a tall, lanky woman, dressed in a dirty bridal dress and veil, a veil that failed to hide the waft of rotting flesh radiating off of her.

“If God loved us, why did the priest blame me?”

“The priest is the one in the wrong!” Marianne yelled. “He’s the one who will burn in Hell for his sins!”

“Don’t worry Marianne, he is.” The bride spoke, her voice soft and raspy. “And even though you can’t keep your promises, I’ll make sure your lovely sister is safe and sound.”

Marianne’s eyes met Vera’s. They were dull and expressionless. Tears stained her cheeks, but she was no longer crying.

“Who are you?”

The bride smiled. “I merely saw potential in your sister. So I saved her, and fed her, and gave her a purpose. We all need a purpose. Your’s was to die and reunite with her. That’s what you promised, and you failed to do that.”

“She showed me a lord worthy of my love and respect.” Vera added, the sound of buzzing flies almost drowning out her voice.

“What did you do to my sister!”

“Lady Veras is one of my greatest knights, I’m honored for her to carry my remains for time immemorial.” The bride crumbled into a pile of ash. “But don’t cry, you’ll be together forever.”

“I made a promise to the Great Hegemon.” Vera soft whisper sounding more like a growl. “Unlike you, I keep my promises.”

As the veil of green smoke faded, Marianne felt the cold mud of the trench again. The small, frail form of Vera stretched to inhuman size. Her arms elongated, ending in sharp claws that dripped in blood and a greenish ooze. A suit of rusted armor engulfed her body, a helmet with a long needle similar to that of a mosquito's proboscis covering her soft face. Partially clear tubes connected to her stomach, leading acidic liquids to a strange, archaic rifle that sat on her back. In one claw she gripped a large, bloodied ax. In the other, the severed head of the war prophet.

Two other knights in similar armor stood behind her. With a simple nod, they walked past Marianne, joining their thralls in slaughtering the rest of the pilgrims.

She didn’t try to stop them. Nor did she try to stop what was once her sister from grabbing her by her arm and dragging her out of the trench.

As she was dragged further into heretic territory, she glanced back towards the trench. One of the knights had ripped a pilgrim missing his leg out of the trench, throwing the desecrated corpse into a cart of flesh that was pulled by a tumor-coated equine. From the looks of it, she was the only one of the warband left alive.

“I’m sorry…” She mumbled to no one in particular. What was one more broken promise?

[np-art-work]

Kakyoin being a meme P.S you can follow me on Instagram for more art @np.art.work

[giantkillerjack]

Posting this here for receipts in case someone decides to steal this killer line of poetry I wrote for a spotify playlist description of all things (and which, together with the title, sounds like the heading of an essay that I would immediately want to read very badly):

[fellow-traveller]

I like how he came in the mail with a smug face.

This is literally my first ball-jointed doll and I'm so nervous at how fragile everything is. But damn, the details on it are superb, up to the paint job. No wonder it's super expensive.

Finally can make use of that Halloween bat miniature chair. Couldn't get that many photos because (1) my fat cat kept patting Hol when I try to take a decent pic and (2) my phone camera is shitty.

[drtomt18]

I've been outlining a warhammer 40k story about the Salamanders

It starts all the way back on Terra, before the Great Crusade even really began, when the Emperor was still mustering His forces. The proto-Salamanders, then called the Dragon Warriors, are assigned the task of breaking the final Fortress of the last remaining warlords on Terra whom the Emperor have not conquered.

https://warhammer40k.fandom.com/wiki/Assault_of_the_Tempest_Galleries see details here

After that, only one thousand Marines are left standing from the 20,000 started.

The story follows Captain Vor'shar of the Dragon Warriors, shortly after the utter devastation of that Tempest Galleries. As the Emperor of Mankind offered each surviving Dragon Warrior a small boon as reward for their victory, Vor'Shar asked the Master of Mankind to join one of the Solar Auxilia regiments as part of the Rear Guard for the Great Crusade. The Emperor accepted, and Vor’shar and about 50 Dragon Warriors who opted to go with him set out.

The defensive fleet was dubbed the Dragonlance, and very quickly the Solar Auxilia found that they worked very, very well with the Dragon Warriors. To the degree that Vor'shar dubbed them as his brothers and sisters. They fought together, bled together, held their ground against impossible odds time and time again.

Eventually, the Dragonlance faced a fight so big that even they couldn't hold their ground. Even the menials of the Forge World took up arms beside the Skitarii, battle servitors, and Titans against an enormous space Hulk that controlled by an Abominable Intelligence. The Intelligence was once responsible for managing the space habitat that was the home to billions. It had been swallowed by the Warp when the Eye of Terror opened at the beginning of the age of Strife. A Greater Demon made its home inside the habitat, fusing with the AI to such a degree that they could never be separated. Their personalities melded into a single malicious entity that used the inhabitants of the habitats as play things. Turning them into mutant abominations.

Just when all was lost, Vulkan arrived with the rest of the Dragon Warriors, now dubbed the Salamanders, and unleashed the fury of Nocturne on the space Hulk. Vulkan himself and a squad of Terminators teleported aboard and fought their way through to the AIs core. Vulkan didn't know what the hell it was, assuming that it was just a crazed AI. Once it was destroyed, the Legion fleet fell upon the Hulk with everything it had, until it exploded in a ball of fire that utterly consumed it. The Legion turned its attention to the Forge World, quickly deploying via drop pod to reinforce the besieged defenders. The tide was already turning, with the loss of the demonic AI, the coordination of the host of cybernetic abominations quickly lost cohesion.

When the fighting finally ended, the Solar Auxilia and Dragon Warriors met with Vulkan. He welcomed both into the Salamanders as his sons (and daughters too!)

Vor'shar was invited by Vulkan to join the Pyre Guard. But Vor'shar politely declined the honor. He wanted to stay with his little brothers and sisters. What remained of the Auxilia were as much as family, and to be separated from them was unthinkable. Vulkan accepted this answer and told his Terran born son that he Dragonlance would be the shining example of what it meant to be a Salamander. To live and fight beside mortals as equals. Vor'shar, in turn, adopted the teachings of his father with great enthusiasm. Becoming even more fervent in his zeal, welcoming his Nocturne born brothers into the Dragonlance and showing them what the fury of the Salamanders was. To be utterly unrelenting towards the enemy, to stand against the tide when all others falter, and to protect those who can not protect themselves.

Vulkan gave Vor'shar a spear, one he has used during his time in Nocturne to fight off the mighty beasts of the desert (and Dark Eldar.) The Spear of Vulkan was presented to the Dragonlance as a symbol of their name sake, and a sign that Vulkan respected them greatly.

Vor'shar and the Dragonlance would fight beside Vulkan across the galaxy, bringing many worlds to compliance both with kindness and with fire. The Dragonlance being the first into the fray, and the last to leave.

I have more written bout what happened during the Horus Heresy n such but I tire. Maybe I'll post the whole doc later lmao. Hope someone reads this and likes it.

[lordplavis]

Would you like to find out what you would be the god of? Take my new uqiz to find out

[tsnbrainrot]

Your tags on the Ryan interview post?? 100% agree. Fandom killed the ship. Not Tommy. Not Ryan. Not ABC. Fandom killed the ship. I went from checking the tag every day, to not checking it at all.

oh anon, that makes me sooooo sad. like.... i'm really new to this space and i was never a big bff to lovers/kids fic girlie, so i knew there was a chance i wouldn't vibe with it ? but my irl bff is SUPER into it so when bi buck happened i was like ok as a bi person i 100% want to check that out yk? and if i get into the ship cool!

turns out it's not really my vibe (the most popular tropes in b*ddie fics are like.... all my least favourites lmao, so i was fighting a pointless fight i think?) but what made me go from meh not my fav but if it happens in the show cool to actually i'm gonna blacklist the tag again and i actively don't want this is 100% some of the horrid behaviour i've seen on here and twt. in one month, i went from 'oh what's this about?' to 'actually, no thank you the vibe here is rancid.' and obvs fandom is all about curating your own space so if i was suuuuuuuper into it, i could probably just a follow a few blogs and vibe with it, but as it is... i don't even want to do that. it's sooo dead to me. i did my time in toxic fandom spaces and i'm done with that. i'm so done.

but yeah, it makes sad for people like you who are chill and who enjoy it and who want to vibe and have fun.... it's literally a silly cheesy tv show, it's so far from being that serious? imagine being so negative you turn off other fans? that's the opposite of what fandom is to me yk? it's meant to be a space to share what we love??? idk. it sucks. as i said, it makes me sad.

[fans4wga]

The Animation Guild Announces Unionization Efforts At Warner Bros. And Cartoon Network

EDIT: Because people are misreading this, please note: it is animation production workers specifically who are joining the pre-existing TAG (The Animation Guild) union.

Animators and animation writers are already covered under TAG. This news story is specifically about WB animation production workers.

News story text:

"Warner Bros. Animation and Cartoon Network production workers are attempting to unionize with The Animation Guild (TAG).

A petition was filed with the National Labor Relations Board today requesting a union election. The petition includes 66 staffers at Warner Bros. Animation and 22 at Cartoon Network, including roles like production manager, digital production assistant, IT technician, production coordinator, production assistant, design production coordinator, assistant production manager and senior assistant production manager.

They are involved in such Warner Bros. projects as Batman: The Caped Crusader, Harley Quinn and Teen Titans Go! and Cartoon Network’s Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake, We Baby Bears and Craig of the Creek.

The workers also requested voluntary recognition from management at the Warner Bros. Discovery subsidiaries.

A tweet was issued confirming the move, which was officially announced earlier on a joint Zoom call.

“Although many might not think it, production is a specialized skill; we might not be artists or writers, but what we bring to the table goes beyond traditional creativity and gets content on the air,” Warner Bros. Animation production manager Hannah Ferenc said in a statement about the organization effort. “Having lived through the existing state of the animation industry for the past seven years, I want to make sure that not only our current workers, but all those who choose to join us in the future, can feel secure in following their passion by earning livable wages and being treated with the dignity and respect they deserve.”

The Animation Guild has already established bargaining units on shows like Rick and Morty, Solar Opposites, The Simpsons, Family Guy and American Dad!  It also is active at studios like Titmouse New York and L.A. and ShadowMachine. Establishment at Walt Disney Animation Studios is currently in progress."

[woahspacewizards]

Hiii, I have been doing some creative writing for a Great Crusade AU and wanted to share! Feel free to give comments, critiques, and anything else :D

Chapter 1 - The Royal Court

Palets - The Warp - Suveren Sector - Segmentum Solar - 801.M30

The thunderous bang of army firepower, the miniature explosions of the Astartes bolter fire, and the clanking of God-Engine gears rang out in Mantorov's mind. Each of the wars he found as he searched within the tides of the Warp was about as interesting as the servitors; perhaps at one time, he'd have been fascinated, but they were now as benign as breathing or eating. He continued flowing, his body taken by the stream, for only a fool would fate the hand of fate. That is when he found it, a silver strand that called to him. His mind pushed toward the trail, hoping to find that which the Legion had sought for so long. Then, his mind hit the wall. His senses suddenly left the swirling painting that was the Warp and returned to his body; the darkness of his room did not help the sudden sensory deprivation.

Mantorov looked upon his brother; Domnin stood there, his face contorted in the oh-so-familiar grimace that he held. While Mantorov would never say it to his brother's face, he knew if the grimace stopped, then the man would be handsome even despite his years of battle scars. "You said your dive into the Tides would take a few minutes," Domnin nearly roared, his voice only dampened by his armor and the telekinetic field placed around Mantorov. Once he gained his breath, Mantorov word's scratched their way out of his throat, "It was a few minutes; I never specified that it was Terran standard time that I was going by," his venomous laughter rang through the room. Even to one of the Illuminated Lords, there was always something unnerving when an Astartes laughed. Even Mantorov was made uneasy by his own vocalization. Luckily, Mantorov was forcibly cut off by the ringing of an alarm; after nearly three months of sitting around and doing nothing, they had stumbled upon a world. 

Palets, the mighty vessel that held the Sun Brother chapter of the Illuminated Lords, left the confines of the Warp and breached real space. The terrible sound of the Warp breaking was voxxed across the ship. For the psychically inclined of the vessel would hear the stories of their upcoming victory within. To those who lacked such gifts, they simply heard what sounded like the chittering laughter of those who were to watch them perish. Mantorov stood alongside the Chapter Master Kulik, and his mind wandered as he stood upon the dias as it always did when he was forced to perform the benign rituals before war. Of course, once the psychic rituals and divination began, he truly felt most at home. However, his mind was taken away from the Warp, and now he had to listen to a speech for which he cared not and find a way to apologize to Domnin.

He understood the need for a Watcher. They all knew the risks of any prolonged dive into the Tides. While not every member of the Legion was a Psyker, a good portion of them were or at least had enough to feel the clawing of Neverborn, who wanted into their souls. Yet, the unfortunate sods who would be called into service as the Watchers always grew furious that a dive into a realm of chaos takes longer than originally expected. It was, however, one facet in a multiprong problem the Legion faced with the new role they had claimed; the old Rats desired brutal efficiency to conquer a world in a matter of hours instead of days. They still strove for speed, but with the Illuminated Lords' new way of war, patience was becoming more and more of a virtue.

Hours passed as the set-up for war began. The world was a simple one, just a small feral world in need of Imperial forces who could show them the Imperial Truth, not to mention that from divination and scanning, the world held resources that would be highly sought after. Mantorov and his Koldun squad of fellow psykers landed upon the world; their ship, designed for stealth, would appear as little more than a shooting star to the world's inhabitants. Mantorov silent contemplation about who would be the unfortunate Lord of the world was broken when Galkin, a recent recruit to the ever-growing Librarium, managed to squeak, "Dear master, do you think the death toll will be high?" Mantorov knew the answer, for the Tides sang in the song of tens, so there would be ten mortals who would pass before the night was done. Mantorov broke his silence, his face forcing itself into a nightmarish visage of a grin, "Oh my dear boy, the deaths will be low, but they will be glorious."

Chapter 2 - The Prince and the Pauper

Sovlum V - Feral World - Suveren Sector - Segmentum Solar - 801.M30

The tactics of the Illuminated Lords were not built for worlds like these. Weak and pathetic planets could easily be swayed by the beauty of the other Legions or the calamitous brutish strength that the barbarian Legions could muster. To the uninitiated, the actions of the Illuminated, the desire to go out and conquer every world they encountered instead of just sending mortal warriors or informing nearby, smaller detachments was strange. The Illuminated never trusted their fellow Astartes to get the job done, of course, but there was a more profound element to the issue: control. Each Legion was given a few worlds over which they held ownership; for many, to expand their power base, they would simply make deals or contracts with nearby factions to acquire resources. Pathetic dealing with factors that would invariably ask for more than they gave, so the 15th had decided there was but one way to expand in the galaxy. The Under-Empire is the connected network of secret governance under everyone's nose.

Mantorov truly appreciated his gifts and the gifts of his squad once they approached their destination. Deep swamps were hellish for Astartes, while the muscular forms gifted to the Emperor allowed for movement where the mortals would typically be stuck and left to die, but it still never helped, being over 1000kg. Luckily, Kulik had at least enough tactical prowess to assign fronts that his soldiers could handle. As Poma, the dear master of flames, hardened the slop of mud into a decent enough pathway for the squad, Mantorov cautioned, "I would advise caution in these muds, my brothers, for our enemies are simple in nature but well adapted to the slop."

Galkin, the youngest of the Astartes, stuttered out, "We have nothing to fear, right?" His question was initially met by the curious and terrifying gaze of the senior sorcerers of the squad; in a hurry, he elaborated, "At most, they will send spears or arrows at us, and last time, I was instructed our armor is meant to protect against even las-weaponry." 

Ved, a hulking bear of a man and master of the ways of biomancy was the first to speak. His gruff voice growled over the vox, "Armor is only as good as the flesh underneath, and your flesh is hardened but still weak against the Tide Master's will." 

All of the 15th understood the will of the Tide Master. It was common knowledge that the tides of the Warp were what decided the fates of all men. However, some people were destined for more extraordinary things. The Exorcist Cult first coined the concept of Forged Destiny before their eventual dismantling, and it was the belief that if certain people are chosen by fate, then that means someone chooses them. Many terms for the Tide Master were prevalent: Primordial Creator, Lucky Mistress, and Star God were all somewhat popular, but Tide Master was the one predestined to win.

Mantorov froze at the mention of the Tide Master; the invisible hand of destiny was his domain, and yet it always made him uneasy. The whispering and rending teeth of the Warp sang in his mind at the mention, as it had for everyone in the squad. Daemons assailed his mind, but he still managed to whimper out, "This world is far too close to the Eye for discussions of the Tide Master; please do not bring it up again until we are off of this wretched-" his voice was interrupted by the sudden swish of an arrow piercing the air.

The barbaric yells of the world's populace filled the air as their arrows littered the hard mud and thunked off the Astartes' power armor. The ineffective fire did little to damage the Astartes, yet the Daemon's laughter still incapacitated Mantorov; he knew the Emperor would have their heads if he knew about talk of the Daemonic, but what else fits what assailed them? Ved was first to act; he roared in pain as the scratching continued; tumorous pustules rose from the ground, soon sprouting limbs to grab hold of the savages and consume them. Mantorov grits his teeth as the psychic leftovers from Ved's spell are incorporated into the barrage of death. This was no psychic backlash or call from the devils; it was a psyker.

Mantorov delved deep into his mind, looked past the memories of loss and love, and drifted away from the biological imperative to survive that filled his very being. He found himself adrift in the infinite well of power that was his soul if only he let go of his limitations; he had not come to commit soul suicide; however, instead, he had come to get away from his pain. To focus on what truly mattered and what the Legion was known for: Let their blood run cold as the nightmare is made real. A mass of tendrils poured out Mantorov's mouth; the aether ran through him like adrenaline, allowing for magic to form despite the impossibility of concentrating. 

The gnashing mouths of his living thought form launched themselves at the pathetic tribals; their limbs would be shattered, and their minds would be broken. Some were lucky, dying swiftly as the tentacle maws consumed their hearts. Others were forced to feel the pain of the Astartes creation process, a great memory to tap into when torturing others; of course, those who experienced them usually chose suicide as a preferable alternative. The slithering deaths granted by Mantorov and the mutating pustules that Ved had let loose soon turned warriors into cowards, fleeing from their eldritch murderers. Mantorov knew their demonstration would give way to tall tales and legends of death, and he was proud. He observed his surroundings, taking in the newly vacant swamp before he laid eyes on a peculiar sight.

The child had been roughly five or so; his hair was dark as night, long and unkempt, and his face was much like the 15th Legion's. In truth, Mantorov would have simply killed the child had he not reminded him of himself at a younger age, so he walked towards the thing that piqued his interest. Heavy stomping feet shook the ground as he walked, yet the boy did not run.

The Angels of Death approached the young boy; his father had told him that fear was the ultimate weakness and that one must face death head-on with bravery. He had hoped the illusion of bravery would be enough to make up for his cowardice at the moment, while his face was flat because he was spending every ounce of his power fighting his muscle's desire to flee. He forces himself to look up at the abominable metal thing, its voice assaulting his ears like the scratching of wood to make a spear. "Are you lost, little one?"

The boy did not speak, simply shaking his head "no" in response. Mantorov was still shocked that someone so young had a strong enough soul to handle such a raw spell; he knew that his new mission was to make sure this child was taken off the world. With his grim face splitting into a devilish grin, he demanded, "You will follow us and be my apprentice; in exchange, I will spare your pitiful village." The child gulped before agreeing to the deal.

The crowning ceremony was to be held on the ship, away from the swamps and the danger that came with unknown territory. Mantorov watched as Galkin marched before the congregation of Astartes and was granted ownership of the world; he had little care for such affairs, and his focus was on how his new apprentice was utterly intrigued by every minute detail occurring; curiosity was good for a Librarian. He closed his eyes, letting the details wash over him, letting the wails from the world enter his ears as within the morning, the planet would find their leaders severed into nine parts, carved with eight runes, tended with seven flowers, and flayed into six layers; the emotions washed over him, and he was proud to be an Illuminated Lord.

[alexdti]

Family dinner time!

How we met - Pinkie Pie - Page 7 New page each Monday

[nightingale-prompts]

Lay Me to Rest- DCxDP Prompt

Warning: Blood and gore

There has been a series of murders across the country. Each death was varied and self-inflicted. At first, they all seemed like suicide but each had a strange range of symptoms before death.

Sudden paranoia, incoherent mumbling, screaming or yelling, going in and out of their homes sporadically, random fixations, and finally self-harm.

The victims were teachers, parents, businessmen, truckers, and even a crime novelist. All unrelated and in different states.

Each victim didn't seem to have a connection until an investigation discovered that each one had been an active serial killer. The body counts ranged from as little as 5 to as much as 23. The killer was named the Serial Serial Killer which wasn't creative but it was catchy. Some called them the Angel of Vengeance but most thought it was cringy and overdramatic. Many people didn't want them to be caught but others hotly debated letting a killer dispense justice when their crusade could easily turn into them killing people for innocuous things.

The police were still questioning whether this killer even existed. One thing was clear, there was a trail and it led straight to Gotham. A goldmine for them. Naturally, Batman had gotten a hold on the case and began an investigation.

The biggest question was how the killer found their victims and how they knew that they were killers.

The answer was obvious. They didn't need to figure it out. They just needed to wait. Why just in the effort to investigate when a serial killer tries to convince you to leave with them? So bars are the obvious place. But that's shaky at best since there is a period of torment that takes place that allows the victims to return home. The killer doesn't care if the victims could call the police, perhaps because they know their victim won't.

Bruce started to build a profile. He saw a pattern here. Each of the victims had a preference for their victims as well. They targeted young people, mainly boys. Odds are the Serial Serial Killer matched that description or age range. So bars weren't the hunting ground. So parks were more likely to go unnoticed and boys tended to hang out there longer after dark.

The killer was more than likely a victim himself so he may have a few scars but probably not noticeable enough that his would-be assailants would be turned off. There is no ignoring the predatory nature of the victims. Each killed children for gratification in some form. It's not that the boy is attractive but he probably has traits that the victims found attractive in children. So babyfaced, short, native, and polite.

There was much else Bruce could get. There was nothing concrete and he still didn't understand the method that was used. So far this was guesswork.

It wasn't until a few weeks later while he tracking another killer that he found his answer.

Dr.Kinder a Biologist by day and a killer who experiments on his victims at night had picked up a promising new lab rat a week ago. He had intended to slowly dissect the boy. He had gotten so used to the screams he stopped using anesthetics besides he wanted to see how the fear response caused the organs to shift.

To his surprise the boy didn't fight, in fact he seemed to jump to the table and say he didn't need restraints. Disturbing. But he was restrained anyways.

As the doctor cut him open the boy didn't react, only humming to himself as he watched the doctor.

"What are you hoping to find?" He asked. "I'm getting bored and this bearly hurts."

The boy annoyingly never stopped talking and never missed a chance to ruin the moment. There were never any screams or cries but incessant talking.

Dr.Kinder found the boy disturbing so he simply took an axe and chopped the boy into pieces. Not once did he make a sound. The doctor thought it was over but the next day the boy was back. He sat on the autopsy table kicking his feet in nothing but his bare skin.

"What the hell are you?" The doctor gasped in horror.

"I'm bored. Play with me again." The boy purred.

Bile crawled up his throat as the doctor restained this...thing again.

This time the boy spoke differently.

"You cut me up last time. Did you do that to the last boy. After you...you know." A sick grin spread across his cheeks.

The doctor cut open his neck this time and let him bleed out.

Everyday he came back and every day the doctor killed him until the time between his death got shorter and shorter. The days began to blur and he had no idea how long he had been doing this. But that thing kept talkimg to him.

Dr.Kinder stared down at his desk at the papers trying to think of anything but-

"I wonder what people would think about what you've done. You're a disgusting and depraved man doctor. Look at what you've done to me." The sing-song voice of that demon called out.

He could feel those blood-soaked arms wrapped around his neck.

He flinch as he pushed the thing away.

"Oh, are you going to beat me or stab me this time? Ooo, or are you going to put me through the woodchipper again?" The demon asked as the doctor wrapped his hands around his throat.

He just kept squeezing until the boy went limp. It never ends. The blood never goes away. It covered every surface of the room. Dripping, conjugating, and spreading into every corner. Whenever he turned his head he could see body parts spread across the room in the pools of blood he could they the faces of the others that he had killed. Each face wretched in agony.

"You hold on better than the others. I've been eaten, torched, and disemboweled before but after coming back a few times they usually end it after a few words. But every time they don't feel guilt. They just don't want to face consequences." The boy said. "Do you even remember my name? The one I told you when you picked me up on the side of the road or was I just another body to use and discard? I used the name of your first victim. I hoped you'd notice."

The doctor knew he couldn't kill the boy but he could end himself. He had tried it once but just like the kid he came back without a scratch.

"Not yet. This is your life now. Come on, let's taste death together. Again and again and again and again and-" he repeated over and over.

This was hell. This was his hell.

But it came to an end eventually. Dr.Kinder put an end to himself in a gruesome display.

Batman had only caught the tail end as he faced a young boy standing an a pool of blood.

****

"Yeah, that thing is like a worse version of a revenant. Doesn't really have a name yet to describe it. It's undead for sure. You kill it and it just comes back." Constantine said "Why did you bring it here?"

After a long bath and some new clothes, the kid looked normal as played on a phone given to him.

"Look, I didn't know what else to do." Bruce explained.

"You leave it alone!" Constantine said exasperated "Look they are harmless to anything they don't bear a grudge towards. Think of it as a force of nature." Constantine said.

"I just want to know how to stop him." Bruce said.

"Well you can't kill it but you can't bring him back entirely. You can just soothe it 'till it stops targeting its victims. It must have died pretty gruesomely to go to these lengths. You need to find where it died and lay it to rest. Properly." Constantine sighed knowing that appeasing this soul would be more than just difficult.

"Danny, come on. Let's go." Bruced said putting a hand on the boy's head as Danny stood up to leave.

"Okay. Bye!" Danny waved to Constantine.

[txttletale]

What I don't get is that other your support of AI image generation, you're SO smart and well read and concerned with ethics. I genuinely looked up to you! So, what, ethics for everyone except for artists, or what? Is animation (my industry, so maybe I care more than the average person) too juvenile and simplistic a medium for you to care about its extinction at the hands of CEOs endorsing AI? This might sound juvenile too, but I'm kinda devastated, because I genuinely thought you were cool. You're either with artists or against us imho, on an issue as large as this, when already the layoffs in the industry are insurmountable for many, despite ongoing attempts to unionize. That user called someone a fascist for pointing this out, too. I guess both of you feel that way about those of us involved in class action lawsuits against AI image generation software.

i can't speak for anyone else or the things they've said or think of anyone. that said:

1. you should not look up to people on the computer. i'm just a girl running a silly little blog.

2. i am an artist across multiple mediums. the 'no true scotsman' bit where 'artists' are people who agree with you and you can discount anyone disagrees with you as 'not an artist' and therefore fundamentally unsympathetic to artists will make it very difficult to actually engage in substantive discussion.

3. i've stated my positions on this many times but i'll do it one more: i support unionization and industrial action. i support working class artists extracting safeguards from their employers against their immiseration by the introduction of AI technology into the work flow (i just made a post about this funnily enough). i think it is Bad for studio execs or publishers or whoever to replace artists with LLMs. However,

4. this is not a unique feature of AI or a unique evil built into the technology. this is just the nature of any technological advance under capitalism, that it will be used to increase productivity, which will push people out of work and use the increased competition for jobs to leverage that precarity into lower wages and worse conditions. the solution to this is not to oppose all advances in technology forever--the solution is to change the economic system under which technologies are leveraged for profit instead of general wellbeing.

5. this all said anyone involved in a class action lawsuit over AI is an enemy of art and everything i value in the world, because these lawsuits are all founded in ridiculous copyright claims that, if legitimated in court, would be cataclysmic for all transformative art--a victory for any of these spurious boondoggles would set a precedent that the bar for '''infringement''' is met by a process that is orders of magnitude less derivative than collage, sampling, found art, cut-ups, and even simple homage and reference. whatever windmills they think they are going to defeat, these people are crusading for the biggest expansion of copyright regime since mickey mouse and anyone who cares at all about art and creativity flourishing should hope they fail.