#critical feedback

[weaselle]

if you want to give a critique to an artist, but are worried about how it will come across, a great way to be super chill with feedback is to do these 3 things

if you have access to notes or comments or messages already left, just take a minute to scroll through them a bit. If a hundred people have already said "you suck at writing relatable characters" maybe your well meaning advice to write more relatable characters isn't appropriate anymore.

use a compliment sandwich

use "I" statements

Compliment sandwich is easy. Find two things you like about the piece, and put your critique between them.

Example:

"what a great story, i really enjoyed the setting you've provided for it. I had a hard time making a personal connection with some of the characters, but I love the twist ending!"

So, sure, critical feedback can be hard to make palatable, but you see how two thirds of this is actually positive feedback. And the part in the middle is gentled by using an "I" statement, which explicitly does not say anything bad about the writing or the author -- not connecting with the characters could be a personal failure on the part of the reader, and this statement is phrased to acknowledge that.

That's what makes "I" statements a little trickier. The first step is simple, start your feedback with "I" to help you frame it innocuously

So like instead of "You Need to Write More Relatable Characters" or "None of the Characters Are Relatable" i might say "I Had Trouble Relating to the Characters" In this way you are not asserting yourself as anything but The Expert in What You Have Experienced (which we all know is true) instead of telling someone what they did wrong or what they need to do, as if you are An Expert in What They Are Doing

And it's better quality information. Imagine I said "You have trouble writing relatable characters" or "These characters aren't relatable"

But maybe this artist has had 100 comments about Relatable Characters and 78% of them are about how relatable they are. That means i'm actually wrong. They have written pretty relatable characters. So i'd totally be wrong.

Plus i'd be wrong in an accusatory way, and "this is what you should have done/this is how you've messed up" is something any artist getting feedback (especially online) has to kind of shield themselves against. Everybody has a way they would have done it "better". And you especially have to find a way to not give your energy to people are both wrong and antagonistic online. So being accusatory and wrong, even accidentally, even with the best intentions, is a great way for me to get ignored, or, if i catch the artist in a vulnerable moment, get clapped back. Or if they are new or very sensitive, hurt their feelings.

Whereas "I had trouble relating to the characters" is just, an accurate depiction of your experience. "I didn't notice the stop sign" doesn't necessarily mean there's anything wrong with the stop sign. Sure if a number of people say it, maybe do a little check up on the sign's visibility. But at the same time, "i didn't notice the stop sign" doesn't say the stop sign is wrong in any way, like, maybe you were just thinking about mashed potatoes and didn't notice the clearly visible sign, who is to say.

And that makes you helpful. Even if 78% of the responses that deal with character relate-ability are "these characters are so relatable" if, say, 17% of them are along the lines of "i had trouble relating to several of the characters, I didn't make a personal connection with them before moving on to the next character" it might help that author really dial in their characters for that story.

Now, just beginning your sentence with the word "I" doesn't make it what we're looking for, it's just a great place to start. What you're trying to make sure you do is Only Describe Your Experience, without giving advice or rendering judgement on quality or technique. Especially avoid anything that says "you should". Even indirectly.

You might be tempted to tell them something like "I feel like if I had more time with each character i would connect with them better" ... but this isn't actually the kind of "I" statement we want.

It's the same as saying "I feel like you should spend more time on each character" which is just putting "I feel" in front of a "You Should" statement, see how that works?

and If you say "My experience was i spent the whole story thinking about how you need to spend more time with your characters to make them more relatable" you're not really talking about how you experienced the story, you're telling them what they "need to do".

Avoid giving advice.

Even something like "I was kind of bored during the dialogue" is better than telling them what they should do. After all, maybe nobody else was bored during the dialogue. Maybe you were thinking about mashed potatoes and missed how good the dialogue was.

See a good I statement doesn't pretend to have the answers. Sure, taking more time with the characters might be a solution, but maybe there's a pacing thing I'm doing so i'd prefer to find ways of helping readers connect to the characters better in the time allotted.

"i had trouble relating to several of the characters, I didn't make a personal connection with them before moving on to the next character" alerts me to the issue while still allowing me to be the one to decide what to do about it. It doesn't say "I think you need to slow this down" it just says "i couldn't keep up"

And "I couldn't keep up" isn't accusatory or antagonistic or anything like that, so it's an easy more friendly way for an artist to hear feedback.

I did this example for writing because (looks at yet another long ass post) i love writing, but it's true of feedback on anything.

I hope people find this helpful. I didn't write this because of any bad feedback i've gotten (tho gods know i've gotten some bad feedback in my time).

I wrote this because i wish there was a more satisfying balance between critical feedback as the Monster as currently existing on most of the internet, and the Helpful Creature it could be.

I would like more people to feel comfortable giving critical feedback on my little writings. Like, I post poems and stories and like, idk, science and nature articles, and of course i am hoping for people to say nice things about them (and people do! thank you <3 ) but artists do actually often want feedback about the not great stuff too, if it's done politely. If i write a poem and nobody can figure out what it's supposed to be about, i kinda need to know that so i can grow as an artist.

And i feel like maybe there are a lot of people who are too worried they'll come off wrong or hurt someone's feelings, who want to make sure they aren't accidentally a part of the asshole hoard it's so easy to find in comment sections. And this is a great way to help make sure you don't accidentally come off like that. I hope it gives some people the confidence to leave some critical feedback on my writing in the future.

[xtrablak674]

INTERIM PERFORMANCE EVALUATION

Employee TREVOR BROWN

Title INTERACTIVE PROJECT COORDINATOR

Date of Hire 3.30.98

Date of Evaluation 7 21.98

Supervisor Amy Van Aarle

1. Taking into consideration the individual's time in this position, indicate your overall appraisal of performance to date.

Good ( X ) Satisfactory ( )Unsatisfactory ()

Comments:

Trevor has made a large contribution to the growth of the Interactive Services department at kb&p. In a very short time he has become a key member of the team • he keeps information flowing and work moving in the interactive department. Trevor has injected sense of fiscal responsibility into the department, enabling us to grow and increase our profitability.

2. To date, what do you assess to be his/her strengths?

Trevor is very organized, pro-active and self motivated, all contributing to his success in his new position at kb&p. Trevor recognizes problem areas, troubleshoots them, and implements solutions. Trevor's initiative and dedication are nothing short of extraordinary. He has the ability to teach himself new processes and technologies that help him immensely in his job tasks.

His organization and thoroughness have taken the process of trafficking and tracking work to the next level. He has the ability to see holes in a process and make it more efficient and effective. He demands much from others around him • Trevor sets standards and holds others to them.

Trevor has begun to master the trafficking process and has set out to improve these processes even further. Recently he's been instrumental in developing a more detailed and thorough format for the Client sign-off/pickup sites. This will help to streamline the process of trafficking and help to troubleshoot any discrepancies in the creative rotations from the beginning of the production process, rather than the end.

This will help to keep the jobs on schedule and improve the overall turnaround times.

3. To date, what do you assess to be the areas in which improvement could be shown?

Trevor is a highly entertaining and fun person to be around, but he must learn to moderate the fun loving side of his personality in professional situations. He is very intelligent and demonstrates his smarts via a sharp wit. Trevor must recognize that this acerbic wit can alienate people in the workplace who do not appreciate the humor or cannot compete in the wit arena.

Trevor must discuss his workplace frustrations with his supervisor, and make sure that he irons out any potential conflicts and not fester and slow down the flow of work, or workplace relationships.

Trevor's approach to communicating is often too aggressive, and could even be called rough at times. Some of this comes from the fact that Trevor takes his work very seriously. Although an aggressive approach often sets fast results, it is not always conducive to building healthy working relationships in a client based business. If people get the feeling that they are being accused of doing a bad job, they react defensively. and often partially close the lines of communication. fearing further reprimands.

Often a little understanding, a little commiseration. (even it have to grit your teeth while you do it goes a long way towards achieving the desired result ) - a healthy process and open lines of communication. If Trevor adopts a more polished approach to his communications, his ability to get things done and accomplish his goals could start to produce even better results.

Trevor must become more restrained in his e-mail communications. instead using the phone diplomatically it he is angry with someone, and generally putting more effort into the quality of his e-mail communications. By the amount of grammatical errors in his e-mails at times, it seems that Trevor writes these e-mails quickly and while in the midst of emotion. Trevor has demonstrated that he is capable of a very high quality of written communication in many of his e-mails. However, sometimes he is sloppy in his communications.

The problem with e-mail is that it is fast, impossible to un-send, permanent, and open to be forwarded to any number of people.

When Trevor communicates to the sites that we run advertising on, he is representing kb&p to people who one day may be clients. His communications must always reflect that. In the next section, We've outlined some concrete ways that Trevor can use to improve his e-mail communications.

Trevor's enthusiasm and candor can definitely be used to his, and the department's, advance. Using his natural communication and organizational skills in combination with a more refined approach.

Trevor could soon see even better results. This refinement includes communications with agency employees, outside vendors. Web sites and client contacts. both through e-mail and phone contact.

4. What specifically are you planning to do, and recommend the employee do. to help develop in his her present position?

Trevor is in a position to progress and grow dramatically along with the rapidly growing Interactive Services department. His initiative and natural talents have made him a key asset to the department, and we would like to see him continue to grow wit us.

Trevor can continue to move forward by applying himself in the same fashion that he's already been doing. With his organizational skills and attention to detail. Trevor can and must continue to refine processes for the department and make them more efficient, especially as we add on more clients. Trevor must continue to pay attention to matters financial, keeping an eye on our bottom line and exploring areas of growth and profitability. Trevor must take the initiative to learn from those around him so that he eventually can take on more and more responsibility in this area.

Trevor must pay close attention to the way he communicates with others. For the next few weeks, each time Trevor writes a lengthy e mail, he should stop and sit on it for some time before sending it. After re reading the e-mail and re-evaluating the content, he should bring the e-mail to his supervisor and ask for an objective opinion about the content and delivery of the email. That way. Trevor can begin to recognize the strengths and weaknesses in his communications. and begin to improve them.

After doing this for a while, we recommend that Trevor continue to write and then sit on his e-mails, evaluating them before sending them. This is a great way to vent frustrations while leaving the door open to revise the delivery if circumstances change. People often write e-mails that are never sent, preferring on reflection to delete them or simply call the intended recipient. The writing of the e-mail, however, lets one understand and refine what it is that one is trying to say. This technique could work well for Trevor as well.

5. Growth Path

Trevor possesses the raw talent and a level of business competence to command a post more senior than the one he currently fills. With a moderation of his sometimes appropriate attitude towards others in the workplace. Trevor will rise to an executive position.

We will consider leaving the position of Interactive Business/Project Manager unfilled and evaluate Trevor's performance and suitability for this spot over the course of the next 3 months.

[Afterwords: Reflecting on this performance review twenty-five years later its amazing how much truth I find in Ms. Van Aarle's words. Albeit we had a very complex relationship I find all of her words here to ring true to exactly who I was at this time. The thing I can acknowledge now is that this was my first office job, my first time using e-mail professionally and being in a lot of the situations I was put in, I was given the grace to grow because of everything I was bringing to the table and I deeply appreciate all of this at a place which for all intensive purposes was my first corporate job.

My emotions were extremely volatile and everything she said about my e-mails was accurate and it wasn't conducive to me slowing and cooling down before responding to my correspondence. Curiously nowadays I barely touch e-mail even in a work setting. When I see a misunderstanding I just get up and go visit and talk with the person and clear up everything.

I have said repeatedly to folks give me a note, give me some feedback I will make revisions. This performance review I got a quarter of a decade ago still applies to everything I do. I will never send an angry email. If I am feeling emotional I will step-away and come back later to respond, if I respond at all.

The insight into my personality is so fun to see in writing these descriptors: dedicated, efficient, organized, thorough, highly entertaining, fun, intelligent, sharp wit, acerbic, aggressive, passionate, rough, and enthusiastic. Its still unfathomable to me that I have trouble finding work because most of these words still apply and all the things she suggested have been polished and refined. But not all jobs want you to be yourself and many aren't able to see what you bring to the table and really don't want to.]

[Photos by Brown Estate]

[nyehilismwriting]

Have you seen the recent comment made by Jelly Fish Field on your itch page for Project Hadea. I just read it, and found their view really interesting and extremely important criticism on how you've decided to write certain reactions. I love your writing a lot, so it was extremely eye opening what they wrote. What i'm getting at is, I would just like to hear your feedback on that specific comment! all love, and I do hope this won't be taken the wrong way!

I've seen it, yeah. and... okay, I've discussed my reasons for not using rape as a content warning before, and I stand by them; I'm not revisiting any discussion on what does and does not constitute rape. the content is warned for, by specifics of what occurs in the text, to give people the chance to make the most informed decision they can about whether to play. that's it.

as for the rest of it... there's things in there that I understand. I get being frustrated that you can't fully explore the extent of the operative's trauma, yet; I get feeling like the rest of the crew don't trust you, or like rohan is a bitch. they don't, and xe is.

the thing that I find disagreeable about a lot of these criticisms (and similar ones) is that I think they betray a fundamental misreading of the text: the operative is a war criminal. they are heavily armed, unstable, and trapped on a ship with civilians. they kill multiple civilians in chapter one; they might well attempt to kill rohan in front of everyone, and later succeed in doing so. they are a confirmed murderer, who by and large refuses to tell the civilians why they are so angry with rohan. this is by design.the focus of this story is very much about coming to terms with your trauma - from long before you meet rohan! you've been medically experimented on, had your personhood denied for a long time, and had any kind of human empathy stamped out of you. part of the point of the game is for me to explore how trauma can be expressed in ways that are deeply unpalatable - the operative is not a "perfect victim" (a phrase I loathe) and their trauma impacts the way they move through the world, drawing out reactions that aren't wholly sympathetic or empathetic, because their actions are often unjustified and cause real harm, or seem that way to those who don't have full context.

this is why joia is important, this is why your relationships with the crew are important. the crew aren't intended to be author voices, they're not the moral compass here or audience stand-ins: they aren't supposed to represent the "correct" approach to dealing with other people's trauma. no character in this situation is intended to be seen as perfect, but as a way to shine light on different facets of the story.

the operative is built a very specific way, for very specific reasons: this is intentional. they are a person who has been deliberately dehumanised, used as a weapon, who volunteered and fought for the right to be a scientific guinea pig for the war crimes company, in order to be of greater use to said company. they have had their bodily autonomy violated so habitually, for their whole career - they have been coercively used as a test subject by their employer - that they can't see it as an abnormal violation. this isn't to say it is justified, or to diminish the traumatic impact rohan has, but... it's not the operative's first rodeo here, even if it's the player's.

they're bad at processing their emotions. the operative Does Not Cry: this is a character choice I have made. this is because they have had that emotional response beaten out of them. the operative isn't capable of taking their own trauma seriously, because they're not equipped to deal with it. they can't look at it head-on.

likewise, nash isn't capable of being a gentle, reassuring, sympathetic person, much as they might want to; a big part of that relationship is the idea that the pair of you have to relearn to how to relate to one another in your new contexts, and that isn't a smooth process. nash also has reasons to be reticent with you that are yet to be explored - this relationship is undergoing development, with both of you as violent people who commit violent acts, and who relate through violence. your relationship is built on your capacity to commit violence together. they are not equipped to deal with violence affecting you in the way it might someone else, because you've both spent the last ten years being conditioned and trained to assault other people. part of the theme of this game is to explore the way these people might experience a uniquely traumatic violent event, and the effect this might have on their own capacity to endure and process violence again themself.

I understand that it might not be the way people want to play their characters, but it's the way the character is written, and I am doing that on purpose. all I'm asking is that you trust me when I say that this is not going to be swept under the rug, even in the least volatile relationship you can have with rohan. if that's not possible for you - if you can't trust me to do this - then you're welcome to stop playing.

[aq2003]

i think it is very silly to react to dropout's response like "why were people mad, you know the cast and crew are pro palestine" yeah exactly and if they weren't i don't think attempting to push a petition/boycott to them about this would do anything. the result of them acknowledging this was a net good. twenty thousand dollars

[uhhlifeig]

Cuddle - Dec. 10th - word count: 392 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Remus Lupin was lying on his bed in the dormitory. 

He had been laying there for who-knows-how-long, staring vacantly at the hanging curtains. 

His day really hadn’t been all that great, and he was so tired- but it seemed like he could never sleep well. 

There was always some issue with his position, or his clothes, or the sensations around him. If he actually fell asleep, he was always plagued by nightmares. 

It had gotten to the point where Remus had no idea what to do anymore, because nothing he tried ever worked, and Madam Pomfrey refused to give him Dreamless Sleep potions, citing how “the effect reduces if you use it too much.”

Remus sighed, turning over in his bed, right as Sirius walked into the dorm.

“Hey, Moony. Are you okay?” Sirius asked, taking in Remus’s appearance. Remus was sure he looked terrible, and that his eye bags were probably deep enough to store a textbook in.

Sirius stepped closer to Remus’s bed, leaving his bag on the floor near the door. “Moony, are you okay?” he repeated, when Remus gave no answer. “You kinda look like shit, mate. Do you need anything?”

Now. Now was his chance to make a move.

“I mean, some cuddles would be nice, if you’re up for it?” Remus asked hesitantly, afraid of scaring Sirius off. When Sirius didn’t immediately answer, Remus’s brain kicked into overdrive. 

What if he thinks it’s weird? Does he think I’m weird? Does he think I’m a no-good, poor, werewolf freak? What if-

“Of course, Moons. Whatever you need,” Sirius said, successfully diverting the self-deprecating thoughts. “Do you want me to just, er, get in bed with you?”

Remus smiled tiredly. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

Sirius took off his shoes and socks, leaving them on the floor, and got onto the bed. 

Remus immediately latched his arms around Sirius’s wrists once he was fully on the bed, pulling him so that he was laying down next to Remus, who then grabbed him in a sort-of hug, which pulled them closer together.

Sirius smiled down at Remus, who had buried his face in the crook of his neck. “Do you want me to stay here, Moons?”

Remus nodded, tightening his grip around Sirius’s torso. 

Needless to say, Remus had one of the best sleeps of his life that day.

[yashley]

but I am just completely in love with matt for getting mic feedback 1nce and being like "--yes that was the psychic reverb of the solstice..........." "--a snake nearby is spooked and hisses.............." "--somewhere a ship's horn screeches". king i love u it's so so good

[dyemelikeasunset]

I'm having a moment of severe weakness/anxiety but I got a very shocking anon a couple days ago that said the way I draw Black people seems racist and I guess I just wanted to ask any of my Black followers if you've ever had concerns about antiblack insensitivity from me or my art

I've read up on caricatures so I know what to avoid, but maybe I missed something? I've also asked friends and they all said it was likely a troll since the anon used a slur, but I want to use it as a learning opportunity in case I sincerely fucked up

[chaewberry]

the art of touching

diluc ragnvindr x reader word count; 6.8k tags; friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst and hurt/comfort, blood and injury, reconciliation, when your love language is being annoying asf. epilogue; chapter one; part one, part two

READ ON AO3!

You continued to walk through the city; you, trying to steer the Captain off course one step at a time, having the most fun when he’d realise he’d been guiding you wrong the whole time and gently steering you back toward the path that led to the gates. Every so often you’d stop to pet a cat, bending down to the feline despite Diluc’s half hearted warning about staining your dress before he himself kneeled down to deliver the petulant animal a scratch under the chin. Then, you were on your way again, stepping carefully not to slip into ice slicked stones.

You asked him your questions about the questionable material you’ve been reading - “how dangerous can a simple glance be, or a kiss?” - and after he laughed at the state of the book itself, declaring you to be the most awful of readers he had met with the most love for books regardless, he answered you as honestly as he could. On the matter of touch Diluc was indeed forthcoming, explaining in muted detail what harm a touch can cause, as if he were an expert on such things. The insinuation that he was not vexed at him, which made you laugh again and again, despite the shimmering in his eyes.

“But,” you said, “you don’t always think of the meaning of your actions - sometimes you just do things without thinking too much about them, or the consequences.”

“I suppose,” Diluc conceded. “But whether my intentions behind such actions are misinterpreted are not entirely my fault.”

“Kindness without honesty can be manipulative.”

“Doesn’t it depend on the person my kindness is intended for?”

You conceded, “I suppose.”

People would occasionally stop and greet the young Captain, old ladies cooing and fingers twitching towards his cheeks before remembering themselves — this was no longer the small spitfire child that would ran through the streets with a sword too big for his small hands, but a man grown with a post too insurmountable to measure by the weight of his claymore.

A few particular inquiries slipped in, the nature of which made Diluc’s cheeks blaze as he vehemently shook his head. His arm, wounded around yours - he was escorting you, nothing else - would tense up, tighten around yours, most likely unwittingly. A few of the old cronies even fussed around you. One tightened up your winter coat around you, tying up a few buttons you had, due to laziness, left open, chiding you as she did so. “Young ladies like you are prone to colds!” You agreed with her, despite the fact that you hadn’t fallen ill once in the last three years. As she rounded up on Dilic and started fussing about the state of disarray his clothes were in (“why does it matter if you were training? Shame on you!”), you wondered how different your walk around town would be perceived if you weren’t currently hanging on the Darling’s arm. 

Soon enough however you took pity on the Captain and his now rosy pinched cheeks and attempted to make your daring escape, swiftly making up an excuse to pardon your retreat. Tagging at Diluc’s sleeves, you guided him away from an unthinkable fate. Any teasing remarks about the hubbub of old cronies cooing over Diluc’s cheeks wouldn’t be nearly enough to convey the sheer hilarity of the situation, so you simply stayed silent and filed the images away for later use. Promising blackmail material and whatnot. You’d have a good laugh over it with Kaeya later on too, to be sure.

“Then, what about a glance?”

Diluc hummed. “I can see how it can be dangerous.” He grabbed the book from where it was nestled at your side, flipping through the pages for a moment and reading some passages sporadically. “This is a predetermined story - you don’t have to ask yourself if the emotional glance of the knight towards the main lead in the story is hateful or endearing. It’s clear.”

“How so?” you asked, the gripping urge to hear his thoughts on the abysmal reading material too delectable to let go. You’ve read that book a handful of times already, from start to finish, from cover to cover, you had creased the pages where something had caught your interest and kept them that way until that interest was resolved, the meaning behind a word or action found, and then straightened out the dogged page out.

There were no fresh interpretations you could hear from the Captain, nothing too scandalising that would have you clutching at your pearls in astonishment — but the more he talked, the more surprise you derived from the knowledge Diluc seemed to have for such tasteless literature. He thought of him staying up to read such drivel brought a smile to your lips. You wondered, not for the first or last time, how much of his personality was buried beneath the heavy coat of duty and honour; two characteristic traits that in others played a mute role, but to the young Captain were his idiosyncrasies.   

These aimless conjectures that were building up within your mind came to a sharp finale when the sour smell of Sumerian tabasco mingled with the sharp winter snow and soon, something far worse than gossiping old ladies stopped in front of your path.

The elder Master Ragnvindr was a cutting figure amongst the commoners of the city, with his towering form, shocking red hair and eyes that held too much familiarity for you to be truly lax under their gaze — a shrewd man, for he had to be in order to have come so far after making an enemy of all the old families in Mondstadt. A lesser man would have crumbled a long time ago (you were not un familiar with the underhanded techniques used to undermine and overthrow, to humiliate and offer faux paus sympathy in the faces mirroring despair), and yet here stood this man on his own two feet, gravitated by his own power and through means entire his own.

Even your mother, a woman in a class of her own, tiptoed around Crepus Ragnvindr, a witting contrast to your father, who often met the man head on when it came to tampering with his business.

Diluc paused. “Father.”

The arm curled around your elbow tightened for a moment before letting go completely. You left your arma dangling by your side for a mere moment before clasping them together. Your gloves did almost nothing to prevent the coldness that now seeped within the seams of the fine garments and, the further Diluc stepped from you, the colder the air around you seemed to get. The vision hangs from his hip like a talisman. The falling snowflakes evaporated into nothingness around it.

It must be nice to always be this warm.

“Diluc, Miss Wolfram,” Master Crepus greeted, bowing slightly as he addressed you. “I hope I am not intruding.”

“Not at all,” you said, beating Diluc to it and watching with mild disinterest as the boy clamped his mouth shut. “This kind knight was simply escorting me to the gates - my coachman is waiting for me, ready to deliver me home at once.”

“It is getting rather late,” the man nodded, smiling, “But I am glad to see that you’ve been faring well, Miss Wolfram, and of course, the fact that you get along with Diluc pleases me as well.”

“Father!” Diluc all but yelped, looking ready to stomp his foot in the snow and deny the seemingly baseless accusations the older man threw at you two. “It is not like that.”

When your father, the heir to a world renowned family of merchants that stemmed back to the Mondstandt of old, had agreed to transport Crepus’ wines to all four corners of the world, had dealt such a nasty hand to the man in front of you you wondered how it was that their business transactions went on for three more years. Finally, though, it seemed Master Crepus patience was all but wrinkled out, for in a manner of days he terminated the contract and pulled all business dealings away from your father’s company, opting instead to pour his wine locally and share it now with the rest of the world through a Sumerian transporting goods company.

Of course, you were not without shame.

Even though Master Crepus had always been nothing but amiable; welcoming you into his house whenever you decided to venture into it with nothing but a smile and pleasant words, making sure you lacked nothing during your stay, no food, no water, sweet delicacies served by maids in masterfully crafted ceramic plates and the freedom to venture into the Master’s personal library inside his office where the smell of ink, the yellowing pages of hard covered books and the kindled wonder of what said pages contained brought you back to the still waters of the lake, the soft grass underneath your palms, a false sense of anonymity.

Of course, you’d rarely venture into that part of the house, not unless one or two brothers were with you; an admission which mortified you, however slightly, because when did you ever know shame? When have you ever known to display it — how could you not?

There were fine lines that shouldn’t be overstepped. That was all.

You had no doubt that hidden beneath the heavily veiled layers of hospitality and freely given privileges, the elder Ragnvindr was by no means thrilled to house you and feed for those few hours which you made your presence in his household known.

A kind man indeed, though no less shrewd. Surely. 

Resisting the urge to shove a clump of snow down his throat you turned to the flustered first son, blinking innocently at him. “Are we not getting along then, Captain? It seems I have overstepped.” You made sure to take a full step back from Diluc now, covering your face with your fan. “How embarrassing - I will make sure to keep my distance from now on.”

Teasing him was fun — watching him going through the five stages of grief as you twisted his words into something foul and threw them right back at his face was ecstatic. There was something to be said about such corrupted notions.

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

“Woe is me!”

It was the oldest trick in the book in the line of nobility; using offsprings, the promise of companionship and friendship to weasel out secrets. Secrets which would be then used to deal a heavy blow to one’s enemy, crippling and despairing if one was much too fond of money and reputation. It was something your mother had always drilled into you and your brother both — and also why your friendship with the outcast nobility both infuriated her while simultaneously pleased her. Your father, on the other hand, would rather lay down on the gardens and lick the dirt off of every stone and pebble before he willingly invited Diluc or Kaeya into his home, bending such a strict rule only on special occasions, such as birthday parties, where he stood plastered to the wall, becoming one with the paint while he hawked on.

It would have made for an excellent anecdote if not for the mortification dwelling deep within your bones. It was clear that neither boy had ever felt welcomed into your family’s manor, which in turn made you all the more unwilling to step foot into Dawn’s Winery and all the more willing to invite them over as much as you liked and could. Their discomfort, though feeding your own, was sometimes the best amusement you could derive from this dreadful back and forth.

Diluc, in particular, was so transparent at times that you couldn’t help but want to take a stab at the heart he had taken to adorning in his sleeve. Sometimes you wanted to squeeze his neck between your hands and watch him squirm. Sometimes you just wanted to see him squirm regardless of whether you were the cause or not. It must be all the rage boiling beneath your skin. Diluc had so much — so much to give, so much to be taken away. The Darling of the city, the Young Captain, the Master-to-be.

Woe is me. 

You cleared your throat, intricately, like a lady should, and hid beneath it the laugh that threatened to burst from behind your teeth.

(Kaeya had once said, inexplicably, “there’s no hiding what you are, Wolfram.”)

“Do I have to say that we get along three times for you to believe me?” Diluc asked, eyes glued to yours. His sudden sombre expression and crossed arms made you want to win this spat even more, made you want to stop before you put your foot where your mouth was, hear something you didn’t care to hear.

“No. That would be a weird way to phrase it,” you smiled, lowering the fan. “Say you like me three times and then I’ll believe you.”

Of course — who would you be if not a constant construct even to your own self, your own hands picking at a stubborn scan and licking the fresh blood that poured out? It was an undilated moment of catharsis to look at the reflection in the mirror and recognize at least the worst aspects of what made you you .

Crepus was apparently content in waiting out your antiques, only looking mildly amused if one took regard to the slight upturn of his lips.  If he had caught on to whatever game you were playing with his son or with him, he didn’t say.

“I will not be doing that. It’s highly inappropriate.” Diluc couldn’t even bother to seem mirthful by the idea, nor flustered or bothered. You would have taken any reaction but the lithe one that seemed to take over his face at the moment, betraying nothing.

“So you see,” you turned to Crepus, no longer feeling cold, “we do not get along, please cease feeling pleased.”

Diluc was such a filial son. The pragmatic ideology you harboured had been proven thus indeed to be true. You would have taken one softly muttered, hardly uttered, measuredly whispered I like you than three blunted and crude ones. Yet the knight couldn’t even give you that in front of a father he diligently admired. The taste of betrayal would most likely sear his tongue off.

The thoroughly mirthful Crepus in front of you had you grinding your teeth. Banking on your misery, surely he knew how much the fact aggravated you. You would abhor every word that’d come out of his mouth. 

“I must apologise on behalf of my son, Lady Wolfram,” the man said, turning the world on its axis. “He is still young and a stranger to notions such as charm, as chivalrous as he may appear to be.”

Diluc sputtered at your side, positively fuming now, steam rising from beneath the soles of his shoes, the snow that had landed on top of his red crown melting.

Unsettled, having lost track of your position in the conversation, you floundered for what to say — something ambiguous, surely, for it wouldn’t do to entirely agree with him or flat down reject his statement regarding the buffoonery display his son had insulted you with.

“I find his foolishness quite charming.”

There; a statement that was possibly lacking any resemblance of seriousness and could be seen as mocking, or perhaps it could be you, one of Diluc’s unknown element that had shoved itself into his life when Kaeya had brought you into the grape fields to catch butterflies and whatnot, simply uttering a teasing remark splattered with a modicum of fondness.

Whatever the case, Diluc took the teasing from both you and his father lightheartedly, even laughing alongside one Crepus’ following remarks despite it. A gentle, tender and modest boy who wanted his ambitions and title to overshadow the last remnants of childhood and shed the last traces of baby fat sitting on his face.

Diluc was genuine in everything he did, putting his entire self and body in his endeavours.

You laughed at something he said, talking animatedly with his father, and hid the sour expression threatening to overtake your face behind a smile.

More pointless chatter followed until your coachman stumbled through the gates, pale and almost out of breath from fright. His condition only worsened when he laid eyes upon the head of the Ragnvindr family and you almost lost the man to a stray rock laying on the road. You watched him trip over it, stumbling not unlike a fool before righting himself once again. He bowed with respect to the men by your side before settling to you with an imploring, almost pleading gaze.

“My lady, it is getting rather late,” he said, “your Lady Mother will be waiting for you.”

Crepus stepped forward. “It was thoughtless  of us to have occupied the young lady’s time as much as we did. I must implore you, however, to wait a mere moment more.” He turned around and signaled with his hand. A man you hadn’t seen before standing behind Crepus came forward. Bowing at the waist, he held up a considerably expensive looking bottle of wine.

Crepus, thanking the man, turned to you. He was smiling still, and you could only surmise that you had been caught in some peculiar way. You withered as the last few seconds of a sweet yet short lived victory vanished in front of your eyes.

The man could have opened his mouth and said that he was buying out your father’s business and leaving your family utterly and despicably destitute — truly, he could’ve said anything, and you would still be less bewildered.

“For your birthday next month. An early gift, if I am allowed.”

The bottle in his hands seemed to you not unlike the forbidden fruit. Still, you accepted it with grace, careful not to fumble. “I - thank you, my Lord. I was not aware…,” you paused, hands tightening around the cool neck of the bottle. In truth, you were wholly unprepared for the reality of someone like Crepus remembering your birthday, much less caring enough to go through the trouble of procuring a gift for you.

No longer after he and your father parted in anger, common invitations for events such as these had stopped, even though you had meticulously tried to keep the tradition going with Kaeya and, consequently, Diluc, every invitation you’d sent would go unanswered.

A laugh pushed itself out of your mouth — yes, in truth you had to congratulate the man for delivering such a devastated defeat. The man took the winds right out of your sails. Barbados himself would be displeased.

“I must thank you, Master Crepus, and even more so since you saw fit to give me such an expensive gift.”

Diluc shuffled next to you but you couldn’t deign yourself to look up at him now.

You could only hope he remained as is for the rest of his life, despite the fact that he admired his father so and dogged his every footstep and hogged his every shadow. Diluc just as he was now - ignorant yet strong and brave, never petty or particularly mad - was truly the best outcome you could wish for at this moment.

“Nonsense,” the beast of a man retorted, waving away your words. “But it would seem that I am late for an appointment. Diluc, would you be so kind as to escort Miss Wolfram and her coachman back to the carriage?”

“Of course, Father,” you heard from your left.

As it were, you could only blink down at the chilled wine on your hands. “Yes, that would be most preferable, thank you.” 

You remained silent on your way back to the carriage, afraid that if you opened your mouth filth would spew out. Worse yet, Diluc was silent. He seemed alarmingly content with staring at you and doing a disastrous job of concealing the heat in his gaze.

He must have wished to say something, gazing at you perhaps in order to gain permission, yet you only ever looked in front of you now. You felt thoroughly chided. Worst yet, embarrassment brewed hot within your veins.

The walk from the gates and over the bridge where the family carriage awaited took no more than a minute. Now, with the well meaning gift in hand, your coachman opened the carriage door, silently ushering you inside with a delicate bow.

You glanced back towards the city walls one more time, noting how high they stood indeed with morality etched into the very stone and the falcons flying overhead. With a hand, you tried as best as you could to gather up your silk skirt to mount the carriage, except the step of the damned thing was all too high already — incredulously, the cold bite of the chilled wine was thus removed from your grasp, replaces by numbing warmth as Diluc, no close to you once again, sought fit to assist you. 

The urge to slap his hand away was making the skin of your fingers itch — and yet your traitorous knobs of flesh and bones, so cold perhaps that have grown a consciousness of their own, now freely sought out that would make blood flow again. And so, having already taken the offered - offending - peace offering, you used the momentum he granted you to push up into the carriage before one particularly expensive wine was once again pushed into your care.

You only glanced at the boy waiting outside the coach window one last time before the coachman started urging the horses onwards — perhaps there was a semblance of blame on your face, unwittingly as it would have been, for Diluc to look at you the way he did before he disappeared out of sight.

The Wolfram family manor was rather conveniently located away from the city and Springvale village; a plot of land in the wilderness of the small and boundfull nation which your family had bought some thousand years ago, right after the fall of Decabarian and the old city that now laid in ruins, rumoured to be housing one wild beast or another.

Build into the slopes of the mountain near Starnatch Cliff, it was a true labour of petty love and vain pride, higher than any other, overlooking down the thick patches of trees and far away into the city with the beautiful big windmills and the glistening river encircling it — your ancestors must have truly felt as if they stood on top of the world, crowned by the lofty clouds and with the wide open mania that was the ocean down below, their feet steeped into the cold, harsh sand. The sun never shined above that particular shore, and almost always the winds were howling against the rocky mountains surrounding it.

From your room you could see only the sea, stretched out as far as the eye could see, losing sight of where the water started and where the sky ended. An endless barrage of blue, so maddening to the eye if one were to stare at it for longer than five minutes, more than ten, so easy to get lost into the seemingly nothingness it offered, a vast expansion where you could stare at forever and where you throw your everything.

The paper birds sitting by the red painted window were yellowed from the sun and brittle with age, some corners crumbling, some teared off completely, the ink invincible against the folds of their wings — they would take their first and last flight out into the open ocean or they would remain inside the room with you forever. 

The house was quiet and dark when you entered save for a low fire in the fireplace which served to keep the house warm throughout the night and a few floor lamps articulately placed into corners.

Elinda, the middle aged head maid who you’d known since you were in diapers, shuffled forward, long black hair braided on her head like a crown. She said nothing as she took your coat to hang, letting instead the soft disapproval marrying her mild features tell you all you needed to know. You would have rolled your eyes - it was not so late that you needed to be scolded, nor were you at fault that the nights had grown longer and the days shorter - but gods knew the woman was dealing with as much as she could without your attitude on top of it. 

“It is well before eight.” 

“Seven-thirty, in fact, my lady.

“Then it is good that I am not late.”

She begonned you closer, all pursed lips and fluttering hands, fusing over the snowflakes that had decorated your hair, the state of your clothes, the coldness sipping into your fingers. “There has been a quarrel,” Elinda admitted, grabbing you by the wrists and marching you in front of the fireplace. She sat you down on the pillows which had been placed on the floor, on top of the expensive carpet your mother had bought from Sumeru some years ago. “Your good mother and brother - oh, it was dreadful.”

You held your hands close to the fire, feeling the coldness melting from your joints. “You should stop worrying about such matters Elinda, gods know your hair will gleam silver before its time.”

“Do not jest, my lady,” she admonished softly, sitting behind you, fiddling with your hair; unbraiding, unpinning, brushing the soft knots out in a most gentle manner you had no patience for yourself. “It was quite serious. I will not think you a fool in the matter, for surely you must know something.”

“And?”

Her hands faltered for a moment. “And I would implore a show of patience and reverence in the days to follow. If not for your mother then for yourself.”

“Mm. How is mother?”

Elinda’s gentle hands worked through knots. She grabbed the brush she had deposited by her side and, running it through your hair, she replied, “down with a low burning fever. His Lordship brewed some medicine for her and she is now resting.”

The probability of your father abandoning his study to take care of your mother’s health instead of registering the task to a servant was hardly a surprise. The man had always been sensitive to your mother’s needs, more so since her bouts of mass hysteria had doubled the last few years. It was an illness that had long plagued the Lady of the house, even before she married into the Wolfram family.

That part of him, you didn’t know what to make of.

“I am glad it’s nothing serious then,” you answered, pinching at the hem of your dress that was wet with snow.

“I know, my lady. Should I braid your hair for bed?”

“No, leave it,” you said, rising from the feathered pillows in front of the fireplace. “Can you please fetch me some bathing oils?”

Despite Elinda’s protestations and endeavours of sending you off to bed immediately, turning a blind ear to your own objections and complaints about going to bed with a day’s worth of dirt and tiresome weight upon you, in the end she dejectedly went to fetch the oils while you climbed up to your room. Your fingers had warmed now enough to fumble with the laces of your corset nimbly. You threw it somewhere on the floor next to your bed, followed shortly after by your dress which was hanging onto your body like a skirt, and then the old-fashioned undergarments you should’ve burned in the garden at the back of the manor a long time ago. The stockings you placed into the bin with the other unwashed clothes for Elinda to take away.

Whatever jewellery you wore was promptly taken off and laid out on the vanity table. It was the only thing in the entire house that had been imported from Fontain, with a large mirror and impeccable craftsmanship. Everything else was a mix of Mondstadt and Sumeru. Your mother had taken the task of remodelling and re-decorating to an outwardly level, and your father could do nothing but accept her whims and wishes. Despite her misgivings, her taste was impeccable.

You stood in front of the freestanding bathtub, oval in shape and pitch black, waiting for the water to turn scalding hot and fill the tub. 

Elinda, none the wiser and too preoccupied with balancing the necessary items needed for your bath in a wooden tray to take stock of your state of undress, only paused to blink before resuming with her work. She set everything up in a small round table you had placed next to the tub. “I brought the lavender oil for your bath tonight; I heard it is good for the nerves, so please do not be afraid to use it.”

Unperturbed, she steered you towards the bath, now filled with steaming water, and all but forced you inside as if you were an unsuspecting victim -- you let her manhandle you to her heart’s content. The rapid warmth that wrapped your senses and flesh untangled your nerves and put a stop to your mind. You sighed, sinking further beneath the calm waters and closed your eyes.

Elinda retreated from the room only to return ten minutes later with a cup of tea in hand. She left it at the table next to the bath and set upon putting the bubbles and the lavender oil on the water, scolding you in a manner that only made you laugh at her. She then assiduously proceeded to scrub whatever skin she could grab on until it was red and raw before taking a hold of your scalp. You would have felt threatened by the tight grip on your hair if it was anyone else. Elinda, as it were, worked you so thoroughly you almost went under, blinking roughly the traces of sleep and water out of your eyes.

You managed to chase her out in the end, but not before promising her you would take utmost care in not drowning. 

“How old am I, do you think?”

The old suffering look she threw at you as she left did nothing to curb your laughter.

Despite the hot bath mixed with everything lavender and the chamomile tea you had downed, sleep scarcely touched you again, leaving thereafter to twist and turn on your bed, underneath the covers, as if you were in mourning. The long sleeved, silky nightgown you wore that reached down your ankles further drove you to madness; riding up with every move you made until it rested just below your hips.

Perhaps it was still too early for your body to sleep.

Reasoning with this, you threw the covers off your body and left the bed. Rummaging through the personal items Elinda had picked up and brought to your room before retiring for the night, you finally fished out the accursed book you had read from cover to cover, every word detestable, every description of imagery annoyingly overdone and with a prose too flowery for your liking; in a word, the book was truly something for ancient tastes, and the housewife’s of old no doubt took great pleasure in gathering at each other’s houses in order to dissect the then scandalous passages over tea and biscuits.

You sat down on the divet next to the gargantuan windows, gazing out towards the black sea and the brittle rocks that stood against its rampant and constant lashes.

You flipped through the book again, stopping at random pages to read random paragraphs in order to further instill your hatred for that particular piece of literature. There were so many more pieces such as this, old and new, that you’d never be rid of the genre. The only saving grace you had at your disposal was if the old crony finally moved on from such doomed love affairs and ecstatic erotic adventures and into something more of substance. 

Now, awake and irritated, you sprung up from the divet and stalked out of your room, careful not to make too much noise, lest Elinda materialized out of the shadows like a monster out of the abyss, smelling the sleeplessness on you.

As you tip-toed down the stairs, clutching your nightgown above your ankles, you strained out your ears for any sound of activity. If your mother was resting from her fever then your father must surely be at his study, poring over the last documents of tonight's work before retreating to bed at your mother’s side. You surmised that Federick, your brother, must’ve shut himself in his room after his argument with her and has now long escaped through the windows of the manor. 

You had caught him enough times to now know that he was as slippery as he was irritating.

The family library was on the second floor of the three story manor — a true testament to your mother’s roots which stemmed deep within Sumeru. Her collections were her pride and joy and an endless endeavor on her part. When you and Frederick were young she would sit you in front of the fireplace your father had built in the vast room an a sea of pillows and blankets and read aloud for hours upon hours; classical myths from nations from far and beyond, historical records about past civilizations that were new laid to rest beneath the raging sea, about ruins, brittle and yet everlasting, basking underneath the sun, of ancient forests and trees that were connected with the very essence of life, of trees whose roots connected every continent together, mythical retellings tinged with more adventure and romance, the noble sacrifices of heroes, waxing poetics of immortal being that still walked around.

Back then, when her healthy mind and body reigned over her illness, she was a person who you sought out frequently. Now, the fireplace always remained cold even in the winter, and scarcely was the enormous table in the middle of the room used.

Except, as it seemed, for today.

You walked through the low lit hallways, your footsteps silenced by the soft and plush carpet underneath your slipped feet. Your mind was half lost in thought when you saw the room to the library half opened, light streaming out of the gap and spilling into the hallway, just a few steps shy of hitting your figure in your nightgown. You made to walk in -- it was not, after all, unlikely for someone to be in the room, owners of the house and servants alike. Knowledge was abundant and everyone was free to pursue it in the Wolfram estate. Even Kaeya, when he felt brave enough to pay a visit, had taken to reading the tomes in the library before enlisting your help to sneak some of them out and returning them a week later. Were you brave enough to do the same in the Ragnvindr manor, you no doubt would uncover many hidden wonders, though as it were, you were only warm enough to the belief of admiring from afar.

The first step was taken, your grip on your nightgown loosened, spirits ready to conduct a warm greeting to whomever was at the other side of the door. You paused once again, however, when you heard the familiar tone of your father’s voice, speaking in a way he did whenever he was aggrieved by something or someone, only mere steps away from unmounting the old family sword from the wall and skewer someone thoroughly through.

And another voice as well, rolling over your straining ears like a current, no less tinged with irritation but lower in tone. 

You crept closer, plastering yourself on the wall as if to become one with the paint, hair brushing against your cheek. From the opened crack you could see only the stranger’s back, covered with a black winter coat made out of the finest animal pelt, and an egregious high hat he deemed tasteful enough not to take it off at his entry to the manor and entirely focused on arguing back against your father.

A foolish endeavor; your father never cared enough about anything to be forced to argue back and forth. The man’s fervent attempts, therefore, should be at least commended.

“Enough,” your father said. “I’ve discussed this numerous times. No matter what you tell me, my answer will be the same as it has always been.”

“We have an opportunity now,” the stranger went on, “he can be our prize winning stallion in this dispute.”

“Dispute? Stallion? You have been a fumbling fool at every turn. No prize is worth the risk for what you’re doing.”

“I disagree.”

“Then do so with your reflection. This discussion is done.”

You could have laughed at your father’s dry tone.

The stranger kept quiet for a moment before gathering up the courage to speak again. “There have been some concerning rumors lately regarding an ancient noble family, talks of an alliance through the means of -,”

The unmistakable sound of a palm hitting wood made you jump, jarring you from your frozen state and almost making you lean forwards on the door. 

“Insulting me with your baseless conjectures will only serve to drive me further from you and the others. Let me put your mind at ease; such rumors are false when it comes to my family. I neither want nor have a need for such an alliance.”

Even after the magnitude of refusals the man refused to take a step back. You could imagine the wheels inside his head spinning with all sorts of promises and talk delivered with such flowered prose that he could deliver amiably enough to make your father’s stand on the manner upon which they were arguing about take a different and more favourable route.

You, however, with a burning feeling settling itself in your stomach and an itch to pull that hat off that man’s head, decided to do what you did best. Knowing neither shame nor tact, you pushed the door open and called out, “Father.”

Both men turned with various degrees of alarm; your father, who had both hands on the table and was bending over documents and books, did nothing but merely blinked at your ill time's arrival. Your presence didn’t seem to startle him at all — the same couldn’t be said for his companion, who at the same time you spoke up, jumped and clutched his hat atop of his head, fumbling to pull it further down on his face. He whirled around, taking in your state of dress. He struggled, caught between wanting to properly greet the daughter of the man in front of him or taking his roaming eyes away from the satin nightgown that hugged your body.

“Ah, greetings to the young lady of the house.”

Your father interjected, “this young lady should be in bed by now.”

“My apologies for interrupting, father,” you said, eyes still glued to the strange man. “I couldn’t fall asleep so I came down to borrow a book.”

He sighed, sounding more dejected than he should. “Go on and grab a book then, while I walk our guest to the door.”

The smile you gave him could rot away teeth. “As you wish, your Lordship.”

The man, half a step out of the library, turned his head to the left, giving you one last glance, while your father walked ahead. You considered dropping the smile adorning your face, but in the end all you did was clasp your hands behind your back and lock your ankles together as you bed him goodnight in a manner handsome enough befitting your station.

Left alone in the room, you made a considerable attempt to feign propriety and not google at the papers scattered throughout the old oaken table — you stalked forward nonetheless, fingers grazing their edges before sitting down on the chair your father had presumably used. Making sure not to disturb them from their original position, your eyes greedily soaked up the information written on them.

Letters regarding the trading routes with Liyue, a rather concerning letters from a trading company with Inazuma stamps and a stain you could only hope was blood, a miniature map of Mondstadt with old and new routes penned down, marking the dangerous ones with red marks, letters of business between your father and his competitors or friends.

Nothing interesting caught your eye so far, and every passing second your curiosity dwindled down to spluttering ambers. 

You got up from the chair and made your way to the shelves. While you searched for a book that would catch your fancy, you mind raved over the possibilities and likely scenarios. In retrospect, the lack of any substantial information in this room was the most realistic outcome. Your father wouldn’t dare to keep anything of import laying around anywhere in the house. Everything he kept close to his chest was more likely to be found underneath the floorboards in his study or locked away in one of the drawers of his desk.

But, living in ignorance was not something you could ever aspire in life — and so, with two new books underneath your arm and a prep in your steps, off you skipped and schemed.

[pipinpali]

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—--

1/?? — Screwed Up

Next part ->

TW!: blood, injury, mentions of death, language, violence

Word count ~ 1000 words

—--

Randall crawled out from beneath heap of metal scraps and junk which was supposed to be the entrance of his home; evident by the old carvings on one of the pieces of cardboard from the couple of kids that liked to follow him around.

'These storms are more of a problem than I thought,' the smallfolk bristled. He sighed, deciding to get to fixing it later, and brushing away the feeling.

He was a busy man with deals to make and suckers to cheat. With his self-built confidence, he adjusted his scarf, tugged at his socks, slicked back his hair, and brushed off his coat. Content with his look, he made his way through town.

Unfortunately, travel wasn't the easiest thing in the homey town (which Randall had never learned the name of in all of his 9 years living there), in fact, it was one of the hardest.

Randall dashed towards the exit of the dark alley, stopping abruptly before he was cast in the light of the orangey last hours of sunshine. He peeked around the corners for the beast that made him believe the "man's best friend" title was bullshit. Good thing for him, all he could see was the metal rod in the ground and the thick chains that it was usually tied to. He was relived he didn't have to climb up the old downpipe today.

There was still dangers that Randall had to face, the most important being one of those big people. Despite the charismatic smallfolk's rather impressive height of 12.7 cm, amongst giants; he was thought of like a rat.

With that in mind, Randall carefully, cautiously, stayed near the towering apartment buildings, making sure he wasn't close to the middle of the sidewalk where all the foot traffic of a couple of people here and there was. Over the half hour or two he was scampering along, there were a few close calls of almost being spotted, but he prevailed and made it to his destination.

Readying himself, Randall jumped and caught his hands on the grooves of the decorated stone which acted somewhat like a ladder for the folks that visited. He climbed -- ableit with a bit of struggle -- up the massive building, one that was home to the Bright Market, the "hot-spot for money making." Heaving himself onto the back of the large, glowing sign that read something along the lines of "Pet-ee's," he was met with familiar sight of the bustling stalls.

Randall knew where he needed to be, as did the fools who accepted his offer. Little did he know, though; that it might be his last.

He walked towards the back of market, nearing the edge of the vast roof-top, where he saw the same brute of a man sitting on a makeshift bench; the one who asked for his services in the first place.

The conman leaned against a post, eyeing the client with his usual confident gaze, the phantom of an amused smile on his face. "So, you got the bits?" He inquired.

"I've heard from a friend that you have quite the reputation, Mr. Franklin," the toned man stated with his deep, gravely voice, his fingers tracing his whiskers.

Randall bristled. He didn't tell the man his last name. Things sudden felt a lot less safe. From the corner of his eye, he could spot a handful of others nearing where they were conversing. "...I see you have," he responded, attempting to keep up his charismatic demeanor, though; the change in tone made it known that he had a good idea as to what was going on.

"...They said they wanted the money back," the man said, finally making eye contact with Randall. He sat up at an intimidating height, slowly walking up to meet Randall at just a couple inches of distance. Something was definitely wrong.

The he dared to try and dart off to the side before things got messy- being gutted in the stomach, now pinned between the wall and the brutish man's arm before he could even get two steps away.

Randall struggled to get free, his legs kicking against the other's, searching for to get back to the floor as his hand scrambling to grab at his side for his dagger which had fallen onto the floor.

His eyes widend as the man drew back his arm; fist tightened.

Shit.

...

...

...

In his blurry vision, he squinted, trying to make sense of the growing lights and the loud growl that sounded louder and louder as a silhouette became more clear--

Randall had figured out it was a car before the very second he was nearly run over. 'Those assholes tossed me on the road while I was unconscious!' he realized. Before he could get too angry about it, adrenaline buzzed in his head. He needed to get somewhere safe before something killed him.

As Randall attempted to stand, a shot of pain in his legs knocked him back to the ground. He reeled, sucking in air before he let out a strangled cry. 'Don't do that again,' he noted to himself.

Pitifully and painfully, he reached out his arms and started pulling himself through the gravely pavement, his body scraping against the rough texture as all nine of his fingers grasping and a few prayers setting him on his way.

After a while, the smallfolk's sensitive ears perked up at another noise — this time not a massive car barreling towards him — but instead, it was the stirrings of rain. It didn't take long for him to pelted with the sudden downpour.

Randall idly thought about giving up, yet the illuminating, towering street light ahead, standing out admists the dark, filled him with an odd and unfamiliar sense of hope.

He was close, he could leave this okay.

With that, the now determined and drenched smallfolk trudged through the ever growing puddles, nearing the sidewalk. He thanked the gods that there weren't any big people out at this hour.

Randall was so determined, in fact, that he didn't pick up the final noise over the rain.

The most important one.

It wasn't until the light had flickered that the little conman's focus had faltered, the instinctual reminder to scan his surroundings only now ringing in his head. His mildly articulated ears perked up at the sound of something distant, almost sounding like scraping thuds...? It was rythmatic, a set pace. And like the car, it neared closer, and became louder.

Randall almost shrieked at the sight of two giant work shoes that appeared far too early and far too close, accompanied by two impossibly long legs, arms, and... -He couldn't run, he realized, nor hide. He was at the mercy of a big person of all things.

He was screwed.

Wowie kazowie lookie here!! Me? Writing?? Impossible!

—--

Im planing on making more of these but this is just here for now incase

their first meeting!! First time writing something like this,,

I made a drawing before right here of the final scene ,

[savagechickens]

Bring It On.

And more feedback.

[chimaerakid]

(possible) final draft for my arcade charm! I want it to be double sided :) I'm also thinking about making it into a sticker design as well.

please please please give some feedback if you have any! I've never made physical merch before & I'm planning on using vograce to get them made ^_^

EDIT: Here's the final design!! also read the tags in that post for some extra info :-)

[sharas]

what’s funny about velma (2023) is that they’ve already tried a dark and edgy scooby doo remake. the first live action movie from 2002 was originally directed towards adults, and was rife with dirty jokes, drug references, and cleavage shots of daphne and velma.

you know why the final product didn’t resemble that at all? bc they realized early on that the edgy grimdark angle fucking sucked. they reworked the movie to be more family-friendly— still with a complex plotline, but without the gratuitous sexual references and adult jokes. they did end up keeping a few references to shaggy smoking marijuana (his love interest being named mary jane, for one) but they were super toned down so that they’d go right over the heads of any kids watching.

it wasn’t necessarily a kids movie. i was five years old when it came out, and i loved it, but it was fun for teens and adults to watch too. and even with the dated cgi for scooby, it still has a lot of rewatch value. ask yourself if you think anyone is going to be rewatching velma in 2043 the way people still watch scooby doo twenty years after it was released.

this weird trend of the past few years of remaking fun and campy media into something edgy and full of shock value (wednesday, riverdale, and that awful winx club series come to mind) is so boring and trite and misguided. if you want to make dark media so bad, write something original instead of borrowing the barest skeletons of existing media and distorting them until they’re unrecognizable. it’s such an insult to the creators to have their stories mutilated by people who have no understanding of or appreciation for the characters or audience.

[physalian]

The Dos and Don’ts of Giving and Receiving Constructive Criticism

Some of these should be painfully obvious and yet. They come from experience.

Receiving feedback:

Do

Understand that a criticism of a character’s thoughts, actions, morality, and choices are likely not a criticism of you as an author, unless the character is an author insert

Understand that they are being paid to critique how successfully you told an entertaining story, not pander to your trauma dumping

Understand that critiquing a book’s success as an entertaining story means that how much you yourself connect with or love a character or scene or plotline is irrelevant if it doesn’t make a compelling narrative

You might have written your book for yourself. Your editor is a different person with their own human biases and perspectives. If you just want to pay someone to stoke your ego, make that 100% clear up front.

Stand up for yourself and clarify where necessary if some details were overlooked or if explaining outside the narrative can better contextualize anything confusing or lacking detail.

Stand up for yourself in what feedback you are expecting, and what degree of criticism you’re willing to endure. An editor can let more or less of their own views show depending on what you ask for.

Stand up for yourself if your editor delivers inadequate or useless feedback. You’re paying them for a job, and you deserve to have it done properly.

Try to separate dislike of a book from dislike of yourself. It’s not easy, but the goal is to fix your book that you’ve already spent a lot of time writing, and they’re only trying to help.

Remember that your author insert is subjected to the same level of criticism as any other character, and that you asked for this.

Keep an open mind and be prepared for feedback that you don’t like, because you can’t please everyone. Your editor should be able to tell you whether or not a scene or character, or plotline works separate from their own personal tastes.

Don’t

Argue with your editor over their religiosity or lack thereof and insist that adhering to genre expectations means they “worship the god of [genre]”. (really, argue with your editor over anything like this, e.g. their own sexuality, religiosity, gender, socioeconomic status).

Argue with your editor while still expecting more work from them as if your aggression will in any way positively impact their perception of your book.

Insult your editor’s intelligence for not understanding your jargon and attempts to sound smarter than you are.

Get mad when your editor sees right through your BS and calls it like they see it, specifically your self-insert Mary Sue protagonist.

Insist that the solution to better understanding your book is for that editor to do extensive homework on your niche topic. If it’s a niche book for niche audiences, hire an editor who’s already knowledgeable about that niche topic.

Equate a bad review and opinion of the book with unprofessionalism. These can overlap, but they are not interchangeable.

Forget that your book is probably meant for leisure and entertainment, and your audience is under no obligation to read “until it gets good,” when they can go do literally anything else. Your first job is to entertain, if you write fiction.

Giving Feedback:

Do

Pay attention to your client’s wants and needs and expectations. If they’re more sensitive to bad feedback, do your best and stay as objective as possible. You can’t please everyone, either.

Helpful feedback includes an explanation of why an element needs work and how it can be improved. Saying “I hate this” with nothing else helps no one and just makes the author feel bad with no direction of how to make it better.

Communicate beforehand how much of your own personality your author wants from you. Do they like personal opinions and your personal reactions to the text, or do they want it as impersonal as possible and solely focused on the structure of the narrative? This might avoid a mess.

Remember to leave notes of where things worked well to balance the criticism. Even a simple “this is good” highlighting a line or a paragraph or two helps keep authors motivated to keep writing. I firmly believe that no book is completely unsalvageable.

Make it painfully clear with no room for debate that criticism of a character is not criticism of the author, unless it's an author insert, in which case the author absolutely asked for it.

Make it clear that you are just one person and these are all suggestions, not laws.

Don’t

Let your own personal opinions cloud your judgment of whether or not someone with different tastes could enjoy the book.

Unless given permission, get too personal with the narrative and reach beyond what’s written on the page.

Do more than what you’re paid for. You’re an editor, not a therapist for the writer’s trauma dumping.

Forget to wrap up all your thoughts in a condensed format that the author can reference, as opposed to endlessly scrolling through the manuscript trying to summarize your points for you.

Walk away with absolutely nothing positive to say about the manuscript. Even if it’s awful on every front, the writer still tried and that deserves merit.

This is from my personal experience beta and sensitivity reading, and dealing with other beta and sensitivity readers. We are all human and these jobs are not one-size-fits-all and there aren’t really hardline rules as every author, editor, and manuscript is different with different needs.

Just some things to keep in mind.

But also, for the authors who do write self-insert Mary Sues: You are in for a very rude awakening if you expect anyone other than yourself to adore your book with zero criticism. If you really just want someone to proofread and look for typos, tell them.

[bekolxeram]

Searing hot take

Most of the time, I think which side you take in the breakup says more about you than whose fault it is, or even the characters themselves.

I mean it in the most affectionate way possible.

Every post I see in the bucktommy tag explaining why you side with Buck/Tommy (or even the 118 for discouraging Buck from contacting Tommy), is like a glimpse into your attachment style, your experience, your trauma.

Sometimes I really want to ask, what happened? Who hurt you? But it'll definitely come off as rude, condescending and overstepping.

So maybe what I want to ask is, how are you holding up? Does it hurt less now that we've had a month to process? Will you be okay? Can we do anything to make one another feel better?

[bg3-npc]

dash was going insane last night so I started keeping fucking notes I can be so normal about them look at how normal I can be do you wanna be normal with me it's fun

[nalina-nw]

Gouache practice #1 - Agent 4