#don’t starve hamlet

[cakeebly]

Lost

Wheeler is my favorite hamlet character!

[beezteeth]

[unpopulargoose]

Starvetober Day 1: Pig

Day one of @crazysnor1ax’s Starvetober prompt list!

I was originally gonna do Piggsbury but Wilba deserves some love <3

Also the Queen’s dress is so complicated 😭

[wtfgaylittlezooid]

I think the Ancient Fuelweaver and the Ancient Herald should kiss

[ilrococo]

and this ladies and gentlemen

is the wag on the jack

[yourfavisanageregressor]

Wilba from Don't Starve, Age regressor please

Wilba from Don’t Starve is an age regressor!

requested by @pinkiepie2008 !

[supercomputer-lizard]

which Don’t Starve do you prefer?

Don’t Starve and Don’t Starve Together are two great survival games and I want to start a problem and well, why not do it with Don’t Starve?

[weredemonz]

If you have any 🏳️‍🌈 for Wilba please (if trans, will not agree with it but still will respect your opinion)

I like the idea of Wilba first being titled as a prince, but always gravitating to her mom’s jewelry and wanting to wear poofy frilled dresses to look and dress in a similar fashion. She steadily starts enjoying more feminine clothing and styles, and wants to be called princess. Just full on ignoring guards that don’t call her the right names and pronouns. Her mom is fully supportive of this and eventually announces Wilba as her daughter and princess of the pig kingdom.

[honourablejester]

One thing I’ve never understood about D&D druids is how they’re so often imagined as stationary. They’re found ‘guarding sacred sites or watching over regions of unspoiled nature’. And, I know. This is mainly because of the imagery and popular imagination around sites like Stonehenge. But.

If I had the druid spell list? I would take Create Bonfire, and I would take Goodberry, and I would take Create or Destroy Water, and I would pack up a sleeping bag, and I would just start walking. Where? Everywhere! What’s down that road? What’s over that hill? What’s up this river? What’s past this forest? What’s over those dunes? Let’s go see! I can’t starve. I can’t parch. I can’t freeze. I can go forever. So I’m gonna.

Honestly, the druid should be the picture of the wandering vagabond. They have everything they need. You can just walk and keep walking, wherever the wanderlust takes you. You wanna go across an ocean? You can make drinking water. Ships should pay to carry you. You wanna go across a desert? A baby druid with one level and 2 measly spell slots under their belt can still make food and a gallon of water a day for 10 people. Druids should be the explorers, the navigators, the pathfinders. They can travel endlessly, without hurting that which they pass through, the very picture of ‘leave nothing but your footprints’. They can walk the earth, stopping here or there along the way to help where they need to help, and fight what they need to fight, and then they can move on again.

Yes, some druids get tired and settle down. Circles are formed, and that’s how baby druids get their starts, finding a circle. And some areas do need a permanent circle to defend or watch over them. But I do think there should be more of a picture, more of an image, more of an option, for the druid as the wanderer, the rover, the vagabond. A pocket full of berries and a wave of a hand for some rain. Just head out and follow your feet. What could stop you?

(Particularly the Stars druid, my beloved. Could there be a better picture of a navigator? That’s where a Stars druid belongs, at the prow of a ship, or guiding their people across trackless dunes, or carrying news across vast ice fields under an endless polar night to keep tiny isolated hamlets connected. Follow the stars, follow your feet. Yes, accomplish things in the process, but the journey itself is also enough. Just walk. Go. The stars will guide you).

Sorry. In real life, so often, I just really want to see what’s down that road, or over that hill. And, like. As a druid you could just go. You have all you need from a standing start. Well. You’ll have to get clothes and good boots and shit, but you can totally feed and water yourself for completely free and regardless of natural resources out there.

More druid wanderers, is my point here. Yes, still some druids guarding henges and forests, but more druids just walking about, poking their noses into things. There is no better spell list to indulge your wanderlust and curiosity. And that’s without getting into wildshape and the eventual ability to explore under the oceans and into the air. There’s a whole world full of nature. You don’t have to tie yourself to one little bit, unless you want to.

[faerievampling]

Letting Go

Minors, DNI

Read on AO3!

Summary: Tav and Astarion work through some trauma together. (and Astarion is slightly jealous)

pairing: Astarion x Female Tav

Warnings: 18+, blowjob. handjob. cunnilingus.

Word Count: 1.4k

Making your way into Rivington had been draining work. Your party, although still on a high from curing the Shadow curse, were disheartened by the state of the hamlet. With refugees and orphans everywhere, the attitude of the party was dejected, but you couldn't help but be thankful that you were alive.

When finally making camp after a long day of being at that horrible circus, you and Astarion set up your shared tent. Ever since Astarion and you had been learning how to be together and be intimate with each other, Astarion had gradually wanted more.

Once finally settled in, you and the rest of your party sit around the campfire recalling various events of the day. You notice your beloved is missing, but you figure he is likely out hunting.

However, you realize that your rogue is closer than you think when you feel a cool finger brush the tip of your ear. 

“I need to taste you, darling,” Astarion whispers, his lips so close to your ear it makes you shiver. His words send a wave of heat to your core. Your lover disappears into the darkness of the night, leaving you desperate for more of him. Trying to play it cool, you excuse yourself to your tent. 

And when you enter, he is there, with nothing but a blanket draped over his middle. Astarion looks like he was sculpted by the gods themselves; his perfect figure is statuesque. And you aren’t sure if it’s just because you’re in love with him, or if it’s just the lighting, but his smooth, porcelain skin seems to glow amidst the dark.

He chuckles at your eagerness, and next thing you know, you’re tangled up in him, and you are his.

Your clothes come off in a flurry, strong hands gripping at your exposed body as you two join in the flesh.

You lay on your back in your tent whimpering as Astarion’s lips wrap around your swollen core. He places a hand over your mouth to stifle the noise, but continues to work on the bundle of nerves at your mound, making it even harder for you to keep quiet. 

The tip of his tongue then lingers on your folds before he buries his tongue in your entrance, making deliberate strokes inside of you. His nose is pressed to your clit as he fucks you with his sweet, practiced tongue. 

You moan his name through trembling lips, and just as the crash of an orgasm is about to descend on you, Astarion pulls away, leaving you frustrated and desperate for more.  

“You must be quiet, my sweet,” Astarion whispers against your flushed skin. “We wouldn’t want any of the others to hear…or maybe we do.” 

“The others?” You manage to stutter before he inserts his tongue into your entrance once more, causing your walls to flutter around him. 

You’re at the edge again, and as you contract and squirm around your lover's tongue, Astarion takes all of you in his mouth, lapping at your folds, clit, and entrance like a starved man. As you writhe under his kisses, you cry his name as your release takes over your whole body like a possession. 

Astarion begins to trail fervent kisses up your body, littering you with them until you are face to face.

Astarion’s lips are so soft, so pretty, and covered in your juices. As his lips find yours, his tongue kisses yours, and gods does he taste heavenly.  

“Yes, darling. Don’t act like you don’t know,” He whispers tenderly between passionate kisses. And you do  know - a new batch of allies in camp had been coming on to you lately (namely Halsin, Mizora, and the fucking Emperor), much to Astarion’s dismay. You had turned them down, of course, but that didn’t mean Astarion was any less jealous.

“But after the way I just made you cry, right in the middle of camp, everyone will know that you are mine. Not to be shared.” Beneath his teasing tone was an apparent sincerity. Astarion kisses you again, cupping your cheeks as if you were something quite precious.

You smile as you both switch positions. He brushes his soft lips against yours once more before you lower yourself between his legs. Astarion moans with anticipation as his fingertips find the root of your hair, bringing your lips to touch the head of his cock. 

Your lips wet with his precum, and Astarion moans at the sight of you on his sex. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock and with a flick of your pink tongue, you lap up the rest of his juices, your tongue stroking his sensitive slit. 

Astarion’s eyes roll back before finding yours again. You wrap your lips around his tip, bobbing your head as you gradually take him deeper in your mouth. Once his tip hits the back of your throat, Astarion whimpers, and you have to keep yourself from gagging. You close your eyes to focus on pleasing him. 

You enthusiastically slide your lips up and down his shaft, twirling your tongue on his skin and focusing on the area just under the ridge of his head.

As you work to please your beloved vampire, his hand goes to your jaw, and he whispers, “Look at me,”

You know he is feeling lost in his mind, because this is always what Astarion does when he needs you to bring him back to the moment. Astarion insisted your ‘safe word’ be something that fits the moment, something normal but knowing. 

And you were more than happy to oblige.

You release your lips from him and lean over, planting a kiss on his sweet lips. “You’re here with me, Astarion.” Your voice, soft but with a hint of ferocity, has you realize just how upset you are. Upset that Astarion even feels this way; upset about his enslavement, his torture, and gods, those scars.

Feeling his discomfort from underneath you, you sit back on your heels, giving him space to bring himself to a seat.

A flicker of emotion crosses his handsome face, but you can’t decipher it. You speak slowly, “I care for you. We don’t have to do this, you know.”

Astarion’s eyes are narrowed, hungry and wanting. “But I do want you.” He responds quietly. 

“And you have me.” You smile as you begin to slip your underclothes back on, trying to maintain a facade of normalcy and be respectful of Astarion’s needs. But he stops you, and you allow your clothing to fall to the floor. 

His eyes graze over your pert nipples and gorgeous figure. You feel a bit vulnerable in the moment with such a handsome man eyeing your naked body. But you’re safe with your pale lover, and you know this, so you take a deep breath and prepare yourself to go with Astarion’s flow.

“Just…just lie down next to me, all right?” Astarion says with a rasp as he lays on his side. You slide in next to him, on your back.

Astarion puts an arm around your shoulder, supporting your neck as he cups your breast with his hand. His eyes scan you hungrily. His cock is still hard, his balls still so tight. He grasps his member in his free hand, planting a kiss on your lips as he begins to stroke himself. 

His tender kisses deepen into something more feral as his pace quickens, and he growls at the sweet taste of your lips. He’s creeping towards his climax now and the little moans that escape his lips makes your cunt quiver.

He looks so devastating in this moment, and your cunt is so wet, and you know he loves the taste of you - but you contain yourself, keeping your hands to yourself. 

Giving a final moan, Astarion spills his seed onto your stomach, his ragged breaths loud in your ear. After you have both come back to reality, Astarion finds something to clean you up with before he takes you in his arms. 

Your embrace is deep, and you’ve never felt safer than with his strong arms around you. You nuzzle your face into his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head as you both begin to drift off.

Astarion needs a lot of patience, care, and love, and you are more than ready and willing to provide. Your last thoughts are of the future, and what it may hold for you and your lover.

Masterlist

[cakeebly]

Wormwood and Wheeler!

I like to think before Wormwood figures out how to be his own lil creature, he sometimes mimics the other survivors appearances and mannerisms! That’s why his little leaf collar is like that in this one

[beezteeth]

[adambadeau]

tell me everything you know about edwin booth. Everything

Edwin Thomas Booth was born November 13 1833 to famous and renowned tragedian Junius Brutus Booth and Mary Ann Booth (neé Holmes)

as a boy, Edwin went on tour with his father. It was not a pleasant experience for him. Junius was often drunk and out of his mind. He practically had to be babysat, and Edwin had to make sure that he sent money home to the family. He also had to stand in for his father sometimes, because the old man frequently missed performances. Edwin once said that his “childhood died” on tour with his father. Luckily, Junius contracted something on a riverboat and croaked in 1852, leaving Edwin to fend for himself in the acting world. Unluckily, now Edwin’s family was starving

luckily, Edwin had hit big bucks, big fortune, and probably some sexy girls (and guys… foreshadowing) in CALI! And came home to Tudor Hall in 1856 with like. Those guns that shoot money and bags of money and cool sunglasses and a white tiger on a gold chain and a Maserati and a Hawaiian shirt and a coconut with pina colada in. and he was like “wwwwoaaah…. What the hell happened while I was gone!?” And brought his mother and siblings to live with him in Baltimore!

Edwin had several siblings, most notably being his younger brother John Wilkes, who assassinated US President Abraham Lincoln in 1865 after the conclusion of the civil war. Wilkes was a Confederate sympathizer, and Edwin for Union, even voting for Lincoln in 1864. Edwin was not blamed for his brother’s crime, and though he briefly retired from the stage in the aftermath, he came back to applause just as thunderous, and adoration just as renowned.

John Wilkes and Edwin never had gotten along. They only appeared together on stage several times. When they lived together, they argued politics incessantly, and Edwin often kicked John Wilkes out of the house to go live with their sister, Asia, who was much more merciful. Wrongfully so. Maybe if John Wilkes stayed with Edwin a little longer he wouldn’t have killed Lincoln.

Strangely enough, Edwin rescued one very important person in late 1864 or early 1865…. Robert Todd Lincoln. The president’s son had stumbled onto thw tracks and was literally gonna die if not for Edwin’s quick thinking. Robert knew who it was, but Edwin didn’t realize, and it wasn’t until some time later when he was sent a letter of thanks by General Ulysses S Grant or something because Robert was a soldier

speaking of Union soldiers… Adam Badeau is long rumored to have been Edwin’s lover. Badeau was on the staff of Grant, and was a theatre critic and writer who first met Edwin in the late 1850s after seeing a spectacular performance . They became very close, often writing each other… he even recuperated from a severe injury received at Port Hudson at Edwin’s house. Adam writes in his 1858 book The Vagabond all about Edwin in the chapter “A Night With the Booths” where he and Adam spend the evening together in his father’s home Tudor Hall , unfinished after he died. Adam even fell asleep on his shoulder while Edwin was reading to him.

Edwin invited Adam to his honeymoon, and he was the best man at Ned’s wedding. Speaking of wedding, he was marrying Mary Devlin in 1860. He loved her a lot. She was a talented actress, and bore him one daughter. whom he named Edwina.

Then Mary Devlin DIED in 1863 :(. and Edwin was devastated . It took the will of his friends and I don’t know what else to keep Edwin from drinking, which he had kinda been addicted to, a trait he’d inherited from his not-so-dear old dad. He recovered from this death, and, in 1864, took on a feat that wasn’t broken for another 58 years. For 100 nights, at the winter garden theatre (now the booth theatre after it burned down in 1867), Edwin booth performed Hamlet . It was a sensation, never done before! And helped Edwin seal his spot as the most well known actor of the booth family. Right?

I kinda have to go but that was part one… I’ll follow it up with his later life and stuff with a reblog if you’re still interested in more (like his death and his statue in Gramercy park and his ALMOST ASSASSINATION. THATS RIGHR, stay tuned if you WANNA HEAR HOW EDWIN BOOTH WAS ALMOST ASSASSINATED IN THE 1870s by MARK GRAY!)

[inthiseverymoment]

silhouettes emerging: chapter iii

“Ever-Soaring Melodies on Unstable Chords”

having theatre-kid-ed her way into this mess, isabelle realizes she needs to theatre-kid her way out. or, as the case may be, theatre-kid her way in even deeper.

iwtv oc x armand, this chapter ~2.8k

this one takes place entirely in flashback and prose for Melodramatic Anne Rice Reasons. don't worry, we'll get daniel's thoughts (spoiler alert: our boy is Less Than Convinced) and some good good analysis in the next chapter

...currently realizing that, if last chapter was "y/n gets noticed at a concert", this chapter is the fight song by rachel platten moment. but, again, IT'S IWTV SO IT'S DEEPER THAN THAT

ok it is three forty eight am enjoy

chapter ii fic masterlist chapter iv

“I’m not sure why he insisted on keeping her in here. It’s not like she’s different from any other once-fresh meat.”

“Did you hear what they were saying before we caught her? She wanted a job.”

“A job! Here! Mon Dieu, the humans are getting bolder and bolder these days.”

Liquid voices were beginning to work their way into Isabelle’s consciousness as she awoke, her eyes eventually opening to reveal a few members of the last night’s cast and crew.

Last night?

Last week?

Last hour?

She didn’t know.

Suddenly feeling as if she hadn’t breathed in too long, she gasped in a lungful of air and was overwhelmed by a tantalizing smell combining rust, hair gel, potpourri, and…night itself, if that could even be said to have a smell.

Backstage.

Despite being in grave danger, just knowing she was in a dressing room environment sent a shiver of comfort through her that she tried to ignore.

Isabelle’s breath alerted the others to her presence, and as her vision gained focus, she began to recognize them one by one as they looked over her. Given her condition, all she could do was string the occasional tired word together.

“So. I take it…you are…real.”

A moment’s silence, and the vampires burst into debatably-natured laughter.

“That’s a new one,” tittered a slim woman with dark, perfectly rolled curls.

“And I realized that, and now you’re going to kill me? That’s how it is?”

“She’s a quick young thing,” a woman with hair like her own said between drags of her cigarette. “Almost wish we didn’t have to drain her.”

“I mean, you really don’t-”

“I’m afraid we do,” came a familiar drawl, and Santiago seemed to dramatically part his Red Sea of castmates. “Our Great Laws state that no vampire can allow a mortal to live who has had the vampire’s true nature revealed to them. Being that you now know the true nature of the entire Théâtre des Vampires…ah, well. The Laws must be followed. Too bad, my sweet, really. It’s what they say: so full of artless jealousy is guilt-”

“It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.”

However much terror was running through her veins at the thought of imminent death, the second half of her favorite Hamlet quote had come through her lips low, calm, and controlled. She breathed in something like relief; here was one thing to hold onto. Santiago, who’d clearly been expecting to continue grandstanding, regarded her with something like a challenge flashing through his cold eyes.

“Stars, hide your fires-”

“Let not light see my black and deep desires.”

“Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself-”

“And so shall starve with feeding.”

Her adrenaline turning from fear to the high of competition, she would have stood to face Santiago if it were not for her realization that she was tied to her chair. He was advancing on her, an attempt at intimidation, but she matched him play for play and quote for quote; these words were her comfort, her lifeline, her blood.

“Run when you will. The story shall be changed:”

“Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase.”

“Or if I live, is it not very like-”

“-the horrible conceit of death and night-”

“-together with the terror of the place,” they finished in unison before Santiago started up again-

“No, sure, my lord-”

“My mother cried,” they said together, reaching the crest of their increase in volume to the point where they were both shouting-

“But then there was a star danced,” she concluded on her own,  more conviction in her voice than she had ever felt before, “and under that was I born.”

A long, long, long silence seemed to pass as the other cast members stared at them both with endless amusement. Eventually, Santiago allowed himself the smallest of chuckles.

“Yes, we’ll have to fog this one’s mind quite a bit for the next performance. Otherwise, she’ll get the audience on her side, and we can’t have that.”

…What?

No.

Nononononononono-

Eventually, she realized she was saying this repetition out loud-

“Someone get Armand,” she cried out. “You can’t do that to me. He wouldn’t allow it-at least I thought-what happened to the sympathy you had for me? That speech, to that girl? She was always entirely an act-I didn’t know all of you were-I-Armand!-please, please don’t-merde, I’m begging now-I’m saying-”

“Do not take her mind,” a measured yet half-flippant voice came from the staircase, and she turned to see him there.

Was he watching this whole exchange?

An ember of shame threatened to burn within her for wielding power through words that weren’t truly hers and then, at the threat of losing what she valued most, crumbling and calling out desperately to someone she’d met only hours ago; but it was soon swallowed up by more pressing matters-namely, the fate of her agency and life.

“People come to the Théâtre to be entertained,” Armand was saying as he descended the staircase. “It is not often that one of our victims puts up a true intellectual fight, and our audience will appreciate the chance to see it.”

“Maître, it won’t work otherwise, she wouldn’t fall for the-”

“Not too fast, Santiago,” came the interruption, and the maître in question silenced his leading man with only the lift of a hand. “We don’t want to spoil the surprise for her.”

“I-”

A blush painting her wearied face, she had to search for words for a moment as the vampires turned their piercing eyes to her. It took quite a bit of willpower to regain her composure, but regain it she did.

“I was there for the last performance. It will not be a surprise. You-you read their minds, I suppose, point out their flaws, and make them wish for the death you provide. Is that it?”

A beat, and then an outburst-

“Fog! Her! Mind!” Santiago said in the verbal equivalent of an exasperated eyeroll.

“I will not,” Armand held firm, “and neither shall any of you.”

He stepped behind Isabelle’s chair and touched two fingers to her temple, and an odd wave of something seemed to wash over her as the rest of the cast dispersed to their coffins, whispering all the way.

“That is a protection,” came Armand’s whisper to her. “I’ve stopped them from getting into your thoughts-”

“What, so that you can turn around and do it yourself?”

She ripped herself away from him as much as she could in her current position, her breath finally falling into tears, and he somehow seemed genuinely wounded.

“You do not trust me, then.”

“Why on earth,” she choked out a laugh, “would I trust you? It was your voice in my head last night, you who took me where I could see the bloodstain, you with so much power-apparently both hierarchical and supernatural-over everyone else here.”

“My promise regarding the audience was simply so that they would spare you. I have a plan, Isabelle-”

“And, whether that’s true or not, I suppose you could make me believe it somehow? How-”

Isabelle broke off, trying to keep from heaving a sob. The sudden longing for her tiny apartment with dripping ceilings and creaking tables overwhelmed her, if only for a return to when she was hers, when she was safe.

“How can I trust anything about you?”

After a moment, he swallowed hard but silently, then looked her in the eye for the first time since their last night’s conversation.

How she ever could have seen those eyes for even a moment and not realized that this man was something more than human was quite a mystery now. The deciphering of him that Isabelle had delighted in as an audience member with a crush had turned into a full-throated attempt to read his every flicker of the eyebrow, with her life now on the line. And all this time, the man in question had been silent.

“I’ll prove it,” he said simply.

Finding nothing more that he could do, Armand turned and retreated, going back up the staircase with every quiet footstep ringing.

He’d saved her last night. He’d claimed to have saved her now. And he was apparently planning to save her tomorrow from the death that his cast-his coven-hoped to carry out.

She was left alone with many questions, above them all being:

Why?

~

Isabelle’s day on the chair as the vampires slept had been spent half in silent contemplation, half in fruitless attempts to escape from her surely-supernaturally-assisted bonds. There was, needless to say, a lot to grapple with, but one thought nearly as alarming as losing her memories was the knowledge that-

If these people-people?-weren’t trying to kill or otherwise disarm me, I’d…

I’d adore them.

She’d never felt anything like this before. Immersive theatre that delved into grief and every facet of humanity, both beautifully artistic and unapologetically messy, was an idea she could only dream of for most of her life. The thrill of finding herself a little bit infatuated with half the cast throughout each play, then seeing all of those same bright eyes turned towards her; the offbeat adrenaline rush of a Shakespeare-off; the fact that she was no longer the most dramatic one in the room, not by a mile; so much about this group was intoxicating.

And the short conversation she’d had with Armand before everything fell open, as well as the restless dreams she’d had of him that she was sure he’d somehow placed there, still took the forefront of her musings.

Why is it that the first time I have genuine reason to feel wanted, it’s under…

Her leftover makeup had started to flake, and the rope was near biting into her wrists after the hours it had spent there.

…these circumstances?

Last night, she’d thought that a performance gig here would be her last chance, and this now seemed to be true in a whole new fashion. It took quite a lot of figuring, hoping, and crying to come to terms with the extremely high likelihood that there were only two ways that this night would finish:

Either Isabelle de la Rue, once Bella Ditell, would be killed…

…or she would be embraced.

It was clear that, for a few fleeting moments, in even the slightest way, these vampires respected her a little bit. They clearly thought she was dangerous enough to necessitate intervention, that she had enough presence of mind and will to live to stop her from falling for Santiago’s beckon to death. They now knew, too, that she was clearly a performer by trade and by passion. Armand had mentioned her possibly being of entertainment value, and that had sparked something of an idea; as little as she wanted to be valued only for that, if this was the only way to survive, she would show them that they wanted to keep her around.

The audition of a lifetime.

~

Hours later, she was behind the very same curtain that she’d been on the other side of only a day before. In any other circumstance, this would be a dream-to see a show at a theatre company one night and be part of said company the next.

Apparently, manifestations need to be more specific.

The redheaded woman who’d expressed not wanting to kill her held one of Isabelle’s arms, and the other was taken by a pretty-boy type who had played a woodcutter in an earlier skit. They both seemed surprised at her silence, but didn’t address it.

Probably makes it easier for them. Not to see their victims as people, and all that.

But when they dragged her onstage after a very long monologue for Santiago-as-Death, Isabelle did not stay silent, and she also did not scream.

She sang.

It was an aria of a mythical queen awaiting her death, one that she’d known for years. She felt an odd sensation of multiple telepathic attempts to shut her mouth being ricocheted away by whatever spell Armand had placed, and with the knowledge that this might be the last aria of her life, she poured her entire being into it. Santiago played along in character, partly amused and partly furious, and the sound of this half-chaotic French made her head spin even further, and everything whirled around at once-

All of a sudden, Isabelle was a capella no longer.

She glanced into the wings and made eye contact with the pianist, who grinned at her.

I won’t let myself imagine that anything comes out of real sympathy, that’s too dangerous-they’re playing with their food, is all.

Still…

What a moment!

Roughly half the audience was laughing in disbelief, but the other half seemed genuinely tuned in to what she was doing. She reached out to them, to her fellow humans, every trace of desperation and brazen hope sparking up in her eyes. She even managed to find and share a moment with the girl she’d met the previous night, who had seemed greatly worried upon recognizing her but now smiled at her and leaned forward to take her hands-

-until Santiago grabbed hold of her waist from behind and dragged her upstage.

A few audience members gasped, but Isabelle continued singing, looking between them and her reaper with more fire than she had ever trusted herself to possess.

Unable to stop her voice by supernatural means, Santiago skipped to the end of his usual blocking, straight to the part where he held the victim by the throat. This nearly choked her, and the tears that had started during her frenzied aria threatened to break loose.

A cold shiver ran through her every bone.

This is it.

It didn’t work.

She tried to turn her head, intending for her friend in the front row-her first friend-to be the last face she’d see.

If I go out, I’ll go out singing.

Santiago’s grip tightened, and-

“Arrêt!”

Out of pure surprise, the bony grip around her neck released, and she looked over Santiago’s shoulder to find the source of the voice she already knew.

Armand, now in full makeshift costume, was holding a very real prop sword to his leading man’s throat.

He began to speak in French, with every dramatic inflection of the rest of his coven, but broadcasted a more earnestly spoken translation to her as he did so:

You will not harm her.

Apparently greatly enjoying the improvisatory nature of how tonight was shaping up, the offstage orchestra struck up a soaring, string-soaked theme.

As Orpheus meant to save Eurydice, I mean to claim my love from the hands of Death. Only I, I will not falter. I will not doubt.

He now lowered his sword and looked straight to her, directly, intently.

I will give her reason to trust.

Whether it was the torrent of Purcell-assisted emotion and the promise of certain death that preceded this, her go-with-the-moment theatrical training, the single curl falling in front of Armand’s face, or some overwhelming combination of all three, Isabelle slowly moved to take his hand, deeply affected by the way he seemed to have genuinely expected her not to.

He kissed her birthmark again, and she started to cry.

Never one to miss a chance at upstaging a scene, Santiago swooped in once more, but was repelled. By the way each vampire looked at the other, she knew this was a battle being fought with eyes and telepathy alone, one which the maître would undoubtedly win.

Mighty Reaper, Armand’s speech and translation continued, cliché as it may seem, my love-my lark-is too strong in her soul and in her love to fall to you this early. With the two of us fighting against you, life will…

These words seemed almost to stick in his throat; understandable, she thought, after years-possibly centuries-of existing by the opposite mantra.

This time, life will prevail.

She shook her head, looking to Armand in total bewilderment. Why was he doing this? Why was he saying all of this?

Why me?

This he heard, and this he answered.

She of the ever-winding, ever-sparking mind, she of the soaring and unafraid voice-both of which you, Death, wish to silence-is the only one I ever wish to hear.

What followed was a kiss so tentative, then so tender, then so deep, that the sound of the violins seemed to be circling around the pair in swooping whirls that caught in each contour of their breath.

For the first time in her life, Bella Ditell allowed her guard to fall.

The audience, caught off guard by something resembling a ‘happy ending’ and having quite a lot of fun with the dramatics of it all, roared their appreciation. Above every sound was the delighted, encouraging wolf whistle of the young woman in the front row.

Perhaps it was wrong. Perhaps it was horrid. Perhaps it was everything she’d feared wrapped up in everything she’d hoped, or perhaps it was the opposite.

But now, at least, at last, Isabelle had the chance to find that out for herself.

[awesomesaurous]

-rant, please excuse the salt-

I really wish Don’t Starve Together was a different genre of game. I know that’s stupid because the objective “Don’t Starve” is the whole foundation of it, but I kind of just wish I could take the look and the loose story and make it more of an adventure and less of a never-ending survival game. I think in the Hamlet DLC for the base game, the “town” aspects of it scratched that itch a little bit, but I want more. The interface could even look exactly the same. I played the demo of Cult of the Lamb, and that game has a similar top-down 2D look to Don’t Starve, except there are in-game “cutscenes” and you have dialogue options which advance the creepy little narrative. Hollow Knight was good with this too. It’s a metroidvania, so there’s no crafting at all (I don’t consider status upgrades to be crafting), but like most RPGs with a silent protagonist, the story is furthered through exploration and interaction with NPCs. Some people love survival games, and I enjoy them quite a bit, but I like them to have an endpoint. The Flame in the Flood has a brutal difficulty curve, but it does reward you for your persistence, and it’s by no means impossible to beat. The journey takes you further and further along a river which at first seems endless - but it does have an end, and that’s what I want, I guess. Closure.

Hades is one of the most enjoyable games I’ve ever played, and the main reason was how much you are rewarded, even for failed attempts. You might totally choke on a run, but even so, every time you venture out you’re gaining more darkness/gems/etc that you can invest back into your stats and weapons. As in - there is no wrong way to play the game, you will move forward and improve no matter what. I love that. DST has finally dipped into this territory with Wilson’s skill tree, but I think they ought to give every character a similar mechanic. The skills would be specific to each character, and I think would give players more of an incentive to do repeat runs. At a certain point the whole game gets boring, and depending on my mood I sometimes boot it up, think about all the trees I’m going to have to cut down, and then immediately close the game, because I’m sick of doing virtual chores.

Stardew Valley was so addictive for me that I had to delete the game to get control of my life back. That game is nothing but farming and chores, yet I didn’t get tired of it. I think that’s because if you want to, you can ignore any aspect of the game you don’t care for, and time will pass anyway. You can spend all your time farming, or just mining, or focus on relationships with NPCs. Obviously with Don’t Starve, you can’t ignore food because starvation is an ever-present threat.

I also don’t give a damn about boss fights. I never have, in any game. I’m always eager for them to be over so I can get back to actually enjoying the game again, but nope I have to hit this thing 1000 times without getting permanently killed. Don’t Starve’s fighting system is shit, and it always has been. The hit boxes suck, and the fact that I need to download mods just to see health levels for the enemy is ridiculous.

I’ve had a lot of fun with DST, but I think I enjoy the fandom stuff more than the actual game. Same with TF2. It’s pretty fun to play, but I enjoy watching SFM videos and stuff like that more than playing the actual game. Don’t Starve has such fun characters and such an appealing style that it draws people in, and the animated shorts promise this wider world and a more intriguing story that isn’t in the actual game. Most players won’t even get to the cryptic hints at the story that are in the actual game (the Ruins, etc) due to the difficulty curve.

There’s a lot of creative energy and highly imaginative world-building, but when are we going to see it put to use? If anybody has any thoughts on all this, feel free to leave a reply.