#fantastic racism

[prokopetz]

"Oh no, [game publisher] was doing so well reforming their depiction of [biologically evil fantasy species], why did they suddenly backtrack" they didn't backtrack, bro – that was the plan all along. It's a trick.

One of the standard ploys in the gaming industry whenever they get pushback about how depicting a particular fantasy species as biologically evil isn't a good look is to do a little storyline that's like "no, see, there were some good ones, but then the bad ones killed them all; they made themselves biologically evil through self-imposed eugenics policies, so that makes depicting them like that okay".

Popular game publishers have been doing this song and dance for thirty years. Hell, Wizards of the Coast in particular has done it at least half a dozen times in that span.

[whumpninja]

I am not going to finish on time but whateveeeeer-

Featuring: elf whumpee, royal whump, tense and awkward conversations, fantastic racism I guess? Is that what I’ve done? Whoops

Taglist: @whumperofworlds @melpomenelamusa

Prompt used: fire and ice

Part One | Part Two

——————————————————————————

Twelve Days of Whumpmas Day Three: Hollyoak, Part Three

The first time he had been taken to the Summer Realm, Kelyn had been much younger, and he had comforted himself by imagining that he could see something of his father in the lines of King Aritz's face. The two could not be more different- King Cyprian had warm brown skin, flowing white hair, no beard, and large antlers long since turned white with age. King Aritz had skin nearly the same shade of greenish-brown as his son if a bit darker, a red-brown beard curling over his chest, and small round horns that were still deep brown. But when he was younger, Kelyn had truly believed that he could make out the same gentle expression in the Oak King's eyes as he always saw in his father's.

He had soon learned better.

"King Aritz." Kelyn inclined his head to the Summer Elf, who was technically his host even though Kelyn was there by ritual and not exactly by invitation.

"Young Holly." King Aritz smiled rather woodenly. Somehow his calling Kelyn "Holly" in his deep, serious voice didn't sound at all the same as when Adaire jovially did it. King Aritz had also omitted Kelyn's title of prince, which he was supposed to keep even though the Crown had passed to the Summer Realm. Deliberately? Kelyn wondered, before dismissing the thought as a foolish one.

Kelyn fumbled for his staff, intending to stand, but the Oak King waved a hand. "No need, no need. I won't be long." He stepped into the room, his hands folded behind his back. "I wanted to ask you about your father, young Holly. He seemed quite well at the Tree. Is he?"

Kelyn blinked, taken aback. "Yes, I-I think so."

"Good, good. He looked stronger, too. You know, neither him nor I are getting any younger. But he almost seemed to be. I thought perhaps he might have...indulged his magic too much, while the Crown of Realms was in his possession."

Slowly, Kelyn leaned down to pick up his staff. He did not speak while he slipped off the edge of the bed and adjusted his weight onto the staff's carved tip. He waited for King Aritz to notice that he had not replied, pulling himself up to his full height as best as he could. He was suddenly glad that his antlers had come in taller this year than any other- they gave him a few extra inches of height, and he secretly thought that they lent him an air of dignity too.

When the Oak King turned to see why he had gone silent, Kelyn imagined that it was his father speaking through him- the wise, grave king and not the quiet, anxious prince. "Do you suspect King Cyprian of stealing magic, sir?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. It could not sound like an accusation.

King Aritz scowled fiercely at Kelyn. "Certainly not. I am merely pointing out that he looked uncommonly well for someone whose power is supposed to have begun fading immediately. It is the Summer Realm's turn to grow to full strength. I do not wish to see it usurped."

"The Winter Realm has held no interest in the affairs of the Summer Realm since the Truce."

"That is good, since it was the Winter Realm that caused us to have to make it in the first place." King Aritz paced across the floor of Kelyn's room, his steps heavy and his voice sharp.

Kelyn was taken aback. King Aritz had never seemed to like him much, but he had never been so openly hostile before. "Is something wrong, King Aritz?" he ventured. "You seem troubled. I can assure you that it is not my father's doing, but if I can help in some way-"

"Silence, calf," King Aritz boomed.

Kelyn's eyes went wide. Calf was a disgraceful insult towards Winter Elves, a demeaning reference to the antlers they all had. He had never had it used against him before- even some of the Summer Elves that made it known that they did not appreciate his presence had never dared to use it...at least in his hearing.

King Aritz seemed to realize he had gone too far. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his loose brown hair. "I am sorry for saying that. I should not have let my temper get the better of me." He glanced at Kelyn. "My enmity with the Winter Realm was caused long before you were born, and I should not have directed my...frustration towards you. I will have a gift made for you as soon as I can."

Kelyn nodded his acceptance. Summer Elves sealed many things- such as deals, promises, and apologies- with gifts. He'd rarely been on the receiving end of them, but if he did not accept then it would mean that he had not forgiven the Oak King, and that would be seen as unfathomably rude.

Perhaps, since Kelyn was a Winter Elf, it might even spark a new war.

The thought was a frightening one. Kelyn had been born only a few years before the end of the war; he had been too small to remember the signing of the Trucepact and the cessation of hostilities. But he knew that both realms still carried the scars- the Summer Realm's edges were still dead and blasted from frosty winds, and patches of the Winter Realm had never regrown from the floods that had occurred as a result of sunlight they were not used to. Fire and ice, that was what the war had been. Summer and winter, constantly clashing. The rift was still not fully healed.

That was why Kelyn was here. The Trucepact had become more of a formality, a rite. But in the beginning, it was understood that the king whose turn it was to hold the power kept his rival's son hostage in case the other king rose up against him. That was no longer explicitly the case, but sometimes Kelyn wondered if the older elves had truly forgotten.

King Aritz moved to the door, then stopped, turning at the last moment. "I am holding a feast tonight," he said. "To celebrate my son Prince Adaire's return." Was it Kelyn's imagination, or did he stress the word prince just a little too much? "I would like to ask you to join us, though of course you may decline."

"I would be honored," Kelyn replied.

King Aritz nodded stiffly and, finally, left.

Kelyn sat back down hard, leaning his staff against the end of the bed. "Oh, Father," he breathed. "Why do I feel as though I've made an enemy?"

[anakinsafterlife]

Anyone else here remember the abominably hideous art that used to "grace" the covers of the Drizzt novels from Homeland onwards? The ones with the weird bloated, ancient looking elves wearing horrible gold skullcaps mentioned no where at all in any of the books? These elves that were also supposed to be *black skinned,* but looked barely brown.

I've started re-reading the saga and I just can't stop thinking about that now. Was this a bizarre corporate error spawned by a miscommunication between management and the art department? What the fuck happened? I would assume that, like many novels in the 90s, the artist was commissioned separately and never read the story, and so was producing the art based on a vague description, but TSR had an in-house art department that always did very well with all of its other lines. Drizzt seemed to be the sore failure, to the point of infamy. Yet they didn't correct this problem for over a decade after the release of Homeland (1990). The strange thing is that the Icewind Dale trilogy, released starting in the mid-80s, actually did have a decent rendering of Drizzt on the covers! But once the gold-skull-caps were released in '90, there was no going back.

I think "Sea of Swords," released in 2001, was the first book that started to use a slightly different style. I think that was around he time that that TSR was sold to Wizards of the Coast, so the change makes some sense. The art was still hideous, but they lost the gold cap and the senior-citizen look (always particularly bizarre for Drizzt, who was basically still an adolescent by elf standards) and actually gave Drizzt black skin. Then they re-issued all of the books with covers featuring something that actually looked like a dark-skinned, young and athletic elf. We all breathed a collective sigh of relief that day, though not without the lingering puzzlement of over a decade of confusion and indignation.

(I have to wonder now, looking back, if this wasn't a strange iteration of racism. Like yes, this is a fantasy race, but they are specifically a *black* race of elves. Were they not allowed to be beautiful like light skinned elves or something??)

[madmanwonder]

“What do you want machine.”

Penny Polendina flinched at the harsh emphasis of machine from the leader of Atlas Brotherhood of Steel who was looking at her with cold blue eyes full of disdain and disgust toward her.

“G-General Ironwood wants me t-to give you the latest report on the latest in and activities of the Super Mutants and the White Fangs in the northwest region of Solitas.” The humanoid female robot said to the large and broad-shouldered man.

“Hnn.” He grunted as he took the report from the machine with arctic coldness as he look at the report in the data pad speed-reading the data sheet. “He’s a man of his words than most of the Atlas military personnel.”

“What do you mean—”Penny mouthed was snapped immediately when Arthur looked at her with a hard, deep glare in his cold blue eyes.

“None of your concern.” He said in a sharp voice. “If you got nothing else to say. Get out.” He ordered as he turned his back on Penny already dismissing her from sight and mind.

Penny meekly nodded as she walked away from the imposing man feeling hurt by the bigotry from the man.

[rosetyler42]

This started as being inspired by one of those "Call your guard/attack dog" posts, which coukd work either way but I like protective Ericka. But as it went on...I mean Ace week had just finished up and I ended up going with something that could be monsterphobic or aphobic depending on interpretation. Bonus "It might fix'em" reversal joke (She's joking stabbing might "fix" them as sort of a twist on Aphobes thinking Aces need to be "fixed," often by sex. Also references a deleted GB 2016 Patty joke!)

Meanwhile Drac is caught between genuinely loving how protective and scary his wife can be (possibly voicing the things he WISHES he could say,) Not to mention the cute pouts she does when talked down from violence, and having to be the reasonable leader who can't always just let his spicy human go off on people. XD

One inspiration post:

Of course, he'd be just the same way.

@lovelylivelyv @black-ak9 @hotelt-resurrection @ssleeping-in-a-coffin @serial-serializednovelreader @deathfangirl9 @ebevkisk @twinklecupcake @wingingfromthezing

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

And this is just a bonus one I thought of but Grace and 24 Capitalism 👁️👁️

Story is also posted on ao3!

(tw capitalism, mentions of colonialism, mentions of racism/speciesism, trauma, mentions of cigarettes/alcohol, addiction, grief, past canonical character death, identity issues, implied dehumanization, hallucinations, unreality)

It's not as if they have a problem with expense. Fuck no, of course not. They can find the cash for their fucking war machines, their stupid goddamn spaceships, their love children born on a planet where they'll never be able to breathe the air. The cash for their guns and explosives, for their dozers rolling over the ground, for pressed suits and cheery propaganda vids and everything single one of the politicians in their pockets.

And oh, they've got the money for her as well, Grace knows all about it, a special set of funds to keep their little labcoat safely in line. The killing ground school, the botany book with a Na'vi face on the cover cause it's all just wildlife, doc, remember that, the cigarettes to keep her strung out and numb, the alcohol when that's not enough.

Never enough, not for them, sure as shit not for her. Her hands shake, she's fiddling, muttering, things slipping through her hands. Focus, Augustine, fucking focus. She's only got so many cigarettes, the 3D printers only work so well (as well as they're supposed to, heh). If Max is hiding them again she's going to fucking--

Cash. Right. Money, profit, power. Expense. They'll make a body, grow it in a tank like a promise, but if shit goes down, a bloody murder on a planet she can barely remember, happening six years and a million lightyears and last week ago--well, they can't take the fucking loss, oh no, they're going to stuff in some random jackass marine, pulled off one conveyor belt and shoved onto another.

Like it's that simple. Like it's all just meat, isn't it, they all are, deep blue company logos hanging heavy over her skin, sinking into her bones until she feels it even when she's physically out of the link. Jake Sully shrugging into his brother's skin and grinning at her, Jake Sully with Quaritch's brand stamped onto his soul, Jake fucking Sully coming out of the Soul Drive upload room with jagged, defiant eyes.

There are some things that cannot be bought, Mo'at says, her hand wrapped around Grace's throat. Not enough to choke, not enough to hurt, just enough to make the point, to prove that tonight, Grace was not worth the suffocation. I had thought you learned this, if nothing else.

In a way, the rejection had been a relief. No need to try and twist everything into a knot trying to justify the application into a knot, no excuse to get shot in the head months down the line for trying to grow a rogue body on company resources. None of Sylwanin's DNA, so no watching her grow in the tank that would be Sully's, no waiting to see whatever would be left if you hooked an empty Avatar into the Tree of Souls, if you'd get something like a return or nothing, nothing, nothing...

No breath. No life. No meat, or at least not enough of it to go around, not enough bodies to go around. Just cold, hard cash and an ache in the pit of her stomach as she scratches meaninglessly, thoughtlessly, because where the hell are her cigarettes. Where the hell are her--

A hand on her shoulder and she yelps, something undoubtedly expensive slipping through her fingers and clattering to the floor.

"Jesus, Marine," she snaps, because it's Sully, of course it's Sully, standing there with a stupid look on his face and hair slipping out of his braid. Grace shoves him off with a huff. "Personal space, remember?"

She turns back to her work, eyes narrowed. A stack of bundles...shells? Grace frowns. When had she been collecting shells?

"I don't suppose you know what happened to my cigarettes," she mutters, glancing up at Sully. He's still standing there, stiller than she's ever seen him, wearing an expression she can't quite read.

"Marine?" Grace waves her hand in front of his face, but he doesn't respond. "You read me?"

He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything there's another voice, young, feminine. "Kiri?"

Grace turns her head, frowning. There's a Reef Na'vi girl walking towards them, wearing Metkayina garb–Metkayina? When had the Metkayina been visiting the Omatikaya?

"Kiri?" the girl asks, looking worried--looking at Grace. She takes a step forward and Grace automatically takes a step back, feeling something skid under her foot (sand, not soil, where's the soil, where's the ground) and she falls with a curse, Sully yelping as he lunges to catch her.

"Easy," he says, but his hands are shaking. "Easy. Fuck. Okay." She can feel his pulse pounding, she can feel his panic gathering, she can feel the world moving and shuddering around her, she can feel everything, and she knows that--she knows--

"Reya, go get my mom and dad," Sully says, his voice taut, and there's the slap of feet against sand as the Metkayina girl runs. The slap of feet, and the thudding of waves, the howling of wind in the trees. Blood grubbing as Sylwanin heaves for air, as Tom Sully chokes out, as Neteyam--

--Neteyam--

Not enough bodies to go around. Not enough bodies, too expensive to look back, too much.

"Kiri." Sully's got his hands on her face, cool against her skin. Five fingers, strong and callused, resting lightly around the corners of her eyes. "You gotta breathe, Kir."

She can't. She's choking, she's choking on her first cigarette, she's choking on her own blood, she's choking on every lie she's ever swallowed with eyes sewn shut. She's choking on Sully's hand wrapped around her throat like a bad dream, like a memory.

"I've got you," he whispers, pulling her close. "You're not leaving us, Kir."

Kir. Kiri. Little atokirina. Little miracle, little secret, little liar, little ghost…

Over his shoulder she can see Tom Sully and Sylwanin (only it's not them, she knows this, she knows this just enough to wish she didn't) running her way. They're shadows, running, looking for the blood stolen from their veins; they're shadows, running, come to make sure she pays every single of her debts.

[captainfreelance1]

Dinosaurs S2 E19 Nuts to War PT 1

Operation We Are Right brings out Earl's worst perjudices against Four Legged Dinosaurs.

[bafflement]

Deaged Oz AU - Making New Friends [And Maybe a Few Enemies]

For @maskyartist since you wanted to see just what happens when Tip gets angry. :P

"HEY, FREAK!" An angry yell echoes off the narrow walls of the alley. Lily just ran faster, hoping that she'd be able to outrun her bullies for once. It had happened before, even though it hadn't lasted long in the end. As a Faunus in Mantle, though, she was used to this sort of treatment.

She tripped, stumbling and catching herself on the wall which was all her pursuers needed to catch up with her. Bracing herself for the blows she was surprised to hear another yell from the other end of the alley.

Glancing up, she spied a small, silver haired human boy who looked absolutely furious. A blink and he'd vanished, though. Maybe he was with the others? She hadn't seen him before but there were always more where they came from.

Her main tormentor bought a fist back for the first punch, but even as he lashed out, a figure blocked her sight. It was the boy, but why would he get between her and the bully?

Tip let the older boy hit him, glancing in concern down at the small Faunus girl they had been chasing. He knew how bad things were in Mantle of course, but knowing wasn't the same as seeing. The tiny girl looked half starved, yet these idiots were planning to beat her? No. Not on his watch.

"What exactly do you think you're doing to ny friend?" He spat, feeling a cold anger rising in his gut and not even bothering trying to suppress it. The little girl looked shocked, but he tried to shoot her a reassuring smile in between glaring at the bully. One hand strayed down to the hilt of Old Regrets, and he pulled about an inch of the rapier out of the sheath, knuckles a tight white with fury.

The bully, seeing that, stepped back a pace.

"Who the hell are you and what is she to you? You're not her friend, she doesn't have friends! She's just a filthy Faunus, she doesn't deserve them!"

Tip stomped one small foot, feeling himself start to shake again, though this time it was definitely anger fuelling it.

"She has me. I'm Winter Schnee, by the way." He said it flatly, hoping the split second decision wasn't going to come back to bite him.

"Why would a Schnee care about something like her?"

"I do. Now go away or I'll show you just how well i can use this." He shifted his stance, standing protectively over Liy and drew the blade fully, his eyes afire.

The bullies looked at each other, looked at the small boy wielding what was obviously a Huntsman's weapon, then thought better of the situation, backing away before taking off running.

There was silence for a few seconds, then Tip moved nearer the little girl, who backed up as far as she could, staring up at him with wide, scared eyes.

"Please don't hurt me?"

"I would never do that." Tip's voice was shaking, too, now. He hadn't really been expecting that, and looking back... had he almost thrown a tantrum? He blushed slightly, embarrassed, but just held out a hand to the girl, waiting.

After a minute or so, she took it, bracing herself for another blow. Tip just helped her to her feet, smiling gently.

"I'm Tip. Tip Pine, and you are?"

"But... you said you were a Schnee..."

"Ah, yes. Well, I thought it might make them think twice and it does appear to have worked, so... ready to get out of the alley?"

"You talk kinda funny."

"I'm not from Mantle, therefore my accent is slightly different. Have you learned about kingdoms yet?"

He smiled as this seemed to unleash a torrent of questions from the small girl and he led her out of the alley, grinning up at the others who didn't look massively impressed.

"Pocketsized... you can't just run off like that, what if you'd been hurt?" Jaune sounded worried but also more than slightly resigned at this point. After all, it wasn't the first time Tip had gone off somewhere.

"I wasn't. And I was just in time to stop someone else being hurt so I would count that as a victory, personally. Guys, this is... I'm sorry, i don't think I ever got your name?"

"Lily." She muttered, shyly, staring around at all the armed teenagers in front of her. Blake had elected not to come on this particular excursion and Weiss tended to avoid Mantle, but the others all just smiled at her in welcome.

"Hi, Lily!" Oscar greeted, bouncing slightly. "I'm Oscar, Tip's my brother. It's okay, you're safe now, nobody's going to hurt you while we're around!

"Aww, Pocketsized, are you making new friends without us, now?" Nora cooed, winking at a still visibly embarrassed Tip.

"Maybe? She needed help, Nora, I couldn't just leave her there, they were about to hit her!" Tip's voice rose in pitch slightly as he spoke, though from the way his eyes widened, it had been unintentional.

"Regular knight in shining armor, huh, kid..." was Yang's contribution, though she looked amused.

"I think it's cute." Ruby said, grinning over at Tip who would rather like the floor to swallow him now, please.

"You can stay with us for awhile, if you like? It might mean the bullies stay further away for a little bit, why were they following you, anyway?"

"They don't like that I'm not human... it's Mantle, though, mummy said I needed to get used to it."

Tip's eyes went strangely hard at that. "Thinking about it, there's someone I know you should probably meet. The problem is, he's in Atlas and your family would be worried if we just took you! Would you be able to show us where you live? If nothing else, we should check that it's a safe place to be."

Jaune sighed a bit at that, but they all followed a nervous looking Lily as she led them to her home. it wasn't too bad to look at, really. Unlike the dwellings on either side, it appeared well maintained and hopefully that meant that the walls were solid against the sheer cold that Mantle tended to exude.

An older woman in a tattered apron opened the door, then screamed in real terror as she stared at the humans on the other side. Lily rushed to her, clinging to the apron.

"It's okay, mummy! They're my friends, they rescued me from the bad boys!"

"... oh?" The mother sounded suspicious, scanning over the group of young hunters, gaze briefly lingering on tip, who shifted slightly.

"Thank you for rescuing my daughter." She said, eventually, though she still looked suspicious.

"We're hunters, ma'am, it's what we do. I was wondering, however, whether it may be advisable to gain a meeting with Marrow? I'm certain he would want to help as much as he could."

The woman blinked. "You can just casually contact an Ace Operative, can you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I can. I'm Wintertip Pine, by the way." Tip held out a hand, but she didn't take it, scanning his face again. Her eyes widened and her tail twitched in sudden realisation.

"... Winter?" She sounded strangely choked even as Tip's own eyes widened too. Had he known her, somehow?

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked, his voice as level as he could make it.

"Thank you. Just... thank you. Do you have contact information, at all? My husband will want to thank you himself."

"Of course." Tip murmured, rattling off his contact number.

"You can really get us in contact with Specialist Amin?"

"I can indeed, ma'am."

"Foxglove, not ma'am, young one. I have questions, but not today, I suspect? I'll be in contact." She smiled and shut the door, behind it they could already hear Lily start her rapid fire questioning again.

"You do realise that that's gonna spread, right? You just... I really hope you know what you're doing."

"Yes, well. So do I."

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

Although the Ninth Inspector used the phrase ‘clever chimps’ to refer to humans twice during his run,

everyone seems to believe he said it in every episode.

[tendertenebrosity]

Some connecting scenes for Illiam and Helis, back during their time at the castle. This follows on from here and here. The next piece chronologically is this one.

Masterpost is Here.

Helis woke up slowly. Their wings and shoulders ached, and the floor was uncomfortably hard against their hip underneath a thin layer of padding, but the blanket lying over them was warm. They could almost have closed their eyes and drifted back to sleep again if they hadn’t… remembered.

They forced their eyes open, to a blurry view of a stone wall and a few folds of woollen blanket.

What in Heaven am I going to do now? they wondered drearily.

They took a deep breath, and might have let themself cry again, if they hadn’t heard a noise from behind them, from somewhere else in the room.

They rolled over immediately, blinking sleep from their eyes. The room snapped into focus; disorientingly, they were in a corner, on the floor. The room was all stone and heavy-framed wooden furniture, including a bed hung about with red curtains, bookshelves to rival those in the workroom, and a desk underneath a glass-panelled window.

Seated at that desk, so that Helis could mostly only see the spare casual angles of his legs and his hunched shoulders, sat Illiam. He hadn’t noticed them; he was pulling a book across the desk towards himself, flicking through the pages, setting it aside. The scritch-scritch of pen on paper filled the room. Morning light streamed in through the window.

Helis slowly sat up, drawing their knees up against their chest and pressing their wings back against the wall. The blanket slid down to the floor; after a moment they pulled it back up.

Silver flashed as they did so; they blinked down at their wrist.

It was hard to tell, they hadn’t been paying attention, but Helis didn’t think this was the same cuff they’d been wearing yesterday in the workroom. It was smaller, lighter; more tightly fitted to their wrist as if designed for them specifically.

The cuff had what looked like a fine hinge on one side. There was no chain attached. It could almost have been mistaken for a crude piece of jewellery, except that there was no way it would fit over the bones of their hand to be taken off. Helis pulled their other hand out from under the blanket and found a matching cuff on that.

There were lines of engraving along the outer and inner surfaces of both cuffs. Bits of spell phrases jumped out at Helis; instinctively they reached for it, and were surprised all over again when nothing happened. They bit their lip, then lifted their left hand and craned their neck to try and find the beginning of the spell with their eyes.

“It’s not a design you’ll be familiar with.”

Helis looked up; Illiam had turned in the chair, one arm hooked over its back, and was watching them dispassionately.

“Did you make this?” Helis asked. Their voice rasped in their throat, and they coughed.

“Yes,” Illiam said. He looked more composed than the last time they had seen him; no longer bright-eyed with fury, not even tousle-haired or unshaven and drawn with tiredness. Helis distrusted the evenness of his voice. “Not something I do often, so I doubt the craftsmanship is up to your standards. But it will suffice for its purpose.”

Helis licked their lips nervously. They got the impression he was waiting for the question, watching Helis and predicting what they would say, and they hated it, but they had to ask. “What purpose?”

“It ties you to me,” he explained, still calm. “There is now a magical link between us. I will always be able to find you, and if you get too far away from me, the cuffs will heat up as a warning.”

“What?” Helis stared at the cuffs, sickened. This really was something like a bad play. “Is this what you took my blood for?”

“And my own,” he agreed. He tapped the bandage at the crook of his elbow. “It’s not taboo here, although it comes with certain risks. I decided it was worth the inconvenience of making the cuffs - I needed to ensure you don’t escape, but are still free to move about the castle, and this is the most practical way of doing that.”

“You have a really…” Helis took a deep breath. “Warped idea of practical, Illiam!”

He shrugged. “Would you prefer a cell? Or chains? Or something a little more permanent? Strictly speaking, I didn’t have to make it a device. Attaching the spell to the cuffs made things a little tricky. Have you ever worked on silver? Challenging. But you need to wear the cuffs anyway, and it seemed preferable to permanently inscribing the spell-lines on you.”

They flinched back. “That’s barbaric,” they hissed. “You’re barbaric.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said I was avoiding it. Pay attention.”

Helis hated being seated on the ground looking up at him. They pushed themselves up, wings spread for balance, letting the blanket fall. “This is the most sick and gross use of magic I have ever seen,” they said. “You -”

Illiam’s eyebrows lifted in cool, sardonic disbelief. “Really? This is the sickest thing? Tsk. Have you seen the kinds of spells that get thrown around on a battlefield?” He stood up, rolled his shoulders. “Compared to that, this is perfectly gentle. It won’t even burn you straight away, you’ll have plenty of notice to come back before the heat gets to injurious levels.”

“You didn’t learn this at the Academy,” Helis said.

Illiam shook his head. “No,” he said, with half of a smile. It wasn’t a pleasant expression at all. “This, I learned here, in the North. Surprised to find that there is more to the world than the Academy’s curriculum? Time to grow up, Helis. There’s no ethics classes out here. I’m nobody’s student or apprentice anymore, and your only value lies in how useful you are. I could do far worse to you and nobody would even blink.”

He stepped forward, across the room towards them. Helis rocked back on their feet, resisting the urge to cringe against the wall, wanting to leave but finding nowhere to go. They couldn’t quite manage to tip their chin up to meet his eyes, instead fixing their gaze somewhere near one of his shirt buttons. Still black, they noted nervously.

He stopped short of touching them, apparently content to loom. “So if I were you,” he said, “I would be resigning myself to the cuffs, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not dead in a ditch, and trying my best to be useful.”

He stood there, for a long impassive silence, until Helis took a deep breath and looked up. He was regarding them with an expectant look, as if waiting for them to say something in return. Still calm, still composed.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, when nothing was forthcoming.

“Yes,” Helis said, reluctantly. “But -”

He raised a finger. “Do I make myself clear. Yes, or no.”

“Yes,” Helis whispered, their gaze blurring as it slid off him, to the side.

He nodded. “Good,” he said briskly, and stepped away. He collected his coat from where it lay folded over a table that they hadn’t noticed, over by the door. There was a stack of fabric beside it, and he indicated that with a faintly contemptuous wave. “Get rid of the uniform; put those on. I’m going downstairs, and you had better not keep me waiting there.”

The door opened smoothly, with barely a whisper; Illiam left, pulling his coat on over his shoulders as he went.

Helis took a deep breath and let it out, shakily. They scrubbed their eyes determinedly, and went to get dressed.

The clothing by the door was thick fabric, shapeless, rough and drab in colour. Somebody had attempted amateurishly to make the tunic wing-compatible. Helis struggled into it with stiff joints, wishing for proper ties. At least, they supposed, it was both warm and obscured their figure into featurelessness.

There was a basin and jug of water, but Helis didn’t dare use it for anything. They opened the door, let it close behind them, and crept with trepidation down the narrow, boxy set of stairs they found themself in. Their nails went click-click on the cold stone floor.

At the foot of the stairs, where it opened out into a wider passageway, they found Illiam. He was not, to their relief, waiting for them impatiently - he was in what looked like a heated conversation with somebody in muted dark grey clothing.

“… don’t care who’s here. I told my father that I wasn’t going to be available for this.”

“I understand, my lord, but somebody -”

“Go and bother Brant with it.” Illiam turned to leave, dismissing the grey-clad man with an impatient gesture. “This is his element, surely. Heaven knows the man must contribute something of worth. You’ll get me tomorrow afternoon and not before; my work is more important.”

He strode down the hallway and past Helis, barely acknowledging them, as the man in grey bowed and murmured something respectful towards his back.

For lack of anything else to do, Helis followed Illiam. The man gave Helis a look of confusion and distaste as they passed.

They caught up as he turned a corner.

“How far away?” they asked, resentfully. “The cuffs. How far away from you am I allowed to go?”

“Far enough,” Illiam said. His suspicious air of calm was starting to fray; Helis caught sight of one of his hands fiddling with a fastening of his coat. “I’m not going to send you out of range. I would advise against experimenting. And that’s all you need to know.”

“And what am I going to be doing?” Helis kept having to lengthen their stride to keep up with him. Their legs protested. “I mean, what is my job? I don’t know why you want me here if -”

“Well, that makes two of us,” he snapped.

The hallways Illiam followed got smaller and colder, with fewer rugs. Another human in dark grey clothing, her arms full of wicker and cloth, put her head down as Illiam passed and gave them a wide berth.

After a couple of corners and another flight of stairs, Helis realised that they were hopelessly lost and would have no idea how to get back to Illiam’s rooms. Or outside, for that matter; this area of the castle had no windows.

Eventually, Illiam came to a door that looked a little familiar. Passing his hand over the doorknob, he unlocked it with a brief flare of magic, then threw it open unceremoniously.

The windowless room full of magic paraphernalia. Helis lingered uneasily on the threshold, hugging their wings around their shoulders. The glittering fragments of conduit stone had been swept up and disposed of, and any trace of Helis’ blood had been cleaned away. The top surface of the table was scarred with little pockmarks and burns.

“My workroom,” Illiam announced, needlessly. “I’ve wasted too much time on Father’s jaunts across the border and dealing with you; it’s time to get back to work.” He glanced at Helis, an irritable line appearing between his brows. “I suppose you can start by fetching me Halliday’s list of energetic constants. Third volume. And then get a fire started.”

Helis inched inside, letting the door close behind them reluctantly. “What exactly are you working on?”

“I’m composing a spell,” he said. “The most ambitious spell, I think, that anybody has ever attempted this side of the Greater Eastern Ocean.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to the bookshelf - and even despite everything, the careless disrespect in the gesture made Helis’ hackles rise under their ugly, uncomfortable clothing. “Halliday. Third volume. Useful.”

Your only value lies in how useful you are. Helis set their teeth, and went to comb through Illiam’s library.

[aetherictree]

Honestly, now whenever I see racism, or prejudice, or general oppression of the poor and downtrodden in fantasy, I can't but imagine Commander Sam Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch in the middle of it.

Just started The Druid's Call, and you *know* Vimes would have suspicion and prejudice against Tieflings -- but also that his recognition of their personhood and citizenship would far outweigh that.

And that at some point the aristocracy would get wind of it, and tell Vetinari that there must not be any Tieflings in the Watch. Which Vetinari would make sure to pass on to Vimes. He would make it very clear that the aristocracy do not wish to see any Tiefling officers and would be very upset with the Commander were he to hire some...

...and as Vimes leaves, he would realise he's been played once again.

[makiruz]

"I have no reason to treat you kindly, your kind has never deserve it; you humans hate that which is different, you turn on each other for the smallest thing, for the color of their skin, for the place they happen to be born into; you are a hateful, unaccepting kind"

"Honestly, since you're also making gross generalizations about people you've don't know based on prejudices you don't get to act so superior; specially when me and my friends have literally done nothing bad to you. Jerk"

[fickit-lokiseriesau]

You know how frost giants are seen as savage monsters deserving of extermination on Asgard?

The TVA has very similar attitudes on frost giants, as well as every other nonhuman species.

There's a reason only humans are seen working at the TVA.

There's a reason almost all sentient beings in the MCU are humanoids.

[actress4him]

March Trope-A-Thon Day 4

A wing au for Brumaria had never ever crossed our minds, but when I saw the prompts I had to give it a try. This is not likely an au that will ever come up again, but it was fun for this one piece!

Bruno belongs to @painful-pooch !

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

Fandom: Original Work

Prompt: Wing Whump

Notes: This is obviously an AU!

Contains: lady whump, torture, fantastic racism, mild blood, mild gore, knife wounds, burns, fire, flashbacks

.

.

“It’s no wonder you always keep these hidden.” 

Roderick is standing somewhere behind her, meaning she can’t see anything he’s about to do. He knows it makes her nervous, she thinks. Of course he can hurt her just as much from the front or the side, and being able to keep an eye on him doesn’t really do her any good, but she’d rather at least see what’s coming. Right now her arms are stretched out to the side, wrists chained to opposite walls, so all she can do is turn her head and she refuses to do that and acknowledge that his position is bothering her.

“They’re honestly the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen. Hideous, really.”

They’ve been at this routine for…is it four years now? It seems like an eternity. Kamaria tries her best to follow orders, makes some tiny mistake, and she and Roderick end up here, in the guardhouse, so that he can punish her. He strips her of her weapons and any protection she wears, including her cloak, chains her up, then generally proceeds to insult her.

Four years, and his insults still somehow grate at her emotions. At least when he’s insulting her, though, he’s not making the unsettling, disgusting comments that have become more and more prevalent lately. 

“I’m surprised that your mother didn’t toss you out as soon as she saw you. Tell me, did the Vaya often point and laugh at your pitiful, misshapen wings? Even I can see how malformed they are, but they must have been really laughable next to the full, grand wings of a real Vaya.”

“You keep the name of my people out of your filthy mouth!” she hisses, fists clenched in their bonds. 

“Ah, I hit a sore spot, didn’t I?” Grabbing one wing at the base, he yanks her backwards toward him, leaning over her shoulder to growl in her ear. “You know I’m right. These poor excuses for wings show everyone exactly what you are - a miserable little half-breed.”

She’s worked hard since living here learning how to control her expressions and not show her reactions or pain. She practices it now, eyes boring into the metal bars straight ahead, jaw clenched tightly shut. 

Her wings are small and misshapen. They barely reach past her hips, nowhere near large enough to actually support her, and one is smaller than the other. And yes, she wishes that they were as large and beautiful as those of her mother or any of the other Vaya she’d known, but she does still love them. They set her apart from the humans, connect her to her people. Yes, she keeps them covered when she’s out, but when she’s alone, in her tent, she stretches them out and lets them breathe and preens the reddish-brown feathers as she was taught. 

She could explain to him that the Vaya were far more accepting than humans could ever be. She could tell him that her friends used to choose to walk places with her instead of flying so that they could be together, that her mother spent hours lovingly caring for her daughter’s wings, that not one person had ever laughed at her until she met him. 

But it wouldn’t make a difference. He wants to hurt her, so she might as well let him think that he’s succeeding.

His hand slides down to the end of the wing and he pulls it out away from her body, then grabs a clamp from the wall to hold it in place. Since he can’t see her face she lets herself wince at the pressure and the way it tugs at the small feathers there. He repeats the process with the other side, spreading both wings out wide to mimic her arms. 

Sometimes he pins them out of the way so that he can reach her back better. Sometimes he does it just to leave her in an uncomfortable position. Today, however, she has a sinking feeling that this will be one of the few times he’ll actually target her wings for the punishment.

“Now that I think about it, though, I think they deserve to look even more pathetic. More importantly, I think you deserve the reminder that you’ll never be a real Vaya.”

Before she can decide whether she wants to respond to that, he grips a handful of the smallest feathers and rips them out. Kamaria jolts, but bites down on any noise that wants to escape. It isn’t the first time he’s pulled out her feathers. They’ve grown back before, and they can again. 

He moves to her primaries and secondaries, plucking them out one by one as hard as he can and occasionally multiple at a time, tossing each over her shoulders so that she can watch them flutter to the ground. It stings, but it’s more infuriating than it is painful, knowing how long it’s going to take before her wings look whole again. 

“That’s looking better, but it’s not enough yet.” She can hear him cross to his table of tools, and swallows hard. Whatever he ends up picking is metallic sounding when it clanks against the wooden surface.

The only further warning she gets is his footsteps approaching. There’s a flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and a knife stabs down into the meat of her right wing. She jerks forward, unable to hold back a grunt of pain as tears sting her eyes. 

Roderick’s not done yet, though. Adjusting his angle, he drags the knife downward, tearing through skin and muscle until the blade hits bone. This time Kamaria can’t help crying out, though she bites it off as quickly as she can and forces herself to keep to harsh breaths through her nose. Her wings tremble with pain. She can feel blood oozing out of the cut, staining whatever feathers are left. 

The knife stabs into her left wing. Instead of dragging it down, he slashes upward, through the top of her wing, again and again, effectively shredding it. Without anything to clench her fists around, she settles for digging her blunted fingernails into her palms, head dropping forward and teeth gritted.

Roderick steps back, admiring his work. “I wonder if that will ever heal correctly. Somehow I’m doubting it.”

He sounds so smug. But the worst part is that he may be right. She’s seen Vaya with horrendous wing injuries before that flew again in the end, but without healing magic or anyone who can guide her through how to build the muscles back up…

“I’d rather be sure, though.” He’s at the table again, but she can’t focus on what he’s doing past the throbbing pain. 

The next thing she’s aware of is heat close to her skin. Immediately she gasps and tries to pull away, memories flooding her mind, but there’s nowhere to go and Roderick laughs as he jabs the torch into her wing. 

Feathers catch fire. The smell is unbearable, but the pain is worse. She can’t tell what is happening, but it feels like her entire wing is engulfed in flame, the heat taking over her back and eating through everything. 

The village is burning, entire houses have gone up in flame

Intense heat presses against her from all sides

Her family members take to the sky, trying desperately to escape, only to come tumbling back to the ground with their wings on fire, screeching in pain

She doesn’t realize she’s screaming and sobbing until she’s doused with water from behind, and even then she can’t seem to stop. Roderick’s laughter echoes in her ears. The fire is gone, but the burning pain lingers, and the remains of her village keep fading in to replace the cell around her. 

“There,” Roderick declares once he’s stopped laughing. “So much better. Now they’re as far from being real wings as you are from being Vaya.”

Kamaria can only hang there shuddering, a few errant tears slipping down her cheeks. 

.

Ten Years Later

“Your wings.”

Kamaria freezes in place, hands plunged down into the rushing river water. She’d taken off her cloak to wash up, and hadn’t heard Bruno approach from behind. Now she desperately wants to grab the cloak and throw it back over her shoulders, but it won’t do her any good. He’s already seen. 

“What happened? They’re…” 

Disgusting? Mangled? Horrific? Any of those would do.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just…it looks like it was really painful.”

Flashes of fiery pain and the smell of burnt feathers take over her senses for an instant. She finally removes her hands from the water, shaking droplets off of them before standing. The still-healing wound on her leg gives a twinge that she barely notices. 

“I’m only half Vaya, they didn’t grow right.” It’s a stupid response. Obviously he can see that it’s more than just that. What else is she supposed to say, though? He doesn’t know about Roderick and her father and the fact that she’s just a weak pawn who gets beat up on a regular basis by her superiors. 

“You can’t fly.” It’s said more as a statement than a question. 

She almost wants to laugh at that, because looking at the state of her wings it should be exceedingly obvious that no, she can’t fly. There are bare patches covered in jagged scar tissue all over the tops, and half her primaries and secondaries are missing and will never grow back. The feathers that remain are in poor condition, she gave up on trying to preen them years ago since she can’t stretch them out fully anymore. 

Instead, she spins around to face him, shrugging. “Never could.”

“Shadow…” He’s giving her that look, the one where he’s all concerned and pitying that she hates. “Someone hurt you.”

She scowls. “It happens in my line of work.” Bending over, she snatches up her cloak and wraps it back around herself, hiding the wings again. “They were useless anyway, it’s not a big deal that they’re even more useless now.”

“Someone hurting you is a big deal.”

“Just drop it, Bruno.” She pushes past him, heading back for camp.

He falls into step behind her. “Okay. I’ll drop it.” 

It’s not until they’re back at camp, sitting down by the fire, that he speaks again. “I only want to say that, for whatever it’s worth…I’m sorry that happened to you. I'm sure they were…beautiful wings, even if they were small.”

They were. And now I can’t stand to look at them.

She doesn’t reply, just tosses another stick onto the fire. 

[rosetyler42]

Considering how anti-discrimination is part of the theme of HT, and that Simon and Lucy are half-jewish dhampirs, I'm sure they've gotten called slurs before. Or at the LEAST microaggressions. From BOTH sides. Lucy probably gets more blatant anti-monster (and possibly antisemitic) sentiment while Simon gets more fatphobia and possibly insults on his human or Van Helsing heritage.

tag the oc that has been called a slur

[coolmika745]

Tamatori's Letter

I am going to post or discuss and post the that was Tamatori's Letter that was in the inbox.

Maintenance Reimbursement 2023-12-06 Maintenance announcement notification Onmyoji, the opening of the night banquet has attracted a lot of attention. It seems that the origin of the things in the box is really not simple. I am the master of pirates. Although I often fight with swords and guns, I have no intention of offending you during the game. Although I don't know the origin of this thing, I have only heard that the fox tail aura sealed in the card is a gathering of powerful yoki, and it is the way for the great fox yokai to leave a message. It seems that you also want to know the story about it. Very good. Since I am eager, I will go all out for the next game. The compass of destiny belongs to the winner!

The "I didn't mean to offend you" sentence doesn't sound convincing at all." The writers did Kuzunoha really bad by not showing her face in the game and then have her tail cut off saying that she was trying to send a message. Since the current writers can't write a logical plot, Seimei will just be claim and stoic and not think that it is fantastic racism towards fox yokai.