#folks we are back in business

[tpc-tangled-au]

Chapter 8: The Lighthouse

The Othryan guard tried to catch them, but it was too late. Old Salome had stolen the child, and she vanished with him into the dark.

Just like that, gone. Dia gar cuideachadh, it was a terrible night.

They searched and searched, but they could not find the prince. His light had been hidden from them. But little did they know that, beyond a deep thicket, in a hidden valley by the sea, stood a tower.

Not just a tower, dear Baron: a LIGHTHOUSE! And a kindly sort too, if rather melancholy. But I suppose that was to be expected.

Who?

The lighthouse, of course!

Lighthouse? Do you mean there was a keeper of that place that I never—

No, no, I could never have met the keeper. It was the lighthouse itself, I tell you! It was the lighthouse ghost…

The first time the Lighthouse Ghost heard them, he was almost too faded to notice.

His lighthouse tower was not on a cliff now. His repeated efforts to undo what had been done had sunken it into its own valley, where the sea only came in through a little broken channel. He had stood alone for so long now he hardly existed. Only the lingering magic of the place kept him…

Well, perhaps not alive.

He had heard noises in the valley before. Men or beasts, neither or both. They mattered little. But that night, a cry came from the sky. The haze in his empty eyes vanished, and he looked to see the source of the cry.

The Ghost did not see. Not really. He barely caught a glimpse of a dark form descending before it vanished into the undergrowth. But soon enough, he heard. First, a yelp, a little distance away. A rustling pause. Another shout followed, quickly silenced. Then there was nothing, for many, many minutes.

Eventually, slowly, the Ghost became aware of a light, down about the foot of his tower. There was never any light in that valley but his own and the sky’s. Yet even so, he almost ignored it. He hardly had strength for anything else. But then there were sounds from the light. Voices.

The Lighthouse Ghost always paid attention to voices.

Shifting to peer down, he found no candle nor lantern, but a crooked pane, revealing nothing. Dark was its glow, barely enough to see. It was not meant for illumination, like his lamp, and it neither flickered like flame nor shone like a beam. It only spread a chill and unliving green over a handful of withered leaves.

With this unlight came a noise, cruel and cracked as withered stone. Its sound moved, up and down, like some creature’s deathly call. But it was no animal. There was something in it too wicked and clever for a mere beast.

Suddenly, the Lighthouse Ghost realized what he was hearing. Though he had not strength enough to take shape, all that he was trembled at the thought.

There were words in it.

And this horrible thing, this Unvoice, continued them. Whatever its words, they were not ones that any voice should speak, if speaking was what it was doing. The Ghost could barely endure hearing it. He nearly turned away, retreated to his lamp.

Yet all of a sudden, the Unvoice ceased. Then, in its place, came something small. A real voice this time. Haltingly, it repeated the same, awful words. In that voice, the words revealed themselves—they were a song. Or rather, an unsong. The phantom of a song. A hateful caricature of song. The Ghost listened in horror.

But the vile words broke off. Then the Unvoice, not singing. The little Voice spoke. Then the Unvoice, sharp and angry.

“No!”

A hard noise that came from no voice. Weeping followed it.

The Lighthouse Ghost could hardly bear existence that night. The Voice and the Unvoice went on through the dark, quieting and rousing, over and over. Sometimes the Voice cried. Oh, that was worse almost than the Unvoice and its Unsong. The Ghost had heard weeping before, and the memory alone was pain.

But the sound did not belong in this Voice. It was too small for this weeping.

On it went, and on, round and round like the whirling beam, never ending, always continuing. The Ghost could not stop it. The Ghost could not even come near to them. Oh, if he could only cross the bounds of his tower! If only he could cry out to the Voice! But he could not even stop hearing.

Even now, when quiet had come, he heard. The Unvoice made no noise, but hovered silent as a vulture. The small Voice only snuffled and sobbed softly, as it had for some time. The Ghost heard each faint whimper.

But then, deep in the dark, the Voice did something else.

It sang.

The Lighthouse Ghost lifted his head. It was song. Tune and words and voice, real and true. Though muffled and broken, the Song crept forth steadily into the silence of the night. Slowly, the little Voice steadied with it.

And—unseen, unheard, unliving, undying—the Lighthouse Ghost gasped the first breath he had taken in he knew not how long.

Below, the unlight was replaced by a golden glow, almost like fire.

Then came the Unvoice again. But… not the same. It spoke more hushed, less angered. The Song again. The light burned brighter, and its comfort burned deeper. The Unvoice, little more than a word’s length. And a small thing gasped below.

There was no more weeping that night.

~*~

In the weeks since she’d brought him here, Salome had never once lost track of the boy. She had tools to aid her in that. So the moment the boy began to cross the threshold, she pinched the glistening thread between her fingers, sharply.

Across the room, she heard him catch his breath.

“Where go you, boy?” she asked slowly, lazily, letting her smirk leak through her words.

“To the tower, Mistress,” the boy replied quickly.

A tighter pinch. “Wherefore?”

“Only to see it,” he hastened further, holding himself stiff and straight. “I like to see things.”

“Would you like to see them without eyes?” Salome rose suddenly, startlingly smooth. The thread, she gripped still between her fingers.

The boy froze in place. He said nothing more.

Silently, Salome glided toward him, until she stood just behind him. A moment’s pause, hovering. Then, she lifted her fingers. The tautness in the thread eased. But before he could release the breath he’d held, she hissed in his ear:

“Cross this threshold again ere a half-hour’s time is run, or you shall smart for it.”

The boy jumped, and she almost heard his heart against his ribs. “Y-yes, Mistress,” he stammered, nodding without turning. Then, he took off.

Salome watched him run. Her pretty grin cut cruel across her face. Time was hers to wield upon him. Oh, she had work she could tend with him gone. But it was twenty-nine minutes she would give him to return. And after that?

She fingered the thread, her fey chain.

After that, she would do more than pinch.

~*~

There was no snow to whiten the valley, and all was wet from the melting of it. All was dreary and dull grey and dead brown. All was damp and chill with no promise of spring.

But gold flashed through the valley, and every tree was touched as it passed.

As soon as the gold reached the foot of the tower, it looked back. Its gaze angled along the path it had taken. Its bright head bobbed a nod.

“Straight,” the golden thing whispered. “No branches to tangle it this time.” It looked forward again. “And less than ten minutes to get here too!”

Watching for branches and brambles, the gold began picking its way round the tower.

The tower, though tainted by time, had once been white. But faded splotches on the sides told also of stripes worn away. Gleaming black and bright red, once upon a time. Its walls smelled of lost seas.

The little gold thing made a half-circle, tracing along the tower’s side. Then it stopped. It returned to the side where it had first arrived, and started back the other way. Furrows scratched into its face as it roamed. But no questions came aloud.

The stairs, facing the north westerward, were gilded at last. The gold thing scrambled up readily through the ivy. But it found no greeting. No cracked boards, no rusted knobs, no gaping hole into which it could creep. Only blank.

The furrows scratched deeper. “What sort of tower hasn’t any door?”

Suddenly, even as it stood staring, there was a shift of air, of matter. Against the old pale, a new pale appeared. Or, more properly, another old pale. The valley had never known one without the other.

Where gold stared, empty white stared back.

A gasped smile, the first in weeks. “Hullo there!”

All the menace of a scowl fizzled out in a moment. Shock replaced it.

“Oh! Sorry, is it rude to not be frightened when you first meet a ghost? All the ones I’ve met were servants.”

A flicker like a blink. A shaken head.

“Oh, splendid! It’s been a time since I made a new friend.” A proffered hand. “What’s your name, good ghost?”

Long staring, dropping into emptiness again.

“Haven’t you got any name?”

A heavier headshake.

“Oh.” The hand retracted. “That’s all right, I suppose. I’ve not got one either. At least, not now. I used to have two names, don’t you know, and I liked ‘Naphtali’ best, but I’d even be happy to be called Prometheus now, because I’ve not got any name anymore. I’m… I’m not allowed to.”

Silence fell. Gold and white stood. And suddenly, they were boy and ghost. Young and old, living and not. Tangled hair and tangled beard. Hand-bruised cheeks and tear-scarred eyes. Nameless, bound, alone.

Boy and Ghost. Gold and white.

After a moment, the Boy’s grey eyes sharpened, glancing up. He frowned. “Why’s your tower have stripes?”

The Ghost did not open his mouth to answer.

“I mean, most towers are just stone, or else they’re painted all white and shining. Why does yours have stripes?”

The Ghost lifted a hand, hesitant.

“Yes? Say on!”

Decision crossed the hoary face. The Ghost stepped out to the edge of the stairs. The Boy followed him, creeping close in what might have otherwise been his shadow. The Ghost turned and pointed upward. The Boy peered his face after the transparent finger.

It pointed at the top of the tower. No battlements stood there in ruins. Only a strange room, with gaping holes in its walls. No, not holes—windows. It was paneled all round with windows.

The Boy screwed his face, as if thinking or remembering very hard.

A tall tower, a windowed room at its top, salt-scented walls, and stripes.

Stripes.

“AHA!” He sprang up. “A lighthouse! You’re a lighthouse, aren’t you?”

The Ghost nodded.

Delighted, the Boy clapped and started dancing round. “A lighthouse! Oh, I ought to have guessed it! Standing right by the loch and everything! Is it a loch? I always wondered if it was off the sea.”

The Ghost watched him dance. Even more, he listened to him speak.

The golden smile toward the white form again. “So you’re the… the Lighthouse Ghost, then?”

Another nod, lighter.

“Are you the ghost of a sailor, or a pirate? Maybe you’re an old merman, if those have ghosts. I’ve heard they don’t. Oh, or perhaps you’re the lighthouse-keeper!”

At those words, a sudden sorrow seared the ancient features. Indeed, the face seemed almost to age further as he stood.

“What’s this?!” The Boy jumped up, startled. “Oh, do pardon me, good ghost! I didn’t mean to say anything wrong…” Worry curled his face, and his eyes crept upward. “Did… did you die badly?”

A head shaken.

“Then what’s wrong? What…” Pause. “What are you ghost of?”

The same pointed finger, and the same destination.

“The… the lighthouse?”

Nod.

“Not the keeper?”

Age, heavy on his brow.

The Boy stared, as if trying to understand. Then his eyes went wide. “Oh. He’s your friend, isn’t he? The keeper?”

Sorrow, weighing his shoulders.

“Oh.”

Silence.

The lighthouse’s tale, hovering unspoken in the air, breathed two sets of thoughts with colours. Black and red, murky and mysterious, faded and forgotten. But not fully forgotten. Nor fully mysterious, either.

The Boy took in a breath and let it out. “I don’t think I shall see my friend again either.”

The Ghost turned empty eyes down upon the little golden head, widened. But this time, there was a tinge to the emptiness. Something of understanding.

Suddenly, the golden head jerked. With a sharp cry, the Boy clutched at his hair, stumbling. A coldness brushed his arm like a touchless hand, and white crossed gold. The Boy’s eyes darted up. The Ghost’s stared back, alarmed.

“I-I must run back, good ghost,” the Boy stammered hurriedly, “before she is angry. I’ll return when I can.”

Another jerk, like to rip out his skull. The Boy practically hurled himself from the stairs and scurried through the dead leaves, leaving the Ghost to follow if he would. But he could not follow. Not past that threshold.

A glance, dared back. White stood still on the stair. Gold lifted a hand to wave. Then a pull, and they were parted. Both vanished into the dead shades of wet winter.

But the valley would not soon forget those colours.

~*~

The Lighthouse Ghost knew it was the Voice that he met that day. That was why he began to fear when the Boy did not return the next day. Nor the next. In fact, it was a full week’s time before he returned.

But return he did. The Unvoice had not stolen his words away, sealed them in silence forever. Indeed, the Boy seemed more eager than ever to speak. He may as well have saved up all his talk the entire week for that one day. For that one listener.

And oh, how long it had been since the Ghost had anyone to whom he could listen.

So the pattern formed. The Boy’s absence, the Boy’s return, the Boy’s ready talk. The Ghost’s ready ear. It went thus for weeks into months, and months into years. Winter into spring, summer into autumn.

The Boy had many sorts of words to spend. Songs and poems and chatter about all manner of subjects. But more than anything, the Boy told stories. Fairytales, ghost stories, seafaring fables, and all.

The Ghost had heard a good half of them before. But the Boy walked about as he narrated, gesturing, spinning, leaping. His voice grew bolder with each tale he told. And he smiled, and he laughed, and it had been long since any story was spun in that place.

One of these stories was the very one that kept the Boy there. It was the tale of his abduction. It was the tale of that first winter night, when the Unvoice tried to make him sing what was not a song, and he refused.

And it was the tale of the real song. “My friend’s song,” the Boy said, with a forlorn smile. “It wasn’t the right words, but… but it made me brave afore.”

But the right song with the wrong words did more than make brave. It made his captor—the Unvoice—stare. It made the room turn gold. It made his wounded arm stop hurting completely. And yet he didn’t even notice until the second time he sang it.

“Sharp Eyes said it’s not grand enough to be magic. But it is—it is! When I sang it, it was magic! Can you believe it’s true? Oh, I wish I could tell her! She’d—she’d laugh!”

The Ghost didn’t know how long it was since the Boy had seen his friend. But he knew. As the Boy started to cry, he knew it didn’t matter how long since.

After all, the scars from his own tears had never faded.

~*~

When it had been all but a year since the first night, the Boy did not come in the daytime.

He’d said he would. He’d been coming a little more often, arriving a little faster, staying a little longer. And he almost never missed. He had said he would come the next day, certain sure. But he did not come in the daytime.

It was only when the evening began to dim that the Ghost saw his hair flashing through the trees. He was running.

He was running much faster than usual.

“Stairs,” he gasped out, hardly stopping. “Stairs, and quick now! She’ll be angry when she finds out I’m here tonight, but you’ve got to see!”

Without another word, the Boy stampeded away over brush and bracken. The Ghost betook himself to the top of the stairs and waited. The little fellow was puffing hard, round face red under his golden hair, when he scrambled up at last to join him.

“Sky,” he breathed out. He almost doubled over trying to fill his lungs. “Just over… mountains.”

The Ghost reached out to him, wondering if he should worry. But a smile was on his breath as he glanced up.

“Well, look!”

Empty eyes turned to the rim of the valley they hollowed. At first, sky was the only thing beyond. Purple turning blue turning black. The coming night that his now-faint beam could once pierce.

A turn, questioning.

“Keep looking, fellow! It must be there!”

He turned back. Whatever the Boy was so eager to show him, it seemed important enough to risk the Unvoice’s wrath. So he fixed his sight on the horizon as if watching for a ship to come in.

It was not a ship. But come it did.

Just at the top of the northwest cliffs, a little red light flickered into the black. It might have been a far-off bonfire. But it rose. It escaped the reach of the cliffs. And it multiplied. One, then another, then three, then ten. Green, then blue, then yellow followed. Soon, dozens of these glimmering gleams, in many shades of light, drifted into the sky, piercing the night.

The Lighthouse Ghost had no pupil nor iris. But in the blank pale of his eye, these flickers reflected their every colour.

“They did, they did. They sent it up. Why, I’ve been vanished for a year, and they still sent up the lights for my birthday!”

The Ghost stopped, perfectly frozen.

Birthdays. The Keeper had talked of those. What had he said about them? They were every year. They were… what? What had he said? It was… it was…

‘When men’s bodies finish being made and come out a-shouting to meet the world.’

All of a sudden, the Ghost remembered. He remembered the words. And he remembered the voice that spoke them. He heard it inside of him again, like an echo of joy in this life.

‘That’s what we living folk call being born, now. And our souls don’t forget those days, so we make ‘em merry as we can do, and call ‘em birthdays.’

He almost saw again the Keeper’s face, beaming down broadly.

‘Think I’ll find out the day this old tower of yours got finished being made. Then we’ll call it your birthday! And we’ll make a fine day of it too, won’t we, little fellow?’

“I thought you’d like to see it, old chap.”

He turned from the picture of his past. And he found the Boy’s face, beaming up just the same way.

“Well, for one, it tends to make a good surprise for anybody who’s not seen it afore. Sharp Eyes didn’t remember once. But you’re one for lights, and that’s all the better.” His eyes, round pupils and grey irises, were glad and full as they turned up to meet him. “Why, it even made you smile!”

The Ghost paused. Flickered like a blink. Then, something long-derelict inside him seemed to shift back into place.

He was smiling, wasn’t he?

~*~

[Chapter 1/Writing the Story]

[Chapter 7/Frey ... Chapter 8/you are here! ... Chapter 9/Workings of a Witch]

[Also on AO3, if you want to hop on over!]

[royalarchivist]

Bad: I don’t think people understand the effect QSMP had on some of the streamers in terms of like… The real raw mental impact, so I’m gonna set the stage for you. [...] Imagine that you were given a friend to play Minecraft with — like your best friend ��� BUT if this person dies, if they die in the game, you never get to talk to them again. Can you imagine what that’s like?

Bad: If you did not live through the QSMP, if you did not live through that, it almost sounds like, crazy. But I don’t think people realize how much of a joyous experience the Eggs were. They were SO awesome! They were literally so awesome to just hang out with and spend time with.

Bad: I’m not saying I regret it. To this day, I loved the experience. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. Even knowing how everything went, I would still do it all over again. [...] I would still do it all over again, because — even knowing like, all the trauma and suffering and stuff like that — because it was just… It was just that fun, it was just that fun.

Earlier today during his stream, Bad shared his experience and thoughts about the Eggs and the significant emotional (and traumatic) impact they had on him and his fellow QSMP members.

This clip a very edited-down version since his commentary was ~13 minutes long, so I highly recommend checking out Bad's VOD if you have the time. (Timestamp: 47:36 - 1:00:14)

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

———

Bad: To be fair Chat, I really think the QSMP... I don't think anyone really can relate to it, Chat. It's something that's so... I've told people this before, like– but it's hard to understand. Right? Like...

Where was I? Sorry Chat, I'm losing my train of thought. Look, let me explain Chat�� here's the dealio, ok? Here's the dealio, and this is what I mean when I say like, it's important to keep this in mind, Chat. Ok? It's important to keep this in mind:

I don’t think people understand the effect that the QSMP had on like, some of the streamers, in terms of like… The real raw mental impact, so I’m gonna set the stage for you. This is the analogy I’ve given to every person who I’ve like, shared this with. Imagine you meet somebody– [He hears a strange noise] What the fudge was that? Did you hear that?

Anyway– Chip! The story I was just relaying to Chat, Chip, was this: I was sharing this story with them, I said–  I was giving them an analogy. 

Imagine Chat, for example, imagine that you were… playing Minecraft, with like– you were given a friend to play Minecraft with, Chat, like your best friend, and [unintelligible] were like, “Hey, you get to play Minecraft with this person, right? BUT if this person dies – they’re currently your best friend, Chip – but if they die in the game, you never get to talk to them again. Ever again.” Can you imagine what that’s like, Chip?

I don’t think a lot of people understand like, what that does, right? I’m not gonna say that like, it creates this situation, Chip, that like, messes with your head, but it– Chip – but it totally, totally does, Chip. It messes with your head! It literally puts you in a position where you’re second-guessing and thinking about everything, Chip! You’re thinking about EVERYTHING Chip! Ok? And that’s the problem, Chip– is you turn into a paranoid monster because of it, Chip! Like, you don’t understand Chip– I was- I was so afraid of every dirt block, I used to carry a shovel with me Chip, and I would specifically right-click dirt blocks that looked suspicious because mines, Chip– mines could not be shoveled! Like, I was crazy, Chip! But here’s the problem, Chip: that craziness is still there. I’m genuinely like–

I remember thinking Chip, that I would one day– I was like, “I’m going to move past–” here, let’s go up here, Chip. I remember thinking one day Chip, I was like, “I’m gonna move past the underground base, one of these days. You know, one of these days, I feel like I’ll be able to grow and achieve the desire to build a base that doesn’t have to be underground.” But I don’t think it’s possible now Chip, because I think… I just don’t know. I feel like the paranoia– there’s still like, residual leftover trauma from that situation, Chip.

But here’s the problem Chip: I don’t think I don’t think– I don’t think people understand it. Like, I just really don’t. But I also don’t blame them Chip, ‘cuz I don’t think it’s possible to fully understand it if you haven’t lived through it. Like, if you did not live through the QSMP… I’m talking about the QSMP, I don’t- I don’t know if that was obvious– if you did not live through that, it almost sounds like, crazy. But I don’t think people realize how much of a joyous experience like, the Eggs were. Right? I don’t think people realize it. Like, they were SO awesome! They were literally so awesome to just hang out with and spend time with, Chip. So, it’s just one of those things that–

[He’s interrupted by a loud rumble of thunder above them]

Did lightning just strike here? Is it thunderstorming out…? But anyway, Chip. That’s the food for thought.

But that’s the problem– Like, every time it rains in Minecraft, I have to like, look at the sky, and I get this weird, like, second--hand vibe because of the trauma. The trauma, Chip! The trauma is real! But that’s the point– I’m not saying I regret it. I, to this day Chip, I loved the experience. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. Even knowing how everything went, I would still do it all over again. 

[He falls down] Dangit, don’t come over here Chip, ‘cuz I’m coming back up! Ok.

I would still do it all over again, because — even knowing like, all the trauma and suffering  and stuff like that — because it was just… It was just that fun, Chip, it was just that fun. I really wi– I don’t think it’s ever gonna be possible, Chip, to give people that same energy, like that same experience. You know what I mean, Chip? I don’t think it’s ever gonna be possible again. Like, EVER.

Because… because like, one: I will say on one level Chip, I will say on one level, like– it’s sort of emotionally like… It’s emotionally devastating, and I think to actually go through that– and this is where like, if I ever do end up going to a– see a therapist, if I ever do end up going to see a therapist at any point, I’ll talk it over with them and be like, “Hey, what do you think about this?” Because I genuinely think on one level, like– it’s created this fear of forming attachments because of like, how things can go. You know what I mean? Like, the fear of getting attached to something and then potentially losing it. Like, it’s- it’s a genuine thing. I think people forget about that.

Like, at the end of the day, everything was RP, right? On the server. You know what I mean? Like, everything was RP, Chip. BUT at the same point, even though it was RP Chip, it was still like– there the reality of you were still playing like, with another person, and you were still getting that experience, and it felt like you were genuinely attached to someone and you didn’t want anything bad to happen to them. It was GENUINELY stressful, Chip.

But at the same point, I don’t regret it, and I don’t think it was a bad experience. I’m– 

Sometimes in life Chip, you go through stuff, and maybe you have a certain amount of like, things that like, can happen, that you’re like, “You know what, maybe this wasn’t a good thing that this happened,” but at the same point, you still aren’t necessarily upset about it, because… it’s like growing as a person, right? Here’s the thing Chip; even bad situations, Chip, can lead to an overall good outcome. Like–

Even if you’re going through something bad Chip, just because a bad thing happens doesn’t mean that only bad things have to come from that. That’s one of the things I tell people all the time, Chip, is that if you go through a bad situation, you can learn from it, and you can use your experience to help others. And you can be that– you can be, at the worst-case scenario, you can be someone for other people who are going through that same experience to lean on when they go through that.I think there’s a certain amount of comfort that comes from that; from knowing no matter how bad your situation is, you’re not the only person who’s experienced it. You know what I mean?

[junewild]

Watching Sam & Brennan talk about the beauty of frivolity, of adults playing silly games just as seriously as they fight to survive, and... yeah. There are some things that keep us alive, and there are some things that make life worth living, and I think games are one of those things that fall into both categories. Games make our lives better and they make us better at being alive. I think that's pretty cool.

[sainz100]

📸 by Mark Sutton

[six-of-cringe]

So the "Jesper is Wylan's sugar baby" jokes don't bother me TOO badly, but they irk me slightly because they're pretty much based on the fact that no one knows what an allowance is beyond the context of "spending money a parent gives to their child". An allowance in business is an amount of money given to someone for a specific business-related expense, so the "allowance" mentioned at the end of CK is just the amount of money they budgeted to put into the stock market, which Jesper is in charge of. Because you know, he's smart and also Wylan's business partner, not his incompetent pet. Ok maybe the jokes bother me some

[marc--chilton]

(mgv) the first few heats after giselle's birth leave house consumed with parental devotion. he is protective to an insane degree and if she isn't gone to stay with someone before his heat really kicks in, any and all energy that would have gone into sex instead goes to being feral over the baby. example:

house and their pup are curled up in a nest he has carefully constructed for Maximum Comfort + Hide, practically wrapped around her as they nap. wilson left earlier to go grab a snack house had asked for and got sidetracked while at the store (keeps finding stuff they may want/need/might like and it becomes a Whole Thing) so he ended up being gone for long enough that house dozed off. when he comes back and house hears the sound of the front door unlocking, his eyes shoot open and he's instantly growling -- he's not even really awake, just running on pure instinct while his brain struggles to catch up. it's enough that when wilson walks in and hears it he stops on reflex -- an omega, in heat, nesting, with a pup, growling? alpha weakness. shakes them to their blood even when it's their omega because when instincts run high like that. even those in bonded pairs will tread carefully because the omega will Not Hesitate. it's not until wilson hesitantly calls out to him that house shakes himself out of it ("rrrrmrrgghhrrr--" " 😰 house?" "--rrrmpp?"). then when wilson walks in with the snack and whatever other little tokens he found he plays it extra safe as an apology for being gone for so long; keeping his head bowed, placating notes in the scent he puts out, staying a respectful distance away from the nest until house explicitly permits him to come closer (house rolls his eyes when wilson hesitates to enter the nest even though he so clearly wants to)

[byrdstrolls]

Hey

remember when mondes visited his music teacher and he wanted him to join that contest and mondes said no?

remember when bee said she wanted to rescue abidel and it prompted hanagi to hack into fleet academy records?

remember all the creepy and weird ass shit Faeria has just been saying constantly in asks? Her experiments, Diante, Alaska, etc?

this has been your

recap

of things you didn't know were going to be important but they are important now

[thebaffledcaptain]

Playing around with another one of my 18th century favorites, Niel Gow's Lament for the Death of His Second Wife. I met a wonderful fiddler at Salem this weekend who reminded me how much I love this tune; I only wish I had recorded our rendition, as I tend to compulsively do, but that wouldn't have been very period accurate of me while playing for the officers' luncheon...

[dailykugisaki]

Day 124 | id in alt

A little bit of a rematch and my opinion on why you never see Mai's six(seven) shooter again.

Read from left to right.

[rainbow-beanie]

Looked up if someone could experience trauma at a young age from someone leaving, cause that was definitely something that happened to scratch, (idia moving away, presumably leaving him alone) and:

AND WHAT’S DESCRIBED HERE PERFECTLY REPRESENTS SCRATCH I’M SCREAMING-

“Can leave people feeling anxious and worried about their own physical and emotional safety” thinks about how last episode scratch was trying REALLY hard to convince people he has a “rock star personality” aka asking if they think he’s cool, and unintentionally or not desperately seeking their approval.

“Children worried about how their basic needs will be met may suffer from from anxiety and have a pronounced need for control over what’s happening around them.” The whole scene in the first episode where Molly first moved in and how he reacted is a very important aspect of his character. The moment he realized the mcgee’s were moving into HIS HOME he immediately wanted them out, cause he didn’t want anything to change on that moment, he’s scared of change, it TERRIFIES him, and when he was unable to convince Molly to move out he sits curled up in the corner of the room.

And when that didn’t work he tried to flee out the window (unfortunately because of the curse, that didn’t work.)

(Also this is not a diss at Molly, she was completely unaware that what she was doing was stressing scratch out, she was just too focused on decorating her new room on her new home, something that she probably did multiple times. Molly had trauma too that involves her and her family moving around her whole life. Point is Molly and scratch both have trauma, and it’s up to them to work through it)

Him having anxiety is a very important thing we (and when I mean we I mean the fandom) found out shortly after in the mind aired, what with a monkey being in his mind, which could be a reference to “monkey mind” in which it was first taught over 2,000 years ago by the Buddha, he described the human mind as “being full of drunken monkeys, constantly screeching, fighting, chattering, distracting, and generally creating mental chaos” which is a perfect representation of anxiety. And perhaps adhd, but I’ll probably need someone that has it to say whether or not this is true.

Point is, scratch being anxious is something that has been very prominent on the show, the first instance being in turnip twist where he was extremely stressed out cause of the ghost council breathing down his neck about his scare reports (something I’ll never forgive them for btw)

Anyway, thanks for coming to my Ted talk

[cyanide-sippy-cup]

All I've seen on the left this election has been a loop of

"I'm not voting Harris cause she's pro-genocide"

"But then you're letting Trump into power! It'll be on you when trans kids die!"

and

"I'm voting Harris cause I don't want Hitler Jr in charge again"

"So Palestine doesn't matter to you? Someone finally showed their true colors!"

I feel like we're saying the same things here. Some coordination would be nice, people.

[buoyantsaturn]

stooooop why can't I stop thinking about lost </3

[casualhedonists]

DATING IS SO HARD WTF

[loumauve]

I snapped today at work, and by snapped I mean I politely commented on a help desk ticket by summing up an mess of an (type of) issue that's come up for at least the fourth time in the 2+ months I've been managing user accounts, and asked the person responsible to fix it (himself for once) because last time I fixed his mess-up it took me two whole days to work out the details with at least four other colleagues from different departments and I really don't want to do it again. there's other shit that needs doing, I've been working 10+ hour days for most of this week already, so I need to cut down not add on more.

(good thing tho - at least we managed to fix the issue where the dataset of a newer employee got mixed up with another one of the same name and therefore wasn't able to apply for any of the access/accounts she needed. technically not entirely my area but it does impact us not being allowed to create an account for her so I figured I might as well track that issue down. took three days and at least three other people, but hey - it should all work out now. yay for that)

[tariah23]

Now he’s trying to lie when he literally tagged Princeton like 5 fucking time. White people are so evil, bro. They always know what they’re doing when they do shit like that. With the attempt to bring harm to Black people who they want to “get out of the way,” because they don’t think that we belong in the same spaces as them while at the same time, believing they should be allowed INTO our spaces and afforded hospitality and a whole red carpet rolled out. The sad thing is, she has connections to the industry because of her uncle and name so what if this was just a random Black woman who worked for Princeton without this kind of protection at all…?

[mako-designated-driver]

Codex Entry* #21: Absolution

Antiva doesn't have a monopoly on assassins. The bleak Anderfels have produced some of the most ruthless killers in the world, and in the capitol of Hossberg, there are never fewer than ten in the service of their king. They served only the king, and the politics of the Anderfels are a brutal affair. Among the pious, the most dangerous thing a man can do is disgrace himself, for the king sends his killers not for those who plot to overthrow him, but for those who break the Maker's laws and fall into sin and decadence. In the Anders, this is called absolution, not assassination. Death is the sinner's act of penance.

—From In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, by Brother Genitivi