#for catalogue purposes if nothing else

[iersei]

I did my part 🫡

Could I get Lincoln and Taylor being besties

[VOTE GLENN CLOSE IN THIS TOURNAMENT HERE AND GET A SKETCH REQUEST]

they are each other's ride or die !!!

[cjayius]

FEELS LIKE — NISHIMURA RIKI

SYNOPSIS. the three times nishimura riki almost told his best friend he loved her, and the one time he actually did.

pairing. bestfriend!riki x f!reader wc. 0.66k tw. kissing , reader is kinda oblivious genre. fluff ( CATALOGUE )

the first time riki almost told you he loved you, you were in the school library. your chin was propped up in the palm of your hand as you exasperatedly stared down the physics problems before you.

a smile tugged at his lips when you furrowed your brows in frustration, groaning out for the tenth time that hour.

he shook his head at you, pulling your pencil from your tiny fingers. " you're doing it wrong. look, " he could have sworn he stopped breathing when you lifted your head to look at his book, quite literally invading his breathing space.

vanilla and coconut; that's what you smelt like. though it was a bit creepy to smell you, riki promised it wasn't on purpose.

" riks ? did you fall asleep ? " your fingers snapping in front of his eyes made him fall out of his daydreams. your hand brushed gently against his and he tightened his grip around the pencil. any tighter and he would have broken it.

the second time riki almost told you he loved you, he was watching you dance at prom with another boy. he felt a pang of hurt crash into him as he watched you giggle and smile at the boy's words. you only ever laughed like that with him.

" ni-ki, calm down or soon, the whole school's going to know you like her. " heeseung's hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him grounded as he clenched his jaw at the sight in front of him.

he ignored your calls as he turned and left without a second thought. he was going to go absolutely insane if he kept these feelings inside any longer.

the third time riki almost told you he loved you, the two of you were watching the sunrise after your graduation. he stared at you in awe; the sunlight striking your face and hair made you look ethereal.

you giggled at the way he was obviously admiring your beauty before turning back to the wonderful view. " i'll miss you when we go off to college, riks. a lot, i mean. "

riki, of course, had thought about it longer than anyone else.

but for now, he opted for wrapping a hand around your shoulder and pulling you close, trying his best to enjoy the moment. he would miss you the most. he would miss his bestfriend.

three years apart had done nothing to the feelings riki had been secretly harboring. the distance had only made them stronger. now he was fresh out of college, and at the moment, watching you run towards him at a scary speed.

" riks ! " he had come to your house even before putting any of his things back; he had to see you. he chuckled as he felt your arms wrap around him, hugging you back without hesitation.

both of you had grown. riki was now taller than the eiffel tower, as you put it, and you had grown into your features. but you were both the same people.

he was the same riki that fell in love with you, and you were the same girl he fell in love with seven years ago.

now, he watched with a smile as you downed a bottle of soju, wiping your chin. the two of you decided to visit your spot, the place you always hung out at when you were still in school.

it was like deja vu, he thought to himself. yet again, he admired you as the wind blew your hair across your face, your face glowing in the evening light.

before he could even think about what he was saying, the words fell from his mouth. " i'm in love with you, yn. " he glanced at you, you paused your actions midway to look at him in shock. " you ... what ? "

no take backs now. mustering up all the courage he had, which was basically none right now, he delicately took your soft hand in his considerably rougher one.

" i love you. i have since freshman year when you hit me in the head with a ball and smiled at me like an idiot. yn, i- " he had never felt as much relief as he did right now, when you pulled him closer and pecked his lips lightly.

" you idiot, why have you never said anything ? all these years i felt like an idiot for falling in love with my best friend. " he breathed out a sigh, finally being able to embrace you, his head resting in the crook of your neck.

his only regret was not telling you he loved you those three times.

taglist : @so-lychee @bambisnc @mellowdyverse

[ai-art-thieves]

Welcome to the A2T Police Department

Established "Only Good Cop of Tumblr"!

Hello! I'm the resident officer of this one man police department/detective agency.

I initially made this blog to investigate ai art theft bots and alert artists about them, but now I've expanded it to be about spreading the word about general forms of online evil.

Case Types:

Stolen Content (Catalogues content thieves of all kinds, bot or not.)

AI Scumbaggery (Using AI generated content to steal or create content, or manipulate others.)

Illegal Content (Self-Explanatory.)

Sockpuppeting (Where you create multiple accounts for the sole purpose to make your main account look better or ban evade.)

Harassment (Self-Explanatory)

Scams (Also Self-Explanatory. Dropshipping also counts as a scam.)

Cases:

Sevenart.ai (The one that started it all!)

Copycat Bots (Bots that repost images and even copy/paste posts and tags.)

Ivan the Terrible Mouthwasher (A swarm of various social media accounts that posts illegal and gore content involving children and animals under the tags for the game "Mouthwashing".) (CW: mentions of gore, child porn, child gore, rape, animal torture, extreme fetishes, executions)

Lavenderconstellation.store (Notorious dropshipping scam site that uses bots/takes over other blogs to promote themselves)

Verridith v. m0t0k0 (What starts off as a simple case of plagiarized works turns into a wild day at Judge A2T's courtroom. No, really, it lasted an entire day.)

How to report....

Stolen Content: If it's a bot, you can report as spam. BUT, it has to be from the "report something else category". If this doesn't work, file a DMCA.

Illegal Content: Usually this content gets nuked right away by a simple report. You can give the report multiple links as well. The more, the merrier.

If the image of the child is innocent, but the reblogs and posts itself are in a suggestive context, do mention it when filing the report under child abuse.

If you spot content involving candid shots (people getting filmed and posted in a sexualized context without their permission), file it under a privacy violation under the victim's behalf.

Reposted porn gifs and videos can be nuked simply by filing it under a sexually explicit report. Again, it has to be from the "report something else category". Otherwise, it will do nothing.

Harassment: Only report for harassment if a block doesn't stop them.

AI Scumbaggery: Can overlap with any one of the above. Don't report something solely because it is AI generated.

Scam: Report as spam/bot. Not sure if you can report it as Unlawful Uses or Content, but it wouldn't hurt to try!

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

Phoenix/Miles 35

in reference to this. 35 - as a lie

Miles Edgeworth, hearing his office door swing open, moved quickly. It only took a moment to open his desk drawer and slip the letter he'd been writing inside. He closed the drawer again, feigning nonchalance as he glanced up at the man entering his office.

Of course it was him. Who else would it be?

"Wright," Edgeworth said. "What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?"

Phoenix smiled, shutting the door behind him. He was wearing his jacket, but removed it and folded it over his arm as he spoke. "I could ask the same thing of you, Edgeworth. Are you really working this late on a Friday night?"

"Unlike some people," he said, "I do not have the luxury of my own schedule. The Prosecutor's Office doesn't stop on my whims."

"What could they have you working so hard on right after we just wrapped up all that SL-9 business?"

"Oh, you mean the incident in which it came out that I'd achieved a conviction using fabricated evidence? The one where the Chief of Police was revealed as a murderer? The one where our Chief Prosecutor was incarcerated?" The very corner of his mouth tipped up in a slight, sarcastic smile. "You're quite right, Wright. I can't think of any fallout from that incident which might require further attention from the Prosecutor's Office."

Phoenix crossed the room easily - he always moved with such purpose - to stand on Edgeworth's side of the desk. He leaned easily against it, an intrusion Edgeworth catalogued and said nothing about.

"Even so, it's not fair for them to make you stay so late," he said.

"Hm. Still haven't lost your idealism, have you?"

"Maybe so," he said, "but if I haven't, I don't want to."

"Sometimes, Wright, I wish I could see the world the way you do."

"It's never too late to change your outlook, Miles."

"Hah." He shook his head. "So what brings you up here, in any case? Are you just visiting to needle me about my late hours?"

"Well, not entirely," Phoenix said. He fiddled with the folds of his jacket, still slung over his arm, before sitting it down on Edgeworth's desk and continuing. "Ema's just left for Europe."

"So I heard. To stay with one of Chief Prosecutor Skye's friends in Germany, if I recall correctly."

"You didn't come to the station to see her off."

Edgeworth turned his eyes away. "I... had the distinct feeling my presence would be somewhat less than appreciated."

"And there it is," Phoenix said. "I came here to see if you were still blaming yourself. Looks like I got my answer without needing to ask."

Edgeworth sighed. "Sometimes, Wright, you are entirely too perceptive. It has been a consistent thorn in my side since you made your way back into my life."

"You know you didn't do anything, right? You're completely innocent."

"I used forged evidence to achieve a guilty verdict. That is enough for me to consider myself beyond forgiveness."

"That's not your choice to make," Phoenix said. "I forgive you. Lana and Ema forgive you. There's nothing you can do about that."

"I appreciate the pep talk, Wright," he said, "but unless you have something of concrete value to say, I'd ask you to leave me to my work."

"I'm not leaving until you're done throwing your little pity party," Phoenix said. "Stop moping."

"I am not moping."

"You're definitely moping. Don't mope. It doesn't look good on you."

Edgeworth gave a long-suffering sigh. "The only evidence I have ever found for the existence of a God," he said, "is that without one, it is astronomically unlikely a man so perfectly tailored to disturb me and my peace would come to exist."

Phoenix laughed.

"It isn't a compliment, Wright," he snapped.

"No, but it's funny," he said. "Sometimes I feel just the same way as you. You're a real piece of work, Edgeworth."

"I have been... made aware."

Phoenix leaned forward, placing a hand on the side of Edgeworth's face. Edgeworth's first instinct was to jerk away, which he successfully resisted.

"Hey," Phoenix said. "You know I'm in love with you, right?"

"I'd realized," Edgeworth said. "And you know I can't return those feelings. Not yet."

"That's alright," Phoenix said. "You've had a lot going on these last fifteen years, Miles."

"Hah. I suppose one could say that."

"Just..." Phoenix paused. "Don't go anywhere. Take as long as you need, but stay right here. Promise me that."

The letter was burning a hole in Edgeworth's desk. "Of course, Phoenix," he said.

"I need you to promise, Miles," he said. Phoenix bit his lip and looked away. "I spent too long wondering what had happened to you. I can't do that again. I need you in my life, in whatever way you'll let me be."

Edgeworth wasn't usually one for impulsivity, but he'd been trying to take the odd lesson from his childhood friend, and that seemed to be a primary characteristic of the way he lived his life. So he did something impulsive. He placed his hand on the back of Phoenix's head, pulled him further down, and planted a kiss on Phoenix's cheek.

"I promise you, Wright," he said, "that I will remain in contact with you for as long as you would like me to."

Phoenix visibly relaxed. "Thank you, Miles."

"Of course."

[sundrop-writes]

why did you delete careful?

i went to go re read and its gone 🔫🔫

Just to clarify for everyone - yes, I did delete it from Tumblr. My series Careful (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader) - has been completely scrubbed from Tumblr, aside from reblogs by other people that I cannot delete.

Why did I delete it? Honestly, the tone of your message really drives home why I deleted it - entitlement from readers, a general unkindness toward me and this work that I have put hundreds of hours into. People being rude in the comments and blatantly misunderstanding the work because of a fanon acceptance of babying Spencer to the point of emotional incompetence and absolutely smooth flawlessness. (So having me prod at his flaws in the fic makes me worthy of such harassment.)

I really wanted to drive home the fact that you are not entitled to fanfiction. Fanfiction is a privilege.

I deleted it because I wanted to make a point: fanfiction is free, and you cannot treat it with the same harsh, unhinged criticism that you would with a piece of media that you paid for. (Especially because fanfiction authors are directly reading your comments, while TV producers/writers and movie producers/writers are not.) If you do not like something in a fanfic that you're reading, click away and forget about it - don't comment on it.

And I really hope that me deleting this fic and people 'missing' it will cause people to take a step back and self examine so that they are kinder and more thoughtful the next time that they comment on a fic.

Writers use their free time to work hard on fics, and there is a huge amount of stress that goes into getting an idea down on paper, making it coherent, editing it - even something like making fanfic covers to embellish our fics to make them more enticing to read. There is a lot of hard work and stress that goes into a fic before it's even seen by anyone, so I don't need the added stress of rude comments, entitled people, and the passive-aggressive 'this is good, but-' comments that people constantly bring to the table.

I really, really loved Careful when it was in my drafts. I was so excited to post it for everyone to see - but after posting it, the comments I received made me resent the fic so much, made me question my entire creative process as a writer, and made me really bitter toward the fictional characters I was writing about, but when I went into the fic, I had nothing but genuine enthusiasm about them.

Making someone develop a deep, vile resentment (bordering on hatred) toward their own fic is really something else. And it made me realize that people don't deserve to read that fic in order to comment on it.

It will not be reposted to Tumblr, but it is still on AO3 - and that is very purposeful on my end, because all my fics are archive locked, so fewer people can see them and read them. I was considering deleting it off every website altogether, but AO3 is an archive for a reason. I may orphan it on AO3 later -or I just hope that I can write enough works that I am proud of and that I love in order to bury it deep in my catalogue so that I don't have to look at it or think about it anymore.

If you really want to read it, go find it there. If you don't have an AO3 account - then idk what to tell you.

Just be kinder and more thoughtful when commenting on fics. And please, learn to support writers in other ways - actually reblog their work instead of just lingering with a blank blog, go back and read older fics on their masterlist, engage with them.

And if you already do these things, this message is obviously not for you. If me saying this pisses you off, then this is probably for you.

[griefabyss69]

Illusion of Grace

written for ‘Charm’ wc: 548 | rated: T | cw: Vampire Eddie, Enthrallment, Scared & Horny

Prompt is from @steddiemicrofic <3

[ AO3 ]

(Title is from the band Ambrotype)

Steve's heart pounds, shakes his ribs as it screams at him to run. The adrenaline of this dangerous game they're playing, of having nowhere to hide, grasps him and tries to rattle an ounce of fucking sense into him.

Eddie's leaning in, eyes bright. Deep, blackened brown surrounded by luminescent red sclera.

His fangs are out, framing his bottom lip, making Steve's heart ache harder, his instincts terrified like a caged animal, and his not-so-latent homosexual tendencies begging him to kiss him.

"Who's charming now?" Eddie asks, black fingertips cupping his jaw.

Steve wants to antagonize him, goad him into another one of their little arguments so whoever wins can claim their stupid little prize, but he can't move.

Eddie told him about it, when he first came back. A vampiric thrall, like hypnotism.

He can only watch his face, breath the air that Eddie isn't exhaling into, and distantly catalogue the way his cock starts to get fuller.

"Those big puppy dog eyes of yours," Eddie says, their noses almost touching. "Look so good when you're scared."

If he could move, he'd be running, just from the chill that drips ice through him, the something is horribly wrong please run that isn't present when he usually needs it, but lights up his nerves now.

Eddie's not a threat, even if Steve thinks that if they kiss then whatever they have to face after will hurt. It would've hurt back when Eddie was still human, too.

He's in love with a dead guy, and he wants to give him his throat.

"Yes, give it to me," Eddie whispers, the sound ghosting over Steve's lips.

Steve obeys without thinking, able to move purely just to carry out the order, tilting his head only to bare his neck.

"Good, you're so pretty like this," Eddie says, closing in a few inches to press soft lips and hard teeth to his skin.

He doesn't feel anything sharp, but he knows it's there, and all he wants is Eddie to sink into him, to open him up, drink him down. If he does that, he thinks he'll have fulfilled his purpose for tonight.

Tomorrow night, Eddie could take him, stake his claim on him again.

Steve wants to be the only one, wants Eddie to be surviving off of his blood, nothing else. Wants to be so good for him that he doesn't dream of finding something better.

"You did so well," Eddie says, pulling back.

Steve can't make any noises, but there's a whine building in his chest, abject disappointment curling rancid around his heart.

Eddie's eyes track over his neck, he looks so hungry, and he wishes he could talk to encourage him to get in there. Take from him until he's sated and just as in love as Steve is.

But instead, Eddie blinks, looks away, and just like that;

Steve's standing in the basement, hard cock throbbing, panting for air as he tries to grapple with the sharp come down from supernaturally charmed devotion to… how he and Eddie are friends.

Sort of.

He'd just been in love with him, but now it's… not wrong, not gone, but a fresh bruise now. The enthrallment was the punch and now he has to deal with what it left behind.

[qvrcll]

hello! firstly, ur writing is heavenly. no joke. i devoured ur entire discography within seconds of finding ur page. twice. i was wondering if u could write some longer elaborations on lo’ak with particular emphasis on his love for physical touch/affection? i would love to read smth that encapsulates the essence of the relationship between him + reader. esp like the dynamic of the relationship. wether or not u think his insecurities implore him to constantly seek touch. if u think he’d pine for it or go to extremities to receive it. possibly even before an established relationship. his jealousy, possessiveness, his thirst for affirmation. any form is fine! wether u’d like to give it a story line (one shot typa thing) or just a long elaboration on the topic in itself. tbh im rlly hungry to hear ur interpretation of it. i adore ur representation(s) and how u flesh out the characters. esp lo’ak. ur mind is so pretty. n ♡

LO’AK + AFFECTION ♡ㅤ°.

synopsis: lo’ak had always chased and chased and chased. so when you finally gave, he found it difficult to catalogue the multitude of touches and stares all at once… well, not completely.

auth notes -> UM HELLO oh my god this ask is just so so so amazing + thank you so much for your interest in my works / thoughts! most of the time they’re nonsensical babble or unorganised lines of hoo haa but i’m glad people enjoy my writing :,) i hope i’ve done your req justice! + let me know if you want more, i absolutely love writing for lo’ak <3

warnings -> slight angst , gn ! na’vi + metkayina reader

characters -> loak sully

gif creds. -> ♡

lo’ak is an overachiever with just the largest slightest urge for approval and affirmation.

he’s so motivation driven to excel his golden-gift of a brother, he’s often caught in imperilment. half of the time, he doesn’t even catch his siblings at his tail, trailing after him precipitately — when did this become a group thing? he’ll think. but eventually, he’ll admonish the thought and rule it as a way to spend quality time with his siblings, away from the poundage of home.

but the sun will discolour and pulse between a mix of a ripe valencia and a pool of mauve coiling just behind the spread of colours in the sky. by the time he’s home, it’s incredibly late — jake is the first to reprimand him. harsh words. hard words. words that make him teeth his lip and fiddle with his fingers till his ears pin against the weight of his braids. in bed, he’ll ponder and turn over the words and make sense of them — i’m just a disappointment. a failure. that must be it, or else i don’t understand why i.. i’m so incapable.

this poor boy definitely misconstrues jake’s words and takes them for justification of his existence as mere fodder — often times, he’ll exclude himself from his family in attempts to find more of what’s different. that means ultimately seeking out friends, connections, approval. love. he’s a confused kid in a big world, far too thin to offer him the space and time for an explanation. the reason for his affliction.

so when his family first seek refuge from the metkayina clan, bodies swollen with days of unforgiving rain and sleepless nights of mummers, he’s a little less aware of who, what, where, when and exactly how.

so when you, the chief tonowari’s child materialises out of thin air in his eye, mouth dilated with a purposeful smile, he registers your position — right, they’re here to guide us. me.

he’ll take it a blow to the gut when his father wrenches him to one side, stabbing the futile words into him, the don’t make me look like a fool boy. be on your best behaviour.

it sullies his mood and strings him somewhere far from the marui pod, feet slack with hurt. wanting nothing more than a rest.

it’s then that there’s more of you with him — “lo’ak sully?” a thin voice branches from the foliage and thickens with purpose when his feet strike against the ground uncomfortably. he’s greeted with you — the chief’s child, golden and emitting from the leaves like a imprimatur from ewya herself: “oh… sorry, i didn’t… i didn’t know-“ he fumbles the the words in his hand, like those countless nights. the heatless nights that ring in his hand, unwarranted remindings of his ineffectuality.

and you’ll sense it, this overpowering tension rooting from every inch of his skin — “i’m not here to nag you, don’t worry. i’m here past curfew hours as well… come…” you signal to your feet.

at first, he’s confused. and then, he’s swollen with happiness that flows straight to his head: for once, he’s not shot down and schlepped home in shame. he’s noted and affirmed — it makes his heart squelch comfortably in his chest.

after that, it’s simple — he looks for you in places he shouldn’t. his family’s marui pod; he’ll unwittingly find recognition in your voice from outside the thin walls. he’s less capable in affirming himself to stake right near your toes — they’ve known me for, what, a couple of weeks. it was probably pity.

yes, that’s right. excuses are his best friend. his companion. an intimate, an option to choose through the blur of confusion.

so that’s why its exalting to him when you first praise him: it had been something with little worth. probably carrying a heavy load off your hands or supporting you when the two of you are habitually tired from training all day: “thank you, lo’ak. you’re incredibly sweet.”

booooooyyyyyy. his ears will nip and crease at his braids furiously, tail whipping around to bind loosely along your waist. you find the gesture incredibly cute — “you think so?” he teethes, eager and raw and fully lo’ak. and who are you, to deny any attempts of it? “i know so.”

other times, it’s less verbal and more strained on eye-contact / body language. to me, he values words. but actions serve a separate design.

actions spring from every nerve, every inch of skin. any bearable bone in a body. so its like a seal on your relationship when you strive to do things with sole senses: squinted, smiling eyes when he successfully holds his breath for more than five minutes. soothing, tender fingers etching circles on his back when he chokes on sea-water. on one occasion, upon his eminence at being able to breathe in water, you had kissed him on the cheek, soft, smooth, lips battered on his skin for less than a second. he’d captured the memory vividly in his brain, somewhere, still idiotically rubbing the area on his face for some revival of the same feeling.

but lo’ak also strikes me as someone who tries awfully hard to gain sympathy, love, attention… pretty much any gateway of endearment. that would include the amplitude of (but not limited to) simple pleasures: words of affirmation, yes. a MUST. he would adore the sound of sweet promulgations from his favourite person, you, when doing the most mundane of activities, i.e. successfully amassing the bond between himself and an awfully obdurate ilu. he’ll be so discoloured with pride and glee that he’ll forget he’s still straining to train and that causes his ilu to flip someways and send him hurdling downwards. still, it’s worth the press, he thinks.

but deep down, he’s blood and flesh and bones. he’s the carnality his parents created from love — he’ll often find himself letting loose in order to garner more scratches and bruises than normal. it hurts, more so, but he’ll carry enough wounds to you for him to feign indifference. he’ll dispel the thought of harassment and put it to blame on the shrubbery and roots of a tree — still, it pays off.

his smile is aching to stay secret when you wrench a woven basket racked with ointments, herbs and other remedies.

he’ll purposely wince and grovel to soften your fingers on his skin

he’s airy and thoughtless when he gazes at you methodically work his misgivings. tongue poked out and hair slightly disheveled from the day: you’ll glance at him and flush—“you’re so close, lo’ak.”

he’s instantly inching away, muttering apologies — he’s seen that he’s over-stepped. and he’s small, again. that boy, in front of his father, eyes and ears downcast at yet another reprimand. but your fingers are… interlocking with his?

“you idiot. i never said… it bothered me,” you push the words out.

it takes a minute to register, like that day he had arrived with sand in his toes and water on his back, gazing at you through the thick of shoulders and faces: “it doesn’t?”

“no, it doesn’t. should it?”

“you tell me.”

“oh, shush lo’ak.”

he’s also jealous — more than his siblings. he’ll grit his teeth more and frown more and tense more when he sees you next to other people. he’s irritated less with you and more with himself with this inconsolable feeling of abandonment. he almost feels sickly with the dwindling hours between each other, hearing your castaway laugh ringing behind him—he escapes to the forest. and you, on cue, find him. he’ll resist first, refusing to make contact. but then, he’ll notice your infelicity, your downturned ears. your low, immobile tail between your legs. and he’ll nearly burst into tears — “i… i was jealous.” together, you work through the exact moment of dissatisfaction, his feelings, this raw and red feeling that was jealousy brooding in his chest.

on cue, to soothe his aches, you’ll rest his head on your lap and curl a finger around a braid. he’s accustomed to your speed now, he’ll briefly stiffen but then melt on your skin, curling into you. he just wants to feel love through himself, not some silly demand or order. so this action hits him best — you loving him through the grime.

once in an established relationship, there’s sooooo much open room for physical touches. it’s more intimate, so you’re shy when hugging him and throwing an arm around him — he finds it cute how you resist and purposely holds you more. definitelyyy a teaser. come on, a son of jake sully? you got me twisted.

he’ll tilt your chin to face him, kiss your neck in close proximity and almost ALWAYS sit with your fingers or his on you.

he loves your voice / eyes. also loves them best, the way they curl and twinkle when you’re drilling compliments into his skull for anything short of mundane or exalting — “my yawne, you did so well”, “my sweet boy, look how well you did”, “i can’t think of anyone better.”

he’s insecure, so some days are harder than most. when he fails on a particular task or fails the skills to attempt one, he’s curling into himself. it’s not visible — it’s internal. it’s in his head, the numerous cogs working to remind himself of his hollowness, his futility. he’s non-verbal by the time you find him, tail crimped between his legs. his eyes are shining and wet, full with unshed tears. when you make your way close, he’s already surrendered himself — “why can’t i do anything right?” “i’m pathetic,” “my dad was right.”

you want nothing more than to eat that terrible feeling lurking within him, diminishing it for his happiness. but this was lo’ak. the bright smiles, eager and welcoming. this was lo’ak, the anger and frustration. this, too, was lo’ak, the grime and jealousy, the stubbornness. this and this and this. you learn to hold him upright—you’ll have lo’ak whole than halved into parts. it’s him you need, you tell him, not a warrior. him.

and he’ll cry, because it’s, too, his first. his first at learning love and compassion. of acceptance and honesty. he’ll see the reflection of him, whole and fully lo’ak, in your eyes and the delightful push of your lips against him melts with his tears.

that, too, he’ll store in his memory.

© 2022 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[cephalopodsquad]

how i wanna push every member of the blackpool combat club onto the ground, in specific detail:

Jon Moxley: he is standing, frowning, at a social event. he does not say a single word to anyone around him. i walk up to him, furiously and with purpose. i put both of my hands directly on his chest and PUSH him, firmly and directly, onto his ass. His face spontaneously begins to bleed. I walk away, knowing that he will find me and put my head through a car window.

Claudio Castagnoli: he is standing with both arms raised above his head, either cheering for something his son Yuta has done or holding a drink and making a particularly enthusiastic toast. i come running at him, full tilt, from AT LEAST 50 feet away, and barrel into him in some kind of tackle-hug hybrid, right as he’s mid-laugh. he’s warm and my arms are around him and i just lie there on the floor on top of him while he laughs.

Wheeler Yuta: he runs by me, probably covered in blood and sweat because this is a punishment run from Danielson. i trip him with a stick. he falls over. he gets up and doubles back around to cut a half decent promo at me. it’s honestly the greatest thing that’s ever happened.

Bryan Danielson: i cold cock him in the face, there’s nothing else i can do. he’s standing there looking like he’s in a rugged Lands End catalogue photoshoot, even though he is actually stood in the middle of a fluorescently-lit low-end department store aisle, and i run past him and punch him square in the jaw. my hand hurts. he doesn’t even fall down, just grabs my arm and forces me to do pushups for not leaving a mark. I am Weak. I am Livid.

[lacewise]

I just had a bizarre experience while researching.

So, for reasons (this will make more sense later but spoilers!), I was looking up whether celebrities had ever worn needle lace in public appearances and I started with Burano and then widened to all needle lace. Nothing came up.

This is weird because I know for a fact celebrities have (especially Italian needle lace, hence starting with Burano), so it’s… just odd it’s not catalogued. (And a little annoying.)

Later, while doing something else, completely unrelated to lace, Grace Kelly’s wedding headpiece happened to catch my eye. It’s dripping (literally, in the front) in needle lace. This was bizarre so I read the caption. The caption is “antique rose point lace”. I have… rarely to never heard that term used before…?

That’s weird because… I’m a lacemaker. I make needle lace.

Maybe I’m just confused though, I am still a beginner to intermediate. So I pull out my lace books and scan the indices. No mention of rose point. I did find an article in a popular encyclopedia that made the common anglophile mistake of assuming Burano only started lace production after 1872. And precious little else explaining the origin of the term or the differentiation (can be hard to find discussion of Italian laces in English, so that’s not necessarily a red flag). So that’s not great. (To give you an idea of how mistaken it is, I read the pamphlet from the Burano Lace Museum in Italy and they, the specialists… yeah they don’t agree. And they, understandably, seem a little terse about the popularity of the error!)

I repeated the search, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Grace Kelly’s headpiece still doesn’t come up.

Given the flowery yet vague name, it kinda seems like jargon specifically to gatekeep and confuse. Especially since many needle laces are specifically documented to have “needle lace” nearby for archival purposes. This is all obviously speculation on my part and there could be a good reason for this… but it leaves a sour taste in my mouth, regardless.

Anyway if you know why this is or where I can find articles discussing celebrities wearing handmade lace or antique lace (preferably needle lace but I am getting less and less picky by the moment) please please please let me know. I don’t want to overlook anything in my research!

I am continuously collecting anecdotes like this. There will be a pile of them I won’t even be able to get to after my current research/video is finished. So I’m finding it increasingly hard to buy that handmade lace is one of the few handicrafts academics “respect”.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

bound together

prompt: brass knuckles (alt no.3)

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

here's one i did ahead of time...saw the prompt and had a Vision. it's pre or established ot3. hope you like!

Illya returns to their shared hotel room with a nasty bruise forming on his temple and blood crusted beneath his fingernails. Napoleon knows this because he’d stopped Illya as soon as he’d come through the door, because Illya had been nearly an hour late, because they’d started to think he was hurt, or dead. 

“Sorry I’m late,” is all the explanation they get. “It is taken care of.”

“Happy to hear it,” Napoleon replies. “But what exactly happened?”

Illya raises his shoulder. “Was a fight.”

“A bad fight?” Gaby asks, examining one of his hands, looking critically at the blood. 

Illya gently tugs his hand out of her grip. “Nothing I could not handle.”

Napoleon reaches out a hand to touch the bruising on Illya’s forehead. The marks are evenly spaced, the same shape repeated four times. He knows what made these marks. Knows there must be more of them, hidden beneath Illya’s ever-present turtleneck. 

“Are you dizzy at all?”

Illya fixes him with a look. “I am not concussed, if that is what you mean.”

“But do you feel quite alright?”

“I am fine.”

With this, Illya brushes past them and into the bathroom. He isn’t rude about it, and Napoleon and Gaby had both expected it. 

Still. 

“Those marks on his head…” Gaby whispers. 

“Brass knuckles,” Napoleon whispers back. “How he has managed to avoid getting a concussion I really don’t know.”

“And the blood,” Gaby adds. “I don’t think it’s his, but it must have been quite the fight.”

The shower turns on, and the pair move to the couch. Gaby pours them each a glass of wine while they wait for their partner. 

--

In the shower, Illya catalogues the bruises. Uniform marks across his body, some deeper than others, depending on the severity of the hit and how much fabric had been between his skin and the metal. 

Everything aches. He has, of course, been hit with brass knuckles before, but never so extensively. Usually, they’d come as a prelude to something more, or else he’d been able to very quickly overcome their owner. 

This time, though - it had taken him a while to overpower the four men who had attacked him. He had necessarily given himself up to some punches from one man while taking care of another. 

He’d gotten it done, though. A piece of paper in his pocket, by now already torn up, and blood beneath his nails. Four bodies in varying states of consciousness lying in an alley. 

And him in the shower, rinsing off the sweat and ignoring the aches with practiced ease. 

Once the blood has been scrubbed away, he shuts off the water and steps onto the cold tiles. He dresses in pajamas - he never would have done this before them, but they’ve convinced him that sleeping in your clothes is far too suspicious of an action if someone should happen to knock on your door in the middle of the night - and prepares himself for the onslaught of touches and questions. 

He’s used to it by now. It is still very odd.  

He joins them on the couch, settling between them where they have purposely left a space. 

His arms are bare and the bruises on them are dark and angry. Gaby grabs him by the wrist, looking at the marks with scrutiny, a furrow between her brows. Napoleon scarcely touches him, his fingers light against the sore skin beneath them. 

They both know that his arms are not where the bruises begin or end. 

Gaby pulls his hand towards her, kisses the back of it. “Do they hurt very much?”

Illya shakes his head. “They are really not so bad.” The only thing a bruise can do is ache. 

Napoleon’s fingers are on his face again, touching the most painful of the bruises. “Did you kill them?” he asks, and his voice is scarcely above a whisper. 

Illya shakes his head again. Once, he would have killed them without thinking. Once, it would have been expected of him. 

“Was not necessary for the mission. They were unconscious when I left.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“There were only supposed to be two.” This is Gaby, gripping his hand just a bit too tight. 

Illya shrugs. “Maybe they got suspicious.”

“Lucky you know how to handle yourself,” Napoleon says. His voice is casual but Illya knows there’s worry hidden underneath. 

Sometimes he still cannot believe that people worry about him, now. 

“I am okay,” he says, because he wants them to know that they do not have to worry. That he has survived much worse. That, if he has any say in it at all, he will come back to them again and again. 

This is dangerous. For all of them. To be bound together like this, to care about one another like this. 

It gives them strength, though. Knowing that the others are there. Having people to hold yourself accountable to. Having people who worry when you return late. People who care about what happens to you, who care whether you live or die. 

“I am okay,” he repeats, because he knows that they know what he means. 

They both shuffle closer to him, hands and limbs tangling together, and he scarcely notices the pain. 

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it :)

[heartofspells]

Holli... How am I supposed to choose between crush, you and along the broken edge?? 😭😭😭 (also a working sentence that. Crush you along the broken edge, yk)

But I'm going with along the broken edge bc I miss the boys

Ahahahaha! I might use that at some point, I won't lie.

But YES, you can have some Broken Edge! I also miss the boys and I'm going to be getting back to them very soon now that things have calmed down in my life (and head, ha!). Have a best boy Remus Lupin speech.

--

Remus remembers, once, when he was younger, too many days and questions in between, thanking the universe for the unthinkable, the never in his wildest dreams imaginable boy it had presented to him like a reward for hardship. He'd never stopped thanking it, not once throughout the years, no matter the pain that had come with all the loss. Never going away, Remus has been willing to fall on his knees every day since, overcome with gratefulness for having simply been allowed to lay his eyes on that dark head and those shining eyes. Even with losing him, with all the heartache that had come after, with that forever pit dug out in the depths of his stomach and the way his heart had always felt lodged just at the base of his throat, Remus had been indescribably better for knowing him, for hearing that ringing, barking laugh and watching that face light up like the first glimpses of the sun after a devastating storm.

Sirius Black – Padfoot – had altered him irrevocably, set his life on a path Remus had never anticipated, crafting his coming days in a way unfathomable before he'd existed within Remus' orbit, even if only for a while.

"Do you believe in soulmates?"

Staring at him, grey eyes guarded but sparking with curiosity, Remus isn't sure what he expects to come from the question. Possibly a bitter, head-tossing laugh raking out of a constricted throat, or maybe a sharp denial, claiming Remus to be mad. Whatever he may have guessed, it would have never been silence.

"Do you, Sirius?" he presses, leaning forward the smallest amount, barely a shift but still there, present and needed in the moment. Remus doesn't wait for an answer. "I never did. I never believed in most of it. Heaven and God, fate, some sort of predetermined destiny. Why would I because what have I ever been given to make it feel logical? Every good thing in my life always got ripped away in the cruelest, roughest way, you most of all. I lost you so completely, just like everything else I could never hold onto, and I told myself that was fine because…none of it was real. Nothing was ever meant to happen, sculpted into existence for a specific purpose. The strings of fortune were never on my side, except maybe for only a handful of months when I was thirteen."

Swallowing thickly, Remus chances a step forward, surprised when Sirius stands still, not offering to move. It seemingly shocks him as well, eyelids blinking over a mystified grey gaze.

"I still don't believe in any of it," continues Remus, voice soft, every part of him open, nothing held back, not ever again. "Not a paradise once we're gone from this world, not in some…some being watching every move we make, judging us, as if anything would ever care that much. I don’t believe things are meant to happen one way over another. I don't believe one part of it, but…soulmates. That feels different, somehow. It feels different because of you."

Shaking his head as Remus steps forward again, Sirius says sharply, "It's just pretty words. It doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe," agrees Remus vaguely, conceding a bit, "or maybe not." Sirius scoffs loudly, eyes shifting away briefly, but Remus doesn't react, watching him closely, cataloguing the pinch to his brows, the crease forming between them, the way his mouth wobbles so faintly that it's barely noticeable but there all the same. "What else could it be except that? We keep getting thrown together repeatedly, bodily running into one another, as kids, in the shop, through acquaintances that shouldn't exist in such a large place but somehow do. You get injured after years of nothing, no major accidents and here I am, searching for exactly you in everyone I've ever accepted, armed with the specific skills you needed in that moment all because of a…a fucking tragedy that tore us apart in the first place.

"None of it should have lined up, not even once, but it did and has, over and over again. You shouldn't have been exactly what I needed in that moment on that wall all those years ago, but you were, and you never stopped," pushes Remus plaintively, feeling breathless now, hands twitching to reach out and simply touch, just to reassure himself Sirius is still real and here. "The universe keeps tossing us together except it's not, it's giving, and for once in my life all I want is to be selfish and take because I want you more than anything else, past, present, or future. All I have ever wanted is you before I even knew you existed. I laid in my bed as a kid, staring at my ceiling, trying to keep the dizziness and sickness away, praying to a god I don't believe in for you, Sirius. Only ever you."

Want a snip?

[thedragonagelesbian]

12. candles

Micro Story Prompts

It's the same tonight, as it is every night. Candles and vein dripping scarlet. An altar, an offering, a predator's prayer for more prey, not to satiate his starving Urge--how very selfish to enjoy the feast--but to make more beautiful worship of the bodies.

But it's different tonight. Back stiff, knees sore, words he's whispered like breathing now strangled in his throat as his mind wanders. He ought not dwell on anything else bent before his Father's shrine, but his thoughts flit across his body (not his, not a body, Bhaal's implement and nothing more) and catalogue its aches. Tastes again how he acquired them, not in the pitch of battle but the throes of pleasure.

However narrow the distinction. Teeth and nails and rope and leather and a wicked gilt gauntlet. Memory tender in every sense of the word.

"My Chosen child."

Cyrus flinches.

"Father." He dares to look up just long enough to glimpse the unholy symbol of Bhaal floating above the altar, its eyes bleeding crimson. He ducks his head again. "You honor me in gracing my evening prayers."

The question of why rattles against his ribcage so hard that his voice wavers, despite himself.

"I come to reward you, spawn. The plans you have laid with the other Chosen will yet reap a slow and bloody harvest. It seems only appropriate that I bestow a gift upon you worthy of your purpose." Cyrus does not let himself exhale, and yet his breath is forced from him as Bhaal continues: "I will grant you the mantle of one of my avatars: the Slayer."

"No." The gasp leaves him before he can stop it, and something tenses on either side of his spine. The serrated steel of his wings--Bhaal's first gift to him--threatening to break through his skin. "I-- I mean only to say, Father, that I am unworthy of such a blessing as this. I have not yet earned the-- the honor of wearing one of your guises."

The wings burst. Cyrus' back wrenches and arches, forcing him to look upon the amulet. The candles snuff out in the gust of his puppeted body, and in the darkness, the skull's eyes gleam. Somewhere in their ruby depths, Cyrus can almost see a throne. A body. An outstretched hand folded into a claw.

"And yet you think yourself worthy of rejecting my benevolence?"

"No!" Sharper this time as Bhaal bows him like he means to snap his spine. It wouldn't be the first time. "No, please, Father, forgive me my ingratitude. Please, I forget myself, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Bhaal holds him there long enough to wick tears from his eyes, burning at the limits of a pain tolerance that Cyrus otherwise prides himself on, and then the hand relaxes. Cyrus slumps forward. Presses himself as low to the ground as he can. Stammers more senseless apologies. Tries to retract his wings, but they remain distended and bloody above him, their constant pressure at his scapula.

A warning, Cyrus knows, like the Slayer form. Threat. Reminder.

"Son, am I mistaken in believing that you do not desire this most loving of my boons?"

"Yes, Father."

"You will accept it, then?"

"Yes, Father." A beat. "Th-thank you, Father."

"Good."

Bhaal purrs, and Cyrus' blood--Bhaal's blood, wrought anew--stirs with sympathetic contentment. This is what his body (not his, not a body) truly wants. To be twisted into whatever form of devotion most serves his father.

So why is he sick with terror as he is strung in the air once more? Bones cracking, tendons splitting, skin calcifying, teeth and spines and claws and limbs rupture in so many different directions that he loses himself to a haze of red.

But his heart keeps galloping, trying to outrun this new form.

"In time you will come to see the beauty of the Slayer," Bhaal intones, sermon and symphony to accompany his rearrangement. "You keep your Urge--your birthright--on too tight a leash, in the name of piety, no less. Unslaked, your desires manifest themselves where there should be none."

He can't breathe. Can't feel anything beyond the cloying taste of copper and the pain. Can't think through the growling of his stomach, craving and empty worse than the most unruly hungers of his Urge. But something flashes at those words. A golden spark of an idea. A comfort.

Cyrus cries out his name with a mouth he no longer has: Enver!

"The Slayer will be another means by which you express my will. A better one."

[tolleshorrorstory]

Hello, all.

This is the story of the Tolles.

All posts are related to the lore. None of these people are real. If it says a person is “missing,” “dead,” or anything else, they are not real. Do not call the police because of something you saw on here. This is all fiction and for entertainment purposes only.

ALL LORE IS UNDER THE #lore TAG

ALL COMICS ARE UNDER THE #comic TAG

ALL VIDEOS ARE UNDER THE #video TAG

EVERYTHING ELSE IS UNDER THE #not lore TAG

Some A’s for your possible Q’s:

Q: Who are the Tolles?

A: Your average nuclear family, with nothing to hide at all.

Q: Are you accepting voice actors?

A: Not at the moment. If that changes, dm me at @biscuits-spooky-diner. You might be able to hear yourself!

Q: How did you come up with the idea for The Tolles?

A: I was watching The Walten Files and thought, “Hey, I could do this, too!”

Q: What inspired you to make The Tolles?

A: The Mandela Catalogue, The Walten Files, and FNaF.

If you have any other questions, feel free to ask them! My askbox with remain open at all times.

[intheoverlap]

Paper World

Entry 1

Summary: blog purpose, safety rules, introduction to paper world, first interaction with paper world

The reason I'm making my diary digital is to circumvent, what I assume is, one of the key components of paper world.

Every part of paper world I have been able to find has been, well, created or printed on paper. Which is why I will ask any potential guest on this blog not to print out anything found here, and especially not paint or draw or write on paper about it. For safety's sake. Nothing against traditional art, I just want to be on the safe side.

My run ins with paper world started long before I even understood it existed, and paper world's interaction with the world will remain long after I'm gone. These are the only two things I am sure of.

A third thing I am almost sure of is, you will know, instinctively, if you come across paper world. You won't know-know it, you won't understand it, you may not have the words for it, but it's ever so different from being immersed in a book or imagining things. And no, I don't have carbon monoxide poisoning.

The first sign that you've encountered Paper World is; the story reads you, as much as you read it.

That sounds dumb typed out like that. You'll just have to know. There's this eerie sense that, you are the story, the characters see you, hear you, maybe you can even smell the flowers on the page.

The second sign is; immersion. Beyond a daydream, beyond getting engrossed in the story. For a moment, all that existed WAS the story. It wasn't a story. It was life. It was the moment. If you lived in the moment, the moment was Paper World, and when you get back it lingers. Not as a thought. As a sensation. You might even see the imprint of it, a hint of something at the corners of your eye, or, if you're unlucky, yourself on the paper.

That happened to me once. I didn't understand at the time, more than that I never wanted to read that book again. I wasn't in middle school yet, though I could read, and my grandpa took me to the second hand shop in town. I could pick anything I wanted under 50 sek. Book worm as I was, I padded over to the older children's section where they had nonfiction about animals.

Something else caught my eye, though.

With a red back as though it was stolen from a library, it sat on the lowest shelf, standing taller than the other books. It didn't belong. Too tall, the wrong genre, no alphabetical sorting. No price tag. 0 was less than 50 and that was all that mattered to me. I picked it up and grandpa haggled the price to 20 sek.

I read it on the school bus.

The text was simple enough for a 1st grader to follow, though I must've been in 3rd already. Watercolour illustrations covered every page. A family of three, mother, baby and father, as plain as can be. What we'd call a "Svensson-Svensson" if that tells you anything. Think, average white middle class family. Only something felt off.

When a house is pristine like an Ikea catalogue it doesn't feel like anyone lives there. That's how the book felt.

The bus ride passed me by. I chalked it up to my wild imagination and the high quality of the book, though I no longer consider that the truth. Because. At my stop. Right before I got off, farther down the line of kids who were going to the same school, was a family of three. Mother, child, and father. Straight from my book.

I could've been wrong. To make sure I opened the book, to a random page, somewhere in the middle, and what I saw wasn't the family staring back at me. It was their house seen through the window of my own room. My own pyjamas laid on the bed.

I closed the book.

At school I taped it shut and covered the whole front and back with markers. When I got home my neighbour's house looked just the same as usual, and it relieved me, but I still check my window sometimes just in case.

That started my collection. I have found 14 samples of this phenomenon I call paper world.

At first I thought they were separate works. They all told different stories in different styles by different authors. Some were even handmade watercolour animations. Not even books!

The similarities popped up the more I studied them. (I'm very very careful not to read a full book from front to back.) Characters would overlap. Backgrounds would show up in different works, by name or appearance or even vaguely hinted at on a map. No, I can't 100% confirm a comic panel is the same place as a swamp on a fantasy map, yes, I'm still 100% sure it is. You'll have to take my word for it.

It is my theory that paper world actually is a world jus like our own, though bound by completely different rules.

These books don't technically exist. Searching for works by the same author yields nothing online, even as I have a trilogy from a certain W. A. Gallenbury.

To anyone with experience of paper world, PLEASE send in your stories. DMs or ask box or submission doesn't matter. All I ask is that you under no circumstances re-read or re-watch anything with ties to paper world. No links to videos should be posted for anyone to see, though short clips that don't contain the whole story might be safe to watch. DM if you're unsure.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

The Author of this diary

[lairofdragonagelore]

Through the Crossroads [DLC Trespasser]: The Darvaarad - Part1

The Darvaarad [Qunari term for a magical quarantine site] is a Qunari island fortress controlled by the branch of Ben-Hassrath called "Dangerous Purpose" who are lead by Viddasala. The Qunari in the Darvaarad investigate inner workings of the eluvians and brought in, catalogued and studied various artefacts, including red lyrium, astrariums, ocularum, ancient elven statues and murals. They stockpiled knowledge and power, which allowed them to open several mirrors.

This place is divided in the exterior areas:

Fortress Approach

Courtyard

Research Tower

And the interior areas:

Darvaarad Barracks

Study

Gaatlok Factory

Venom Extraction Chamber

[This is part of the series “Playing DA like an archaeologist”]

[Index page of Dragon Age Lore]

After confirming the presence of Qunari in Val Royeaux and their threat against the South of Thedas, the agents of the Qunari and Fen’Harel are immobilised, while the Inquisitor explores the Crossroads for the last time, reaching the Darvaarad.

Fortress Approach and Courtyard

With the passwords and the key obtained in the Shattered Library; Inverted Ward, we can unlock the  Darvaarad, an isle which is under the control of the Qunari but seems to have been belonged to Elvhen. I'm not sure how to understand it: there are some statues in the distance that imply the isle had some elvhen presence in he past, as we see the Elven hart statue at the peak of a cliff.

Or this big hand that we only saw in the crossroads and in the Exalted Plains: the Dead Hand. These statues do not seem to be placed by these Qunari in the general surroundings for further study, instead they look like original decoration.  In a sense, this whole fortress reminds me of Skyhold, a building that belonged to elvhen long time ago but passed over so many hands that its original shape changed.

This island displays some statues of female and male qunaris, and a lot of broken eluvians. Clearly the Qunari have been studying and collecting an insane amount of magical artefacts.

Close to us we can see a Saarebas working with an Eluvian.

This fortress looks like a generic “Ferelden” architecture. Nothing in it calls to any particular group, though it displays a banner we saw with the Highwaymen of Crestwood. So maybe it is implied that this fortress belonged to this group of bandits a bit before the Qunari took over when this operation started. Now it displays banners of the Qun.

On the top of the fortress we see some stained glasses that we can approach.

This surprised me a lot because they depict a big tree, that may be related to the Vhenadahl, and below it, red triangles that, for me, represent red lyrium. In Skyhold, we can have this glass by picking Dalish decoration. This image is such a curious thing if we think that DA:D has shown already a Vhenadahl infected with red lyrium in the trailer of Dread Wolf.

In the distance we see an Elven hart statue, below which there is an active eluvian that we will reach at the end of the exploration of this place. That Eluvian leads us to the abandoned elvhen ruins where we will meet Solas.

This eluvian is guarded by two Sitting Fen'Harel statues and behind them, a Golden Ring. The disposition of this makes it look like it was in the isle before the Qunari started this operation.

Research Tower

In this area, the Qunari have a tower completely dedicated to store magical artefacts, statues, art, and everything else they find remotely related to elven magic [which, of course, includes Tevinter]. Observing each of these elements we find fascinating things.

The artefacts are kept inside cells, ironically:

Here we find Tevinter artefacts: A molten rock pyramid, an Oculara, a Tevinter books, and a dismantled Astrarium.

Among the Elvhen artefacts or art: we find an Elven Owl statue, a broken Elven Orb, and a Shard 

There are also skulls for study and an Iron maiden we easily recognise as a typical decoration from DA2.

In the next cell we find a Sitting Fen'Harel statue, behind it there are two cells filled with books and this hexagonal Tevinter decoration where two dragons eat each other.

In the next cell, we find a Teviner Thrummer, a Tevinter artefact with spikes, and three things we never saw before in any game:

A Dark Hand connected to gears. The hand has long fingers, and a chain in its thumb. Is this a prototype to some metal golem? A Tevinter metallic golem? I don't know, it's not the same style than the Tevinter golem.

Then, hanging from a corner, a pinkish cocoon, that looks like the Flesh Pods we used to find during Dragon Age Awakening. So far, we didn't find any of this kind in DA2 or DAI. I would love to read the name of this object in the archive files.

And the most disgusting thing I found so far: a metallic circular structure that keeps a glowing ball of something in the middle and pieces of worms or tentacles around.

There are some more minor Tevinter objects we talked about in previous posts.

We also find red lyrium on a table without any safety measure around it, as if it were nothing.

Cole says here that the red lyrium has a different song to the normal lyrium, but they “fit together”.

We also find a statue of Dragon Mythal

and a whole wall that the qunari removed with a Mural paint by Solas. By the type of stone on this wall, it suggests it belonged to a generic Fereldan-like fortress. We have no idea when Solas painted it, or where. 

And another Elven hart statue.

They even found one of these ancient Stone in Razikale-Ceremony-style. Once again this stone gives a hint to solve the puzzle to open up the elvhen box in the paws of Fen'Harel. This keeps confirming that this stone is elvhen.

Inside the box we find Bloody Bargain. Again, the description of the weapon talks about a man called Harlan from the Coterie of Kirkwall, rumoured to be an abomination, or an apostate, or a demon of rage, or even a mere title passed onto the most bloodthirsty member of the Coterie. Nothing of this story seems to be related to the elvhen.

In this place we find the note Eluvian Studies that shows that the Qunari had some people working in understanding them; Logs of a Darvaarad Gatekeeper which shows how careless the Qunari are about the catalogue and the study of these artefacts, and Saarath,  which is a letter to Tallis written by a Saarebas. 

It is implied that this person was a scholar who developed magic as an adult, and then was treated as a Saarebas. He drinks lyrium and says that it has a song he uses to study the Veil which holds magic at its source. But clearly it's costing him his sanity or focus. The many crossing out along the letter show how intruding this song is in his mind.

I find this letter almost a narrative letter to Solas himself, with the allegory of walls and Veils and darkness as creations of the self because one cannot see the truth that no one is alone, the illusion of being so feels too real, though.

Unlike the religion of the Chantry, so based on the Elvhenan history, the Qun and the image of Koslun represent a very different vision in Thedas. What I mean is that it's so original within the History of Thedas, that it's hard to link it as a co-opt of tales and myths from another culture or cult. But that will be for another post about the Qun and potential origins.

[finely-tuned-line]

RP:

Log 237

FTL: I have checked on the running experiments, it appears that nothing has gone drastically out of my control during my... well, I shall call it what it essentially was. A breakdown.

FTL: Irrelevant, pointless, distraction.

FTL: ...Right. So the green lizard returned approximately a half-cycle ago. It did actually bring poleplants with it, thankfully. Honestly, I am quite surprised that this even worked out, for such a convoluted, roundabout, and honestly somewhat-farfetched plan.

FTL: Either way, I do have samples of poleplant now. I have planted it within on of my unused chambers - in a sectioned-off area of soil, not directly into myself, of course. Whatever I didn't use, I left outside, for the green lizard. Perhaps it'll miraculously succeed in planting the poleplant and cultivating it in some fashion. Or, most likely, it will just consume it, and then either move territory, or simply repeat the process of leaving and then returning.

FTL: Not that one's much of a difference from the other. Both are... Well, repetitive monotonies, I suppose, for that is indeed a descriptor that one could attack to either. It is also a descriptor one could attach to my own life. I am unsure how I'm supposed to react to that though.

FTL: Why am I still thinking about this?

FTL: I established that I have nothing better to do beyond fulfilling my purpose, not that there's anything else that I interest myself in. I have established that there is nothing I can change, in order to- I don't even know what for.

FTL: I do rather hate the fact that the state of not knowing something is becoming all-too-common as of late.

FTL: But I suppose if there's one thing that Eternal Anomaly is correct about, it's that there are many things that I do not understand, when I should, and everyone else appears to be able to do so.

FTL: Perhaps that's the source of Echoes of a Paradox's pity towards me.

FTL: Not that it matters, it doesn't matter.

FTL: I hate the fact that I appear to be unable to properly move on from this for the time being. It is- frustrating. It's frustrating. Annoying, even.

FTL: Where did the way I used to be able to exist go? When did I fall from the peak that was my attempt to reach perfection, my attempt to be my very definition as best as I could?

FTL: I suppose all I have left to do is reiterate the one fact that I am sure of within all this - that all I have left to do is try again. And again. And again. That was what we Iterators were built for, afterall. Not matter what purpose each of us has.

FTL: But beyond the pointless dilemmas, I have not many other updates on my experiments. I have catalogued the green lizard's progress. As for the cyan lizard, nothing has happened.

FTL: Truly, I might even dare to call it somewhat lucky that nothing happened. It's never a good idea to leave an experiment unfinished, not only due to potential dangers of Rot. It could also mess up the experiment, amongst a wide variety of other potential complications. For once, I do appear to have luck - as illogical as the concept of luck itself is.

FTL: Now that I have acquired what I required from the green lizard that was my attempt at a purposed organism, I am once more considering the though of asking fo help with this. It appears that even this has not ceased the wish to learn more, especially about fields adjacent to my own.

FTL: I suppose I could ask, there is nothing at stake here - not even my loose pride anymore. Would be easy to simply cut my losses and learn from someone who knows what they're doing rather than figuring it out themselves.

FTL: I'll take it into consideration... I cannot keep delaying and rearranging projects like this. I should probably finish what I was doing first...

FTL: I do have time. Nothing but time. Maybe I'll even figure things out by the time I die. Though, that is unlikely.