#fun to write at the very least

[egophiliac]

I loved your drawing(and I love your style in general) with Leia in your recent post! If/when you have time can we see more of her in your style? I get so happy whenever I actually see people mention/talk about her and she’s not just forgotten because we didn’t get to see much of her. 😭

thank you! 💙💙💙 Leia/Leah/Lea/whatever is fascinating to me. she is the ultimate unknown. what was she like? how involved (or even aware of any details of the invasion) was she? Silver's basically a physical carbon copy of his biodad, so what did he get from her? like, I understand why the two of them kind of have to stay as these super vague and mysterious figures -- the whole point of them is that their story ended 400+ years ago and they're not really relevant anymore (and. well. the more that gets explained about them, the less that can just kinda be handwaved as "oh the politics were Very Messy") (we can sit here and theorize all day but let us acknowledge that, ultimately, canon gave us almost nothing about them post-Meleanor and we'd just be making things up). I do still wonder about her though! RIP Lea, we never knew you and we probably never will.

actually you know what, as long as we're here, I think I WILL go ahead and just make some stuff up about what Silver might've inherited from her instead.

[citrenecult]

Drew the Lamb, Narinder, and the Follower Bishops.

Some close ups.

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[hollowtones]

as a certified Woman Enjoyer i need to know your thoughts on the tumblr sexywoman poll

"Tumblr sexywoman" is not a meaningful or observable category in the same way that Tumblr sexyman was (& the emphasis here is on Was; the usage I see of it nowadays has drifted far enough from the original & specific phenomenon that it's kind of lost its original meaning. I was there for the Once-ler days. I'm not interested in historical revisionism. This is my old woman yelling at cloud moment BTW.)

Also I haven't seen whatever poll you're talking about. Lately I've been busy going to the park with my mom to look for birds.

[erinwantstowrite]

Erin the comparison of JL vs the Avengers to Camp Jupiter vs Camp Half blood is toooo accurate 😭

JL: There’s an established system in place and contingencies for every foreseeable scenario

Avengers: fuck it we ball

peter thinks that the Avengers have it all together because they're his teachers and they're constantly telling him to use his brain but it's really because they, for the first time, saw their own "fuck it we ball" mentality in a teenager, and thought "oh my god maybe that is like... super dangerous." like when a parent was younger and they partied a lot and sometimes got into dangerous situations and thought "this is normal" until they had a kid and they quickly realized "oh that's why my mom was insane."

that didn't make them any better, it just made them hypocrites. peter just doesn't know that because they act super responsible when he's around

[liauditore]

Equally Invalid

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cant stop thinkin bout charles and erik readin together on the couch but instead of reading with him charles is listening to eriks thoughts while he reads. Live mind commentary ……..

[petz5]

Still slowly on yuki (my rankane fankid oc) lore in between other stuff. I'm not gonna make this "canon" i dont think but i thought it'd be funny if ranma got so comfortable after accepting the curse that she didn't even really piece together that she'd been very clearly living as a woman until yuki casually refers to her as trans one day

[hailsatanacab]

Happy Ghouls and Gangs DPxDC Bang event posting week!! Here's what I've been working on for the @dpxdcbigbang 🥰

Summary:

It’s a normal day for Alfred Pennyworth. He spends it taking care of the manor and watching over its inhabitants, just as he does every other day. It’s an exhausting, never-ending task, that he wouldn’t change for the world. But that night, he is confronted by a stranger in his rooms with a copy of every single soul-binding contract he’s signed for the protection of his family. The new Ghost King wants to update his terms and conditions.

Alfred POV, Ghost King Danny, with some Post-Vivisection goodness and only a little (a lot) of blood and gore and medical fun, but that's for later. Not for the squeamish, please check the tags!!

Snippet under the cut!

It’s a normal day for Alfred Pennyworth.

He wakes up early enough to be ready to greet Master Duke with breakfast when he shambles into the kitchen, he cleans, he greets the rest of the manor’s residents when they finally make it downstairs, he cleans, he goes down to the cave to rouse Master Tim from another sleepless night, he cleans.

It’s a quiet day, or as much as one can be when the place he calls home is filled with vigilantes.

He drops off Masters Damian, Tim, and Duke at school and uses the rest of the trip to pick up some groceries for dinner. Coq au vin tonight, he thinks, it’ll be perfect for the changing of the seasons. A mushroom and lentil substitute for Master Damian will do lovely.

The rest of the day is spent preparing the meal and doing a spot of gardening before it’s time for the school run again. He can’t help but smile fondly as he listens to them needle and tease each other, only stepping in when it starts to become too pointed.

Yes, it’s a normal day for Alfred Pennyworth. It’s at night when it all changes.

There’s a ghost waiting for him in his room. 

A soft glow emanates from the creature’s vaguely transparent body and a crisp frost creeps slowly across the floor, sparkling in the darkness like diamonds.

“Mr. Pennyworth?” it says, the voice bouncing off the walls so that it sounds like hundreds of beings instead of one.

Fear squeezes at his heart and the air in the room turns dark and heavy, so that Alfred struggles to breathe. His mouth is dry, his head is swimming, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s going to survive the night.

[chessb0r3d]

i cracked the code.

[thescrapwitch]

fic idea I'll never write #498: Annatar's true nature is revealed, causing him and Celebrimbor to break up because of it. Heart shattered, Celebrimbor comes to the most logical and sensible of conclusions and crafts a way to travel back in time.

Very, VERY far back in time.

Back to when even Aman was young and Melkor had not yet set his eyes on corrupting Middle Earth. When Annatar was known as Mairon, attentive and dutiful in Aulë's forge, unaware of what history had in store for him.

What better way to stop Sauron's evil, thinks Celebrimbor, than by going back in time and seducing Mairon before Melkor could? It is a foolproof plan.

(spoiler alert it was not foolproof, there were many problems)

[flickeringquip]

Convince the Fighter abstinence is bad for his health. There may be consequences(?) <<

A text continuation of this post, feat. @thedolmainblog's Blythe (shamelessly self-indulgent smut below the cut)

Your lips meet Blythe's a bit more forcefully than you intended, but you don't let that slow you down. You take advantage of his gasp to swipe your tongue against his own, hoping to entice him into responding.

Your knuckles turn white as your grip tightens on his shirt; you don't have a back-up plan to speak of, and frankly you're not sure you'd ever be able to look him in the eyes again if he shoves you away—

(1) And then he does move, but it's certainly not away.

In what feels like barely a few blinks, you find your positions almost completely reversed. You hear wood crack as it's kicked out of the way and internally thank your trusty crate for its service—

A firm thigh pushes between your own as warm hands slide over your ass with a squeeze, and then you get a taste of your own medicine as it's your gasp that's taken advantage of, this time.

(1) You don't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't quite this.

This being how you're pinned firmly to the concrete wall behind you, weight supported by the leg slotted between your own and the hands on your ass as every shift and squirm finds you inadvertently grinding down against Blythe's thigh — and making the most dreadfully embarrassing little noises that are only mostly muffled by the Fighter's own lips against your own.

Already you can feel the desire pulsing in your middle, can feel the heat building between your thighs with each of your little shifts and squirms, each squeeze of Blythe's hands as he kisses you like a man possessed.

(1) It's only when you break the kiss, feeling like you can't quite get enough air, that his attention shifts.

Those same lips trail down to your throat as his hands slide up to take a firmer hold of your hips — and this time there's nothing to muffle the moan that startles out of you when he sucks a bruising mark over your pulse and grinds you down harder against his thighs.

His echoing groan rumbles through you like a physical touch, tension winding hot and fast in your middle as Blythe guides your hips into a rolling rhythm against his leg — and fuck if the easy way he moves you doesn't make you burn all the hotter.

You lose a bit of time, then, losing yourself in the all-consuming onslaught of his affections. It's dizzying, overwhelming, and leaves you utterly unable to focus on anything other than him—

(1) Which leaves you caught entirely off-guard when you suddenly find yourself only scant seconds away from cumming.

"Blythe—" Your fingers fist tighter into his shirt, the only part of your positions that has remained the same, a shivery note to your voice you're unfamiliar with as your thighs squeeze around his own, not even aware of the faint quiver working its way down your spine, "W-wait a sec, I, I'm—"

Blythe, who most certainly did notice your little tremble, the way your breath begins to catch in your throat, the heat he can feel through both of your trousers—

"Cum," The order is as demanding as it is desperate, all but growled into your ear as he presses even closer, tilting your hips until the next roll of them has you loosing a stuttered cry, every inch of you going taut as a bowstring in his grasp, "Aster, cum."

(1) And really, what can you do but listen?

Pleasure crashes through you like a tidal wave, and you're only dimly aware of the lips slanting over yours to muffle noises you hadn't even realized you could make. Your body moves of its own volition, hips rocking jerkily against Blythe's thigh as you ride out your orgasm with mindless intent until you're finally spent.

You collapse against the Fighter's chest like a puppet with her strings cut, trembling all over as you try and catch your breath in the wake of such unexpected intensity. Just above you, Blythe makes a noise that nearly sounds pained, and it's jarring enough to have you lifting your cheek from his collar to peer up at him in somewhat bleary concern—

And then you're being moved again, faintly trembling hands no less strong as they hoist your legs up around his waist. You can't help but fidget, and Blythe responds by taking another half-step closer, leaving you pinned flush between him and the wall — and entirely unable to miss the firm bulge that grinds into your still-sensitive sex, hot enough to make you whine even through the layers of cloth between the two of you.

(1) "Again."

Time blurs again. You try to cling to your composure, but it's a battle you lose laughably quick when every rock of Blythe's hips sends frissons of heat shocking through you. The high-pitched little noises - nearly mewls - have you flushing bright enough to rival your hair, but it's blessedly easy to ignore, because—

Blythe seems fixated on wringing another orgasm from you just like this, grinding into you with laser-focused intensity, adapting real time to what pulls the best noises from you. Normally you'd feel a little bad at your lack of participation, but honestly it's all you can do to hang on for the ride, what with how determined the Fighter is on driving pesky little things like thoughts out of your head.

(1) Your next orgasm leaves you twice as breathless and shaky as the last, and you only just catch the muttering coming from above you.

"Not here, not here," Blythe all but chants the words, and the fingers flexing against your hips are your only warning before you find yourself plucked away from the wall, arms slipping instinctively around his neck as Blythe walks with a single-minded focus to. . . Somewhere? You get your answer when you find yourself set gently down upon a leather seat. It's Blythe's motorcycle; you've seen him on it a handful of times, but you've never been on one before. He hands you a helmet, waiting a little impatiently for you to put it on, and you're in enough of a daze from your unexpected - and successive - climaxes that you do so without even really thinking about it. He tightens it for you before getting on himself, reaching back to pull your arms around his waist, guiding you grab your opposite wrists before looking over his shoulder with a look caught somewhere between stern and feverish. "Hang on tight." (1) Why did no one tell you motorcycles vibrated so much?

End of Pt. 1(?)

[aquaquadrant]

Title: flickering

Warnings: Hearing voices similar to intrusive thoughts (the voices are from sentient fire, not from the character’s own mind), pyromania, session 3 spoilers

~*~

Tango might be hearing things.

That is, beyond what the rest of his friends have already been joking about this entire session. The secret task bestowed upon him seemed like pure hilarity at first: pretend to have an imaginary friend. And he had to go all out, too, having imaginary conversations in the presence of other people. He wasn’t confident enough in his improv skills to pull it off without some kind of prop, though, so he’d assigned the role of imaginary friend to a torch in his inventory.

Torchy, a new best friend for the resident blaze hybrid on the server. Hilarious.

Except, as the hours went on… carrying Torchy around and randomly placing it down… hosting one-sided conversations with a piece of burning wood while his friends watched on with baffled amusement… it started to get a little less hilarious. Because he started to imagine that he could actually hear Torchy talking back to him.

Looks bad. Burn it. Kill him.

Just pleasant little things like that. It made for great conversation fodder; nothing turned heads on this server faster than a randomly overheard, “No, no, we can’t kill him!” And it was funny to carry on that kind of dialogue, chastising a flaming stick for its apparent bloodlust. The looks on his friends’ faces were priceless.

But at the end of the session, after Tango had been found out and failed his task, after everyone bid their farewells and went their separate ways to end the session… he hears it again; a flickering whisper of a voice in his ears.

Burn it.

It startles Tango so badly, his blaze rods ignite. “Aaagh- who? What?!” He spins around, flames spitting.

“Huh?” Skizz pokes his head up from behind their little clump of chests, his wing flared out in surprise. “What happened?”

Tango clutches his pounding heart. “Did you- did you say something, Skizz?” he asks breathlessly.

“What, just now? No?” Skizz frowns, then his eyes widen. “Oh, wait, I get it…” He chuckles. “Very funny dude, but uh, you can drop the ‘imaginary friend’ thing now.”

Burn him. Kill him.

There it is again. “No, I’m not…” Tango hesitates, glancing around warily. “You seriously can’t hear that?”

Join us. Burn it. Eat it all.

Now Skizz looks a little concerned, rising to his feet. “Uh- no? What?” He takes a few steps towards Tango, holding out a hand. “You okay, buddy?”

Tango rakes his claws through his hair. “Th- the whispering, the…” Swallowing, he creeps a bit closer to Skizz- and as he does so, he happens to move closer to a random torch. The voice gets louder.

Free us. Join us. Let it all burn.

There’s a chunk of solid ice in Tango’s stomach. “I think it’s coming from the torches,” he whispers.

Skizz stares at him for a moment before he sighs bemusedly, shaking his head. “Oh, brother. You’ve been talking to yourself all session, dude, I think you’re starting to hear things.” He claps a hand on Tango’s shoulder. “Get some rest, buddy, and I’ll see you back here next week, alright?”

Skizz doesn’t hear it. Tango makes himself laugh. “Right, yeah. You’re right. See ya.”

With a parting smile, Skizz logs off.

Tango waits. Soon enough, the voice returns. The whispering is now a chant, a dull roar echoing in his skull.

He’s gone. Burn it. Burn it all. Sets us free, let us spread. Join us. Burn it. Eat it all.

Tango’s heart is in his throat. He can see it, in his mind’s eye; the soft pink cherry blossoms engulfed in flame, a ring of smoke outlining the entire island… his inner fire thrums with want, with need.

Yes, yes, burn it all���

The smell of burning snaps him out of his trance. His clawed fingertips are pinching a cherry blossom from a low-hanging branch, a trail of smoke rising between them. Wait, when did he walk over to the tree? Quickly plucking the flower, he incinerates it in his clenched fist, the flame extinguished as soon as it’d ignited.

And now he’s got a handful of ash. Great.

Okay, that’s it- he’s gotta get off this crazy server. It’s all these stupid tasks! They’re totally messing with his head. The secrecy, the deception, the mind games- he just needs a break. He needs to go back to something familiar, some place where things make sense.

Tapping his communicator, he brings up a portal.

Tango steps through it into Hermitcraft, into blue flames and his dungeon master’s robes. He blinks, acclimating to the change of light. He’s in the underbelly of Decked Out 2, of course- most of his time this week has been spent working on the redstone for level four. And over the months, he’s taken care to light everything up (because a single creeper in the skadoodler could derail his entire operation here) so there are torches everywhere…

And he hears nothing.

Just the idle sounds of the dungeon above him. The occasional warden sniff or ravager growl, bats squeaking in the dark. A slime slapping against stone somewhere in the distance. He can even hear the ambient flickering of the countless torches around him, but no freaky voices accompany it.

Tango exhales heavily. It was just the Secret Life server messing with his head, after all. Relieved, he ignites a rocket to take off, whirling through the air in the tight hair-pin turns required to escape from the dungeon’s inner workings. He swoops into his storage room and dives into the bubble-vator, arriving swiftly back in the citadel.

Hopping off the platform and into the air, Tango glides toward his private entrance to the lobby. He needs to go cover up the barrel at the start so he can make a couple changes to the dungeon. Nothing major, maybe just an extra warden or two. Ideas for names are already flashing through his mind. Debating whether to go intimidating or silly, he’s so deep in thought as he passes through the lobby that he almost doesn’t notice it at first. But as he walks past the soul flames, he hears it.

The flicker of a familiar voice- though more haunting, now, almost mournful- whispering in his ears.

Join us. Burn them. Eat them all.

~*~

[cosmichorrorlesbians]

what's your dissertation about? you mentioned it in the siltcord and i'm really interested

oh my god hey I'm so happy you're interested! broad strokes because I've only been working on it for a few weeks but: the current theme is 'resistant landscapes' (both man-made and natural) in the later writing of Shirley Jackson!

Essentially, my main thread is that Jackson had two parallel strands to her work, which as far as I can tell began kind of interrelated but then diverged quite significantly? She's probably best known now for The Haunting of Hill House and to a lesser extent We Have Always Lived In The Castle, which are these. weird surreal psychological horror novels, engaging explicitly or implicitly with the supernatural, and centred around introspective, strange and sometimes deeply misanthropic female characters from isolated social units with dysfunctional, possessive relationships to each other.

Aaaaand then on the other hand she was known for being a 'happy housewife' who wrote these whimsical, quasi-autobiographical stories about all her children and how hopeless her husband was. These were popular too. Betty Friedan called her out in landmark 1963 feminist manifesto The Feminine Mystique for essentially spreading patriarchal propaganda.

The interrelation between the two is really jarring, because in one family is a source of horror and tragedy and in the other it's a source of, like... laundry. And Jackson's home life wasn't everything those stories made it out to be-- her marriage was unfaithful, her mother could probably be fairly called emotionally abusive, and as I talked about on the siltcord, she developed severe agoraphobia which often left her housebound.

So, yeah. My plan is to explore the depiction of families as constructed social units in dialogue with the environments they are constructed in in that work. Obviously a lot of that is relation of house to family, in the context of which Hill House is especially rewarding to consider, but I also want to look at relationships with nature and urban environments (especially in the context of settler colonialism and how that has had an enduring legacy in Jackson's particular part of New England), xenophobia (largely in regard to class, though racism and anti-Semitism are presences in her writing), domesticity and the idea of the housewife, and how horror relates to All Of This. The ideal of making a home within a hostile environment and of that environment turning on you, essentially.

I don't yet have particular areas of focus within that broad umbrella, but I might update with bits and pieces about it as I work? I don't really talk about academic stuff on here but I am very much Critical Literary Analysis Guy and I do also post relentlessly about haunted houses as a concept so if people would be interested in it maybe I will

anyway if you've read this far I recommend Horror in Architecture: The Reanimated Edition (2024) by Joshua Comaroff and Ong Ker-Shing which is a book about how horror movie tropes can be mirrored in built environments! I'm reading it right now and it's conceptually fascinating plus fairlyyy comprehensible by academic standards (if a little dense) if you, like me, are a Fool who knows nothing of architecture. very good also for getting to look at pictures of some of the most Fucked Up Buildings (affectionate) you've ever seen.

[dasnercaret]

how ISAT makes you feel like going home

so one of my friends said to me "the first time i played (isat) was when i was home sick, i felt like it had curative properties. analyse that mr playstyle 😎" and i took it as a fucking challenge. i've never written an (tumblr-posted) analysis essay before and i'm going into this with a bunch of haphazardly folded ideas and NO OUTLINE fuck it we ball

so to begin with: DORMONT.

isat, as a whole, is extremely a traditional rpg setup. which unfortunately i know little to nothing about, so forgive me in advance if i put my foot in my mouth regarding traditional rpg mechanics. but like many games, you start at a home base, at home. and the whole vibes of the place honestly serve to only emphasize the safe / at home / storybook atmosphere isat cultivates. you wake up in a field, sleepy and tired. your dear friend mirabelle leans over you and tells you to wake up, because you're going to beat the king tomorrow! and you laugh and you're sleepy but eventually you start playing. eventually, you push yourself up and wander around and meet the townsfolk and your party.

now, the player doesn't know the party. they've just opened the game! they don't know these characters. siffrin does though, and it shows in the interactions he has with each one of them. mirabelle teases siffrin about the quality of his nap. isabeau puns with siffrin. odile smiles at him. bonnie... looks away, because of backstory you don't have yet, because you're leaping into this story at its very end. but siffrin knows.

(...)

siffrin knows. which informs his narration, of course, and overall it gives the sense of - you're watching a story already known, with characters who already love each other. like walking into a family home midway through a dinner party, to know and be known in turn.

(you know where you are. you're home!)

siffrin provides some exposition of course, enough to catch the player up and let them know the basics of the world you've set foot into. these people are here because they have natural ties, connections to the land they've been born or raised in or are travelling through. you all are here to defeat the king, who is the epitome of a traditional storybook villain, the big bad evil you defeat at the end of the fairytale. he's just the generically evil guy, with no focus given to the atrocities he must have committed and been willing to commit in order to get where he is. there's no need to be scared of him, not really. (yet.) he's evil, but in the way a storybook villain is evil. all the sharp edges defanged, sanded away, all the humanity and dimensionality and violence inherent in his character compressed into a set of scribbles on the page, words on a screen. it's not personal. it's not.... scary. not to you, and not to siffrin, who's already been floating above it all.

(the rest is under a cut! spoilers for The Entire Rest Of The Game)

similarly, the exposition is in the form of little childlike drawings, emphasizing the same nostalgia it draws on - fairytales, fables, those stories where the heroes collect the magic sword and slay the dragon and save the princess. you know these stories, consciously or not. you love these stories, (probably), and it all serves to emphasize the familiarity with which you step into dormont. heroic stories are extremely common in the stories we love today, from the old classic prince charming to (somewhat) more modern legend of zelda, and no doubt many people picking up isat have a similar passing familiarity with the overarching story of rpgs. (i in fact was the exception, but that's a whole other essay)

the townspeople definitely do not help this vibe as well. they are practically one and all kind, steady people, precisely the sort of common folk you'd want to save in a story where nothing hurts and everyone is safe and loved. they're happy to gift you a flower or a pan au chocolat and cheer you on in your quest, certain of your victory and at least certain of their continued happiness even if you fail. simple, easy, familiar, comforting in the way redwall is comforting or an old set of childhood fairytales is comforting. there's no real judgement, no anger at you for potentially failing and (almost) none of the gross ugly real emotions that would be present in a more 'realistic' story. simple, easy, familiar, comforting.

(You like knowing what happens next!)

so. i think we all know that isat at its core is a game about homesickness. god's sakes mal du pays is literally right there. the central conflict of this game, beneath the overlaying fluff of an rpg archetype and an evil to defeat, is about siffrin not being able to go home while the rest of his party get to do so. and even at this very early stage (approximately act 1 and i would argue a bit into act 2) you can start to see the cracks. siffrin is shown alone, tagging along with the party because he had "nothing else to do" (read: nowhere else to go.) he laughs and pals and jokes with the party, but like before, like always, he merely mirrors them. he makes puns with isabeau because isabeau likes puns, and siffrin liked making him laugh so much so that he adopted puns into a part of his personality. he comforts mirabelle about her future, jokes with odile about her research, and always, always, avoids talking about himself. when they ask where he's going to go after their journey is over, his answer is always a mirror of their own - pilgrimage, research, travel, comedy. when he makes a wish at the favor tree, there's no option to wish for himself.

because the thing is, right. siffrin never thinks of himself. the only options instead are to wish for his family - his home, his only living and real connections in his life, the people surrounding him that really make dormont feel like a real home and not just another friendly place in vaugaurde he's passing through. cause the townsfolk are nice, sure, they're friendly, sure, but - they don't know him. they're not important enough for him to literally rewrite his personality for them. it's his party instead, that he laughs and jokes with and is known with, even if superficially. he wants to be allowed to go home, to stay home. he's been homeless both literally and figuratively for so long that he's beyond desperate to be allowed to keep what little he's found for himself.

(You want to stay with them!)

except - what happens when you beat the game? what happens when you finish the rpg, when you reach the end of the book, when you grow up and leave this set of children's fairytales behind?

you put it down, right? you go home, right? you go back to your home, you go back to travelling, you go back to your family.

what do you do when you don't get to go home? when dormont and the clocktower and the house are the closest you will ever get to home, are the last moment you will ever have being home before it's ripped away from you forever? (ripped away from you just like before - )

you'd want to stay, right? forever and ever and ever?

siffrin is a character who has a very bad time letting go. just like the king, he wants to have, desperately, enough to kill himself a hundred times over for it. and, through the timeloop, he can pull you, the player, and himself and his hapless party along through the timeloop, repeating the same two comforting days over and over and over and over.

and perhaps after a few loops of settling in you, too, can understand why he would want to do this. it's nice, isn't it? knowing what will happen? knowing that these people will always love you? knowing that you can always get the flower, always get the drawing, always get the pan au chocolat, always beat the tutorial kid and get the jackpot? that the townsfolk will always smile at you, that your party - your family, your home - will never know what you've done?

it's not enough, isn't it?

(Dormont, unchanging! Dormont, stagnating!)

no matter how hard siffrin tries to cling to the past turned present to stave off his inevitable future, he is still human. under the fairytale setting and pretty lights, even under his own desire to stay with them, he needs that human connection. he needs something to change, to give way. needs to be seen, to be known, to be loved for himself and not because he's learned the perfect pretty words and actions to trick them into loving him. you, the player, the person driving siffrin, can understand this frustration perfectly as well - you need something to change. you need something to give way, because you can't keep doing this. because you can't hear the same lines over and over and over anymore. you can't do the same thing over and over anymore. you're not happy. siffrin's not happy. something needs to change.

i finished isat over the course of about four days, playing about 12-14 hours per day. during that time, i experienced possibly the most deeply intensely felt emotion i have ever experienced. to this day when i look back on my first playthrough of isat, the sheer depth and fury of that emotion takes my breath away.

and it was frustration. just like siffrin, i was trapped. i couldn't look away, because i loved these characters, because i loved their story, because i wanted them to keep going and going and living and i wanted to keep living alongside them. but i couldn't keep going like this. i couldn't do the same thing over and over and over. i needed something to change, but both siffrin and i were desperately, agonizingly trapped in the same few days. the same places, the same faces, the same lines said rote until i was zoning out through every dialogue interaction, only pausing when i needed to make sure that i hadn't missed something new.

because i loved these characters. i loved how homely they felt. i loved them, i loved them, i -

needed them to be real. to change, to grow, to have their future returned to them. i needed to see them go home, not trapped in this same endless time-frozen loop. i had been trapped at home too long, and the cabin fever was eating me alive. my desire to be allowed to keep playing (to stay in the timeloop) was duking it out with my desire to see them change beyond what they were allowed to change in the span of just two days. i wanted to see bonnie grow up, to see isabeau change into someone else, to see odile come to terms with her half-vaugardian nature, to see mirabelle learn to accept her sexuality (or lack thereof). i wanted them to remember us as family.

ah, isat, absolute king of getting in my head and making me think like siffrin.

back to dormont. in the end, dormont only changes permanently in act 6, after the time loop breaks. the only time the townsfolk ever change, ever coherently move to different places and act differently (act 5 is similar, but i would argue that's because siffrin changes, dormont still doesn't really meaningfully change) is after the loops.

and it's fitting, isn't it? by this point in the game, you could recite dormont backwards and forwards. but by this point in the game, you are well aware that you need to give them back a future. their future. the one they wished for in the first place. they've been trapped in their fairy tale wonderland for long enough. they deserve to go home, truly home, to go forward and live their lives and keep moving on. to allow them to change, to grow.

to allow yourself to change, to grow. to allow yourself to go home, to admit that you want to keep your home you have now, to keep the family you've built from blood and death and tears and stars.

(You want to stay with them!)

to leave dormont. to leave this fairytale behind, and keep living.

[sysig]

“My streamer” voice: My doctorrrrrr (Patreon)