#garish colors and too many explosions

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ep.24 thoughts

[It's the End of the Show as We Know It]

(Contents: reflection)

And with that, season 1 of Undead Unluck's anime comes to a close

I can't say it was everything I hoped it would be, but I can say it was a lot better than I feared it could have been. Strange usage of recaps, blinding color scheme choices at odd moments, and certain scenes composed in ways that sadly cut down their impact from the source material hampered it from being the next big thing, but unique interpretations and embellishments on the source material mixed with several moments of fantastic animation and great voice acting absolutely prevented it from being a cookie cutter, bland adaptation

And of course, keeping in line with the rest of the series, the final episode made sure to encompass every single one of the above aspects

Now, to its credit, almost all of the recap in this episode was in the manga, it's just very funny that a show that was like 10% recap concluded on a chapter that was, itself, 50% recap. Plus, what recap there was that wasn't originally in the manga was actually handled quite elegantly, being brief moments of establishing information rather than just replaying entire scenes - y'know, the way that a recap is supposed to be!

We still got the garish red gel over the final fight, but I think because we've seen it so many times now, I'm kind of used to it, and the action itself was pretty damn good. The addition of a meteor to the final stroke of Unluck made that final pass at Autumn a lot more visually impactful than it otherwise would have been, and Anno Un's death being an explosion of ink rather than just fading into dust added a nice bit of flair that I think makes their nature as an ink construct much clearer

Overall, a fitting conclusion given the rollercoaster of odd and pleasantly surprising creative choices, and naturally it ended with one final befuddlement. While the beginning of the episode cut the opening theme, we ended up getting it at the end of the episode, which would be pretty standard for a finale, if it wasn't immediately followed by the sequel hook which, itself, was both truncated AND followed by the ending theme! If they'd just cut at least the ending theme, we could have had the full scene of Juiz approaching Billy! Hell, if they'd cut the opening too, we could have gotten the full explanation for how Akira knew the future! Sure, that wasn't entirely necessary, but it could have helped, and getting it recapped at the beginning of season 2 will probably be completely out of place

This was a solid episode, I really enjoyed it, and I feel the same way about the season as a whole, but god damn was this a baffling experience from beginning to end. I will definitely end up looking back on this later as a quirky experience, a fun bit of trivia that we as a community will have a chuckle about and appreciate that it's not Promised Neverland Season 2, but until someone posts a deep dive explaining how those creative decisions came about, I'm probably just going to be obsessing over how it came together so strangely

Definitively, the manga is better; this adaptation does not in any way surpass or in my opinion even match the quality of the manga, but at the very least, it does not do it a total disservice. The goods were good and the bads were weird, and I hope the experience will convince newcomers to check out the manga, if not for the desire to see more, then at least for the curiosity of what spawned this madness

If you were able to stick with it the whole time, I hope you all enjoyed this season as much or more than I did. We're supposedly going to be getting some kind of announcement soon, hopefully for season 2 or a movie. I definitely hope that Yuki Yase won't be at the helm next time, but on some level I think I'd appreciate the consistency if he does return. I'd certainly take that over getting someone worse

Until next time, let's enjoy life!

[takeariskao3]

omg @valfromcall i'm so sorry. i spoke wayyyy too soon.

Rotten holiday, Valentine's Day.

First of all, the colors: garish pinks and in your face reds that have no business being that bright.

Secondly, the decor: explosions of hearts, and cherubs, and flowers. Good god, the flowers. There was no way Professor Sprout needed to grow that many bouquets and blossoms except for the express need to annoy him.

Thirdly, the giggling. Harry had started taking secret passageways completely out of the way of his classes just to avoid the titter from various groups that seemed hell bent on forcing him into some form of self-disfigurement. Mainly, the urge to shove his quill pointy end first, straight into his forehead to put himself out of his misery.

But fourthly, the couples. What on earth could be so special about the first two weeks in February that every pair of boyfriend and girlfriend had to parade through the halls hand in hand. Or more nauseatingly, hide down deserted corridors locked mouth to mouth.

In short, Harry was damn near convinced that almost everyone in the school had lost their minds.

He'd taken to joining Hermione in the Library in the evenings. At least the couples there had the decency to hide in the arithmancy section, instead of snogging out in the open like in the common room.

Harry had convinced himself he was doing homework on a Tuesday so he could avoid Ron and Lavender.

He was actively not thinking about the other couple he was also avoiding.

Because that train of thought was neither constructive or productive, and typically left him in an even worse mood than before.

"Fuck's sake," a new voice broke through his awareness. "What are you buried back here for?"

Ginny dropped her bag onto the table and shot Harry a wide smile that made the air in his lungs evaporate entirely.

"Hey, Harry."

"H-" he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Hi."

"I needed to spread out," Hermione explained and gestured to the mess of Ancient Runes books surrounding her.

Plopping down and pulling out her own Ancient Runes homework, Ginny settled in without preamble.

Harry looked around and didn't spy a single one of Ginny's, frankly large, group of friends or the other aforementioned unmentionable.

"You..." he hesitated. "You're by yourself?"

Ginny didn't look up from her parchment. "Yeah."

"No one..." he stammered ridiculously, but he needed to know for sure. "No one came with you?"

Furrowing her brow, Ginny looked up at him in confusion while Hermione bit her bottom lip to hide what Harry was almost positive was a smirk.

"That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"Well, I-" he faltered. "I just didn't know if we should expect more interruptions?"

Ginny blinked twice, the sparkle of good humor returning to her eyes.

"Deep in a study session, are we?"

Harry leaned back in his chair. "Could be."

Humming in mock agreement, she looked down at the book in his hands. "And how is your paper on the... Best Beaters of the Twentieth Century coming along?"

"At a standstill." Harry replied, matching her tone. "Someone came along and interrupted my concentration."

"Oh," Ginny laughed. "A distraction, am I?"

"Botheration," he corrected with a grin. "Annoyance, really."

Her returning smile was brilliant enough that the sun shouldn't even bother rising the next day.

Hermione cleared her throat, clearly irritated. "Do you want my help translating or not?"

"God, yes," Ginny begged, passing over her parchment.

The both of them set to work, but not before Hermione tossed Harry a knowing glance that had him burying his face back in his chronicle of Beaters and their many feats through the last ten decades.

another prompt one of my ALL time favorite head cannon is Valentine’s day 1997 and harry is soooo brooding and annoyed with all the happy couples

HOW IS THIS FLUFFY OR FUCKING

[grim-faux]

12_Existence and its Resentment

 First

 That flash of exhilaration skipped through him as leapt to the next plank of wood, the board creaked under his feet as he adjusted his weight. The flat was sturdy, but angled too far from the next plank. He didn’t mind being this high up, so long as the floor was visible. On the ground stood a Viewer, croaking at the television that captivated them. If only he could find another remote, though, he hadn’t seen another television for a while.

 Still, it’d spit him out somewhere. Probably. He could always resort to tricking Viewers away, they always chased. That was the one thing good about them. Also, a remote would be better to haver, rather not. He kept his eyes attentive for one, aside from picking out other hazards that might go overlooked. He had to be extra cautious from here on out.

 This detour through this building got him out of the rain for a short while. Even if he didn’t like being out in the weather, it was a challenge finding a door or window, especially with an access that led to the ground. And there were the Viewers.

 They were less intimidating outside, wherein many remained captivated by the awful Signal Tower. He got the shakes when he was caught up in a room with one, it didn’t matter that a television was usually distracting them. He had that persisting fear the telly would just… explode, and then the garish deranged adult would fixate on the first moving thing it decided caused the complete implosion of its world.

 While he sat in a doorway, debating his next direction, he thought about the Tower. On the floor a few feet away, a clothing set laid out on a worn patch of carpet. Escape. He repeated the speek in his mind, it was too dangerous to utter aloud.

 Want.

 Give.

 Abandon.

 He undid the star printed blanket and gave it a shake. It wasn’t as nice as his paper bag, but the material was warm. He bundled it up and hugged it to his chest. The sounds she made. She never made speek like that. He liked Her speek. It was hard to get accustomed to, but he made an effort. They didn’t have many opportunities to sit and….

 Why did he even care? She tried to leave him. She wanted him gone. Why? He didn’t understand. There was a lot of Six he didn’t understand, but a lot more he did. Maybe it was bad memory. Let go, when too hurt? He didn’t remember well. Memory was a jumble, full of sound and smells he didn’t grasp. Lights and colors, a kaleidoscope of nightmares.

 Explosion. Ringing. Pain. Awake.

 He stood gawking up at the elevator lever. High. Too high. He likely wasn’t heavy enough on his own, either.

 After going through the few accessible rooms on the same floor, taking stock of the Viewers secluded to some of these spaces and minding their own bees wax, he returned to the elevator and sat by the doorway. He pulled out a wad of fabric and unfolded the foods. It was starting to go bad, so he was eating more of the rations than he would prefer to reserve. However, he did find a few kitchens that still stocked supplies. It was just a matter of dumping out what he didn’t want, eating what he could, and stashing whatever else he could manage. He didn’t have that many pockets, and the weather… wrecked everything.

 A grating squeal erupted at his side, and Mono barely sprang away before the lift rushed downward. Without thinking, he dumped the cloth and jumped down onto the roof before it was too far out of sight. The cables thrummed and clicked as they rolled through the crank, light flashed through the gaps of metal gates of the bypassed corridors. He hoped he wasn’t trapped in here now.

 The first opening that flashed in the side of the wall, he lunged. Barely catching it by his fingertips. The lift descended beneath, going further and further away, far into the abyss of the elevator shaft. He hefted himself up, catching the sharp edge of plaster with his elbow, and belly crawled until he was through the gap. A pile of trash below caught his fall, and he rolled.

 Small room, lots of shelves crowding the space. The chemical smell was intense, along with rot. The door was open ajar, so he poked his head out. Open corridor, it looked vacant. The jingle of a television carried in the background; further down the hall, the walls had collapsed entirely—

 Something moved.

 Mono huddled beside the doorframe, peering intently at one of the open portals further in the corridor. A shape dipped into the entry. He didn’t like that. Quietly, he eased from the threshold and moved to the other end of the corridor. This direction intersected with the main corridor, crossing with the elevator. He paid careful attention to his surroundings. Maybe it was his imagination, or he saw wrong. But he wasn’t taking chances. He needed to get out of this building.

 This task was made much easier than he anticipated. In one of the rooms he ducked into, there was a makeshift rope made from discarded shirts and butchered blankets. It was on the floor, partially completed; some of the line extended up a sill and down the side of the building outside. He couldn’t climb it, until he finished a few more links.

 He wondered, as he worked knotting and tugging another link, did all the children get captured? The Viewers were not the only ones lurking around the city. He didn’t expect to find the others, but he kept an eye out in case. Everybody was quiet and hide, sometimes frightened. He tried not to be frightened. If the danger, well… not all fights should be faced. Running was a good solution.

 Scaling down the completed rope wasn’t difficult, even in the rain. However, he had never been great at building ropes, but thankfully he was not far above the sidewalk when the line lost tension and he dropped to his back.

 Ow.

 Stunned, he lay for a few minutes, the rain pelting his face and soaking his blanket hood. He was still a little tender from the… however long ago it was, he didn’t know. That whole time was a blur. He kept thinking about the Hunter, finding Six, pain. Falling. If he thought about it too hard, his head began a piercing prick in his forehead, and his heart would race. Sometimes it was hard to breathe, to hold air and let it go. It hurt his whole body, and he didn’t understand. Sometimes, everything hurt for no reason.

 Mono rolled over and got to his feet. The street was open, aside from debris and some wreckages from twisted buildings. It was everything he could get around or climb over. The road was passable, and he kept his focus on the mounds of ruble. In case a Viewer was lost, or something worse was out roaming.

 In the span of a clearing, he located a television device laying on its side. It was functioning, the screen spat and buzzed. Across from it, a Viewer who did not judge well the distance, lay crumpled on the ground.

 Mono went to the flickering screen and pressed his palm to the warm glass. He thought he saw images, in-between the rustle of static. Sometimes… a familiar hood, faces, eyes. A tall thin figure. He shook his head, beads of water flashed off.

 Where did she go? Was the Thin Man saying a truth? He didn’t trust the man in the hat, regardless… that they helped the other. He did not leave, stole him, but couldn’t say why. The tall thin man made no sense, and that was possibly the most dangerous sort of adult.

 Viewers. You knew what they did, and why. They wanted to stare into the static. They could be tricked in chasing, would jump to their demise. It wasn’t hard, if knew how to get it done. There were many ways.

 The Thin Man… could hurt, but didn’t. Doesn’t know why he wouldn’t. Mono could… he could hurt the Thin Man, but was scared. Something strange, and frightening familiar. He didn’t understand.

 It would have been… nice to stay with the Thin Man, if it was allowed. Still, it wouldn’t have been safe, there was too much unknown and threat, and risk. Security would’ve been a temporary illusion, he couldn’t figure how long the man in the hat would put up with him, or if he might snap at a moment. Adults and the monsters, their intents aren’t known. Especially the Thin Man, doing these things. Being suspicious. Silent and watching, wanting something, biding, and waiting. Always searching empty air. Using Mono, to find someone. Six. He was so angry at himself, for the careless. It ruined everything. Even the man in the hat said so. If only… he could have done things different, paid more attention. Done better.

 He pressed his other hand to the screen and squeezed his eyes shut. In a breath it was all over, the odd pull and twisting vertigo ended, and he was through. He goes flying out, skimmed across a countertop and crashed to the floor. Papers and silt rain down over him.

 The place is dark and musty, dust swirled as he sat up and shook his coat. The floor was coated with water, but he didn’t hear any sounds of water drumming. It didn’t stop him from being wet. The whole place was full of clothing and other things. He’s drawn to the light, and there finds one side of the building where a door stood in wait. The bottom of the glass is cracked and fallen out. He poked his head through, checking for movement or any possible threat. Where was he now?

 Coast was clear, so he slipped out. The wind picked up, sending a hard cascade of water across his head and body. He shook off some of the soaking and kept walking. The light was beginning to dim, and the Signal Tower burned brighter more as the minutes wound away. Ahead, the road became too corrupt for navigation, but there was an alley he could move into. The alley connected to the next road over, the path connected with more buildings that were not so tall nor intimidating. Gigantic they were all the same, but not looming constructions.

 This was possibly a good location to stop in. If it was getting late; sometimes, it was hard to tell. The weather was worse than its usual. The gale became biting, his hooded blanket was soaked through.

 An alley he nearly bypassed, randomly spurred his attention. It was one that, like many, was devastated and full of collapse from the buildings alongside it. What caught his eye was the dark alcove, among the chunks of cement. It looked like shelter.

 But oh wonder! Once he crawled within, he found the narrow passage went back much further. It moved into a small space, but not just any space. It was evident the area had been cleared of ruble. The ground is marginally clean and stable, some flattened boxes lay beneath the reaching giant slabs, along with random bits of trash

 And speek!

 Mono looked around, checking some of the present nooks and spaces in the ruble layered around. The speek was on most of the flat wall that was viable. He dashed to it and set his hand on it. The water bubbled across the waxy surface of thick colors. Someone worked hard on this.

 “Oi?” he called, softly. And searched for a response. “Oi-OI!”

 Nothing.

 He poked around some more, going through the bits of discarded papers – mottled and ruined by vigorous soaking. The flattened cardboard, beneath the overhang of cement slabs, was damp but intact. There were other bedding and supplies, such as ripped shirts, cotton padding, a few toys. A few worn out, well loved toys. He crawled into the space and picked up a metal thing, that vaguely resembled… a box with a face, and pinching hands. It had wheels on the bottom, and when he set it down, it rolled. It was rusted, but it still kind of could move.

 Where were they? And who?

 Mono rolled out from under the slab, and returned to the speek. He traced the wax layers with his fingers, titling his head. Trying to make sense of the messages it conveyed. Lines meant… days. The sun went away. Many lines decorated a slab of concrete.

 He shifted to another, lower portion of concrete. Three! One was in a funny shape, and there was maybe a girl? No, not his Six. And there was a smallest one. They were here. This was their home. There are other pictures, of the twisted shapes of the Viewers. And the Eyes. He didn’t like the eyes. So many variations of the They that were here, and their adventures.

 The speek was a struggle to grasp. They did it well, but there was a lot to go through. There were many-many-many lines. Such a long while.

 The two scavenged for foods. The smaller one did not. Was too small? How was too small? What did that mean?

 Foods go scarce? Sometimes, that happened. Too many adults vanished from a place, the foods stop. That was why children always moved, to find where the foods went. He hoped that was what happened. Still, this was a problem for him. If this area no longer had foods, he wouldn’t be able to stay in this shelter, either. Maybe, he’d stumble across them. Maybe.

 He looked at the abandoned bedding, and the marks lined up on the wall. A story of how children lived in one spot, for a short while. They lived here, and one day they went elsewhere. He wished he could find that elsewhere, he hoped it was safe. He hoped it had many things – many foods, many treasures, a place where there was no rain, no anger. What a place that would be.

 The blocky metal thing had a secret compartment, and that is where they kept the pieces of crayons. He took a few colors in one hand, and sheltered under the cement, he drew pictures on the wall beneath.

 There were some TVs, and a yellow person. The Tower should be there, too. He hated it, but it was a part of the story. As well, the tall thin man in a hat. Off on another slab of wall, he drew a figure in a good coat and a square head. He still thought of himself, with the paper bag. That was still him, though he lost his trademark. He should put a key, on the coat too. He was very clever.

 “Mono was here,” he murmured, barely breaking a whisper. He switched out the colors. “Scary things looked at him, and he looked back.” A crayon broke, so he had to fit the nub in his fist carefully to finish coloring.

 When he was satisfied, he scooted back on his knees. He leaned up just a bit, and colored in a ripped paper bag. That was part of the story too.

 A flash of lightening lit the sky, and he acknowledged that it was getting much darker. He pushed aside the crayons, then crept up into the tightest alcove beneath the slab, further from the spray of rain splattering in at intervals. He tucked his hands up under the sides of his coat, and bent his feet up under himself and nestled down.

 He missed sitting next to someone. He missed huddling with another body, sharing warmth. He missed the small bit of security and assurance it brought, to have that second pair of eyes and ears.

 Though the hidden niche was well fortified and absolutely nothing could find him within, he still jolted at every off sound here or out creeping through the alley. The wind and gurgling of water, slurring through cracks around him. All the same, it would have been nice to stay here a little longer and rest. Without a doubt, the other children that had used this space, left due to a shortage of foods. He wanted so much for that to be so.

 If… he did meet them. He wasn’t certain if he was ready to pack again, so soon. It always seemed…. Maybe he was cursed. That might’ve been the only real and genuine reason she sent him… away. He was cursed. She saw that. Knew how dangerous that was.

 An adult, a monster no less, caught him and couldn’t kill him. Would find him again, if he wasn’t careful. That was it. He was just cursed. That’s all it was.

 Mono tightened down into his own little bubble of warmth, and tried his hardest not to let it shatter with his shuddering breath. The strange child. No wonder the Tower called to him. Cursed.

Next

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #37)

(cw: alcohol mention, fire) ----------

01/25/88   11:53 PM

Hey.

I wish I could say that I walked away from that heated encounter at therapy with little to no after effects. That I marched on back to my game, got some sleep, and continued on my road to recovery without missing a beat. I wish I could say that.

But that would just be unrealistic. 

When I went back to my game after the whole thing with Worluk, I told my cousin what happened. He reacted just about the same as I’d expected him to. Horrified, relieved I was safe, glad justice was served before she could hurt anyone else. He also told me how proud he was of me for not using violence to solve my problem. The praise felt a little misplaced, given how much I did actually fantasize about ripping her to shreds, and I told him that. But that just made him all the prouder, he said. It was the fact that, unlike so many past instances, I didn’t act on those impulses.

It was a pretty big deal for me. But I still didn’t quite know how to accept his pride. That much hadn’t changed.

I felt pretty sick, so I turned in kind of early, but I didn’t sleep well. Some of the old confusing flashbacks were eating at me again. I’d be nearly asleep, just dipping into dreamspace when phantom memories of fire and explosions and echoing screams would jolt me awake. I hadn’t had visions like those in a while, but I also hadn’t been quite that sober in a while.

The next morning carried on like any other at first, apart from me being quieter than I’d normally be. Fix-it had his breakfast and morning coffee. He yammered at me for a little bit. Some Nicelanders showed up, and then he yammered at them for a little bit. Then, after wishing me a good day, he left with the others, and the arcade opened.

I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. But since painting had been so soothing before, I figured I’d try that. It certainly couldn’t hurt. I hauled out the tarp and Fix-it’s paints and papers. I sat cross-legged by the blank sheet for a while, feeling dry of creativity. But I forced myself to start anyway, trying to let my thoughts and feelings fall freely and paint along to them.

What was I feeling, anyway?

I took a deep breath and tried to meditate on that question as I painted.

Grey. Unsure. Numb. Lukewarm. I wanted to be happy about Worluk being arrested. It should have been closure on her traumatic chapter of my life. But I just wasn’t satisfied. What she had said about her sister’s ‘burning body’ just opened up too much mystery for me to put her out of my mind and move on. It wasn’t really the idea of me jumping over a burning sprite to get to you that was so disturbing. It was just the fact that I couldn’t remember it. I kept trying to brush it off and say that Worluk was just some raving lunatic spouting nonsense. But what if she wasn’t?

White. Blank. Cold. Lost. I couldn’t stand not remembering that day. Not remembering how you died. Not knowing your whole story. Out of anyone, I should have been the one to know. No one was closer to you than me. I was your friend. Best friend. Or something else entirely.

Yellow. Confused. Nauseous. Anxious. 

I paused. Three colors splotched the canvas in aimless, abstract shapes. Part of me almost laughed, but in a really joyless way. This palette I’d been subconsciously putting together out of distress reminded me of something that used to make me happy. It was just missing one color.

Red. Demanding. Arrogant. Bold.

You.

I’d almost painted you by accident. Not in the right shapes, but the right colors were there. Some of them, anyway. Just the surface colors, the ones I could see on your pixels. Just seeing all of them together was enough to put a pang of what I could only describe as ‘miserable affection’ in my chest. It suddenly felt like it had been so long since I even took the time to think about you. I’d been so occupied with counselling, I guess I just didn’t want to give myself the chance to miss you too much and derail things.

But I was taking a break from counselling. I was alone. I had nothing but time to spend remembering you. And whether I thought it was a good idea or not, it was happening. You poured down on my mind like heavy rain.

So, without really thinking about what I was doing, I kept painting with every color you inspired in me. 

Black for your smoky, metallic scent. Red-Violet for your overheated body. Sienna for your voice. Salmon for your genuine, high-pitched laugh. It did not take long for me to run out of space. I didn’t care. I kept painting. I smeared heaping gobs of color until the paper was slathered with glistening, muddy slime that was likely too thick to dry. 

Eventually, I stopped. I could have just gotten another sheet of paper, but I felt too heavy to stand. I just sat there, staring at my gloves that were speckled with tiny flecks of paint. My heart, I finally noticed, had been pounding. I’d been running for so long from how I felt when I remembered you. The hurt. The betrayal. The moments of resentment. Worst of all were the moments when I simply, truly missed you.

This was one of those moments. 

I wish that I could say that by that point, I’d learned to stop running away. That I didn’t have it in me anymore. I’d like to say that I just went limp and sank into the feeling until it inevitably either drowned me or I learned to breathe through it. But I wasn’t ready to believe I could do that. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust reality to remain sound. But you were raining on me whether I chose it or not. I was neck-deep, floundering.

And then the desperation, as it has so often done, turned me a little strange.

The first thing I did was remove my gloves, and then my smock. It felt like all else in the world went quiet as I wet my fingers with a rainbow of paint. Keep it together, I told myself. Deep breaths. It was just color. All feelings, all memories, are just color. And color is choice. I could choose not to hurt over you if I just redirected. If I took every color that you were not, and wore them like armor to protect myself from all thoughts of you.

So I just… painted myself. 

There were too many shades to rightly recall. Teal, bronze, vermillion, lavender, aqua, magenta, seafoam, you name it. But they didn’t keep you out. They just invited you in. For every color, there was some emotion, or some memory, that reminded me of my time with you. I fought to keep it together, but I couldn’t. I spiraled, and I spiraled hard. I grabbed onto my hair, and it clumped together in the paint between my fingers. I told myself that I’d done enough. I had taken a moment to mourn you, but I wouldn’t let it get to me. Not like it had done in the past. I was beyond that. I’d grown past it. I kept repeating: Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him right now.

Don’t think about his smarmy smile. Don’t think about his pointy ears. Don’t think about the lisp he worked so hard to hide. Don’t think about how he constantly bit his tongue. Don’t think about that time he rode an Excitebike and broke his nose. Don’t think about how his hands were rough from mechanic work. Don’t think about the times we spent sending Don’s sailboat models down the Frogger river in flames. Don’t think about the time he fell in an open grave in Ghosts n’ Goblins. Don’t think about pranking him for the first time. Don’t think about your bar fight at Tapper’s after. Don’t think about the trashy music he always played in his garage. Don’t think about how terrible he was at dancing. Don’t think about how tightly he’d hold you when he thought you were asleep. Don’t think about his stupid hair that always had to be a perfect mess. Don’t think about his actually really cool abstract contour line drawings. Don’t think about the time we microwaved six eggs just to watch them explode. Don’t think about the first time he brought you takeout without being asked. Don’t think about the first time you let him touch you. Don’t think about how it sometimes felt like you were the only two sprites in the arcade. Don’t think about how he made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Don’t think about how you’ve forever lost your chance to tell him that.

That was it. 

That did me in. 

The good ol’ unreality came crashing back -- it couldn’t be true. You couldn’t be gone. It wasn’t real. By extension, nothing was real. Niceland was just a popsicle stick model that would collapse on top of me at any moment. Everyone I’d spoken to for weeks were just holograms. Even I didn’t feel real. I didn’t understand how I could be so numb and still be in so much pain. It was a nightmare. I needed to get away. I needed intervention, some kind of release, anything to chase the horror away.

I stood, feeling like I was in a trance. I had just the faintest control over my body. Everything I’d learned in counselling flashed in my head, but it did not take. I was driven by almost life-or-death urgency, as if I’d ingested poison and desperately needed the antidote. I shambled into the kitchen, marking cabinets with rainbow fingerprints as I looked for absolutely anything alcoholic. But Fix-it’s not a drinker, unsurprisingly. I wish that alone had been enough to stop me, but I carried my search into the bathroom. And there, on the spotless porcelain sink, sat a bottle of blue mouthwash.

Technically alcoholic.

I grabbed it. It seemed like the paint itself was trying to dissuade me, making the bottle so hard to grip. As I struggled to twist the cap off, I was screaming at myself internally to make the right choice. Make any other choice at all. But I needed it, I thought. I was in so much pain and I needed a drink or I’d…

I paused, shaking, the uncapped bottle almost to my lips. I finally saw myself in the mirror, smeared with a rainbow of garish war paint that covered almost all of my exposed skin and stained bits of my clothes. I looked beautiful, honestly. But the bottle of mouthwash in my hand, about to be my one last pathetic attempt at drowning my sorrows? It spoiled the beauty. It was below me. No matter how badly I was hurting, I knew better.

Pain explains, but it does not justify. 

Yeah. Damn it. Damn it all.

That was enough time for the bottle to slip from my fingers and hit the floor with a sloshing thud, spewing its bright blue contents over the floor, and along with it, my last chance to run from the pain. My back hit the wall as I stumbled, a sticky hand clapped over my face. I sank to the floor. It was there that I cried harder and longer than I have in my entire life.

There was just no escape from how much I missed you.

My best friend.

I stayed there for hours in Fix-it’s bathroom after my crying breakdown, crumpled in the corner. I might have fallen asleep a little bit, because I remember sort of waking up as the arcade closed. I heard the rumbling of Wreck-it pounding the building stop for good, and then the parade of little footsteps overhead as Nicelanders descended the stairs and returned to their homes. Which meant Fix-it would not be far behind.

And he’d see me. In my… state.

That couldn’t happen. I couldn’t deal with that, not after such an atrociously messy breakdown. I knew it wasn’t the right move, and I knew he would have only wanted to help, but I sprang to my feet and locked his front door anyway. When that didn’t satisfy me, I grabbed a chair from the kitchen and propped it under the door handle. 

There was something awful driving me. Some deep panic. It felt avoidant, like I just couldn’t face whatever was coming. But it wasn’t just Fix-it, I noticed as I feverishly paced. I couldn’t carry on with things the way they were. I was done. I was sick of it. I was sick of you being gone and me just having to live with that, with no memory of you passing. I couldn’t stand that I had to carry on just convincing myself our story had ended, while it seemed like everyone else had witnessed it first-hand. It wasn’t right. I had no closure. I just had nightmares of explosions, screaming, and fire.

Fire, fire, fire. 

It was always fire. It seemed like no matter what happened, fire would not leave my head. Even the yellow, orange, and red colors of my brush were all fiery, and I knew that wasn’t a coincidence. I’d been so hung up on this stupid mysterious fire for so long. Then there was my odd fear of the fireworks. And the sea of gasoline in that dream, when you told me, “Come find me in the fire…”

I froze. ‘Find me in the fire.’ 

The front door handle jiggled and the door struggled against the chair. I heard Fix-it’s confused grunt. “Mavy?” he called. “Mavy, are you in there?”

I didn’t answer. He was nearly drowned out by the pounding in my ears. 

Whatever happened on August 7th had fallen out of my mind. Well, sort of. It’s not that the memories were gone completely, they were just virtually inaccessible. Bits and pieces had been haunting me since you left. Fire brought vague, horrifying flashbacks of painful memories I didn’t recognize. But what if I wanted to recognize them? What if I didn’t run away when things got painful? Could I bring back the entire memory if I walked up to my fear and stepped inside it?

‘Find me in the fire,’ you had said. ‘Find me in the fire.’

Listen. You know me. By now, you’d probably be able to guess what I was about to do. But in the heat of the moment, even I wasn’t sure. I was going full autopilot, possessed by some stupid idea that probably wasn’t going to work. I think my destructive instincts were relapsing after being peaceful and constructive for too long. In any case, I searched the apartment like a bloodhound for the means to bring my impulsive plan to fruition, and fast.

It didn’t take long. In Fix-it’s utility closet, I found paint thinner. The irony of which sailed clear over my head at the time. The little flame symbol on the label was all I cared about.

I felt completely outside of my body as I poured the foul-smelling stuff all over everything. The floor, the furniture, the walls, even the bathroom. Fix-it was pounding and yelling at the door by then, demanding to know if I was alright. 

“I’m fine,” I told him as I shook out the last drops. 

I heard him sigh. “Mav-- Why is the door locked? Wait--” he paused, and then he spoke with the urgency of a man who has dealt with me his whole life, “-- what’s that smell? What are you doing in there?!”

I stood in the middle of the living room, right next to my muddy painting. All the fumes were starting to give me a headache by that point, so I opted to hurry it up. I took my brush -- my coded, faulty brush -- in my hand, and with the color red, I painted into my palm a fist-sized cherry bomb. Then, painting an orange spark, I lit it.

“Art project,” I called out to him. Taking a deep, unsteady breath, I took just long enough to mentally hold my own hand and tell myself that no matter what I saw or didn’t see, I was gonna be okay. 

You may not have been fireproof. But I am.

I rolled the bomb in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Mavy?!”

Closing my eyes, steeling myself to the imminent blast, I said, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

BANG.

The bomb went off, and I was staggered by a wall of suffocating heat as the apartment roared with flame. I caught myself on the coffee table and, trembling, opened my eyes. They stung immediately, and I blinked hard against the vicious light. The very air seemed stained a dry, sick red. It was just as terrifying as I had hoped, watching arms of hellfire claw across the floor, over the furniture, up the walls, quickly filling the ceiling with a black sea of smog. Squinting through it towards the door, I could see that the blast had knocked a bookshelf onto its side, only barricading the door further. It seemed to shake as Fix-it presumably rammed against it from the other side. If he was still calling out to me, I couldn’t hear him over the ringing in my ears. 

So, what did I do?

I just stood up straight and… stayed there. I didn’t crouch beneath the smoke. I just let the flames crawl up to my feet and creep up my clothes, threatening to melt all my pixels together. The pain was quickly becoming too much to bear, but I focused on that. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel the fire eat all the confusing layers away, until I could finally see the truth.

So many horribly familiar sensations snuck up on me. The sickening smell of the burn. The hot ash reaching down my throat and choking me. The painful dryness in my eyes. Reality felt unsteady. I quickly became very dizzy from the suffocating fumes, and I could no longer hold up my own weight. I remember stumbling backwards, and my darkening vision fell on the kitchen just in time to see the oven split apart, erupting in an explosion exponentially bigger than the first.

I was forced back, I lost my footing, and fell into memories so vivid, I may as well have been living them again.

I’m just… going to need a minute before I tell you about it. But you can wait. 

Wherever you are, I’m sure you remember the day you died.

[rena-rain]

The Shortcut Home ch. 10

Chatper 9

For the first time in four years, Gabriel Agreste picked up the box that contained his miraculous. He didn’t open it, but closed the portrait in his office and journeyed underground. He found his wife looking exactly the same as she had since she’d fallen asleep. It was only dedicated work and a miracle that kept her alive.

Gabriel placed his palm on the glass, sighing deeply with longing. Remembering her voice was hard these days. He missed the way she’d quirk an eyebrow at him and laugh like she knew something he didn’t. He needed her to be his stubborn, stubborn anchor again.

“Our son is getting married, Emilie.” The words were soft. “He’s having a baby. I wish you could see him now.”

The way her face looked smooth as stone disconcerted him.

“I was ready to give you up. Adrien has come too close to the line of fire too many times. But now I have more reason than ever to bring you back. I swear to you, you’ll meet your grandchild.”

Gabriel gave himself another moment with Emilie. Then he straightened, opened the box, and watched Nooroo flash into existence.

“Master?”

Gabriel fastened the brooch to his shirt. “It is time that you serve me again, Nooroo.”

--

Adrien leapt out of bed and threw on a pair of pants.

“What are you doing?” Marinette sat up.

“I’m going downstairs to make sure Nino and Alya are okay.” He hated how easily the lie rolled off his tongue. It steeled his resolve to tell Marinette who he was. Just not now.

“Adrien,” Marinette pleaded, catching his arm and pulling him back towards her. “Stay with me, please. It’s dangerous out there.”

He looked anguished. “Mari…” Gentle fingers brushed her hair behind her ears. “I want to explain, but now’s a very, very bad time and I have to go. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“Just don’t go.”

“Trust me.” Adrien regretfully let go of her face and turned to leave only to be pulled back again. He thought he’d have to keep making his case – which he did not have enough brain power to do just now – but Marinette sealed their lips together and gripped him tight. He kissed her back, trying to reassure her. They pulled away slowly, and as soon as they parted, Adrien’s eyes fluttered open. Hers were still closed, her face desperate.

“I’ll be back,” he breathed. He kissed her forehead then forced himself out of her hold.

--

The room suddenly felt cold with Adrien gone. Marinette opened her mouth and looked around, only to remember that Tikki wasn’t here. She hadn’t felt so helpless since Stoneheart.

The only thing she could do was stop Adrien from doing something stupid. She scrambled out of bed and yanked open the half-closed bedroom door. A bright green flash nearly blinded her in the dark room.

Marinette stared, dumbfounded, as Chat Noir leapt out an open window, his back to her.

--

Alya startled awake at the explosion outside. She kicked away the covers and rushed to her apartment window, where a giant pink and purple cloud of something was quickly engulfed in flame.

She turned to Tikki. “I don’t suppose that was a freak accident.”

The kwami looked worried. “That’s definitely an akuma. It looks like we made this switch not a moment too soon. We need to go!”

“Tikki, spots on!” Tikki spiraled into her earrings and a pink light flashed down her body. Alya pushed open her window, flung out the yoyo, and shot off into the night.

I hope Chat Noir’s already on the way, she thought. She sprinted across the rooftops and halted behind a chimney that was right above the site of the explosion, trying to figure out what was going on. The street looked like it had been bathed in bright, multicolored paint.

“What are we looking at?”

Alya screamed and swung a punch at the voice behind her. Chat Noir, whom she could only see because of his glowing eyes and shiny bell, flipped out of her way before her fist could make contact. “Well that wasn’t very ladylike.”

“You scared me! Make a noise or something next time, you kinda camouflage in these shadows.”

“Cat snuck up on the fox – put that one in the history books.” He leapt up onto the brick chimney and perched there. “So what’s this one’s deal? I haven’t heard any more explosions.”

“I don’t know yet. We need to take a closer look.” They leapt to the ground. The damage was much more brutal up close. Radiating scorch marks littered the street. A car was upturned, on fire, and its windows were broken. The air smelled burnt and toxic.

Most disturbing was the graffiti. An entire mural of screaming and running people were plastered to the buildings, and while it was obviously spray painted, each face looked lifelike.

“Chat Noir, I think these paintings are actual people. Civilians.”

“Looks like we’re on the same page, Ladybird. And I’m guessing somebody had a lighter or a cigarette and set all the aerosol on fire, causing the car to explode.”

“But where did they go?” Alya – Ladybird yoyoed to the top of a lamppost. Now that she knew what she was looking for, she spotted a trail of particularly garish paintjobs amongst the normal Parisian street art. She called down, “They left a trail! Let’s go!”

Whoever this akumatized sucker was, they’d been busy. Chat Noir and Ladybird passed dozens, possibly hundreds of citizens turned into murals. After several minutes, she looked over to her new partner while they ran. “Why do I feel like we’re being lured into a trap?”

Ladybird flew past him when Chat Noir stopped dead in his tracks. She skidded to a halt and backtracked to him. His eyes narrowed. “Probably because it’s a trap. I don’t know how, but I think you’re right.”

“I know it’s been a few years, but Hawk Moth’s puppet used to demand the miraculous by now.”

“And if he’s suddenly come out of hiding, he must be especially desperate for them now.” He jumped onto his baton and extended it up, up, way farther up than was reasonable for any stick to hold him. He extended his arm. “Come up here.”

Ladybird slung the yoyo around his wrist and joined him at his perch. He pointed out the crazy paint trails all over the city that she couldn’t have made out before. It looked like a maze with no solution. “Maybe not a trap. More like a wild goose chase.”

“All the better to ambush us, I bet. So that must mean they have a very high vantage point, too…” Ladybird looked up. “Oh shit. The Eiffel Tower. Drop!”

They fell back to the street and rushed to an alley as far away from any paint as they could.

“I hate it when the akumas play cat and mouse,” Chat Noir complained.

Ladybird flicked his bell. “Good thing I have the cat, then. Let’s find a way to get the mouse down from its house.”

Chat Noir snorted. “That was terrible.”

“You’re really in no place to judge.”

“We need to get to the Tower without being seen, so we should stay on the ground, and avoid as much paint as we can.” A bright pink blast of orange particles beamed from the top of the Eiffel Tower and coated an entire block. “While there are any normal streets left, that is.”

Ladybird was jealous of Chat’s costume because it let him blend in with the dark streets more easily. She felt like a siren in the bright red suit – at lease her Rena Rouge costume, while orange, was soundless and easier to sneak around in. They wound through alleyways, sprinted across boulevards when they had to, and even made a detour through a sewer. By the time they reached their destination half of Paris had been turned neon colors. God knew how many people were now paint.

They almost made it. But the Eiffel Tower, for better or worse, was a major tourist attraction night and day. As such somebody screamed “Is that Ladybug and Chat Noir?!” just before they got up the damn thing. Immediately the excited couple got smushed to the sidewalk with a fountain of blue spray paint.

Ladybird flicked her yoyo to the top. “So much for the element of surprise.”

“At least we got here, didn’t we?” Chat Noir scampered up the side of the tower on all fours, somehow keeping pace with her as she shot up. They touched down onto the railing at the top.

This victim was a young woman, her hair in a messy bun the color of a blank canvas, paint brushes stuck in it like chopsticks or pencils. Her paint-splattered overalls were glowed and had way, way, way, way too many pockets stuffed full of even more paint brushes. Her skin was covered in rainbow rings. She whirled around when Chat Noir cleared his throat, aiming the spray-paint can in her hand.

“What’s with all the evildoing, Graffiti Girl? Get kicked out of art school?”

Ladybird froze, then groaned from deep within her soul. “That one’s just in bad taste!”

“Yeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.”

The purple Hawk Moth mask glowed around her eyes, and she demanded, “Hand over your miraculous before the rest of Paris spends eternity as a mural!”

“I bet the akuma’s in that spray can,” Ladybird muttered.

“Summon the Lucky Charm,” Chat whispered back. “I’ll distract her.” He leapt at the akumatized woman and attempted to sweep her with his baton. She jumped over the attack, pulled out two paint brushes, and started trying to stab him.

While they fought, Ladybird looked uncertainly at the yoyo for a moment. Ladybug’s plans were always so ridiculous – how was Alya supposed to live up to the same level of mad genius?

Well, here goes nothing. She flung the yoyo over her head. “Lucky Charm!”

A pair of red and black spotted handcuffs fell into her grasp. “What the fuck?” She looked around furiously, trying to think what Ladybug would do. Graffiti Girl and Chat Noir were still engaged in some vicious hand to hand – or brush-knife to baton – combat. Ladybird suddenly realized that she kept making grabs for Chat’s right hand. The ring. Of course.

The idea was stupid, but hopefully it would work. “Chat Noir! Extend your arm!”

“What?”

“Towards me!”

He clearly thought she was crazy, but he grabbed the baton with his left hand and threw out his right. Ladybird sprinted at a central pillar, jumped onto the side, and launched herself at her partner. As expected, Graffiti Girl had snatched Chat Noir’s hand and tried to simultaneously put him in an arm lock and take off his miraculous. Ladybird slapped the woman’s wrist with one cuff, slid to the side so she twisted her body, and forced her other hand into the other cuff.

“I’ll take that.” Ladybird plucked the spray out of her grip and offered it to Chat Noir like a silver platter. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“With pleasure. Cataclysm!” She tossed him the can and he caught it, the black energy crumbling it to dust. A little black and violet butterfly fluttered up from the ashes like the worst phoenix metaphor ever.

Ladybird swiped her yoyo like she’d seen her predecessor do a hundred times and captured the akuma. It came out with its wings bright white. She watched as it disappeared among the stars.

Chat Noir held up his fist with a proud smile. “Pound it?”

Ladybird grinned gratefully back at him. “Pound it!”

--

“Marinette,” Master Fu said. “I wasn’t expecting company this evening.”

“I’m sorry for barging in. I’m not used to just sitting by during akuma attacks, and my apartment is empty and I miss Tikki and I really didn’t want to be alone.”

“I understand. I’m deeply troubled by the appearance of this akuma tonight.”

“So am I, Master. That’s not why I’m here though.” She stood with her arms crossed. “I accidentally saw Chat Noir transform in my living room this evening.”

Fu’s only response was to go back into the kitchen and pick up a teapot. Marinette swore she saw the corners of his lips quirk up.

She threw up her hands. “You must think this is very funny, don’t you?”

“You two have paced circles around each other for thirteen years. Would you not be just as amused in my position?”

“I can’t believe I’m having Chat Noir’s baby! Do you have any idea how many kitten jokes I’ll have to endure?”

Master Fu handed her a cup of steaming tea. “Drink this. It is good for the nerves. On a more somber note, I must ask you to tell Adrien your identity very soon, Marinette. I hate to trouble you with this theory, but it concerns him as well.”

“What’s going on?” They both sat down.

“Hawk Moth released an akuma for the first time in four years. It bothers me that it’s coincided with your maternity leave.”

Marinette sighed. “It doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me either.”

“It may be he thinks his chances are better against a new ladybug. You were wise to choose someone with experience already. Whatever the reason, it’s become more imperative than ever to retrieve the missing miraculous, and now that Hawk Moth is active again, we have our chance to find him. I went back to the old academy for the Order of the Guardians, as you know. While there I recovered a number of old texts and I’ve found a single strange record about the Butterfly, so brief I almost missed it. There was once a holder who was able to detransform then akumatize himself.”

“The butterflies stay active while Hawk Moth is his civilian self?” Marinette yelped.

“Few have attempted such a thing. One succeeded in transferring powers to herself, that I now know of.”

“So Hawk Moth could have akumatized himself at some point.”

“Exactly. I’ve spent years searching for him. Every clue I find on some level implicates the same person. But I’ve never found a smoking gun, and I’ve always dismissed him because he was once akumatized into The Collector.”

“The Collector…” Marinette whispered, sifting through her memories. She remembered each akuma persona, all right, but the whacky names and civilians behind the butterfly often got mixed up in her head. “A previous suspect…oh no.” Her eyes widened. “No, no, no, tell me it can’t be Adrien’s dad.”

Master Fu just looked at her sadly.

--

When Adrien got back, Marinette was asleep. He sighed in relief; he needed sleep before he had this conversation with her, and after the way he jet off tonight, he had to tell her. In the morning.

He changed into a pair of sweats and slid under the covers next to her. He noticed that she’d changed into pajamas in his absence. Adrien wrapped her in his arms, one hand against her growing belly, and closed his eyes.

Chapter 11

Ko-fi

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Their Hero Academia: Chapter 16

As always, raw and unedited until it gets added to AO3 and FF.net 

Chapters 0-12 can be found here.

Chapter 13 (unedited) is here

Chapter 14 (unedited) is here Chapter 15 (unedited) is here

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 16: Tensei Iida Has No Idea What He’s Doing

Tensei Iida looked himself over in the mirror and hoped that what he saw was good enough.  He wore a white t-shirt that was right across his muscular frame, specially tailored in the back to accommodate his Jetpack, paired with a pair of blue jeans.  He’d pulled his pink, tubular hair back into a tight ponytail.   Simple, but effective enough, he supposed.  Not that he was sure he could tell.

Considering it was the fifth outfit he’d tried on for his date with Takuma Sero, he really hoped he was making the right choices.

He turned to his friends, for their opinion.   Like his sister’s room, his was mostly cluttered with works in progress and blueprints, things he could work on without access to a larger workshop. Most were half or more finished, but the allure of new ideas, not to mention the joint projects with his sister, kept everything in a state of near completion.   That, however, left very little space in his room for other people. Sora was perched on the bed, while Toshi Midoriya leaned back against the wall.  He had offered Izumi Todoroki the one chair that was not covered with other things, while Chihiro Kaminari and Asuka Tokoyami both sat on the floor.

“How do I look?” he asked.

Toshi gave him a thumbs’ up. “Looking sharp, Tensei!”

“It is… a little tight?” Izumi said.

“A necessity,” he said. “Fitting around my Jetpack requires additional tightness in another areas.”

“And it shows off your muscles!” Kaminari piped in.

Asuka gave her a curious look.  “Why exactly are you here, Kaminari?  You just walked in and sat down.”

Kaminari’s Extension Cords bobbed up and down in the approximation of a shrug.  “I’m a sucker for a dress-up montage,” she said.   “Besides, I’m bored and Mika’s sulking.”

“Is she okay?” Toshi asked. Mika Mineta may have been… a bit much, but they were still all friends to some degree or another.

Kaminari laughed. “She’ll be fine.  She’s just pouting because Iida here is, and I quote, “off the market and eating from one of the same menus as me.’”

“She did not know my orientation before now?” Tensei asked.  “I did not believe I had made any secret of it.”

“She did not,” Kaminari confirmed.  “Of course, neither did I.  You don’t exactly talk about your preferences like that.  Even when Mika and me were making plans to seduce you and your sister, I figured I maybe had a chance.  Of course, I was mostly humoring her…”

She gestured at Tensei, pointing at his abs.  “But I figured it was worth a shot.  Gave up after the first day, though.  Got bored.”

“You were what?” Sora gasped.

Tensei pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I should be more surprised at this.  But given the large swath of previous data points, I am not.”

“Wait,” Sora said. “Go back to the part where Mineta was planning to seduce me?”

“She tries to seduce everyone,” Kaminari said.  “It’s kind of her thing.   Except me, Kirishima-Bakugo, Todoroki, and Sero.  And now you, Iida, I guess.”

“Good to see she has some boundaries,” Asuka said.

“Hold on a moment,” Izumi said, holding up a pale hand.  “I understand not trying to seduce you, her friend.  And I understand not trying to seduce Tensei or Sero.  And I know that Katsumi has threatened her enough to at least make her back off with regards to attempting to seduce her.  But why am I on the “do not seduce list’?”

Kaminari gave her a look that Tensei could not entirely identify.  “Please never say ‘seduce’ again, Todoroki.  That just sounds weird when you say it.”  

“Nevertheless, you did not answer my question.”

The electric blonde looked guiltily around the room.  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that Kirishima-Bakugo will explode my head.”

“She threatened you?” Toshi asked.

Kaminari nodded rapidly.

Toshi sighed.  “Of course she did.”

“Always looking out for me,” Izumi mused, a small smile pulling at her lips.

As usual, it was Asuka who pulled them back on track.  “When are you and Sero leaving for your date?” she asked.

“I am meeting him downstairs in,” Tensei began, checking his watch, “five minutes ago!”

His heart seized up in his chest and he bolted from his room towards the stairs.   Behind him, he could hear his friends calling out and wishing him good luck.

It was the first date of his life.  He was going to need it.

***

“Okay, he probably just got distracted, maybe doing blueprints or something,” Sero said to himself, as he paced in the Common Room.  “He hasn’t bailed on you.  You still got this.  It’s only been six minutes.  Seven. It’s only been seven minutes.”

“Sero!” Tensei called out, as he burst out of the stairway.  “My apologies!  I lost track of time preparing for this date!”

Relief washed over the pink boy’s face.  He was wearing a loud, Hawaiian print shirt, which was garish and clashed with his pink skin, and dark pants and boots.  His dark hair had been slightly spiked.   Tensei did not know much about the ways of dating, but he did know what he liked, and he liked what he saw.

“Iida!” Sero said. “It’s all right, sorry, I was just kind of freaking out.  It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date and I was making myself kind of nuts there.”

Of course Sero had been on many dates before.  Who could not help but fall for the cute, pink-skinned, dark-eyed young man?  Even if he did not always understand the purposes of Sero’s antics with Sato and Ojiro, the enthusiasm he brought to everything was contagious.

But Tensei?  Tensei admitted he did not always understand the expected social conventions.  He was much more at home with machines than people, or in the presence of likeminded individuals like his sister, mother, and father.  These were things and people he could understand and predict.  Having a clearly defined rules helped as well, something his father excelled at, even if his Uncle Tensei occasionally referred to him as being “too tightly wound.”   Clear rules helped define your responses and also allowed a clear opportunity for the necessity of invention, when you spotted the loopholes between them.

“Again, my apologies,” he said.  “I was having difficulty deciding what to wear.”

“Well, you look good,” Sero said, giving him a thumb’s up.  

“And you are certainly…” Tensei hesitated, trying to think of the best word, “interestingly dressed.”

Sero laughed at that. “Dude.  You can say I’m an eyesore.  That’s the point.  Show of the colors, make people notice you.  First rule of entertainment.”

“If you say so,” he said. “I am not very “with it,” as people say.”

“No one says “with it” anymore, Iida,” Sero said.  “But that’s all right.  I’m “with it” enough for both of us.  And speaking of entertainment…”  He pulled his phone from his pocket.  “Selfie with me?”

“Ah… sure?” Tensei said. If that was something that was “with it,” then he could do that.

“Awesome, thanks.” Sero stood next to him and put one arm around him (and didn’t that make him flush!), holding out the phone with the other.  “Smile!” he said, as he pushed the camera button.  The phone made a shutter sound and Sero released him (too soon!), checking the picture.

He showed the picture to Tensei.  “Perfect,” he said.  “Definitely making that my new lock screen.”

***

Dinner was a quick bite, purchased from a “"Noodle Noodle, Come Get Your Noodle" cart, run by a man whose Quirk manifested in the form of a little blue goblin, probably somewhat similar to Tokoyami’s Frog-Shadow.  Sero had insisted on paying, in spite of his protest that he pay his own share.  They found a bench to sit on while they people watched.   All around, people were walking, while the air could be seen to be full of people flying, and even the “speed quirk” lane next to the sidewalk had quite a few people in it.  The small relaxation of the laws on public Quirk use since their parents’ generation had opened up a lot of travel possibilities, among other things.

“I asked you, out” Sero said, slurping noodles. “You can get next time.”

That was certainly an optimistic proclamation!  But Tensei nodded.  “That seems fair,” he said.

Tensei was bad at small talk, he knew, but Sero seemed quite able to fill the silences.  “You know,” Sero said, ��when I asked you out, I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes.  I wasn’t even sure you were into guys.”

That seemed to be a common statement.  “I have made no secret of it,” he said.  “But I admit, I have not exactly broadcast it either.  Perhaps I should have.”

Sero shook his head. “Nah, it’s all right, dude. Everybody’s different.  Besides, what’s life without a little risk?”

“Precisely!” Tensei agreed. “There is something to be said for venturing into the unknown, pushing boundaries, never knowing whether you might be met with success or an explosion!  All part of the learning process!”

Sero tilted his head. “I… don’t think we’re talking about the same kind of risk, dude.  But I still get it.”

“Possibly not,” he said. “I may have something of a unique definitely of acceptable risk.  Father is always warning my mother, my sister, and me about the dangers of our experiments and projects.   Sensei Power Loader does too, for that matter.  I think they are overreacting.  We always manage to put the fires out before they spread.”

“Uh…huh.”  More noodles disappeared into Sero’s mouth. “Worst my dad gets up to is wearing socks with sandals.  Mom tries so hard to make him be cool, but he just doesn’t get it.”

“That is… a sartorially incorrect choice?”  Granted, the times when a person would wear both were probably limited, but it was not something he had enough data on to make a determination on.

Sero laughed.  “Oh, dude.  Funny.”   He stopped when he saw the confusion on Tensei’s face.  “Oh, wait.  You’re serious.  …Ah, sorry.”

He looked so forlorn that Tensei could not help but forgive him immediately.  “Do not worry about it.”

“Okay, if you say so,” Sero said.  “But yeah, major fashion error.  It’s even worse when he combines it with cargo shorts.   If they’re going anywhere together, Mom doesn’t let him leave unless she pre-approves his outfit.”

“That seems harsh.”

“Trust me, dude.  He deserves it.”

“I will take your word for it.”   Tensei smiled.  “Father sometimes attempts to exert control over Mother’s choices like that as well, usually when he feels she is not eating or sleeping enough.”

“Is she?”

“That,” he said, “is an interesting question with many variables to the answer, including statistical averages for humans, which admittedly have been highly skewed due to the wide variety of Quirks…”

“I’m gonna take that as a “maybe” and not ask any more questions.  About that, anyway.  I have plenty more questions.”

“I am happy to answer any I can.  Provided I am also allowed to ask questions.”  Tensei certainly wanted to know more about the handsome pink boy. True, all of the children of the former Class 1-A knew each other to some extent, but there were also small if somewhat variable cliques within that group, just as there had been with their parents.  His and Sero’s had not been especially close, so they were not as close as he was to, say, Izumi or Toshi.  Granted, Toshi was probably a bad example, as he was close to almost everyone.  

Probably for the best, however.  It gave him an exciting and new set of possibilities, with plenty of uncertainties. A brand new venture into the unknown.

“Sure, dude,” Sero agreed. He finished the last of his noodles. “You ‘bout done, though?  I’ve got so much I wanna show you at the arcade.”

Tensei popped the last of the noodles into his mouth and nodded.  “I am ready!”

***

Sera helped him sit down on a chair in the arcade’s small café, easing him down gently.  “I am okay,” Tensei said.  “I just… need a minute… for the room to stop spinning…”

“Dude,” Sero said.  “I am so sorry!  I just figured that with how you zip around,” he made various motions through the air with his hands, “that the virtual roller coaster wouldn’t be a big deal.”

Truthfully, Tensei had not expected to react so poorly to it either.  He had often pushed his body to the limits, flying through the air. While he was best at traveling in a straight line, he could execute rapid turns when he had to, even barrel rolls and loop de loops.   As he grew, so too would his Jetpack, enabling him to execute even more precise maneuvers.  So a virtual roller coaster should have been nothing more than a bit of excitement and a chance to tightly hold hands with the boy that he liked.

It had not worked out that way.

Instead, he had felt overwhelmed almost immediately after the first hill and drop, letting out a sharp scream.  He was also pretty certain he had squeezed Sero’s hand painfully tight.  He had emerged from the VR pod disoriented and dizzy, ready to drop.  He was just grateful he had not thrown up.  Tensei was pretty sure that throwing up in front of or on your date was a very good way not to get a second date.  And he very much wanted a second date.

Nevertheless, it was still quite embarrassing.

Tensei shook his head. “It is not your fault.  I had no statistical framework to in which to predict that that would happen.”

“If you say so…” Sero said, though he sounded uncertain.   Tensei wished there was more he could do to reassure him.  

Fortunately, Tensei’s recovery was rather quick.  “Perhaps something… a little less intense?”

Sero brighted, his dark eyes sparkling with the light of an idea.  He snapped his fingers.  “I know just the thing.”

***

Sero’s eyes had been growing steadily wider.  “How,” he asked, “are you so good at this?”

Carefully and with the utmost previous, Tensei maneuvered the claw with the joystick, dropping it only when he was absolutely certain it was in the right place.  He might not have had his mother’s Quirk, but his vision was very good and years of working with precision tools in his mother’s workshops had given him a very deft hand indeed.   It dropped, easily snaring the Froppy plushie and depositing it in the hole.  Tensei fished the plushie of the prize slot and handed it to Sero, whose arms were already quite full with plushies of Tentacole, Tailman, Lemillion, Phantom Thief, Chargebolt, Pinky, and Cellophane.

“Compared to setting microcircuitry,” Tensei told him, “this is quite easy.”   He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “Though perhaps that makes it a bit unfair, both to the arcade and anyone else who would want to try.”

“Ah… maybe?” Sero said, with a small shrug, struggling not to drop the plushies in his arms.  Tesei reached out and took a few of them from him, then they started walking out of the arcade.

“Can I keep some of these? I kind of want to taunt Mom with the one of her.  She’s never been happy with it.  She thinks it makes her look fat.  She’s made it her mission to find as many of them as she can and dissolve them in her acid.”

“Keep as many as you like,” he said.  “The skill challenge is reward enough.”

“Really?  You sure, dude?”  Tensei nodded in response.  “Well, thanks.  Baby sis will love these, especially.”

“Ah, that is right,” Tensei said, “you have several younger sibling, don’t you?”

Sero nodded.  “Yeah, three brothers, one baby sister.  Mom likes to say Dad’s just that irresistible, but she only does that when she wants to see us squirm.”

Tensei wasn’t sure he followed all that, but he decided it wasn’t worth questioning.  “That seems like it would make for a very crowded household.”

Another nod.  “You have no idea, dude.  The dorms are the rest time I’ve had my own room in years.”

“Sora and I shared a room for many years,” Tensei told him.  “Until we were about twelve.  After that, it a modicum of privacy became necessary.  Not that either of us slept there more than forty-percent of the time. Usually we slept on cots in the workshop.  Or simply fell asleep over a workbench.”  Not something their father had been especially happy about, but he had his ways of navigating around it.

“Man,” Sero said, “I could not do that.  I am a sleep-a-holic”

“A waste of perfectly good time that could be better spent working,” he replied.

Sero made a face, putting a hand to his chest.  “That was painful, dude.  Absolutely painful.  Never say the word “work” around me again.”

Tensei had a general feeling he was joking, so he smiled.  “As you wish.”

***

Tensei had walked Sero back to his room, which was as unusually decorated as Sero was dressed. The walls were covered in what he would have called leopard print, except that the prints were all bright pink instead of a golden-yellow, and there were multiple lava lamps.  From what he could determine, the bed appeared to be a waterbed, which must have been quite the feat to get inside.  His desk had been set up with multiple monitors and multiple webcams, obviously to further his efforts to become an internet sensation.  Not a goal Tensei understood, but Sero certainly seemed devoted to it.   They dropped the plushies in a corner.

Sero seemed much more uncertain than Tensei could ever recall seeing him, save perhaps for when he had asked him on this date.  He was usually brimming with confidence and showmanship.

Sero rubbed the back of his head, nervousness radiating off him.  “So, I, ah, I had a good time tonight, Iida.”  He smiled and Tensei could see that it reached his eyes.

Tensei smiled, and he realized that his own heartrate was quite elevated.  “As did I, Sero.”

“I, ah, don’t suppose you’d like to do this again some time?  Maybe go see a movie or something?”

Tensei was aware he was given to a certain amount of impulsive behavior, but in this case, he already knew the answer.  “Absolutely.”

“Great!” Sero said, perhaps a little louder than he intended.  “I mean, great.  And, ah, you know, if you, ah, really wanted to… you could call me Takuma.  Since we’re, you know, dating.  If, ah, that’s what we’re doing.”

Tensei realized that Sero—Takuma—was very adorable when he was nervous.  He was vaguely aware that he and his sister could make other people nervous.  Toshi had gently reminded them of this from time to time.  But this seemed to be very different from those scenarios.  He had never made anyone nervous like this before; he found it somehow flattering.

“I believe that is what we can call this,” he said.  “So, please, if you wish, you may call me Tensei.”

“Tensei it is,” Takuma said. “I’ll, ah, see you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Tensei agreed. “Good night, Takuma.”

“G’night, Tensei.”

He left and started to head back to his room.  And for the moment, Tensei was feeling pretty good about life in general.  He had successfully completed one date and now he had another. He was officially “dating.”  He knew his sister would be expecting a full account of the evening, but for once in his life, he did not care about analyzing results or accumulating date.  He was happy just the way things were.

[blackrose-ffxiv]

Ecclectic Aesthetics 11/26

Lebeaux Desrosiers generally didn’t bother knocking unless doors were locked. He tried the handle first, found it open and invited himself into the establishment. He hadn’t bothered sending a card along either, if the gallery was still a work in progress it was unlikely they were taking appointments. Far better to simply arrive. He swung the door open and stepped inside, with a likely very intentional swirl of his cloak, taking a moment to smooth the lay of his sleeves. “Good evening.” He called out loudly.

The gallery might've once been a grand venue. Now it was a memorial to some battle lost to weeds, rust, and overenthusiastic aetheric accidents, if the scorch marks on the floor and the vines trailing around every little thing was any indication. There was a strange pressure upon entering the room, a sensation of being watched from the statues placed sentinel over the center of the room. And scarier still, a creature too short to be Vivain, standing on the desk, guilty of crimes including wearing a man's shirt with the poor fit disguised by the addition of garish layers, a hat that didn't match anything, no shoes, and paying more attention to the arrangement of flora in front of her than the man of the hour who swept himself through the front door. The creature threw a look over their shoulder at the stained glass windows, studying the arrangement of kaleidoscopic colors it set into - and when none of them turned violently violet it called out in a cheerful voice, "Come in~! You're a little early for the school tour, the place isn't really in full effect until sundown--" Taji Tumet paused. She swiveled on her heel, tilted her head up, studying the stranger underneath the rakish set of her hat. "...Are you lost?"

Lebeaux was dressed in the height of Ishgardian fashion… despite being out in the midst of the desert. Poor fashion decisions had been made all around in both of their cases, but at least his matched. Though it was hard not to coordinate somber shades of black and white. “A school tour. That sounds rather optimistic. Considering the state of the place it seems a risk to expose children, or even adults, to this place... Anyone really, I suppose.” He mused as he brushed some imagined dirt from a lapel, or perhaps trying to brush off the sensation of being watched. “No, despite all of that I am here intentionally.” He tilted into a theatrical approximation of a bow before he straightened up again. “Lebeaux Desrosiers, patron of the arts, when time allows.”

Taji flashed him a sliver of a grin - aware that she was supposed to be prickled by his lack of deference to Art and History, but more amused so far by anyone who could sweep in and attempt to make themselves right at home. "It's a risk to expose anyone to history, really, without the proper context and the narrative already established, right?" She guessed wildly, raising an arm to direct his attention to - what, exactly. The empty frames? The statues? The thing looming on the other side of the latticework bearing an 'UNDER CONSTRUCTION' plaque? "They could form their own opinion about what's worth carrying over to the present day and what's meant to be censored from the annals of history. As children often do! And adults. --I'm talking out my ass here, by the way, the risks and dangers are completely overstated and irrelevant." Taji swept her own upraised arm into an imitation of his bow, exaggerating the angle at which she swept herself down and mirroring the movements of his hands despite not having wide sleeves or a cape to flutter herself, though her tail did an impressively wiggly approximation of the movement of fabric. The hat miraculously stayed balanced on her head. "Taji Tribal," she introduced herself in turn. "To what risk and danger of yours do I owe your patronage, mister Dezrozeeay?"

Lebeaux took her rambling explanation as an invitation to come in and have a look around. He wore a serene sort of smile on full lips that never managed to make it all the way to his eyes. His gaze sharp and cold as ice chips as it drifted along the works in progress. An impressive array of blank frames overgrown with unusual fauna. He made his way along towards the statues as she waxed poetic and ran rhetoric in circles. A gloved hand extended, intending to give the hideous statue a light pat when the girl finally got around to giving a name. He paused and retracted his hand, turning to flash that saintly smile in her direction once again. “Ahh, I see. Unusual art is something that runs in your family, is it not. I seem to recall a similar collection taking residence for a time in the Holy See. I can see the resemblance now, though the previous incarnation was a bit… better kept.” Lebeaux waved a hand vaguely. Whether it was at the proprietress herself or the trailing vines was difficult to discern.

Taji was watching the movements of his hands, pressing her knuckles over what looked like a smirk from behind her fingers - but when her guest turned to beam his practiced, unfeeling gestures in her direction, she let her hands fall away to reveal another genuinely delighted smile. "You've seen our previous collections? It probably looked a lot like this, yeah -- none of the actual paintings on display, or the statues. Just the frames, and maybe the ironwork fences. 'Containment'." Taji didn't seem entirely offended by his admittedly accurate assessment of her none-too-faithful recreation. She swept her arms out in an open shrug. "I'm rebuilding," she explained in so many words, "The distribution of the art used to be managed by another family member, but he is - somewhat retired. And you know how the economy is. Between the end of the Dragonsong War and the liberation efforts on multiple fronts in the Far East, there's not a lot of money to be made in art, at the moment." Taji paused, studying him again with open curiosity. "My brother had been in charge of that collection too. Your interest was caught?" She failed to specify 'what', exactly - the art. Her brother. The promise of people who maybe knew about illicit magic. Lebeaux was carefully unreadable, even to someone with lots of practice in guessing at the expressions of other people who insisted on resembling statues.

Lebeaux, unlike other statue-faced men, had taken to observing others’ expressions and mimicking them. He was rather good at it, save he could never get the eyes quite right. He took a few small steps closer to the desk, clasping hands behind his back as he shifted the beatific smile up towards the twisted stone visage that seemed to glare down at him. “I suspect it was your brother. Vivain Tribal.” He agreed. “It was a difficult time for… your sorts. Even with connections within the city walls.” He cast his best version of ‘sympathetic’ over at the xaela then looked back up at the statue. “Then add on top of it a collection with not a single piece by the Ishgardian Masters and being secular besides. It’s no wonder he moved on for greener pastures.” He mused thoughtfully. “And now you have taken on the mantle of curator. Are you taking care of acquisitions and ‘distribution’ as well. Has Vivain retired entirely.” While they were all certainly questions he still managed to make them sound imperative with the even, cultured rhythm of his voice.

"Family business, like you said. I'm in a much better position than Vi is to continue it," She said, casting a hand backwards and curling fingers around the top part of the only chair in the room. She easily flipped it up with one arm, balancing the edge of it in her cupped palm. She took a few careful steps across the desk and flipped the proffered chair back down again, angled towards her guest -- accepting that would be there for at least a little bit. Taji found it easier to shift the subject away from her missing older brother and back to general strategy -- from the painful known and unacceptable to the much more comfortable abyss of the unknown. "We probably won't be pursuing distribution in Ishgard again for another decade or so. Even if rumors suggest that 'my sorts' could purchase property there outright within the next year." She, too, was in the habit of mimicing people - or at least using their words and twisting them around to suit her own needs. She continued, without any apparent offense at his tone, "Trade regulations are too strict there to sell, much less your approval guidelines for content for merely displaying anything. Your art..." Taji raised a hand, flicking fingers like she was casting about in physical space for the words. "Exults," she said, finally. "To be divine is to consume your entire world, in Ishgard. That's why your statues are larger than any natural man. Your windows yawn up to an unreachable ceiling. At scale, your paintings stretch beyond the limits of a single glance, so that there is no room to look at anything else." Taji turned to indicate what was on display on the wall behind him, simply to point out the contrast: the clean, straight lines of the frames broken by the explosive greenery. There would be no salvation from savagery, no matter how crisp and white the canvas was.

"And yet -- you're not here for that," Taji issued a curious hum, a wavery note that easily filled the small space. "For secular pieces chosen by Ishgardian Masters. But perhaps to be terrified just the same, by something you can hardly claim to be divine. So! Tell me about yourself. You are a patron, I could use patronage. You, uh, knew Vi. Are you of high enough standing to get this sort of thing displayed in its proper context in Ishgard?"

Lebeaux turned his head to watch with amusement as the xaela performed an amusing feat of strength and balance with the large chair. He then tilted in a small gesture of appreciation, for both the show and the seat before he settled gracefully into it, taking a moment to smooth his cloak’s tails to properly array his plumage. “With the separation of church and state you may yet find fertile soil for your… bold installments. Exaltation has fallen out of favor. Instead they erect monuments to make one sympathize with those we once fought, rather than to stand in awe of Her glory.” He explained politely. That is assuming there wasn’t a sudden coup or mysterious plague or some such to nip this growing problem in the bud. Wouldn’t that be a tragedy. He placed a hand on his chest as Taji essentially made the first move to ‘cut the bullshit’. “Alas, my name won’t hold much sway if you were to bandy it about in Ishgard, though your brother never wanted for influential contacts.” He began, folding his hands primly in his lap. “I recall him being rather resourceful with unusual acquisitions. I admit a curiosity if you should have access to the same network he had built.”

"Progress at last, though it doesn't sound like it's to your taste," the Xaela noted, making herself comfortable on the desk now that their respective heights were no longer an issue. Taji could at least appreciate the metaphor of fertile soil, even if Ishgard never struck her as such before now. A city who prided itself in isolation should have felt familiar to her, and wasn't salt and snow interchangeable but for the temperature? "So you long for the days when people covered their heads before the gaze of the Fury?" She nodded to his hat. "The more traditional depictions." This so far didn't quite explain Lebeaux' appearance in the Loreate, and she was starting to wonder if her brother wasn't actually entirely spotlighting the art on display so much as he was busy /being/ art. "In part," she said truthfully. "My father has contacts that still answer when I call. My brother's way of networking is -- a bit lost on me. He was more focused on finding people with money. I am more focused on finding mages." She tilted her head once more towards the stained glass, studying their obscured reflections. "What would I hear if I were to bandy your name in Ishgard? That you were a good student at the Scholasticate?"

“Nothing.” Lebeaux answered as he held up his empty hands with that same saintly smile. “You would hear absolutely nothing. As you seem to have noted I don’t care for the new and improved flavor of Ishgard. Sweet as the ideals are going down it’s only feeding the rot that eats away at the very core of the city. As such I’ve left my name behind and taken a new one. Mentioning ‘Lebeaux Desrosiers’ would likely only get you that pitying sort of look reserved for outsiders who attempt to pronounce our names yet can’t quite get their clunky tongues to make the graceful motions. At least you tried.” He settled his hands back in his lap. “Yet outside of the Holy See I’ve been doing quite well for myself as a chirurgeon. Enough to return my interests towards the arts once again. You seek mages, I seek artifacts that will soon become difficult indeed to find. Perhaps we could assist each other.”

Taji was appropriately chagrined that he didn't just immediately tell her his real name, though the greater part of her was immensely satisfied with the idea of someone who knew the value of withholding it. "I'm sure my 'clunky tongue' sounds just fine when it summons fire into the world, and hopefully you try more often than I do your name?"

@exmhachina

[deltaengineering]

Bummer Anime 2018 Part 2: shoujo to the rescue

It got better, mostly because it could hardly get worse. That doesn’t mean it was a smooth ride, of course. I would like to state, for the record, that I’m not trying to be the funny guy who hates everything here; the season’s just that unusually bad. As before, the source for the ad copy at the end of each block is this.

Asobi Asobase

What: A bunch of assholes play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

✅ It’s another exuberant comedy, and unlike Chio-chan, I can’t catch this one on the execution: It has the technical chops and honestly good comedic timing.

❌❌ Initially wants to make you believe it’s a pleasant cute girls doing cute things show, but what it actually is is a brutally annoying and ugly explosion in the reactionface factory. Since the production values are there, it’s rather too good at that.

❌❌ I was trying to compare it to something, and the best I could come up with was rage comics. Yeah, it’s anime rage comics. It’s that bad.

❌❌ I would feel more benevolent towards it if it were shorter, but at full length its high energy screaming based assault is mostly just tiresome.

♎ This is one of those rare shows where even I will say your mileage may vary. It’s really good at what it does, but I hate everything it does. Hooray for the subversion, but at the end of the day you’re still annoying and ugly.

ANN sez: “It's this exact mix of stupid crassness and innocent naiveté that I think truly defines high-school life, and Asobi Asobase nails it perfectly. “

Hyakuren no Haou to Seiyaku no Valkyria

What: A smartphone with a light novel protagonist attached time travels to the bronze age, establishes a incest-fascist harem regime with the power of Wikipedia.

❌❌ read the synopsis again please

❌❌ there’s more idiocy than that, believe it or not (ex.: smartphone hotline to his actual imouto, for the feels), but I haven’t got all day.

❌❌ Basing your isekai shit on “history” (i.e., a LN author’s idiotic idea of history) instead of an MMO or whatever only serves to piss me off even more.

❌❌ Actually not better than Isekai Smartphone, which makes it one of the worst anime episodes I have ever seen. Congratulations. The only thing it has over Death March is that it doesn’t spend 80% of the time in menus, but it makes menus look pretty good so it’s a wash.

ANN brainfarts: “Yuuto also seems to be limiting his phone searches to historically accurate things as well, which shows that he's really thinking about the fact that he's in the past – no one's inventing the rocket here, they're just learning to grind grain and use the phalanx formation for battles.”

Phantom in the Twilight

What: Chinese girl travels to London, inadvertently inherits her great-grandma’s vampire harem. 

✅ Step 1 of every otome harem appraisal is determining how much of a wet blanket the protagonist is; Ton here is pretty spunky and even gets to kick some ass, so well done on that.

✅ Some of the right kind of nonsense for my taste, stuff like chav goblins and Jiangshi with miniguns is always appreciated.

✅ Random shows ending up with bizarre minimal techno soundtracks is still something that I approve of.

❌ Still not the glorious kind of nonsense that Dance With Devils had, nor the disregard of actual romance in favor of comedy that Dame x Prince exhibited. It’s an otome-ass otome harem and that’s not inspiring confidence for the long term.

❌ Looks cheap, and that won’t be getting any better.

ANN sez: “The fantasy worldbuilding here also felt far more sturdy than in many similar shows; this isn't a world where the Good Fantasy Guys fight the Bad Fantasy Guys, this is a world where creatures like goblins and spriggans and werewolves all exist, all possess their own cultures and priorities, and uneasily rub shoulders with each other.”

Jashin-chan Dropkick

What: Demon snake girl wants to murder the chuuni gothloli that summoned her, gets owned right back.

❌❌ It’s the second coming of Dokuro-chan, with every punchline being torture. Quite literally for the characters, and consequently for the audience as well.

❌❌ Needless to say, the entire cast (there’s some additional supernatural babes, none of which make much of an impression) are jerks and the show being wantonly mean-spirited towards them does not cancel that out. 

❌ Somehow the second anime about eating reptile ass in recent memory. But Maidragon, as lame as it was, wasn’t as terrible as this. Jashin-chan won’t get into insipid family feels any time soon, but the alternative is worse.

ANN sez: “If this is your taste in humor, it may be worth giving a second episode to see if it starts pulling that off.”

Kyoto Teramachi Sanjou no Holmes

What: Handsome genius antique dealer appraises old pottery and his assistant’s soul.

✅ I have to admit that if you somehow decided to make a otome version of Sherlock without anything so crass as murder, this is how you’d do it. It works.

✅ The leading pair has simple but effective chemistry.

✅ The studio behind it has mostly done porn OVAs before, which is the kind of meta-humor I can get behind.

❌ Based on a series of novels, so naturally the talkytalk gets out of hand.

❌ Doesn’t have the highest budget, tries to make up for it with rainbow-colored garishness. Not a dealbreaker but it could get tiresome.

ANN sez: “While Yagashira cuts a handsome figure as the bishonen, Aoi has more of an ordinary appearance – perhaps deliberately so, since I suspect that the source novels were originally aimed at female audiences.”

Shinya! Tensai Bakabon

What: Showa-era gag manga gets on air again after decades, repeatedly points out how hilarious that is.

❌ Beat-for-beat the same first episode concept as Osomatsu-san.

❌ The main difference is that Bakabon is more willing to look old as fuck, but when they arrive at the non-ruse look at the end of the episode, it’s the same as the non-ruse look that Osomatsu-san ended up at the end of its own first episode.

❌  So guess what, constantly takes potshots at Osomatsu-san, despite being a blatant ripoff of it.

❌❌ When it doesn’t reference Things You Know (if you’re a middle-aged Japanese salaryman), it references its own sorry showa-era gag manga self.

❌❌ I didn’t even like Osomatsu-san but this is an embarrassment.

♎ On the bright side, not as likely to provide fujos with incest shipping material. I fully expect to be proven painfully wrong on this.

ANN sez: Nothing. Way too Japanese for them, I suppose. 

Angolmois - Genkou Kassenki

What: Historical action show wherein a bunch of misfits in medieval Japan fight the Mongols.

✅ Fairly decent action and animation thereof.

✅ Characters seem alright for this sort of thing. Maybe a bit too tryhard violent for my tastes, but that’s still within acceptable parameters.

❌❌ The looks are ruined in postproduction. I could live with the heavyhanded color correction, but what really kills it is the same omnipresent static paper texture over every single shot. It’s bad when it doesn’t change between shots but it’s devastating when it doesn’t move along with zooms and pans, which this show has a lot of.

❌❌ Seriously, I haven’t seen anything as senselessly destroyed by a single AfterEffects layer since Garo: Vanishing Line’s Parkinsonscam, but at least that only affected impact frames. Here it’s literally every frame. Delete that PNG you damn fools.

❌ So yeah, it’s okay-ish but that’s not enough to survive one boneheaded executive decision that’s impossible to ignore. It just comes out as a net negative.

ANN sez: “From its beautifully animated, choreographed, and directed fight scenes to its generally dynamic compositions and keen understanding of visual economy, Angolmois is a visually stunning production.”

Lord of Vermilion - Guren no Ou

What: Tokyo gets enveloped in red mist which raptures most of the population and turns the rest into JRPG characters. They start fighting, we promise.

❌ Has the shape of an obvious Persona clone, but isn’t one; it’s actually based on an arcade CCG. So the source material isn’t very classy to begin with.

❌❌ Haphazardly thrown together so it’s hard to care about anything, especially not the characters.

❌❌ Opens with a flashforward to the climax, so we know this will just end up as overdesigned dudes and dudettes having allegedly epic battles that the show can’t afford to make look good, but can afford to make very red. Thanks for the heads up, I guess.

❌ So it’s quite bad, and not even funny-bad like Caligula was.

ANN sez: “There are always a few action shows like this every season, and they're always entirely overshadowed by that season's versions of shows like My Hero Academia and Banana Fish”

Grand Blue

What: City slicker moves to a beach town expecting to end up in Amanchu; ends up in Animal House instead.

❌❌ Say it with me: Every punchline is the protagonist making a shocked face at dumb meatheads doing something stupid.

♎ For something that I feel like I should hate every second of, I actually didn’t hate it all that much. I even thought it was mostly sort of enjoyable. I don’t really know what exactly does it but I can offer some ideas:

✅ While the punchlines (well, punchline) may be bad, the jokes themselves aren’t. This is a real sitcom with larger-scale comedic setups than you usually see in anime, jokes build upon each other and keep escalating.

✅ Sleazy fratboy humor about partying hard and drinking like an idiot isn’t very profound, but rare at least in anime. And it’s amusing that the overall conceit is that it’s preventing iyashikei from taking place. Novelty counts for something. 

✅ Manages to build awkward comedic situations about buff dudes with their dicks out without resorting to the same old gay panic jokes. Just regular panic, no homo.

✅ Makes a good Friday beach bum combo with Harukana Receive, which incidentally also got better by embracing its more prurient side.

ANN sez: “If Grand Blue Dreaming has a major Achilles heel, its that it isn't self-aware enough to recognize when a joke has run its course. ”

Happy Sugar Life

What: Yandere sociopath adopts a preteen girl (from a parking lot). It’s cute, only not.

✅ Is fully aware that everyone in this show is an asshole and is honestly trying for subversive. At least on the surface.

✅ Goes all on on the imagery, which works. At least on the surface.

❌❌ Simply exploiting the contrast between cuteness and insanity got old about a decade ago; this cranks up the presentation on both sides but doesn’t really add anything new.

❌❌ About as mean-spirited and unpleasant as Mahou Shoujo Site, while having even less to say. 

❌ Doesn’t seem like it’s going anywhere; it’s just going to be the main character pwning other people that are just as flamboyantly fucked up as she is, but not as good at it. Starting with a flashforward to the (very edgy, of course) ending like Lord of Vermilion doesn’t help either. And even if they end up rusemanning what is implied there it won’t be much better.

ANN sez: “Happy Sugar Life was on my list of most-anticipated anime this season because its combination of disparate elements seemed so utterly perverse that I was curious to see how they could possibly fit together.“

Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight

What: Girls slowwalk in an academy for stage arts by day, get into metaphorical superbattles by night.

✅✅ What can I say, it’s Love Live x Marimite with a glossy coating of Ikuhara-style operatics. A total deltabait concept if I’ve ever seen one.

✅ Clones the storytelling approach of Ikuhara but not many of his specific directing mannerisms; Since I’m tired of the latter but a sucker for the former, this is a good thing.

✅ In a similar vein, this trades Ikuhara’s functional ciphers for actual characters and his enigmatic arthouse plots for something that obviously makes sense. 

✅ How gay? So gay.

❌ Has the opposite problem of Grand Blue: This is a show that should blow me away, but doesn’t. In fact, if it didn’t bring the big damn musical theater complete with one of the best and most appropriate henshins I’ve ever seen near the end, I’d say it was fairly lame.

❌ Probably has something to do with that in the course of casualizing Ikuhara, the “real” world ended up too bland and the characters too generic. I get that it’s for contrast, but it can be done far better (see Yorimoi for an example).

✅ In any case, it still seems easily worth watching even if it’s not as good as it could be. Maybe it’ll even get better.

ANN sez: “All I can say for certain is that it comes completely out of nowhere, and that it raises all kinds of questions about what kind of series this is going to be.“

Yuragi-sou no Yuuna-san

What: Impoverished ghost hunter checks into a haunted hot spring and interacts with the harem that happens to live there.

❌ As generic a 90s ecchi harem comedy as they come; my correspondents tell me that this is extremely reminiscent of Love Hina. Shockingly it’s actually based on a 2016 manga, but you wouldn’t be able to tell.

❌ As such, an abundance of accidental boobplants and other saucy accidents makes up the bulk of what’s going on this show.

✅ The main ghost girl is fairly cute; The main dude is also relatively bearable and has at least one good joke in his backstory (which I won’t spoil), so the core dynamic is surprisingly fine. If the rest of the harem weren’t there, this wouldn’t be such a bad setup. 

❌ Features those dastardly breast-hiding light rays, reportedly even in the AT-X version. This doesn’t affect a large part of the show (the majority is more like the cap above), but boobies are probably still the only reason anyone cares about any of this.

♎ Certainly not good, but the lame shit of yore is not what I’m going to spend energy getting mad at in 2018. The 24 minutes I’m ever going to spend with it felt more nostalgic than anything.

ANN sez: “Ninja girl Sagiri comes off the worst from the situation, with nearly all of her dialogue spent promising to beat the crap out of anyone who doesn't measure up to her moral code. I imagine there must be more to her and the rest of the supporting cast than what we've seen so far, but at the moment they seem an awful lot like stock characters.”

Sirius the Jaeger

What: A broody werewolf and his team of assorted bad dudes hunt vampires in 30s Tokyo.

✅✅ Looks ace, this is an action show with deluxe everything. It better, because being directed by Masahiro Ando is pretty much the start and end of this show’s unique selling points.

✅ Interwar Tokyo with a bit of a gothick twist is a cool setting, and this show can afford to portray it properly.

❌ Seriously though... edgy vampires and edgier werewolves. Come on, son.

❌ Just like Banana Fish, this is a highly polished implementation of something that fundamentally isn’t very interesting to me.

✅ I’d still take it over Fanana Bish because this doesn’t seem to take itself so bloody seriously and is far more comfortable with just being moody action schlock. It’s also less showoffy, believe it or not. What else are you going to watch? Sirius the Jaeger is what you’re going to watch. Sorry.

ANN sez: They only have a preview from Anime Expo, and that boils down to “The second episode is where things start to get interesting.“ I sure hope so.

Well, we got a few acceptable shows in if nothing else, I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which ones those are. I’m cutting my losses here, see you in three months for a hopefully more bountiful season.

[rudylozanole]

10 best designer belts to buy in 2021

One of the most ubiquitous, practical and undoubtedly essential accessories is, somewhat surprisingly, the most often neglected. Of all the leather goods out there, the only one that everyone needs is a belt. Whether it’s a dressy black leather version to wear with your suit or just a sturdy roughed-out calfskin option as part of your daily rotation, all of us need a reliable belt to secure their pants. While big buckle designer belts have been a finance bro and rapper favorite for generations, for many, most belts are either wildly garish or much too mundane. In reality, though, when we talk about developing a daily uniform and personal style, adding a signature belt to the daily rotation is crucial.

1. Gucci Double G Leather Belt: 

We had to kick things off with one of the most iconic belts of all time. For many, the interlocking “G”s on theGucci Double G leather belt are not just a sign of affluence, but an internationally-recognized signifier that you have “made it”. Despite introducing the logo in the 1930s, the belt buckle truly came to prominence in 1995, during the celebrated and ostentatious Tom Ford era. While big-money hedge fund managers wore the belts alongside various other flashy designer threads during the '80s Wall Street power-suit era, the oversized belts went mainstream with the Gucci explosion under Ford’s reign. Exceeding 42mm and easily visible from a distance, the belts are guaranteed to make a statement made of alligator skin belt. The high-end Italian ostrich skin belt  leather and durable brass mean the belt will last for years, and while the size may go in and out of style, quality doesn’t. While the new Alessandro Michele-led house has plenty of garish options, we recommend sticking to the classic gold Gs on brown leather. Even if Gucci’s current hot streak comes to a close, this belt has already held out for 30 years, so it’s more than a safe bet. This is also made from elephant leather belts. 

2. Prada Saffiano Leather Belt: 

While, like many European luxury brands, Prada  began as a leather goods business, the brand didn’t explode onto the fashion scene until current designer Miuccia Prada introduced her wildly popular woven nylon bags and triangular metal badge logo in 1977. Since then, Prada’s most successful items by far are made of nylon. Strangely enough, it was a marriage between the beloved triangular metal badge and the house’s celebrated Saffiano leather that gave birth to one of the most popular men’s belts around. Made from high-grade leather covered in a cross-hatched protective wax—referred to as “Saffiano” and what originally put Prada on the map—the water resistant material is about as durable as can be, but simultaneously both luxe and subdued. With the addition of the small-yet-unmistakable metal badge, the belt has been revered both in and outside of Italy for generations. Mostly consisting of alligator skin belt and ostrich skin belts. 

3. Off-White Yellow Industrial Belt: 

Yes, we know this will be divisive. Off-White’s infamous industrial belt has as many fans as it does haters. Naysayers be damned, apart from Virgil Abloh’s connections and  personal fame, this is one of the designs that put Off-White on the international fashion map. When Abloh first launched the label in 2012, the men’s line was primarily still T-shirts and hoodies. While the women’s line began with full ready-to-wear collections early on, Off-White men’s began slowly, with many of the cut-and-sew pieces failing to get nearly as much traction as the cotton basics. The Industrial belt changed all of that. A calling card of hypebeasts the world over, today the belt is available in a range of colors and materials and is used as a strap for handbags, backpacks and even luggage made from alligator skin  belt as well as shark skin belt. Still, despite the numerous options, we would recommend sticking with the original. While you may love the association, the belt is a large part of Abloh lore, and may we be worth something one day. Also, oit includes elephant leather belts with a combination of stingray belts. 

4. Louis Vuitton Damier Print 40MM Reversible Belt:

 Dating all the way back to the house’s trunkmaker origins, the Damier canvas was initially introduced by Louis Vuitton himself, even predating the interlocked LV logo. A specially coated material with water resistant properties, it was considered revolutionary at the end of the 19th century. With such a rich history and a direct connection to the house founder, for the most part the Damier pattern has not changed since its inception, apart from a special edition graphite version introduced in 2008 to mark the pattern's 120th anniversary. Similar to Prada’s Saffiano, the coated canvas face wraps the leather behind it, creating a textured look while protecting the hide beneath the surface. It includes alligator skin belt and shark skin belt too. Though both the classic brown and graphite (which is only available on men’s accessories) are great options, under Virgil Abloh’s current direction, everything is constantly being reworked, including new takes on the iconic print, also have ostrich skin belts While Abloh’s modern Damier belts quickly sell out and demand a premium, if you’re looking for the latest fashion accessory, snatch one up if you get a chance. If you’re hoping to stick with a classic, the normal print will do just fine.

5. MA+ Fully Stapled “+” Belt: 

Available in a dark black or oxblood red and cut extra long with wrapping in mind, the belts hold a cult status amongst avant-garde enthusiasts and early Grailed users alike. With alligator skin belts and stingray belts available. While the belts are by and large the same season to season, a specific version is particularly coveted: the fully stapled cross belt. While every MA+ piece features the labels “+” logo in some fashion or another—in clothing it’s most often with two contrast color tack stitches—some leather pieces feature two perpendicular sterling silver staples forming a cross with additional combination of elephant leather belt and shark skin belts. In the case of the fully stapled belt, these “crosses” run the length of the belt from buckle to tail, adding literal grams of sterling silver, with a cost that reflects it. While they are difficult to find—and even more difficult to purchase at a reasonable price—amongst serious clothing enthusiasts, nothing else compares.

6. Salvatore Ferragamo Fixed Gancini Belt:

 While Salvatore Ferrangamo’s infamous belt has had its share of unflattering associations–finance lackeys, B-list rappers, seedy jewelers—as we officially embrace early-2000s fashion, its inevitable return is imminent. It also provides an alligator skin belt and highly modern ostrich skin belt.  A slightly cheaper alternative to a Louis Vuitton or Gucci belt, the Ferragamo iteration features the house’s “Gancini” logo, or two backwards horseshoes linked together to form a clasp. The hardware is a reference the family’s farming roots and the founder’s history as a shoemaker.While negative associations helped the design fall out of favor with the fashion set, as fashion as a whole pivots towards the early-2000s for inspiration, the label's history, newfound design chops and sordid past prime it for a comeback. It is also known for its elephant leather belt and shark skin belt. 

7. B.B. Simon Fully Loaded Swarovski Belt: 

Largely aligned with the Ed Hardy, Affliction or True Religion genre of fashion, if you told anyone you were hunting for aB.B. Simon belt more than three years ago they simply would not have believed you. Providing with best alligatore and stingray belts and known for its shark skin belts and elephant leather belts. Yet, after countless co-signs from every Soundcloud rapper you can think of, suddenly kids across the globe are paying top dollar for the Swarovski-studded fully-decked out B.B. Belt. While we don’t necessarily endorse the trend nor say we fully understand it outside of the rapper cosign–go ahead, call us “old heads''—but as the trend continues well into 2020, B.B. Simon belts look like they’re staying for the foreseeable future. Made of various leathers—ranging from python to simple calf—and available in a rainbow of hues and even more stone variations, there is no set styling recommendation here; if you’re going to go for it, commit and go big. Confidence is key here, and this piece isn't for the faint of heart. 

8. Bottega Veneta Black Intrecciato Belt: 

For those who miss the #OldCeline and who always wished for Phoebe Philo-designer menswear, Daniel Lee’s Bottega Veneta debut was monumental. Cheekily referred to as #NewBottega, Lee’s designs were lauded for possessing the same sort of luxurious practicality that Philo made famous. His menswear in particular struck a chord, and various items ranging from woven loafers to leather pants were immediate hits with best alligator skin belts and shark skin belts. Of course this being Bottega, leather—particularly the house’s proprietary woven leather technique—was a focus and what Lee has managed to conjure up using the signature intrecciato is marvelous, belts included. While old Bottega Veneta leather accessories were often mundane, featuring the same weave time and time again, Lee has played with proportion creating belts with a much more substantial leather weave with elephant leather belts that not only look striking, but will age incredibly. Though Lee’s aesthetic—and price point—is surely not for everyone, the new Bottega Veneta leather intrecciato belt is an amazing entry point.

9. Rick Owens Studded Performa Belt: 

Historically, Rick Owens collections are marked by androgyny, drape, extensive use of leather and a limited color palette as they have alligator skin belt and stingray belts. As of Fall/Winter 2020, however, Owens’ has opted to move in a different direction. Following collections inspired by Kiss costume designer Larry LeGaspi and tribal dress, Owens presented Performa, a collection that referenced both Kansai Yamamoto and Joseph Beuys, combining color with performance and structure in a wholly unprecedented way. The result was daring, bold and surprisingly colorful, with pieces ranging from bubble-gum blue leather pants to blood red officer’s coats.

10. Hermès “H” Belt Buckle with Reversible Strap: 

Last—but certainly not least—is the best of the lot. While flashy finance types and fashion trend chasers may reach for a Gucci or Louis Vuitton belt, the subtly mega-rich pull out their Hermès “H” belt. If the day traders all have Ferragamos on, the C-Suite level employees are rocking their “H”s proudly. The sign of the elite the world over, Hermès—itself easily one of the most expensive fashion brands on Earth—has catered to the world’s business elite for decades, providing them with six-plus-figure suits and seven-figure furs for their significant others. Also with highly fashioned alligator skin belts and shark skin belts available. While the “H” belt is nowhere near that price point (clocking in at nearly four figures for a basic leather version) it is easily the most expensive “fashion” belt out there. That said, like a  Cartier love bracelet or the label’s notoriously difficult-to-purchase Birkin bags, class comes at a cost. If you have the cash to spend and are looking to nonchalantly stunt forever, go with the Hermès. You won’t be disappointed.

[dustbunny105]

Title: Shadows on the Moon at Night Fandom: Transformers Generation One Pairing: Nightracer/Moonracer Rating: PG Word count: 600 Summary: A simple mission to stockpile energon for Shockwave goes a lot wrong but also a little right. A/N: I know these two have approximately nothing to do with each other. And are only tenuously in the same continuity. But, listen. Come on. They’re sharpshooters on opposite sides whose names both end in “racer”. That’s grounds for a foemance in my book.

.

Nightracer keeps her focus on the horizon even as she hears laughter behind her, the Decepticons she’s escorting making play of their work. In her peripheral, she notices one of them– one of endless garish tetrajets she can never be bothered to tell apart– is in the open exactly as she’d instructed him not to be.

Someone must speak up, because that same jet scoffs and says, “Oh, ignore her– probably expects to see Megatron.”

The laughter starts up again, muffled behind hands that ought to be storing away energon. She shifts behind the cover she’d claimed, just enough that the laughter comes to a hiccuping stop. The commentary coloring the evening is set to a mumble, easy to ignore among the sounds of work getting done so she doesn’t have to bear mockery for believing, knowing, that their Lord is still out there somewhere.

“Hey,” comes Shakar’s voice from knee-level, and she spares her nervous partner a glance. “We okay?”

“We are,” Nightracer murmurs, inclining her head toward the pillar she’s made herself comfortable against. She hesitates, picking over her next choice of words. Her trigger finger has been itching since the moment before she flipped into root mode to take up guard. She has a feeling and nothing more. Nightracer doesn’t allow herself the luxury of many feelings; those she has, she trusts.

Before she can condense all of this into so much as a brush-off, a flicker of a shadow against the moon trips her internal alarm. Her first shot is off before she’s finished dismissing the idea of shouting a warning that would come too late. It echoes in the distance, disappointment and anticipation sharp in her circuits when she feels, knows, that she’s missed.

From behind, there’s a small explosion, a chorus of swearing and the clattering clang of that fool jet hitting the ground; she’d been too late to prevent her enemy from firing. The rest of the party scatters for the cover she'd warned them to take as she transforms and charges into the open with Shakar's shout echoing wordless through her processor. She swerves around a volley of fire, then another, then transforms again to dive behind a jagged outcropping as debris goes up at her heels right where she knew that it would.

So, she thinks, you’re still out there too. She whips up and returns fire; the light of her blasts falls on her quarry darting for better cover, already lining up another shot. If Nightracer had a mouth, she’d smile.

Another, more substantial, explosion from behind brings her out of her thoughts. Ducking back, she spins and sees the party picking themselves up as the storage tower crumbles and a bright red Autobot flatbed streaks away loaded with energon cubes, two more Autobots clinging to the sides to lay down cover fire behind them. They're quickly lost in the smoke.

The realization that she’d been lured hits Nightracer like a physical blow, soothed only slightly when she sees where Shakar is hidden, swearing but unharmed. A laugh bubbles across the terrain, soon followed by a gunning engine. Nightracer whips around in time to see her quarry transform before fleeing behind the horizon.

Well.

The other Decepticons are already up and getting after the flatbed and Nightracer decides to leave them to it. When she transforms to race into the night, it’s to go after that flash of white and turquoises, leaving Shakar with an order to call in a report to Shockwave and stay safe. Her opposite number was so very keen for her attention? She has it.

[belerencodex]

Humans of the Crucible States

Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes, Halflings, almost all the races of Beleren are born from extraplanar beings. They know their origins, but the Humans, youngest of the races emerged from the cradle of the Beleren. They, along with animals, plants, and dragons, are the only truly native creatures of Beleren. Ten thousand years ago the first Humans wandered out of the savannahs of Nashto. Ten thousand years in the eyes of creatures such as dragons and elves is a comparatively short span but in that time humanity has experienced much. Under the tutelage of dragons they have spread explosively across their native continent. But in time they became too powerful and numerous to be controlled by their draconic overlords. 

The Common Clay: Humans come in many colors, shapes, and personalities. Little about them is predetermined at birth, experience and culture are the truest teachers. But one of the great advantages that humans have over other races is their unique ability for interbreeding. Humans can produce viable offspring with almost any other humanoid race, this ability has allowed them to assimilate and integrate themselves into the fabric of existing cultures and societies. In some places humans of mixed races become a major racial demographic. These children of mixed lineage are often able to tap into magic powers of sorcery based on their ancestry. Many human cultures as a result arrange into hereditary societies based on bloodlines. Many Faces, One Voice: One of the other major advantages that humanity has held over other races is their near unique ability to retain a single common language. Humans, even half-humans develop the ability to speak and/or comprehend a language referred to as Common. Most other races have lost their common languages, fractured into dozens of different dialects. Because of this common link humans are able to cross vast distances as merchants and explorers knowing that they will be met with strangers speaking a common tongue.

Ascrine

The bulk of the human population of the Crucible states is made up of a melting-pot culture called Ascrine. All human nations of the area other than Cymrin and the Orumic Isle were dominated by the Ascren Empire for a long time. As such cultural borders of the time broke down. While Ascrine humans differentiate themselves along class lines as well as lines of city-vs-country, they don’t have a general ‘look’ to them. Ascren traded with nations as far away as Yeth and Nashto so dark skin or slanted eyes are not an uncommon sight in the streets of former Ascrine cities and towns. The Ascrine have a reputation for wizardry only somewhat dampened by the fall of the empire. Few of the old colleges survive but hedge wizards often take apprentices and powerful wizards can carve out fiefdoms in the wild lands. Multicultural: Ascrine are very broad minded in terms of other races, they have no problem co-existing with most races as long as they integrate with the society to some degree. Ascrine settlements are usually pretty diverse, even middling towns and villages often boasting a dwarven quarter or a halfling campground. The human proclivity for interbreeding is prevalent in Ascrine culture, many half-elves, aasimar, tieflings, sorcerous bloodlines can be found.  An Age of Fear: The land of Ascren was once prosperous, no humans are left who remember what it was like in the age of the Empire. Instead for the last century the Ascrine have lived under onslaught by fey from the expanding Elven Forest, dragon attacks, and strange arcane monstrosities that wander out of the ruins of Old Ascren. The Ascrine seek shelter and will often accept terrible tyrants and warlords over the uncertainty of an unforgiving and uninviting wild.

Cymrine

North of the Crucible States, the nation of Cymrin is a beacon of stability in the north-west. Bordering the Vostovid Mountains to the West, the Elven Forests to the South, and hag-filled swampland to the East, early Cymrine history was marked by warfare and strife. Small barbarian tribes fought each other and the monsters that surrounded them until a half-elf king united them 600 years ago. Cymrin is now ruled by the same dynasty. Recently Cymrine humans have begun migrating south forming colonies in the unclaimed north of the Crucible States and offering protectorate-hood to independent settlements. In appearance the Cymrine are usually fair of complexion, freckled and with high cheekbones but sparse beards, long mustachios go in and out of style with the decade. A Stable & Prosperous Home: The half-elf monarchs of Cymrin are beloved to their people, the secret of a good monarchy is long lived rulers. Many peasants will live and die and not see the crown change hands, this inspires a certain sense of stability and security in the mindset of the Cymrine and a deep faith in their monarchs. The government is run largely for their benefit, lucrative contracts to import luxuries are controlled strictly by the King’s Treasury and the tight laws and effective guards encourage ne’er-do wells and adventure seekers to flee south into the chaotic realms of the Crucible States. The Dragon-Knights: A tradition started by King Erik Frostfire, rituals devised in secret by the King’s enchanter Azbriani allow the most elite half-elf knights of the realm to bend young chromatic dragons to their will. The creatures are intelligent but inherently evil, destined for chaos and destruction if freed. By dominating their will, the knights are able to turn them into powerful tools. When the knight dies the dragon is also executed. The Vostovid Mountains are the breeding ground of Red Dragons nearly all Dragon-knights ride red dragons. However there have been green, white, and one blue dragon-knight.

Orumic

The Orumic humans are the descendants of seafolk who began fishing the fertile coasts of the island of Orum. The west coast of the Crucible States and the island had long been considered an accursed place. Home to tribes of orcish raiders. But to the surprise of many peaceful co-existence began between the humans and orcs. The orcs primarily cared for their aurochs on the interior of the island and in the fertile coastal hills of the continent, the humans subsisted along the coast on fishing and agriculture. The relationship was mutually advantageous and over time the warlike orcish culture was subsumed into the human culture of sea folk. Orum is now a mixture of half-orcs and humans, orcs having been effectively obsoleted. Seafolk: The Orumic are found throughout the coastal parts of the Crucible States in small fishing villages or working the shipping lanes. Originally they were humans from Aigados who sailed west. In complexion they are marked by the orcish blood that runs through their veins, short noses and thick, coarse black hair are common to the Orumic and from their orcish cousins they have drawn a flair for bright and sometimes even garish colors. Often wearing bright yellows and oranges or striking blues and greens. Independent to a Fault: The homeland of Orum is prosperous and would likely be quite powerful if it was ever centralized, however while there is a king of Orum, there are few proper nobles. Feudalism has failed to take hold as any dissatisfied peasant can easily flee in a boat and peasant revolts are common. As such most of Orumic society remains rural and agriculturalist, subsisting and trading on small scale, only rallying in the face of great danger.

Rakonni

In ages past the Rakonni were horse nomads who roamed the eastern hills and grasslands. After subjugation by the Ascren, they settled into a life of pastoralism and began planting wine grapes, barley, and rye. The Rakonni countryside is now littered with small fiefdoms, while mostly disorganized, most pay some amount of tribute to the Overlord of Nexios to help keep the trade routes open and the gold flowing into their villas and castles. Husaria and the Free Lances: Among the ranks of the knights of the Rakkoni there are an array of companies of warriors. Some of these are Hussars, knightly circles that forego landed titles for the more traditional life as mounted nomads. They dedicate their service either to powerful, reputable lords or to a common good. For instance riding against the hobgoblin raiders that plague the foothills of the Perenia Mountains or patrolling the trade routes and roads for the Overlord of Nexios. The Free Lances by comparison are wandering mercenaries and sometimes brigands who range westward deeper into the Crucible States in search of work as adventurers, most often these are exiled knights, illegitimate children of nobles, or outcasts. Court of Daggers: It was once asked of a Rakonni knight how he would best the greatest champion of their day. The knight simply answered, “at night, in bed, with a very sharp knife.” The Rakonni are known for their pragmatic approach to politics and warfare. Poisoning and assassination is as frequent a killer of Rakonni nobles as combat. Any prominent noble will have a court poisoner or assassin.

Thaylite

Hailing from the central steppe of Ib, brought west in search of safer homes outside the rulership of the Aigadosi, the Thaylites are a proud warrior culture of ancient origin. Hailing from the far south-east, their skin is dark and their hair thick and kinky. Traditional hairstyles accentuate this with locks or tight braids which are decorated with bells and bangles of gold. Most often they are found living in enclaves, majority Thaylite neighborhoods of larger cities, or in rural communities where they continue their knightly traditions. Among their number are many Aasimar as they have a strong connection to the angelic orders. A Lost Homeland: Far to the east and south, in the land now known as Nashto, is the origin point of the Thaylites. In the high peaks of Thayl they first formed their culture as shepherds among enchanted peaks. The first king of the Thaylites was in fact anointed by a Solar. As such the Thaylites take their piety very seriously and dream of a day that they might reclaim their home. In this tradition they also believe that the spirit of their first king will return. Honorbound: The Thaylite reputation for honor and fairness is ironclad. In cities they live in they often will generationally join the city guard and serve any king they see as noble and honorable. Thaylite adventurers often make a living as bodyguards for people they consider worthy and are prized for this job as they will often lay down their lives for their wards.

[allofthisnonsenseplease]

Wrote the scene where Jack & Gabe first meet in the nurse!Jack AU firesonic152 and I had chatted about.

Some days, life just fucking sucked. Some days, the pain, the discomfort, the indignity, the unfairness, the loss all just came crashing down together in one bury-him-alive, suffocating avalanche of depression to leave Gabriel nearly comatose, staring at the line of sun and shadow that drifted across the ceiling of the hospital room to mark time as the day dragged slowly, horribly on. If he kept still and let his mind drift, he could almost—almost—forget that the injury which had landed him in the VA hospital for his recovery had cost him both of his legs from the knees down. That his personal loss was so much less than the ultimate sacrifice made by some of the others from his unit only steepened his downward spiral on days like these. How dare he feel sorry for himself when he was still alive while so many others weren't? How dare he moan about fairness?

Some days, that was enough to drag him up before he sank too far into the quicksand of his depression. Other days, he had to claw his way back up, fighting with all the depleted energy left to him. Today was one of the latter. Too tired to fight back with all his strength, he had let malaise take him until the numbness had set in.

Around four or five in the afternoon, judging by the way the light on the ceiling had thickened in unnoticed increments to a warm honey gold, something broke him out of his trance. The day, which had crept by so slowly during the periods when he had been able to focus, was suddenly almost over.

He heard the door open, but had neither curiosity nor interest to attach to the sound. There were footsteps, the squeak of wheels, the quiet clatter of plastic cups of pills being set down on bedside tables. Time for meds, his brain informed him dully.

The nurse spoke with the other patients sharing the room. His voice was rough, and not particularly quiet, but apathy left the words flowing over Gabriel without their meaning sinking in, like water over stone. He was aware, distantly, of the voice and footsteps coming closer, but it wasn't until he caught a flash of riotously bright colors out of the corner of his eye that he finally turned his head to let his gaze take in something other than the ceiling.

His first impression was that the nurse was big. The guy was built like...well...like Gabriel. Like a soldier. Broad shoulders, trim waist, legs that filled out scrubs that all the rest of the staff wore loose as pajamas, arms that looked like they could bench-press a patient still in the bed. The tiny flutter of appreciation wasn't enough to completely dispel the fog deadening his thoughts, but it was enough to hold his interest. As the nurse checked his neighbor's chart, Gabriel checked out the nurse: blond hair in a military cut that was going a bit long on top and starting to show some silver, the glint of ball chain around his neck—his tags, maybe, if he had served like Gabriel suspected, pale skin that didn't see enough sun splashed with freckles over his forearms, nice ass.

He took in all those details while Blondie's choice of scrubs assaulted his retinas after a day spent soaking in the blandness of the ceiling tiles. The guy had picked a set with a dinosaur pattern. Not cool dinosaurs bristling with spines and claws and teeth, but rounded, cookie-cutter blobs in a neon rainbow piled up all over each other so that his entire torso was an explosion of bright colors corralled into vaguely recognizable forms by thick, black lines.

Gabriel almost heaved a sigh. He was going to be one of those cheerful, upbeat types, the ones who always had far too much energy and optimism for him to deal with on bad days. Rainbow dinosaur scrubs, for chrissake. Maybe—maybe—he hadn't been able to find anything else in his size, but so few of the staff Gabriel had seen so far wore anything aside from plain blue or green that he wasn't willing to bet on that. The dinosaurs had to be a deliberate choice.

Bracing himself for an onslaught of well-intentioned but completely unwelcome cheering up, Gabriel was just gathering the energy to turn his face away and pretend to be asleep when the nurse turned around.

The sight startled him badly enough that his breath caught. Expecting a smile as bright as those garish scrubs, Gabriel was met with a sneer as the nurse plucked his chart off the foot of his bed. Gabriel realized his mistake almost immediately. Two large scars slashed across the nurse's face, and the smaller one over his mouth had the unfortunate effect of tugging his lip up like a sneer. Of course, it didn't help that his brows were drawn in to either side of the scar cutting diagonally across the bridge of his nose. He didn't look especially cheerful....

“You're new—” He said suddenly, voice clipped and no-nonsense. “—so here's your warning: don't let the dinosaurs fool you. I'm not Nurse Sunshine.” He hooked the chart back on the bed, and reached for the cart he'd pushed in with him. “Meds,” he said, setting the cup of pills down brusquely on the small table next to Gabriel's bed, and following it up with a larger cup. “Water.” And with that, he turned to leave. He hadn't once so much as glanced at Gabriel.

Shaken out of his daze, Gabriel huffed a laugh. “You really get that often enough that it's gotta be the standard greeting?”

Blondie glanced back to look at him, and his lips twitched in what might have been a smile, had it stuck around for longer than a heartbeat. “You'd be surprised.”

There was no reason to call out again, but there was also no reason not to.

“What am I supposed to call you, then...Sunshine?”

He actually turned around this time, eyes narrowed. “Reyes. You're speaking to a man who is capable of switching out your meds for something that will make you wish for death.”

When the warning only made Gabriel grin, the nurse sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Jack.” He jabbed a finger at Gabriel and added for emphasis: “Do not call me unless you're dying.”

Gabriel saluted, and, this time, that flicker of a smile lasted just a moment longer. Then, Jack was gone and with him the single point of interest out of the entire day. The sun had dropped low while he'd been going patient to patient, but Gabriel only noticed it belatedly, as if Jack's departure had taken some of the light from the room.

Scattering those fanciful thoughts and slipping already back into the particular exhaustion brought about by a day spent weighted down by everything that had gone wrong in his life, Gabriel tossed back the pills, drank the water, and hoped that he would sleep without dreams.

[albertomercado]

Prologue: The Return of Magics

“It was a world torn apart. Apart by many things and maybe too many to count, but torn apart it was. We can first begin with what tore it apart, and that was the tearers, or terrors, however you want to describe them. The ones who had torn the world to nothing more than thin shambles of cloth. The leaders were the terrors, or tearers, if at all, and it starts with the Orange Man. The Orange Man with all his bust and bumble, his threats against all who opposed him and all who would denounce him.  A brash man that the masses flocked to with promises of greatness and elevation, but it was all a lie. It was all a farce and it was all nothing, as the world gained nothing more than they had with him at the head. Some would even argue that him being at the head brought the world back some. Further than it should have, but at the end of it all, the Orange Man, along with all the others, would bring the world back to where it originally started.

To nothing.

His finger forever on the trigger to end it all, threatening violence and death to all who would oppose him.

Another terror that the world had to suffer was the Rocket Man, aptly named by the Orange Man. The Rocket Man had the whitest smile, the thickest jowls and the worst hair a man could muster. He ate well, while his people ate dirt and shit, giving nothing to no one, except those who have pledged complete fealty, generation to generation. If your grandfather had opposed him, you were better off dead. If your father had opposed him you might have been in fact dead. If you opposed him death would never bring you or your family the solace you craved. Thus, he was a pestilence at the top of the world in his place. He shot great rockets into the sky hoping to instill fear into the Orange Man and those he ruled, showing that he was in fact as strong as he believed himself to be. Unbeknownst to most, he had rockets that would reign fire and death at the flick of his wrist or the tap of his finger and his finger was on a trigger that no one believed he had, but he did, as the Bear Man had given it to him. 

The Bear Man, another oppressor of sorts, that had his iron law stamped down upon his people. He ruled through lies and deceit. Through spies and assassination. Through sleight of hand and mystery, that led many a state and their leaders to despise him and his land. He would cross borders and hurt those who posed threats. He would sneak and slink about like a snake on the hunt. He would decimate those who dared cross him, claiming it was all for his people. A people who were garish and hungry themselves. Who preferred drink rather than whatever drek their leader cared to give them. Who wanted to be whisked away and be free. But he held a trigger and that trigger could annihilate the world, if he had a fancy, and he did. 

There were other men who were terrible and wonderful all the same. Each had made their mark on Mother Gaia trying to take it for their own. Caring not for who or what they left in their wake, and a lot of such men were alive and not so well to do, if you cared to know. The Yellow Men with a million man army stood strong and fierce and had staved off the ever push of the Orange Man. The Sand People had sacrificed much for their greater good and their greater gods, but more likely than not hurting themselves more than others as they could never settle their border disputes, their bickerings as to their land, or debates over inconsequential points of their laughable religions. The Miners had similar problems and had been eager to emulate the explosive nature of the Sand People, constantly in fits of war and desolation. The Old Country, while refined and better to never have the gall to retake what was taken from them by newer countries to instill a better world, persisted behind their iron curtains, waiting for a chance, that would never come to strike.

Countless lands, countless people all vying and arguing and fighting, for what? For nothing it seemed. Creating chaos and destruction wherever they set foot and all but the ones at the top suffered.The abuse of Mother Gaia created wildfires in the west that lapped up brick and stone and metal as it was mere parchment, hurricanes and typhoons in the east that drowned whole cities and towns without a care. Earthquakes that  sunk island after island with cities disappearing in a day and the metropolis of the world faltered, while all lived in fear. 

The fear led to revulsion. The revulsion led to hate. The hate led to civil unrest grew throughout the world. No one was willing to provide an answer to any for it all, save for death. And the world’s people suffered ever the more for it. Leader blamed leader, lines were drawn, weapons were brandished, and the world was on the brink of destruction until finally it was destroyed. Who finally fired first? We know not, but they finally fired which pushed others to fire harder and stronger weapons. The coasts were annihilated within a span of days, the inland within two spans of days and by the end of a month or so, winter had come early and has stayed ever since. The death toll loomed into territories only known by the great wars, that none knew of any longer. Those who did not die sooner, rather than later, were worse off than ever. Those who did die, received the only mercy a world such as this would ever be willing and able to give.

The initial wave of death came from massive explosions that disintegrated man and beast in an instant. Fire rolled like waves from east to west, followed by a heavy wind that dashed all away in its wake. It darkened the sky and created ash and cinder on the ground, with none the wiser. The fires raged unending and unyielding until the lands became barren. Wastelands rose up, where once fertile grounds and cities, teaming with populations so vast and unyielding you would gasp at the numbers. 

Thereafter, poison killed the land. The air had become rank and uninhabitable. Sores and cancer sprouted among those who tarried too long. Some could no longer bear children. Others outright died after a long and suffering sickness. Many grew mad and dangerous still, and the world had begun to signal its death knell. Mother Gaia, in a last attempt to retake what its people had squandered, cracked open. Giant fissures from the pits of hell cut across the land, so vast and wide, that it is said, people who fell into them are still falling until this day. Others believe that they popped up on the other side and were spit out without a scratch. But none are sure. 

What they are sure of is that all manner of beast erupted from those fissures, some kind. Most others less so. A legion of dragons, fiery winged beasts were expelled in a tumult of volcanic ash and sludge. They devoured those within eyesight and burned much and more to nothing. Trees, thought long dead, had risen up and began to speak in deep croaking and creaking voices, yelling blasphemy against man and woman alike. Golems as tall as the eye can see, rock trolls, and goblins, orcs, men that were not men, but animals came about, with claws and teeth to bare. All manner of beasts had erupted fervently and frighteningly. They reigned destruction taking back the world in the name of Mother Gaia.

However, other, less troublesome, beings came about. Halflings and dwarves had walked down from the mountainsides all gruff and gristle, looking for greener pastures as the dragons had taken up residence in their old abodes. Elves, in all manners of color and hue, had been awakened and rose to the task of taming the trees once again. Resolving to better the world with all their magics. The common vampyre and werewolves and other lycanthropes, had arisen and staked their claims in the world. Some more civilly than others and with their appearance came a new air. 

Maybe it was an old air, but it was new to the man who had ravaged the land for over ten thousand years. Or a million if you believed some. This new old air was as everyone had believed it to be. And that was magic.

Magics had returned, formless and void, and without guidance it was abused by man and man alike. Calling the likes of fire and wind and earth and water down upon the world for selfish gain. The elves and dwarves, who had a better ear and eye for it, had used it for more selfless and altruistic purposes, but only within their specific race. However,  man had other plans. Once man got hold of it, their magics were furious and unrelenting. Nothing compared to the power of their betters, but truthfully, there is power in chaos. 

As time passed the magics of man grew, and they further abused and debased it for selfish gain. Some attempted to learn and gain wisdom, yet only a few were allowed into the eleven and fae courts. Those few were permitted some wisdom of the magics of yore, and even less were allowed to leave the fae realm after entering. So man was left to their own whims when it came to magics. 

Man learned from himself, and magic thrived and replaced all that the old world had left behind, or had destroyed, and a new world emerged. In the midst of this the remnants of the Orange Man, the Rocket Man, the Bear Man, and all others dwindled and disappeared. Their influence and strength were trumped by the magics of old. In this new order the world changed and thrived.

Mother Gaia retook what was lost, the sun was dashed away into a cloudless ruin, and the lives of men dwindled in favor of the fairer and more earth friendly races. Yet, as a cockroach not caring to die when it should, the race of man lingered and the savagery they had expelled for near on ten thousand years, or over a million, if you were to believe some, continued on”

That’s all I got for now. I hope we can all enjoy our time here. Thanks!

The Slave Knight Part 1: The Dagon on wattpad https://my.w.tt/ZQzYwj7AO8

The Slave Knight Part 1: The Dagon on kindle (please only support if you can, otherwise get it for free on wattpad!) https://amzn.to/2XFiHxN

[languageofthedreamweapon]

The Language of Flowers

It is vain to consider, in the appearance of things, only the intelligible signs that allow the various elements to be distinguished from each other. What strikes human eyes determines not only the knowledge of the relations between various objects, but also a given decisive and inexplicable state of mind. Thus the sight of a flower reveals, it is true, the presence of this well-defined part of a plant, but it is impossible to stop at this superficial observation; in fact the sight of this flower provokes in the mind much more significant reactions, because the flower expresses an obscure vegetal resolution. What the configuration and color of the corona reveal, what the dirty traces of pollen or the freshness of the pistil betray doubtless cannot be adequately expressed by language; it is, however, useless to ignore (as is generally done) this inexpressible real presence and to reject as puerile absurdities certain attempts at symbolic interpretation.

That most of the juxtapositions of the language of flowers would have a fortuitous and superficial character could be foreseen even before consulting the traditional list. If the dandelion conveys expansion, the narcissus egoism, and the wormwood flower bitterness, one can all too easily see why. At stake here is clearly not the divination of the secret meaning of flowers, and one can easily make out the well-known property or adequate legend. One would look in vain, moreover, for parallels that strikingly convey a hidden understanding of the things here in question. It matters little, in fact, that the columbine is the emblem of sadness, the snapdragon the emblem of desire, the waterlilly the emblem of indifference… It seems opportune to recognize that such approximations can be renewed at will, and it suffices to assign a primordial importance to much simpler interpretations, such as those that link the rose or the spurge to love. Not that, doubtless, these two flowers alone can designate human love–even if there is a more exact correspondence (as when one has the spurge say: "it is you who have awakened my love," so troubling when conveyed by such a shady flower), it is to flowers in general, and not to any specific flower, that one is tempted o attribute the strange privilege of revealing the presence of love.

But this interpretation seems unsurprising: in fact love can be posited from the outset as the natural function of the flower. Thus the symbolic quality would be due, even here, to a distinct property and not to an appearance that mysteriously strikes the human sensibility. Therefore it would only have a purely subjective value. Men have linked the brilliance of flowers to their amorous emotions because on either side, it is a question of phenomena that precede fertilization. The role given to symbols in psychoanalytic interpretations, moreover, would corroborate an explanation of this type. In fact it is almost always an accidental parallel that accounts for the origin of substitutions in dreams. Among other things, the value given to pointed or hollowed-out objects is fairly well known.

In this way, one quickly dismisses the opinion that external forms, whether seductive or horrible, reveal certain crucial resolutions in all phenomena, which human resolutions would only amplify. Thus there would be good reason to renounce immediately the possibility of replacing the word with the appearance as an element of philisophical analysis. It would be easy to show that only the word allows one to consider the characteristics of things that determine a relative situation, in other words the properties that permit an external action. Nevertheless, the appearance would introduce the decisive values of things . . .

It appears at first that the symbolic meaning of flower is not necessarily derived from their function. It is evident, in fact, that if one expresses love with the aid of a flower, it is the corolla, rather than the useful organs, that becomes the sign of desire.

But here a specious objection could be raised against interpretation through the objective value of appearance. In fact the substitution of juxtaposed elements for essential elements is consistent with all that we spontaneously know about the emotions that motivate us, since the object of human love is never an organ, but the person who has the organ. Thus the attribution of the corolla to love can easily be explained: if the sign of love is displaced from the pistil and stamens to the surrounding petals, it is because the human mind is accustomed to making such a displacement with regard to people. But even though there is an undeniable parallelism in the two substitutions, it would be necessary to attribute to some puerile Providence a singular desire to satisfy people’s manias: how in fact can one explain how these garish elements, automatically substituted for the essential organs of the flower, develop in such a brilliant way?

It would obviously be simpler to recognize the aphrodisiac properties of flowers, such as odor and appearance, which have aroused men’s and women’s amorous feelings over the centuries. Something is explosively propagated in nature, ini the springtime, in the same way that bursts of laughter are propagated, step by step, each one intensifying the next. Many things can be altered in human societies, but nothing will prevail against the natural truth that a beautiful woman or a red rose signifies love.

An equally inexplicable and equally immutable reaction gives the girl and the rose a very different value: that of ideal beauty. There are, in fact, a multitude of beautiful flowers, since the beauty of flowers is even less rare than the beauty of girls, and characteristic of this organ of the plant. It is surely impossible to use an abstract formula to account for the elements that can give the flower this quality. It is interesting to observe, however, that if one says that flowers are beautiful, it is because they seem to conform to what must be, in other words they represent, as flowers, the human ideal.

At least at first glance, and in general: in fact, most flowers are badly developed and are barely distinguishable from foliage; some of them are even unpleasant, if not hideous. Moreover, even the most beautiful flowers are spoiled in their centers by hairy sexual organs. Thus the interior of a rose does not at all correspond to its exterior beauty; if one tears off all the corolla’s petals, all that remains is a rather sordid tuft. Other flowers, it is true, present very well-developed and undeniably elegant stamens, but appealing again to common sense, it becomes clear on close examination that this elegance is rather satanic: thus certain kinds of fat orchids, plants so shady that one is tempted to attribute to them the most troubling of human perversions. But even more than by the filth of its organs, the flower is betrayed by the fragility of its corolla: thus, far from answering the demands of human ideas, it is the sign of their failure. In fact after a very short period of glory the marvelous corolla rots indecently in the sun, thus becoming, for the plant, a garish withering. Risen from the stench of the manure pile–even though it seemed for a moment to have escaped it in a flight of angelic and lyrical purity — the flower seems to relapse abruptly into its original squalor: the most ideal is rapidly reduced to a wisp of aerial manure. For flowers do not age honestly like leaves, which lose nothing of their beauty even after they have died; flowers wither like old and overly made-up dowagers, and they die ridiculously on stems that seemed to carry them to the clouds.

It is impossible to exaggerate the tragicomic oppositions indicated in the course of this death drama, endlessly played out between earth and sky, and it is evident that one can only paraphrase this laughable duel by introducing, not as a sentence, but more precisely as an ink stain, this nauseating banality: love smells like death. It seems, in fact, that desire has nothing to do with ideal beauty, or, more precisely, that it only arises in order to stain and wither the beauty that for many sad and well-ordered personalities is only a limit, a categorical imperative. The most admirable flower would not be represented, following the verbiage of the old poets, as the faded expression of an angelic ideal, but, on the contrary, as a filthy and glaring sacrilege.

There is good reason to insist upon the exception represented, in this respect, by the flower on the plant. In fact if one continues to apply the method of interpretation introduced here, on the whole the external part of the plant is endowed with an unambiguous meaning. The appearance of leafy stems generally gives the impression of of strength and dignity. Without a doubt the insane contortions of tendrils and the unusual lacerations of foliage bear witness to the fact that all is not uniformly correct in the impeccable erection of plants. But nothing contributes more strongly to the peace in one’s heart and to the lifting of one’s spirits, as well as to one’s loftier notions of justice and rectitude, than the spectacle of fields and forests, along with the tiniest parts of the plant, which sometimes manifest a veritable architectural order, contributing to the general impression of correctness. No crack, it seems — on could stupidly say no quack — conspicuously troubles the decisive harmony of vegetal nature. Flowers themselves, lost in this immense movement of sky to earth, are reduced to an episodic role, to a diversion, moreover, that is apparently misunderstood: they can only contribute, by breaking the monotony, to the inevitable seductiveness produced by the general thrust from low to high. And in order to destroy this favorable impression, nothing less is necessary than the impossible and fantastic vision of roots swarming under the surface of the soil, nauseating and naked like vermin.

Besides, it would seem impossible to eliminate an opposition as flagrant as the one that differentiates stem from root. One legend in particular demonstrates the morbid interest, which has always been more or less pronounced, in the parts that shove themselves into the earth. The obscenity of the mandrake root is undoubtedly fortuitous, like the majority of specific symbolic interpretations, but it is no coincidence that this type of emphasis, to which the mandrake root owes a legendary satanism, is based on an obviously ignoble form. The symbolic values of the carrot and the turnip are also fairly well known.

It was more difficult to show that the same opposition appeared in an isolated part of the plant, the flower, where it takes on an exceptionally dramatic meaning.

There can be no doubt: the substitution of natural forms for the abstraction currently used by philosophers will seem not only strange but absurd. It is probably fairly unimportant that philosophers themselves have often had recourse, though with repugnance, to terms that derive their value from the production of these forms in nature, as when we speak of baseness. No blindness interferes with defending the prerogatives of abstraction. This substitution, moreover, threatens to carry one too far: it would result, in the first place, in a feeling of freedom, the free availability of oneself in every sense, which is absolutely unbearable for the most part, and the troubling contempt for all that is still — thanks to miserable evasions — elevated, noble, sacred . . . Don’t all these beautiful things run the risk of being reduced to a strange mise en scène destined to make sacrilege more impure? And the disconcerting gesture of the Marquis de Sade, locked up with madmen, who had the most beautiful roses brought to him only to pluck off their petals and toss them into a ditch filled with liquid manure — in these circumstances, doesn’t it have an overwhelming impact?

[jamiekturner]

Book Cover Design: Ideas, Layout, Fonts, And How to Create One

In this article, we’ll learn about book cover design. It’s an important design project that you’ll surely end up in the future.

You wouldn’t be honest if you said that you don’t judge a book by its cover.

If a book has good graphics, good quality covers and an eye-catching font, it’s bound to sell more copies.

Despite what some might say, book covers aren’t actually in decline.

And, with the internet enabling effective and fast exchange of documents, feedback and ideas, people are sharing their favorite book covers across the web.

The concept of book cover design

Before you even begin with the book cover ideas, before you get into designing a book cover, you should be aware of the message you’re sending. What’s the book’s value proposition? What will the target audience look for in the book? Success and achievement, passion and romance, revenge and murder?

When you’ve got the motivation, emotion and incentive figured out, you can easily generate a lot of book cover ideas, or visual metaphors that will determine the typography, colors, imagery and the book cover layout.

If you want to design your own book cover, or if you just want to add a few things to it, below are a few book cover design ideas and things that you should keep an eye out for.

Read the content, and understand it

This might seem obvious to some, and pointless to others, but this is actually a crucial part, and many book cover designers will agree. Of course, life might get in the way, and you can’t always get your hands on the manuscript, or you can’t afford to read all 500 pages before the brief is due. In these situations, do your best to try to understand the content.

If available, Google synopses, read reviews, and try to figure out what is happening in the novel, as well as the themes, characters etc. You should have as much information as possible, because you can’t go and design a book cover without it.

Identify the content’s key areas

Now that you are pretty much familiar with the content, you should pick it apart. See what are the key characters, motifs, ideas etc., and see how you can visualise them when you’re figuring out how to make a book cover. Think about it – was the book noir-like? Maybe a monochromatic palette is suitable here. Do you have a recurring symbol or object that you can visualise?

A few book cover designs tips

Grabbing attention and generating excitement is the main goal of any cool book covers. The cover is one of the best, if not the best, tools in your arsenal. Therefore, you should create something that will create interest and stop people in their tracks. The cover is the hook which helps you promote your book.

The genre is important

When you want to create a book cover, it should show the genre of the book. A good book cover will talk to the readers through the choice of book cover fonts, the book cover background, and the metaphor.

If the book is a non-fiction, the cover should communicate the tone. The book cover explaining the scope of the book is actually a very cool thing, and it allows the reader to manage his or her time.

Minimalism in book cover design – less is often more

The minimal style is timeless, from an old book cover you may run into, to modern book back cover ideas, it’s everywhere. Put a title that’s big and easy to read. Your cover will usually be seen on a screen first, rather than the shelf. This is a very well-worn cliché of cover design.

Review a thumbnail image of the cover as well. Does the book cover size fit here? A lot of people buy books on a Kindle or mobile device, so the cover should be clear no matter where it’s viewed. Anticipate the look in grayscale as well.

Don’t use Comic Sans or Papyrus, anywhere. These fonts only work for a humor book, or if your goal is to make a cover that professionals will be laughing at. Avoid special styling and font explosions as well. A cover shouldn’t be using more than two fonts, and you should steer clear of using caps, italic caps etc. Avoid shaping the type as well.

Using your own, or your children’s artwork is another major ‘no’. There are only a couple of exceptions here, but you shouldn’t be counting on them, and this will very likely turn out to be a horrible idea. Avoid cheap clip art as well, such as the things that come free with Microsoft Word or other similar programs.

Go with quality stock photography if you really have to. And, don’t stick an image inside a box on the book cover, as it looks very amateurish. Gradients are another thing you should avoid, especially if you have a cover with a rainbow gradient. Garish color combinations won’t work either, as they will make everything look freakish instead of capturing people’s attention.

Know your reader before designing a book cover

All books are written for a target reader. If it’s a murder mystery, then the reader would be a murder mystery fan. However, in all genres, there are various readers.

You should be targeting the reader that is most likely to buy the book, that is what matters. Knowing the demographic of the reader lets you create a cover that has type and graphics that grab the reader’s eye, and sends the message that the book is right for them. This might seem like a no-brainer, but it’s much more difficult to do than say.

For example, putting a graphic, instead of a photograph, on a Photoshop book, is a mistake. Amateur Photoshop users will want to work with a photograph, and using a graphic instead might be a mistake with them. Keep that for an Illustrator product.

See if you have a central image you can use

Do you have an image or symbol that’s recurring? Find a way to incorporate it into the cover. Whatever was profound enough to make it into that many pages, will be profound enough to get on the front of the cover.

Look for metaphors when creating the book cover design

If your theme is about failing, then trying again, why not represent that on your book cover design? Your background can be a crumpled piece of paper that is flattened smooth for a fresh start. Your readers can immediately reflect upon the theme before they even open the book.

Focus on a single image

If you have plenty of symbolism, or more themes, don’t get carried away by trying to represent everything. Less is often more, and that will undoubtedly apply to your book cover design. Space should be used wisely, and be cautious with simple imagery. Keep the focus on a single image, as you don’t want to be overwhelming or confusing.

Choose colors that fit well with your story

Is your story actually a dramatic thriller? Bold red, deep ocean blues and sinister black are the colors to go. Is it a read that can be taken to the beach? Use jade greens and cool blues to give it a laid-back vibe. There’s actually a whole science behind color psychology, and you can make use of it for your cover design.

Use contrast for an eye-catching cover

If you’re having problems with your color scheme, try to take it back to basics and go with black and white. A classic contrast will help your cover pop, and is both classic and timeless. The monochromatic color scheme can result in a great way to keep your words and fonts at the front, and the image will become a part of the background.

Text is important, and you shouldn’t forget that

Just like the color that represents the story should be chosen carefully, you should choose a font that matches it as well. Do you have a mostly-female audience? A scripted font with a feminine flair is the way to go. Men prefer a bold, simple text that is easy to read. The biggest factor in the success of your book is actually the audience, so your cover should be tailor made to appeal to them.

Reviews matter

Do you have a good review from someone who is well-known in your field? Just put it on your cover! Even if it simplifies your book cover design in other aspects, having the popularity of someone who is well known verify that you have a good story or content is well worth it. Their name will lend credibility, especially if you’re a first-time author.

Add a teaser or subtitle in the book cover design

A good way to attract attention is to give your readers a short glimpse of what they’ll find between the covers, and that is easily done with a teaser or short subtitle. It takes much less time to read than the synopsis, and immediately draws in readers. The text should be smaller than the title, yet clear. It should be easy to read, but shouldn’t jump out at readers.

Consider the format

Different designs work better for one format than the other, and using the same cover for your print version as the one for your eBook is a mistake. For example, the eBook cover is often viewed in a thumbnail, meaning that the title and image should be clearly visible.

One genre might emphasize certain things more than the others, but you should keep a main focus that the browsers can easily spot when they’re looking at a small-scale version of your cover.

The print covers, on the other hand, give the viewers an up close view of the design, and thus require a different, more delicate approach. This shouldn’t mean different images for both versions, but you should tweak some elements to better suit the format.

Show, don’t tell

This is a piece of advice for writers, meaning that they should show through words, feelings and senses, instead of going with too much exposition. So, how do you apply this to design? Simple, just don’t be too blatant and too literal.

The depicting of antagonists, protagonists, faces, etc., is a common thing with old cover designs, as the designers wanted to illustrate the characters in a scene from the book. Your cover should be thought of as a movie trailer.

Sometimes you’ll see the trailer and go away, because you saw all the plot points. However, if the trailer is a bit more mysterious, you’ll want to see more. That’s how the cover should look like, without giving away everything. There are a few tips on how to achieve that.

Use symbols in the book cover design

If you want to avoid being too literal, experiment with symbols that represent a larger concept or idea. Set the mood and tone for your book. When you walk into the romance section at a book store, how do most of the book covers look like? Now imagine the crime novel section and ask yourself the same.

There’s a major shift in the use of typography, imagery and colors. The genre is very important, and it gives the consumers a glimpse of what they should expect when they open the book.

Be open minded and general

The more general your idea is, the more likely you are to create a professional design. If the idea is too detailed, creating a professional design may be difficult. For example, if you want a woman and a man on the beach, that’s pretty general and can be used very well. However, if you want them to be of specific ages, hair color, clothing and ethnicities, things get much more tricky.

Manipulating the images to an extent is possible, but keeping things general is a good idea. Try to be open minded too, and come up with more than a single design concept. This keeps your designer’s options open, and lets them go for a design that can suit everything best.

Don’t show your character in too much detail

Showcasing your main character on the cover is tempting, but it is seldom a good idea. A lot of readers would prefer using their imagination for this, and it might be very difficult for your designer to find a stock image that will match your expectations of your character’s looks.

If you think this is actually important, consider using a silhouette, or show them in a small part, or from behind, as this doesn’t reveal the whole character. These are all alternatives that will spark interest, and not limit the readers’ imaginations.

Be strong, simple and symbolic

A specific scene is often difficult to assemble when you’re using stock images, so refrain from this. The front cover is the first thing most, if not all, readers will see, and without the proper context, it might not make any sense even if you have a specific scene.

Being iconic or symbolic is much better, and coming up with a simple idea that is easy to understand is much better. Most people will see your book as a tiny picture, or out the corner of their eye if they’re in the bookstore. Regardless of which one it is, a strong, symbolic cover will grab their attention easily.

Browse stock images and research at your local book store

If you’re finding it hard to come up with an idea, do some research. Go to your local bookstore and take a look at books of the same genre. This may give you ideas or suggestions for your own design. Once you have an idea, browse for stock images on the web.

Don’t forget about the technical details

There are a few technical things to keep an eye out for. Copyright issues are something you should be aware of. If an image is copyrighted, using it without written permission isn’t something you can do. This may delay the production of your book, and choosing a licensed image, or an image you have taken yourself, is much easier.

The images must be in a high resolution as well, usually no less than 300 ppi if you’re using it for the cover, and they must be in a size suitable for their use. If you’re submitting a finalized design, production delays can be easily prevented by submitting it in a layered Photoshop or TIFF file, where the text is on a separate layer from the images.

The back cover is informative, pay attention to it

Even though the front cover is a great eye candy which tells your reader that the book is worth a second glance, that second glance is at the back cover. It should be an infomercial that validates the excitement the buyer’s feeling, and assures him that the book is well worth the investment.

How to do a book cover design wrong

Looking at bad designs is a good practice too. There are a lot of them, and you can see what are some of the things you shouldn’t be doing. Overthought and overwrought typography is the main offender here, but using stock imagery is another close contender. Be careful with the fonts and images.

Showcase of book covers

Harry Potter book cover

To kill a mockingbird book cover

Twilight book cover

Pride and Prejudice book cover

The hobbit book cover

Frankenstein book cover

The outsiders book cover

The great Gatsby book cover

Divergent book cover

The hunger games book cover

Lord of the flies book cover

Alice in wonderland book cover

1984 book cover

Fahrenheit 451 book cover

Lord of the rings book cover

Romeo and Juliet book cover

The fault in our stars book cover

Ending thoughts on book cover design

Few people think about how the book covers come into life, most of them just thing you’ll call an artist and he’ll get it done.

Authors themselves, or family members or friends may also get it done, but for a successful and effective cover, you need expertise.

You’re visually representing the whole book in a single image, which is a hefty job to take on. Keep these things in mind.

If you liked this article about book cover design, you should check out these as well:

How to make an album cover – 46 artwork examples

Graphic Designer Salary: Junior, Senior and the Average Annual One

Bird Logo Design: Examples and Bird Symbolism

Book Cover Archive

The 10 Best Book Covers of 2017

The post Book Cover Design: Ideas, Layout, Fonts, And How to Create One appeared first on Design your way.

from Web Development & Designing http://www.designyourway.net/blog/graphic-design/book-cover-design/

[infinitedevilengine]

I heard you were having trouble remembering a gang of Devils.  I am familiar with many, but perhaps these were the ones you were thinking about? "The Mastermind" Name: Madame Nayalsithus Wroughthand Type: Gold Nayalsithus is the leader, but she has great contempt for the others in this ensemble; the gang being an obvious side job/tax shelter for her outside of more devious plots.  That, or a convenient squad of disposable fools for an impossible heist.  She makes a point in every conversation to let you know she has better things to be doing.  Nayalsithus is about two heads taller than a typical human.  Her build is slender, and she is clad in only the finest of silks.  Red and blue and violet... Bearing such striking and elaborate golden patterns that one shudders to imagine how time consuming their crafting would be.  Her jewelry is almost exclusively loose fitting golden bands, and she jangles them loudly to drown out the talking of those she is not fond of (which are many).  Her mask is fair and clean, apart from patterns around her eyes that resemble a traditional costume mask.  It is difficult to say whether her mask actually looks like this, or she has fused an additional mask OVER it.  She caries no weapon, as any true mastermind knows to make others do the fighting for you.  That, and Nayalsithus only enjoys battle if she is able to tear her foes apart with her bare hands and razor sharp teeth.  Writes some truly atrocious poetry. Catchphrase: "I didn't give you permission to speak!" "The Face" Name: Groolsworth Gregory Gila Gaidensboro Type: Green While Nayalsithus is the one technically in charge, Groolsworth does most of the day to day work.  His charm is more a force of will than actual charisma, that American car salesman ability to easily crossfade from being your best friend to extorting you.  Most would agree that when dealing with Groolsworth, he makes way too much physical contact.  About the size and shape of a typical human male, Groolsworth can easily blend into a crowd when need be.  He has 5 eyes dotted around his skull shaped mask and, fortunately for business, the "shifty" looking ones are on the sides of his head.  Groolsworth is clad in a baggy and unflattering suit which he designed himself.  This patchwork disaster is crafted from his favorite bits and pieces of any suit his victims might be fortunate enough to be wearing.  Only the most garish of colors and patterns are to Groolsworth's liking.  He is gleefully unaware that this isn't how suits work.  Beneath the suit, his mantis-like wings are tucked in back, and his third and fourth arm are tucked in the front.   Here, he coddles his prized collection of only the most technologically advanced repeating pistols.  Some of his favorites are currently broken, but he still keeps them on his person because they look cool.  His voice sounds like Cobra Commander. Catchphrase: "Let ME do the talking." "The Bruiser" Name:  Densrick Wrysincroft, The Tyrant's Bootheel Type: Red Big, loud, and violent, Densrick plays the typical Red.  An imposing wall of muscle, towering at 7'9" (though he insists he is 8' tall).  His horns are thick and spiral forward like that of a ram, the left horn split and shattered.  Densrick will tell you that it's always been like that.   His mask shows all manner of damage, splits and cracks.  A spot near his left cheek is crushed in like a hard boiled egg.  Densrick would tell you that he is never struck in the face, he simply headbutts his foe's weapons.  This statement is at least 20% true.  Two stubby tusks flank each side of his mouth and two cigars are frequently pressed to his lips.  The cigars are held by an elaborate, decorative clasp which is probably just a ladies hair clip he found somewhere.  His grotesque tail splits 3/4 of the way to the tip, one gnarled twig jutting from one gnarled branch.  It either healed this way, or he simply has a very ugly tail.  Thick, matted hair falls down to his waist; the occasional sloppy braid can be found where it was given up on.  You will find him clad in a thick, furred battle robe and accompanying armor plates and pads.  Most of the armor is severely damaged, making it much less functional as armor, but Densrick stubbornly continues wearing it because it makes him look more badass.  His weapons are numerous, but almost exclusively axes.  He says they are: "like me, handsome and to the point." (Metsuki: Doncha mean heavy and DULL?! Ha..! HahaHAHAHA!!!).  On his back is strapped a massive battleaxe for foes larger than him.  To his right flank, a double headed axe for typical encounters.  And to his left flank is a humble hatchet that he saves for only his most despised of foes, for crushing insects and other vermin, and as his primary eating utensil.  He cleans this hatchet less than he cleans himself.   Catchphrase: "Finally, some action!" "The Acrobat" Name: Metsuki Traesiko Cadence Raincloud Cream Sunday Type: Blue Most would agree that past a certain threshold, a daredevil goes from being very brave to simply insane.  Metsuki has plummeted well past this threshold with no parachute and no plan.  She thoroughly enjoys teasing her comrades, as well as her foes and also complete strangers.   Incredibly talented and always eager, her general mischief and grating laughter are somewhat outweighed by being "too good to get rid of."  At about 4' tall she is small relative to a human, but still gigantic when compared to the numerous rodent sized Blues.  The horns of her mask curve backwards akin to ears.  Here, she tucks her hair's thick twin braids so that they don't flop about as she does.  Metsuki is clad in breezy urban wear fit for a girl on the go.  Sneakers that pump up, gym shorts, top tied at the waist with some sassy graphic on the front.   Buttoned at her neck and over her shoulders is an embroidered jacket.   Beneath this jacket is where she deftly hides her tools of the trade.   Hooks and ropes and wires...  Metsuki's right leg is missing from halfway down her hip, in it's place is a mechanical prosthetic.  This prosthetic is spring-loaded and can launch her about three stories upwards.  This spring action can also be used as something of a crossbow, though this feature isn't very practical.  The prosthetic is also filled with heavy explosives for all sorts of occasions.  Metsuki may or may not have intentionally dismembered herself for this fancy new leg.  While given to all types of thievery, she is most fond of gilded goblets and bejeweled drink receptacles.  She keeps her collection in a great pile in her room.  On this pile, she will frequently sleep as it is very uncomfortable and smells softly of liquor.  Next to this pile, she has a separate stash of pilfered novelty coffee mugs.  Metsuki doesn't really understand her compulsion for taking these things and kind of hates herself for it. Catchphrase: "I don't think we're gonna make it THIS time, guys... Hahhha..! AhHAHAHAHA!!!" "The Mechanic" Name: Mitchell Tripwire Trap Grease Monkey Clack Click Clamp Tap Paddy Wack Sack Barada Nikto Achu Bless Yu Just A Regular Guy Smith Johnson Jr. With Cheese, Hold The PicklesType: Pale The humble Pale Devil Mitchell is probably the most useful of the bunch, and he doesn't even need to be payed!  Mitchell is small, barely 3' in height.  His slight stature aiding in both his work and deployment.  He wears a simple slate grey cloak, under which are several belts that serve as hangers for his numerous tools.  At his right hip is his most prized and useful tool, a heavy 3 1/4" monkey wrench.  It is also his most prized and useful weapon (His second most prized and useful tool is an 9" long phillips head screwdriver.  This is also his second most prized and useful weapon).  He is blessed with six arms, but four are too small to be very helpful.  They mostly just pass tools around under his cloak.  When not in service, Mitchell is carried around in a small crate by Groolsworth.  Through a hole at the top of this crate, Groolsworth will feed Mitchell the bits and pieces of those he interrogates.  Oh no, you won't be getting those fingers back!   Groolsworth tends to obnoxiously linger on the "L"s of Mitchell's name when addressing him, or to derisively refer to him as "Pickles" when he is in a bad mood (which is often).  Mitchell has a great passion for the theatre and other staged arts.   Catchphrase: "..." I hope this jogs your memory of those Devils you were trying to think of!  And if these weren't the right guys, you should probably try to hang out with them sometime!  They're a blast, and they might not even kill you.  Well, until we meet again... From your friend, Chip Champion