#hey guess what I just finished!

[cityandking]

tomorrow's story

minah + the orchestra. pre-campaign. 1.6k for bloody prompted by @thewildmother like a million years ago. whoops. // angst prompts

They stop half a day out from Seleny to water the horses in a dip between hillsides. The river is wide and flat and slow moving as it spills out of the swamplands and wends its way eastwards towards Rialto Bay, and the horses aren't the only ones grateful for a break. The Orchestra slumps down in ones and twos in the scant shade of the wagons, nursing aching feet and enjoying the slight breeze off the water while Bennie and Priya see to the horses.

Minah is with Faelyn when the call goes up, propped against one of the wagon wheels and watching him make a pair of cards dance between his fingers, trying to mimic the motion. It’s something about the third finger, she thinks, some trick of pressure or placement, and she’s so focused on pushing through her own awkwardness that it takes a moment to parse the shout. Next to her, Faelyn fumbles his cards, and that finally draws her attention away from the trick.

That, and Alesso’s voice rings out from the far side of the wagons, sudden and booming and a dozen times sharper than he ever sounds before a crowd.

“Bandits!”

Minah drops her cards.

Faelyn’s up and gone already, drawing his sword as he shoves away from the wagons and towards the sudden churn of figures spilling over the far hillside. In the shallows, the horses stamp and whinny, and Priya swears loud enough to make out each syllable over the surge of raised voices, the ringing clang of metal. Alesso starts shouting again too, hat askew and crossbow in hand as more figures crest the near hilltop, and Minah gets as far as up on her feet before the panic freezes her. She doesn't know where to look, what to do. She’s heard their stories, and she knows full well the roads aren’t always safe, even for a group like the Orchestra. But those are stories.

This isn’t a story. This is a dozen men, armed and armored, bearing down on them in broad daylight.

A crossbow bolt thunks into the wagon an arm’s length from her head, and that jolts her into action. She grabs for the bow at her side, fumbling the grip nearly as badly as Faelyn's card trick, and then it’s in her hand, arrow nocked, arm raised.

She glances up in the direction of the crossbow and finds the man who shot it loading up another bolt, charging down the hill with another three men behind him. Alesso and Faelyn and the twins are on the other side of the wagons with most of the company, and Priya is cursing the day and the horses and the bandits’ mothers while Bennie struggles with the lead lines, and up on the driver's bench of the lead wagon is Tilda with a bow of her own. As Minah stares, an arrow sprouts from the bowman’s neck, and his body runs a step more before it falters and crashes into the dusty grass. His fellows keep charging, swords tugged free from scabbards.

Someone runs past her—one of the jugglers with her own pair of swords, shouting loud enough to wake the dead. Her wild attack gives two of the men pause, but not the third. The third pushes forward down the hillside, coming straight at Minah, blade glinting in the sunlight.

It's easy, in the cloudy-sharp rush of panic, to shoot. She doesn’t think about it. He makes a larger target than trick hoops or rabbits, and the arrow slips away from her fingers before she can think to loose it. She’s barely aware of the snap of the bowstring as the arrow sings into the mass of him, thudding deep, and he—

Doesn’t stop.

She fumbles for another arrow. Tilda shouts something, garbled and senseless beneath the sounds of fighting. Vaguely, Minah clocks more movement off to the side where Alesso is rallying the troupe, the copper smell of baked earth and blood rich in the air. When she shoots, the arrow clips the man's arm and goes wide.

She drops the bow and grabs for the knife in her belt instead. It's a paltry thing compared to the sword—but then, she thinks with a crystal clear sort of panic, she’s a paltry thing in comparison to the man wielding the blade; she's easily a head smaller, and Maker above she should have run. She shouldn’t have dropped the fucking bow.

He comes in swinging. She ducks the first blow and leaps away from the second and finds her feet falling into a familiar position, toes out, balance forward. A half-remembered voice whispers in her ear, indulgent more than anything. Get in close. You’re small, so you have to get in close.

She darts backwards again when he comes around for another pass. He isn’t wearing a helmet, just a padded jacket, and her arrow sticks out of his stomach, fletching bobbing mockingly as he moves. When he leers at her, she can count all four of his missing teeth. Her stomach turns over.

“C’mon, girlie,” he says. His accent is more Marcher than Antivan, out of place so close to Seleny, and that turns her stomach worse. “Put down the pig sticker and let’s be friends, hm? I can be nice.”

Minah raises the knife in a fencer’s ready position and has the thought, wild and fleeting, that fencing is nothing like this.

He scowls and swings again, and her heart thrums in her throat and her fingertips when she ducks into the swing, under his guard. His bulk makes him clumsy and his surprise makes him clumsier, and her body almost remembers this, the shift of weight and motion, something between a dance and a bout and miles away from either. She shoves him as hard as she can and he stumbles back, losing his grip on the sword. She kicks at the hilt before he can reach for it, and now it’s her with the knife and him with nothing.

She doesn’t expect the backhand.

She drops like a sack of cloth, tears in her eyes and head ringing, and it’s only the deep-rooted instinct to survive that has her fingers clenching around the knife, refusing to lose the one advantage she has. The sky spins overhead, and the noise of the fight goes watery and muffled, and then he’s on her, a heavy, stinking weight. He’s saying something as he bears down on her, muttering to himself, but she can’t make out the words. There’s only the smothering pressure, the fit of his fingers around her throat, and she thrashes and gasps and drives the knife up into him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Hot, thick blood spills out, drenches her hand and her shirt and the ground beneath them, and his fingers go slack as he collapses on top of her, and she screams. The blood keeps coming, and she’s pinned, and for a moment, for just a moment, she’s there again, blood on her skirts, copper and stinking and hot and everywhere, and she can’t move or run or look away, and—

“Minah!”

The weight vanishes, and then a hand catches her shoulder, her elbow, drags her upright, and the blind, choking panic fades in the face of Alesso’s wild-eyed concern. Minah stand there, knife clutched in one hand, chest heaving. There’s blood all down her front. There’s blood everywhere.

“Are you hurt?” Alesso demands. “Are you bleeding, is it yours?”

“I’m fine,” she manages, as far as fine as she could be. But she says it, and even manages to scrape together a smile to go with. She clenches the knife tighter to hide her shaking. “Bit surprised is all.”

He stares at her for a heartbeat, then shakes his head. “Maker’s balls, girl. You look like a nightmare.”

Minah swallows down the acid sting of bile and looks around. Over his shoulder, she catches sight of the other two swordsmen, dead, and by the water Priya and Bennie have the horses settled, and there’s Faelyn coming around the far side of the wagon, face a storm cloud. Minah takes a breath.

“Is everyone else alright? Did anyone…?”

“Everyone’s fine. A better sight than you.”

“Good,” she says, and then she makes the mistake of glancing down at the body. The man’s face is pale and shocked. She can still count his missing teeth.

He’d been alive. He’d been alive, and now he’s not, and his blood is— His blood is—

She drops the knife, gets three paces away, and vomits. She can’t stop shaking.

“Sorry,” she says, vaguely aware of Alesso next to her and the embarrassment of being so shaken when everyone else is picking themselves up, dusting themselves off. “Sorry, I’m fine. I just— I never—"

“Alright.” Alesso crouches next to her, hand on her elbow again. “It’s alright. Come on, you’re fine. Let’s get you clean, hm? And then a proper meal and proper bed in town tonight, and tomorrow it will be a story. Yes? There's no point in lingering in it.”

She closes her eyes, breathes slow and trembling through the nausea. Her cheek throbs in time with her heartbeat, and she’s almost grateful for the distraction of the pain. When she clenches her fingers into fists, the blood sticks tacky between her knuckles. She takes another breath.

“Right,” she says. She doesn’t need to wait until tomorrow for it to be a story. She can make it one right now. “I’m alright.”

“You’re alright,” Alesso agrees, and Minah lets the lie pull her up from the muddy, bloody dirt and goes down to the river to wash.

[cent-scratchnsniff]

green apple flavor

[mogcubed]

flowey undertale they could never make me hate you

[ladywaterfall]

Watching Arcane s2 is like Things sure are Happening and I’m definitely following the lore of everything hey is that ANOTHER plot what

[bicon-crange]

man. i wish i was still into dhmis loool

[manglechanbluh]

Kiddos holding bbh's tail when walking even tho they are too old to get lost is very dear to me.

[icewindandboringhorror]

recent lounging babey images

[ill-cypher]

Oh man, I feel you on the Medstar books. And I, too, love to work them into my fics as often as possible. That and The Approaching Storm for good measure. It's also important that she was at Umbara.

Now that I finished the Medstar books later night, I just borrowed The Approaching Storm and plan on digging in to it!

I've been wanting to weave in the Umbaran Campaign into my story in some way beyond a simple mention, but I'm kind of stuck with no ideas on it rn unfortunately.

I wouldn't be surprised if they retcon it completely, but I also want to add her imprisonment on Felucia and subsequent rescue by Aayla shortly after her Knighting (since it's still considered to be canon in some way?). Of course the Legends story of it doesn't match with canon in any significant way so I would make major changes to it so it could fit into the timeline properly, but I feel like it could be a major turning point for her mentally—like the final nail in the coffin (or close to it) leading up to the Temple plot.

I have a lot of ideas and I really want to start writing it out, but at the same time I'm overly worried about characterization and it's completely stopping any progress. I really want to talk through my ideas before I work on it, but I don't really know anyone to talk to here other than my friend (who I assume would be willing to listen but she doesn't really know Barriss beyond looking over my shoulder while I was crying over TOTE).

Idk it's just super important to me that I do it well bc I love her character so much and I want to do right by her especially when she is so misunderstood

[thirteenemeraldcats]

I would to know more about the untitled-Jamie-blue-screen fic, if you wanted to share anything about it : )

Hello terrifyingly talented friend! I am happy to share!!

So this fic started rolling while I was writing 'i learned to walk while he was away', - that story explores some of the 'unseen' effects of Jamie's experiences, specifically what his relationship to expressions of violence (even when positively channelled) might be after growing up with an angry man. The 'untitled-Jamie-blue-screen-day' fic (which is technically 'redacted-title-Jamie-blue-screen-day' fic, I'm a fairly changeable person and the title's redacted purely because it's still subject to possible [who knows, not me] change) is another exploration of some of the 'unseen' or more accurately 'undeveloped' parts of Jamie's psyche that canon skips over.

Specifically, the symptoms of depression he displays in 3x11 Mom City.

I'm a card carrying member of the 'Jamie has multiple missing diagnoses' bandwagon and know first hand what a horrifyingly tricky combo neurodivergence and clinical depression can be.

I use a lot of metaphors to describe/understand the complexities of mental health- when I was studying it, when I'm teaching it and yea when I'm thinking about my own brain :)

Most of the metaphors are computer based- product of the times I guess.

The untitled-title 'blue screen day' is how I unaffectionately refer to the days when that horrifyingly tricky combo decides to be extra horrifying and extra tricky and causes total system overload. The days when you forget how to be a person. That 'blue screen' blink feeling of not functioning, but then it's not momentary, it's not a blink, it doesn't go away. You're seeing with your eyes sure, but you're not really seeing and they don't really feel like your eyes. You exist in your body yes, but do you really exist? Is it actually your body?

(To use plain language; it's a brief and intense episode of severe burn-out, typically bought on by cognitive and/or sensory overload, but sometimes seemingly spontaneous [clinical!].)

So that's what I gave Jamie, a blue-screen-day (sorry buddy).

But I also gave him Roy! And a smoothie! He'll be okay.

(Essentially the story is the idea that sometimes things don't have solutions or answers or a quick and easy fix. Sometimes all you can do is be. Sometimes all you can do to help is be there.)

The fic really is gentle hours, I swear.

[piningpercussionist]

Template by @juni38

Im going to be completely frank with you all... and admit that I read these options and wasn't sure how to take this chart,,, so uh. Under the cut is Another Version. I'd apologize but I've given you the option to keep scrolling ¯\_(･･)_/¯

(If you notice characters missing on Kim's side, I probably figured she doesn't know who they are lol)

For the record,,, if they *wanted* me to pull their hair-- *is shot several times before I can continue*

Uhh Matthew is here because I have been converted fully on he/him or enby lesbian Matthew I think. He lives in my brain rent free now, very gender. I'd pull his hair but also I think he mostly just deserves to have it played with nicely.

And Scott's here because 1) I enjoy trans Scott, 2) Kim Pine Brain Rot possibly, 3) idk he's like,, the exception. God damnit, I've fallen for the inexplicable Scott Pilgrim Effect. What the fuck--

I did think about doing this chart like everyone was actually applicable to my tastes, but even if they were I think the ones I didn't put up would have to fall on the caress side bc I just don't feel that way abt them lol.

Again, not to say that's the case for the gals over on that side,,, I just think I would want to be gentle w them shxkdjsdhbd with the exception for Lynette who probably deserves to have her hair pulled, but again I fear she would Hurt Me,,, but maybe in a fun way,,,

Anyway No One Look At Me....

(,, also,,, Ramona is so far over bc I think she would enjoy it,, otherwise she'd be closer to Kim in that section. Same thing w Roxie)

If anyone actually looks at this version, I'm not opposed to doing a version like this for Kim btw! Just ask for it so I feel like I'm not just Dropping This and scurrying away

[aerodaltonimperial]

monsters

[theinfinitedivides]

and once again i say: F*CK MBC

[laz-262]

done with all of them :D

[leafatlaw]

Genuinely fucked up and evil I can’t look up picture of my specialist guy on tumblr dot com without seeing spoilers

[lyssafreyguy]

God . . . imagine thinking Laios is a bad person who doesn't care about people. actual insanity.

[comfycalamity]

[ i stay just to run and i run for my life / i must dig those graves if i want to stay alive ]