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mindymortondev · 2 years

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Trigger Zones and Parallax Hell

If only you knew the pain I've been going through with cameras in Game Maker Studio for the past few weeks! But it's fine, I've got it all figured out now. This post is going to be a pretty long one. To be honest, there are a lot of little things I've done since the last post that I'm just going to either gloss over or save for a different post (maybe?) Primarily trying to standardize my code, resizing my sprites again, and hitbox thingzzz.

Anyways let's get into CAMERAS!

So game cameras were a little bit of an enigma for me going into this. From application surfaces to resolution, to window size... Quite frankly, they're very powerful tools when it comes to building a game, and all the stuff you can control with GameMaker's camera was frankly-

a massive headache.

Come down the rabbit hole with me-

TRIGGER ZONES

First things first, I had to get the camera set up. There are a lot of tutorials on this, all of which are slightly different. My code ended up somewhere in the middle of all of them. Here was the first tutorial I followed:

How to make a Camera for any GameMaker game in 4 minutes by Shaun Spalding

So Shaun Spaulding's video helped me get the camera set up in the first place, although frankly, this method didn't last very long in my project. It was good and simple but for whatever reason, people really don't recommend you use GameMaker Studio's Room Builder's camera settings, but rather code them yourself. I'm not sure why else other than the fact you get a lot more control over your game's in-game camera, resolution, and window size, plus you can create cutscenes and stuff with it. Next was-

Smooth Camera Tutorial + Pan/Zoom [GameMaker Studio 2] by Matharoo

Matharoo's code was more complicated at first but it gives you that level of control that I was just talking about, and it sets it up in mostly the same way. Although, my code now is definitely a mash-up of the two tutorials.

With those two tutorials, now our camera looks like this:

This is great! Now we have an actual camera instead of looking at the whole room! But if we look at our camera's view, we can see that the camera is seeing out of bounds. Matharoo's video may have actually covered this (you can watch it yourself) but where I found my solution was-

Camera Modes | GameMaker Studio 2 by FriendlyCosmonaut (this one starts at 14:33)

I did not watch this entire video but it looks like it has a lot of useful information in it. Even though she isn't making the same type of game in the video, she does cover the topic I needed, which the provided link will actually jump straight to that section of the video

This is solid! Now that we have one problem solved, it's time for another-

Unless you're going for something more old-school like Super Metroid, we're likely going to have big open rooms that twist in multiple directions. I had a pretty clear vision of how I wanted the camera to operate. My trajectory is in the direction of Hollow Knight, which has a simple yet complex camera system that is very well explained in this YouTube video:

youtube

This video sort of became my "mission statement" with all this. Unfortunately, I don't have a tutorial I can point to for how I coded all the stuff in this video, but I did realize Shaun Spalding briefly touched on his own solution to this kind of problem with what he called "trigger zones". This is a good way to describe my own solution. Essentially we're going to create an array of overlay objects, or "trigger zones" that will restrict the camera's movement to only being able to move where they say. This is more or less the setup we're looking at:

This is how Hollow Knight's cameras appear to be working in the video, and how we'll set them up too. I won't dive too deep into the nitty-gritty coding on this one, but basically, each of these trigger zones is an object in GameMaker that will bind the camera by their respective dimensions.

This gets very inter-relational with all these objects since each object needs to be able to apply its own unique dimensions to the camera boundaries. It did become a little bit of a headache managing what turned into 5 or 6 different camera-related objects which were all modifying each other.

Here are some pictures of how this looks in practice. Keep in mind that these would all be turned on at once to function properly:

Vertical Trigger Zones (the camera won't move above or below the zone the player is in)

Horizontal Trigger Zones (the camera won't move too far left or right in these zones)

Zoom-In (or Zoom-Out) Zone (the camera will zoom in/out as far/close as the width of this zone)

These are just a few examples but hopefully, the concept makes some sense to you! So finally, with these systems in place, our cameras will finally move like this:

And that is (mostly) the end of that. Scope creep has kept me coming back and adding incremental changes to all these features (specifically the zoom one). Fundamentally they will continue to work the same but it's easy to keep tuning things like camera speed and zoom speed.

Anyways, with this stuff done it's time to get to the next thing:

PARALLAX HELL

So the actual solution to this was straightforward--use a 3D camera and follow this tutorial:

From 2D to 2.5D: GameMaker Studio 2 TUTORIAL (Using 3D Camera) | Easy Parallax by Matharoo

It's what Hallow Knight does, it creates a natural parallax effect, and it makes a lot of the artistic work pretty easy. But, the reason it took me so long to get here is a story that brings me great pain...

To start, I wasn't originally going to use a 3D camera because they sounded somewhat complicated. Even Shaun Spaulding sounded like he didn't recommend them in his tutorial that I shared above (although maybe that's just for beginners). What I was going to do could be called "interpolated parallax," where we are basically moving a bunch of image layers around relative to the position of the camera.

You can learn more about this in this video by Pixelated Pope.

That doesn't really need to make sense to you, but that's what I was doing. Now, this method could have totally worked theoretically if it weren't for the fact that GameMaker Studio 2 has actually removed certain coding properties from GameMaker 1.4, which makes this method kinda unreasonably difficult? At least from what I tested. It works great if your only intention is to have an endless runner game or if you want to accommodate for open space by drawing individual sections of background together in a giant 4k+ canvas.

It sounded messy and I didn't really want to deal with it. Eventually, I learned more and more about GameMaker Studio's 3D camera, which was easy to set up for my specific needs.

It did take a while to fine-tune it all but I did get there in the end. It did, however, break my zooming trigger zone. This post is already long enough but basically, I thought the solution would be needing to change the camera's field of view with trigonometry when it was actually just changing the camera's distance with a basic ratio...

Not my brightest moment there and it took a painful couple of hours of staring at the same code and Desmos to figure that out.

ANYWAYS...

The camera system is finished! Or at least, finished enough that I can move on to designing backgrounds, and just fine-tune this bit by bit later down the line.

Honestly, this was all very time-consuming, and the struggles with the zooming trigger zone were a bit demoralizing, so I'm ready to get back into the art generation side of things!

I also plan to spend some time beating Hallow Knight and maybe a few other platformers I can take reference from for backgrounds 😎

See you next time, everyone!

#gamedev #hollow knight #original character #coding problems #indiegamedev #parallax #hell #actually hell #gamemaker studio 2 #art student

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flecks-of-stardust · 2 years

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Dreamless: Chapter One — A Call to Struggle

Chapter one of my Hollow Knight AU, Dreamless. Spoilers inbound.

Learn more about this AU: a link to the Dreamless masterlist.

Chapter summary: Ghost sails to Hallownest and is grouchy about it the whole time. They run into a few unpleasant realizations on their way in, and confront Elderbug at the entrance to Dirtmouth. They then bed down to prepare for the journey ahead.

Content warning for violent anger.

Read this chapter on AO3.

Before we get into the heat of things, some clarifications and warnings. This will be a long note, but bear with me. It's important.

Dreamless is a very personal story that draws a lot from my own experiences. Many sequences in this fic are based directly on things I am working through, and some indirectly or directly parallel certain real world events. I have no interest in attempting to hide this fact. I just ask that you be respectful when reading this story. There will be war, there will be genocide, there will be colonization, there will be death. None of this is going to be glossed over. If you can't handle that, I understand. But if you choose to read this fic, please keep in mind that half the time, this is what Dreamless is exploring.

In the previous iteration of this fic, I put this warning on Chapter 4, which is where this fact first rears its head, but now I recognize it should be a disclaimer at the very start of the fic. So here it is. Dead dove do not eat, please proceed with caution.

The rest of this note is addressed to, in this order, screenreader users, readers from the previous version of the fic, and anyone who needs content warnings. If you aren't any of these, you may skip the rest of the note. I hope you enjoy the first chapter.

For screenreader users, hello! I am a sighted writer, but I've tried my best to make this fic as screenreader accessible as I can with what I know. It seems that not all screenreaders distinguish between plain, bolded, and italicized text, so I've added extra notation for clarity. Bolded text will be bounded by asterisks (*), and italicized text will be bounded by underscores (_). In future chapters, there will be dialogue where this is relevant, so I hope introducing this notation now helps familiarize you with it. If there's anything else I can change for extra clarity, feel free to let me know! I truly hope you can enjoy this fic just as much as a sighted reader can.

For anyone who is here from the old iteration of this fic, thank you so much for sticking around all this time. These 9 months have been fruitful, and I hope to have a somewhat regular posting schedule now that I've ironed out a lot of kinks in the world. That being said, I will be deleting the old version off of AO3 at some future point in time. It's riddled with inaccuracies, and I'd rather direct people to the new version. If you for some reason still wish to access the old version of this fic, they are still accessible here on Tumblr.

Finally, there will be content warnings in the notes of each chapter after a brief summary of the chapter. On Tumblr, these are above the read more cut. Normally it will just be the summary and the content warnings. I will try to tag as many warnings as I can think of and as I think is appropriate, and within reason, you may request for more warnings, but in general I ask that you read at your own discretion. This is not intended to be a light, cheery fic. Some sequences are intentionally written to cause discomfort. I am a full time college student writing this fic in my spare time, so please protect your own mental health if necessary by clicking out of my fic, whether for a breather or permanently.

Without further ado, let’s get into the fic.

—(Line breaker)—

The wastelands do not have much variety in terms of scenery, offering only mountains of sand everywhere they look. They pace around the deck of their sand glider again, blinking as the howling wind blasts rough sand directly into their eyes, and they grumble. They ran out of things to entertain themself with cycles ago. They should be used to the tedium by now, but the process of traveling never becomes more appealing.

Completing another loop around the deck, sliding their nail in and out of its sheath as they walk, they stop by the mast and fuss at the ropes. It’s tempting to simply turn their glider around. Not that they particularly enjoyed chasing after cochineals, but at least it was something to do instead of pacing around endlessly on their sand glider. They’ve been sailing straight for so long with no chance in scenery they have to question whether they’re actually heading anywhere.

As if in response, a burst of pain shoots through their right eye. They hiss, clutching their face as the pain runs its course, slowly fizzling back into the dull ache they’ve begrudgingly grown used to. It continues gnawing on their eye, an insistent irritation that lingers somewhere in the back of their eyeball.

Keeping their hand over their eye, they bang their head against the mast. They don’t have a choice. The Call—often a dull ache, sometimes a sharp, searing pain—makes sure of that. One cycle they’d gone to sleep fine, and the next they woke screaming in pain as their eye burned. Some cycles, the Call rages so intensely they can’t do anything but curl up on the ground, clutching their head as their eye threatens to evict itself from its socket.

Most cycles, however, go like this. They bang their head against the mast again, dropping their hands and crossing their arms, sulking. They don’t want to be here, but they’d rather their eye remain intact.

If it had just been a simple pain, though, they’d likely have ignored it. But the Call… calls. Some cycles, they can feel it beckoning them, pleading for them to come. Sometimes it cries out for them in their dreams. They can’t be rid of it until they figure out what’s making them come here.

So here they are, sailing into nothingness. They bang their head against the mast a third time. The moment they figure this all out, they are leaving.

With a sigh, they busy themself with digging their map out of their pack. Slouching over it to shield it from the wind as they unfurl the delicate paper, they glare down at it, halfheartedly tracing their path so far with a finger. Though the Call is persistent, it’s not very specific, leaving them only a vague impression of which direction to go in. The last eight kingdoms they’d stopped in had not yielded any relief to the Call, and the only thing ahead now is, of course, Hallownest. Or rather, the Wyrm’s Jaws, but the other kingdoms in this area evidently were never relevant or people would endlessly chatter and whisper about them too.

They cram their map back into their pack and cross their arms again, looking ahead to their approximate destination with a huff. Of course it had to be Hallownest. It couldn’t be some current, living kingdom they could enter, deal with the issue, and leave. _Obviously_ they had to go explore the entombed husk of a kingdom that also conveniently has horror stories about people never leaving its depths. That one. The one kingdom they’d hoped it wouldn’t be.

They fiddle with the boom irritably, tightening the rigging, then set off on another lap around the deck, blinking hard as they face the wind again. They don’t particularly care for those stories, but it’s hard not to pay some heed to them. Years back, Hallownest had been a popular topic in treasure hunter circles. But all that talk about finding the lost riches and wisdom that Hallownest offered in its prime amounted to nothing, as one by one, the treasure hunters dropped off the map, never to be seen again after setting out for the lost kingdom. Now all they hear are the fearful whispers of their friends and family about Hallownest swallowing those who dare enter its depths, warning any aspiring explorers against journeying there.

Unsheathing their nail, they swing it idly as they switch to pacing back and forth along the rear end of the deck. They can handle anything Hallownest throws at them. They’ve dealt with worse. But it couldn’t hurt to be cautious about it; they’d be more eager to dismiss it if they hadn’t watched several envoys of treasure hunters setting off and never returning.

The whole prospect of it all is ridiculous. Why go sticking your head into places it doesn’t belong? The vigor to find Hallownest’s riches only grew stronger after the first few groups of people went missing. Anyone still willing to go then was an idiot and got what they deserved.

They huff, swinging their nail in a wide arc and posing, holding their nail at the ready, at a nonexistent enemy. What a hypocrite they are, to be searching for the same thing the treasure hunters were seeking. But what’s the point of trying to scavenge through dead kingdoms? Kingdoms rise and fall constantly, so if they want something of worth, they should just loot their own kingdom and wait for it to die.

After a few dozen more loops around the deck with them swinging their nail around the whole time, a hint of gray breaks out over the dull tan of the sands. “Sheer stone cresting the cowering cradles of sand,” they were told by the one vendor who had insisted on pestering them on why they were trading for fuel cores. It is at least an apt description; the dark stone rises rapidly, a looming presence even from this distance. They blink, the transparent film of their eyelids clearing sand out of their eyes. Contrasted against the dim sky, the Wyrm’s Jaws almost seem to be swallowing the landscape around them.

Complementing the dreary landscape, the wind abruptly starts dying down; their sails go flaccid in the shifting breeze. They sheathe their nail with a grumble, stalking over to the mast and firmly readjusting their rigging to tighten the sails. The wood creaks as the fabric fills again, the headsail flapping as it struggles to catch the wind. Tugging on the halyard until it fills out, they tie the ropes back down as quickly as they can, yanking on the ends to secure them. They are not walking all the way to the Wyrm’s Jaws. They will row if they have to.

The wind, spluttering and wavering, carries their glider to the entrance of the Wyrm’s Jaws before expiring completely. Their glider gently slides to a halt, listing lightly to one side. They sigh. This will have to do. Briskly dusting themself off, they vault over the side of their glider, landing in a slight crouch in the sand below.

The sand is cool, uncharacteristically so, as it pools around their feet. Puzzled, they kneel to scoop up a handful of sand. It is the same temperature as if it had been sylark here for at least a harvest. Dumping the sand out of their hand, they dig their portable clock out of their pack and peer closely at the small contraption. It is syligh, says the clock, in the brightest part of the cycle.

Stowing the clock, they stand, staring up at the sky. It is almost as dark as sylark is in other kingdoms. Some kingdoms are naturally dimmer than others, but…

They push back the unease tunneling its way through their chest. They need somewhere to moor their glider, and their current location is too exposed to a wild gust of wind. There should be somewhere within the Wyrm’s Jaws where they can tie their glider down. Unfurling the bow ropes and tying them firmly around their waist, they begin trekking into the Wyrm’s Jaws proper.

Without the wind, only an eerie quiet accompanies them and their muted footfalls. They unsheathe their nail as they press onward, blinking every so often to keep their vision clear. They haven’t seen any living creatures around these parts since the last kingdom they stopped in, but it won’t hurt to be prepared. They wouldn’t mind having something to actually swing their nail at though.

The ground slopes gently downwards as they progress, and little pillars of stone begin rising out of the sand. They inspect one briefly, running their hand over it. It’s some sort of fossilized mouth segment—a tooth, if they recall the terminology correctly. The tip is smooth, blunted from the constant weathering, but from the way it bends they can tell it used to be sharp. The stone barely reaches the tips of their tibias, but as they continue wading through the sand, they grow taller and taller until the fossils loom over them.

The deeper they go, the dimmer it gets, the area becoming increasingly shaded. They blink again, straining to see the path ahead of them. There is some sort of structure up ahead, the outline of which is only barely visible in the shade. Hand clenching tighter around the hilt of their nail, they warily creep closer, lifting their feet higher to tread as little sand as they can manage.

Nothing greets them but splintered wood, which they discover when their foot lands on a stray scrap, and they fling their nail away from them at the sudden pain. Cursing and hopping backwards, they clutch at their throbbing foot, nearly falling on their tail as the sand shifts underneath them. They yank the splinters out with a few more expletives, then glare up at the culprit: an old, abandoned glider. It’s larger than their own, designed for a small crew, but is otherwise structured similarly.

The decay of the wood reveals its age, however, as well as the torn sails and the half buried deck. Some of the planks have fallen off too; they put their foot down and grope around in the sand, unearthing the loose piece of wood they stepped on for a closer look. Even in the dim lighting, the rot on the wood is evident, and the parts not buried under the sand show marked weathering not dissimilar to that of the stone tooth. Whoever this sand glider belonged to has not returned for it in a long time.

They toss the plank back at the glider and retrieve their nail, sheathing it and dusting their hands as unease ripples inside of them again. Did this glider belong to one of those envoys they had watched set off? No one in their right mind would abandon their glider; they’ve seen people fight over them.

They have also seen people deconstruct old gliders, prying off floorboards and fuel inserts and absconding to trade them someplace else. They can’t check the internal engine of the glider without more lighting, but from what they can see, this glider has simply been left here to rot, untampered by petty thieves hoping for an easy trade. Judging by the height of the mast and the tattered sails hanging from it, this used to be one of the fancier models too. So if no one has attempted to scavenge it…

Shaking their head, they quickly step away from the broken glider and push onward, kicking up sprays of sand in their haste. It doesn’t matter. They’re only going to be here for a short while, probably less than a harvest. Worse comes to worst, they themself can scavenge from the wreckage for emergency supplies.

Deeper and deeper they go, their sand glider gently creaking as they forge their way through the dark. They keep their nail drawn, both hands clasped around the hilt as they walk. Normally, silence doesn’t bother them, but something about how the lack of sound settles in this area makes their chitin itch. The Call doesn’t help; with each step, it pulses. They shake their head again in a futile attempt to rid themself of the pain.

Something scrapes loudly just as they do so, and they jump, whirling around to point their nail at the source. They only find their glider pressed up against a second, extremely dilapidated glider, groaning as it strains against the rotted wood. The rotted glider is barely holding itself together, parts of the below deck storage rooms bared to the world. They carefully maneuver around the contents of the storage rooms and an array of shattered planks as they make their way over to free their glider, stepping delicately to avoid gaining another splinter. There are crates, ones that likely used to contain food… They avoid looking at the ground as they lean on their glider and begin to push.

With a bit of exertion, their glider slides free, and they tug it away from the broken glider. They retie the bow ropes around them, huffing. They should pay more attention to where they’re going. This far out, they can’t easily fix their glider if something happens.

As they turn to continue, swinging their foot forward, their claws clank against something metal, and they freeze. Staring down at the ground for a few moments as their insides twist, they slowly bend down to unearth the object. With a gentle tug, they pull out an old fuel insert, the creaking of its hinges the only thing to cut through the heavy silence.

They knew people had stopped coming here. For what it’s worth, they all eventually stopped trying. But this, of all things, should be easy pickings.

And yet, here they are, with an old, unwanted, abandoned fuel insert. It’s old and battered enough that it’s now useless.

They stare down at it for a few moments, then fling it at the old glider, hot rage searing through them as the fuel insert crashes through several rotten planks. Why are they here? Why are _they_ here? If other people have come before them then why are _they_ the one who the Call targeted?

They kick one of the stray planks back at the glider and snarl as their foot throbs from the impact, and they crouch down to hold it, shaking in fury. They had to come all this way out into the middle of nowhere just to deal with this stupid Call that they can’t even get to shut up and there are _corpses_, remnants of people long gone and why are they _here_? All the travelers who came here for treasure and none of them could fix this issue? Why do they have to do this? Why are they the one that has to deal with this mess when it could be anyone else?

They slam a fist against their own glider, then flinch as the wood creaks from the impact. They need to get out of here. The sooner they get this done the sooner they can leave and they won’t have to deal with it anymore.

Hauling themself to their feet, they drag their glider with them into the dark, stumbling in their eagerness to move on. They’ll get it done quick. Get in, deal with whatever needs dealing with, get out. It’ll only be a few cycles.

They trip when the ground underfoot abruptly becomes stone, their feet sliding on the remnants of sand. Throwing their hands out to catch themself, they fall against a pile of rubble, a few pebbles clattering to the floor as they steady themself. They crane their neck to search for the top of the pile; it stretches off into the gaping darkness above them. At a rough glance, the stone walls to either side are relatively unblemished. The ceiling or ceiling elements must have collapsed at some point in the past.

They have to leave their glider behind. They clench their hands into their cloak to stop themself from punching the nearest available object, and instead glance around for somewhere decent to park their glider. They’ll be back for it soon regardless, but they didn’t work two seasons for their glider just to dump it in the middle of nowhere.

There is a tarp stretched over one of the corners made by the pile of rubble and the walls; they pull their glider with them to take a closer look. The attachments are smooth and relatively sand free, implying that it was a recent addition to this area. It is also positioned in a way to shield against the wind, with enough room behind it to easily fit their glider. It will do for a temporary parking.

They shove the tarp back and are greeted with the sight of not one, but two sand gliders parked underneath. Both are in good condition, though one is somewhat covered in sand. They kick sand at the nearest one with a hiss. They better not run into any of these idiots while they’re dealing with the Call.

Their glider just barely fits into the remaining space under the tarp, and when they’re done shoving it in, the tip of the bow still barely pokes out from underneath it. They halfheartedly push on it again, then give up, letting the tarp fall back into place. It’ll be fine. They’ll be back soon, and this deep into the Wyrm’s Jaws there isn’t a lot of wind. At worst they’ll be gone for just a harvest.

Glider now situated, they confront the rubble pile again, testing their weight on it. Besides the top layer of smaller rocks, a few of which scatter as they hoist themself up and scrabble for footholds, it seems relatively sturdy. As long as they’re quick about it, they should be able to get to the top just fine.

They scramble up the side of the pile, feet slipping out underneath them several times, but they otherwise make it to the top without too much issue. Still in a crouch, they crawl closer to the other edge of the stone pile and peer down below. It’s dark. They flick a pebble off the edge, listening for when it hits the ground. A good few ticks, more than they’re comfortable with, pass before they hear the muffled clatter. It’s a longer way down than up.

They nudge another pebble off, trying to track how far down it travels. The darkness swallows it up almost instantly. They huff, tapping their foot. They don’t have another way of gauging how far down the ground may be.

At worst though, it’s probably only several times their height. Better to just get it over with. Bunching their muscles, they keep a hand on their nail to stop it from sliding out of its sheath as they leap into the dark.

The ground meets them sooner than they expect, leaving them no time to brace for the sharp stones that dig into their feet. Caught off guard by the sudden pain, they fall forward onto their hands, then jerk back with a hiss as the stones stab into their palms. Something like this always happens wherever they go and nothing can ever be simple and straightforward. Why do they even bother?

Dislodging the stones from their feet with a brisk scratch under each foot, they quickly weave their way through the field of stones to smoother ground. Their feet smart with each step they take, and they flex their hands as they walk, tail flicking in irritation. The Call is still here, pulling them forward still, and it’s stronger now. They must be getting close. They just have to—

Footsteps. Their nail is drawn in an instant, and they point it at the approaching speck of light. It hesitates, but resumes after a few ticks at a slower pace, bringing into view an old beetle. Their antennae quiver as they glance between them and the point of their nail, hands clenched tightly around their lantern. “Hello, traveler,” they rasp out, their voice low and measured. “What brings you here?”

“None of your business,” they sign back with one hand, their hand motions sharp and rough. They grip their nail tighter, gauging the beetle. They don’t look to be the owner of one of the two gliders they found, nor do they seem to be in any state to fight. Where did they come from, then? What sort of trick is this going to be?

The beetle hesitates again, antennae whirling. “I… I apologize, traveler. Is that Trade Sign? I’m not too familiar with it. It’s been many years since I’ve had the opportunity to practice.”

They take a step closer, holding their nail up closer to the beetle, who backs away nervously. They’re not familiar with Trade Sign? What’s their ploy? If they’re this close to the entrance of the Wyrm’s Jaws they must have learned at least basic Trade Sign and they’re just lying about it.

Clutching the lantern closer to their chest, the beetle stammers out, “Most—most other travelers here prefer to speak, and I haven’t had the chance to really—to use Trade Sign since everyone else in the village left. They’ve all headed down below.” Their antennae droop. “There’s only me here now.”

They stare at the beetle, something deep inside them curdling. “You live here?” they sign slowly, spelling it out and emphasizing each letter.

“... yes.” The beetle slumps into themself, their palps quivering gently. “It’s not an unfair assumption, I suppose, to think that the Wyrm’s Jaws are gone. But I hatched here after its fall. There used to be more people living here, but…”

They stare at the beetle some more. Either this beetle is lying out their ass, or somehow, everyone was wrong. The Wyrm’s Jaws are not dead. Hallownest is not dead.

Then what, or _who_, is calling them here?

The beetle sighs. “You seem like you’ve traveled a long way. There is lots of room here, if you wish to rest a while.” They pause, palps flicking. “I’d enjoy the company,” they add quietly.

They hesitate briefly, then sheathe their nail. For all their impatience, this beetle appears to be telling the truth. Their tail wags as unease pools inside of them; trying to stop their tail from moving only makes it congeal into a hard, cold lump that threatens to drag them to the ground.

“I’ll stay for a cycle,” they say, keeping their signs curt. “No more than that.” In spite of the twisting, scratching feeling inside of them, the idea of rushing in is giving them pause.

The beetle’s antennae shoot up in clear delight. “Of course,” they say, their voice contrastively even. “Come this way.” Turning around in a shuffling walk, the beetle ambles into the darkness.

Left hand resting on their nail, they follow, keeping their gaze trained on the beetle’s back. While this beetle may be telling the truth, it’s hard to fully accept their words. Hallownest, still alive? If the kingdom is still running, let alone the whole kingdom cluster, it’s been over sixty-four years since it had imports. That just seems impossible.

Silence trails them as the beetle leads them to a small hut, broken only by the rattling of the keys the beetle fumbles through. They clack softly as the beetle finds the right one and unlocks the door. Brushing past the beetle, they push the door open and glance around as they enter. The hut is spotless, almost unnervingly so.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the beetle says softly from the entrance to the hut. “Food, healing salves, or other supplies.”

They make a halfhearted gesture over their shoulder as they walk towards the bedroom, shoving the door open with their foot and closing it in the same manner. As the door closes, all remaining composure slithers out of them, and they barely make it over to the bed before slumping unceremoniously onto it. Hallownest, _alive_? Why are they here? Them, of all people? How is it still alive?

What mess have they been tasked to fix? Why Hallownest, of all possible messes to get stuck in? Why them?

_Why them?_

They bury their face in the bed, squeezing it between their arms. It doesn’t matter. They’ll deal with it and go. If they have to fight someone, they’ll gut them as quickly as they can. It won’t be long. It won’t be that bad. It’s just another job. Just another thing to deal with and they can leave and never think about it again. It’ll be fine.

The Call thuds through their head as if in protest, and they push their face in even deeper. They don’t want to think about this. Come the next syligh, they’ll deal with this once and for all.

Though they aren’t tired, they stay glued to the bed, refusing to lift their head to face the world. Drowsiness blankets them before long, a welcoming change to the sharp wakefulness demanded by the Call’s stabbing pain. They allow themself to sink into it, slipping gently into sleep.

Vaguely, through the haze of slumber, the Call continues, pulsing.

Next chapter: A Cry from the Dark

#hollow knight #dreamless au #dreamless whispers #godslayers #AND WE'RE BACK BABY #i'm so excited asdfgkjs #ghost #the knight #elderbug #if you're confused feel free to ask! there's a ton of worldbuilding #i'm planning on introducing it as naturally as i can #but i'm always up to clarify if need be

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grimms-troupe-curse · 4 years

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Quirrel is the young scholar of Hallownest, Hornet’s mate and the tightrope juggler of the troupe. He maintains serious and concentrated thoughts about the circus, the curse and finding a cure along the royal family, yet he acts funny, kind and comprehensive with all of his friends and partners of the troupe. Most of the time he spends time with Ghost and Hornet, either in Dirthmouth, the City of Tears or Monomon’s old Archives, where he speards the knowledge of his old mentor. Sometimes he tends to overprotect Hornet, with whom things will get interesting in their relationship.

Gloss is a queen on the stage, performing as the ring juggler of the circus and a mentor to all of the new performers that the join troupe in each kingdom. Although she may seem like a cocky and greedy firefly, she’s actually a funny, extroverted and girly bug who likes jewels and crystals. About her past, the only she says is that the troupe saved her from a horrible thing back then. This may be the reason why she protects the Pale Children with extra care. Aside from that, she’s, along with Hornet, helping Chyffon with her amnesia.

Tiso is an adventorous yet kinda arrogant beettle and the only mime of the circus. He usually performs along with Zote, telling some of his mighty battles in mimic way, no matter how much he dislikes his feats being wasted in such way. Even if he acts sort of envious and neglecting, he's not as arrogant or "crazy" as Zote. After joining the circus, he found a friends in Quirrel and Hornet, who he tries to spend time with, talking about things before going complete silent again. In other notes, he’s annoyed by Ghost and Grimmchild and is a little scared of Hollow and Grimm.

Zote is a old bug who lives in his own reality of glory and fame, while being the only clown of the troupe. He doesn’t stop babbling about all of his great feats and qualities, reason why no one else than Tiso and sometimes Bretta care about him. He’s arrogant, somewhat delirious and steal other bugs victories, usually Ghost, Hornet and Hollow’s. According to him, he doesn’t understand why Grimm put “his talented nail arts” are wasted in “entertaining weak bugs”, although he does a good job in the laugh deparment with his “amazing life feats”.

Bretta is chubby and gentle bug, who doesn't have a major role in the circus, only being the stage keeper and Divine’s assistant, getting the dancers ready for each performance. She’s a total daydreamer and wishes to find a spotlight in the circus, but her low confidence and total akawrdness low the spirit on her. Although she admires Hornet and Chyffon, she also dislikes them wildly because of their popularity, beauty and confidence. She also has a crush on Quirrel, even though she loses her romantic illusion seeing him with Hornet.

#hollow knight #quirrel #gloss #tiso #zote #bretta #characters #hk au #hollow knight au #grimm troupe #grimm cursed circus #the cursed hallownest #theCircus #hollow knight quirrel #hollow knight gloss #hollow knight zote #hollow knight bretta #hollow knight tiso

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alternautxyz · 2 years

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so thems owl house huh

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

so that happened and i feel like talking about random stuff again

also spoilers

damn dude just like true colours

ok but seriously

in general this episode was really great, but i can’t help but feel like it was rushed and that multiple sections were supposed to be whole eps. its not a bad thing in the ep and i don’t even think i really hurts the viewing experience, but there were multiple parts that were kinda glossed over like the big fight and what happened between the king concussion. i can’t blame any of this on the crew but disney for making a dumb mistake, and seeing the potential for a season 3 at the end, i can only feel bad for what disney missed out on. and even then dana and the crew did a great job for what they had.

ok back to random stuff that last goodbye between the adult squad is very (crying noises)

also why did eda’s sigil thing not apear until raine touched it

illusion guy who really cares about appearance shows up to one of the most important moments of his life like he just got out of bed. hilarious

yknow for something that happened within a plot of a kids show, the whole eda gambit worked out surprisingly well for the first few minutes until eda’s arm is very visibly cursed

note to self: the collector is very naive when it comes to trusting people. like even after being betrayed by belos he still took kings words seriously one he pinky swore

also belos likes screwing people over. yes we already know this. like i get why he didn’t want to let out a destructive god of chaos, but like still mean you just lied and with a smile on your face

so luz just straight up almost died with the petrification thing. good thing she noticed the glove in the corner and went specifically for that as she was being petrified. smart move kill the guy

or was it before idk

ok so the draining happened and since the only two drivers have sigils, the ship just straight up crashed and presumable cracked king’s head and now they had to leave alador behind to keep of the abomatons hope he’s fine

then they showed up at the altar thing and have to look at everyone dying. guess they really know their plan failed

and now they’re going to luz how did king sleep through all that lol

also how is hunter more fine than everyone else with sigils

ok so after that illusion spell gus might just actually know all of belos’ backstory good for him i guess we’ll need that later

belos was being nice to hunter and idk if that was an act or not. either way he went insane the second he saw flapjack so i guess it was caleb’s palisman

belos specifically put all the golden guards into one specific hole. damn dude just like hollow knight

also the collectors in the hole of failures massive L for him

also kiki knows about all of this

and the titan locked the collector away so thats cool

and king’s collar hides him from the collector so thats cool too. since it was on all of the walls where he was born those symbols were probably to protect him from the danger of the collector

also what was the collector doing at the end if they didn’t even know how to play owl house were you just destroying the place to be dramatic

damn raine just ripped off eda’s arm just like amp

ok so the whole arm chopping thing protected her from the draining spell, but that was going to be fixed anyways. it could have also helped from the curse if that wouldn’t have been stopped by the spell stopping. and it means she can still do wild magic if she ever can again so thats cool too

where did luz get the eyebrow scar tho we just never see it happen

and yeah the collector’s cool and the luz possession theories and now deemed outdated and funny

they just turn the tone of the scene from intense to “wtf is happening is this actually happening did they just do that” and its honestly great

“i play it every day” “i play it every hour” (pain noises)

(everyone dying) “boop”

i really like the type of villain that is just not fazed by anything and treats everything like its no big deal. like the collector treats everything like a game and just casually destroys the big bad of the series in like a second with no fanfare. then they just. move the moon. like with an ipad. no fanfare. it’s great

also belos probably isn’t gone forever so

he then proceeded to destroy the whole world for an owl house

and now they’re going to the human realm that would have made a great few seasons huh disney

they put a lot of emphasis on the belos blobs dripping onto hunter so that might be something or they may just be dramatic

also luz is just very down with sacrificing herself so i guess the protagonist role is really getting to her

so king pushes them into the portal and now the main trio is separated and one of them with their magical friends ins stuck in the human realm

just like amphibia

truly is the true colours of the owl house

also speaking of amphibia ANNE BOONCHUY ANNE BOONCHUY IT’S ANNE BOONCHUY SHE’S ANNE BOONCHUY THIS IS HOW THE CROSSOVER CAN STILL HAPPEN

ok so like theres a headline about anne being in a frog land and it being a hoax. so like amphibia happened in the same universe as this and probably happened a while ago and people are already questioning the legitimacy of it damn. now i’m already questioning when in the amphibia timeline this happens like is it during 3A, after frogvasion, a few years after that. must be wild to hear this happening while your daughter’s also claiming to be stuck in another world

anyways that last scene was really good and captured the right emotions for me but my brain still reeling from amphibia just made me think of that.

so yeah now we wait for the specials and im curious as to how the story will continue. idk how they’ll follow up on the collector, how they’ll get back, what they’ll focus on, and how this story will end, but i’m sure that whatever happens will be a fun ride. or a painful one. that works too

#the owl house #the owl house spoilers #toh #damn tho just like true co- *gets shot*#but yeah pretty cool #alttalks

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grimmradiance · 4 years

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Close to Me: How the Hollow Knight's Fighting Style Reflects Their Trauma (and the Radiance's as well)

So I've been trying to actually beat the Radiance, which means I've been fighting the Hollow Knight. A lot, as a matter of fact, since I'm beans at this game sometimes. I've also been thinking about @lost-kinn's meta about how fighting styles are how Vessels, especially the Little Knight, communicate.

In trying to apply this to the Hollow Knight, I've been coming to some very interesting conclusions, especially taken in context of...Everything Else in the lore, and Everything Else implicated in this by the psychology of it.

There's a lot to cover here, and it tracks through a LOT of different places, including trauma psychology, the relationship between chronic stress and lifespan health, and shape symbolism. Two warnings first:

One: this essay is gonna get heavy. It includes fine-grained discussion of the Hollow Knight's trauma, including discussions of the real-life machanics of psychological abuse, as well as the Extremely Concerning Implications of them harming themself during their boss fight. please read with caution and when you're in a safe emotional place to do so.

Two: This post is not a place for justifying the Pale King. If you read this essay in its entirety and still want to do that, please make your own post; my relationship to the Hollow Knight themself is deeply rooted in my own experiences, so in the context of this discussion I can't promise I won't take it personally.

With that out of the way, let's talk trauma and fighting styles:

We know that the Hollow Knight is trained to be a paragon of fighting skill, through the Pure Vessel fight, and this gives us a fantastic way to compare what they were like before they were made Government Assigned Radiance Jail, and after. Or, in other words, we're given the perfect opportunity to see what the Radiance is doing (i.e. context effects), and what Hollow is (i.e. what we can conclude is reliably consistent as a part of them). Listed here, for reference:

Hollow's attacks:

Three slashes

A dash slash

A Radiant Shade Soul, which launches a volley of Infection blobs in arcs

A Radiant Desolate Dive, which produces pillars of entwined Void and Light at random intervals

The Infection bursting out of them in random arcs, covering a significant amount of the aerial space of the arena

The Radiance ragdolling their body around trying to hit the Knight

Contact damage from them stabbing themself and falling over atop you

The Pure Vessel's attacks:

Three slashes

A dash slash

A Pure Shade Soul, which launches a volley of nails in straight lines

A Pure Desolate Dive, which produces nails at specific intervals

A Pure Focus, which causes circular explosions across most of the aerial space in the arena

Lashing out with a Void Arm (word choice intentional)

I've highlighted attacks from each battle that are different, since those are our points of interest here. In addition, both the Pure Vessel and Hollow are exceedingly fond of teleport-spamming in a way that is usually reserved for a specific group of bosses.

Another very important distinction between these two fights: the Pure Vessel doesn't scream. Well, they certainly try to, but no sound comes out. No voice to cry suffering, after all. All of these points have a lot to go into, so let's address them one at a time.

All That Remains: Theoretical Background On The Significance Of Constants

Making comparisons across time is important specifically because humans (and human-like bugs) change. Most personality traits aren't set in stone--they exist as an interaction of someone's internal tendencies, their experiences, and their environment. Speaking of those last two points, not all experiences and environments are created equally. Adverse childhood experiences (ACEs for short) are known to have lifelong implications for a child's health, both physically and mentally. These are events that are so stressful or stressful for so long that they exceed a child's ability to cope and become toxic stress (yes, that's the term in the literature, because it actively damages your organs). They compound, as well--the stress of one ACE makes it harder for a child to cope with another, especially if they overlap.

Some examples of ACEs? Being exposed to physical danger or the threat of physical danger, deprivation of normal social relationships with peers of a similar age, being forcibly seperated from family members, witnessing a loved one being hurt or killed, chronic illness in oneself or a family member, neglect of a child's emotional needs....

Poor fucking Holly. It's a miracle they didn't disintegrate under the pressure. The only other option is that they bent and adapted under that much stress--in other words, most of their personality has been forcibly reshaped by what they've gone through. Anyone who has up-close experience with parentification or complex child abuse already knows: this was by design. I'm not saying the intent was to traumatize the Pure Vessel past several points of no return, but the intent definitely was to reshape their personality for the purpose of being The Vessel. We only see them (the Pure Vessel) in battle after this process is mostly or entirely complete, but we do see them a few times beforehand. I'd like to draw attention to the Path of Pain cutscene right now.

I've seen people talking about the look the Vessel and the King share as a sign that TPK really does love his child. That might be true, but it's definitely not relevant when it comes to how abuse works. This is, in fact, exactly how the cycle of abuse uses affection as a tool. Long periods of abuse or neglect, smoothed over by small periods of affection that placate the survivor? That's textbook love bombing, the kind that forms stubborn trauma bonds and facilitates unhealthy dependency. Forgive me for not giving the Higher Being of knowledge and prescience the benefit of the doubt on that one. (/s)

Team Cherry knows about the importance of parallels and dissonance. There's a reason the music in the second phase of the Hollow Knight fight plays in the Path of Pain. There's a reason it cuts out the moment the battle with the Kingsmoulds is over, instead of at the room transition. There's a reason it doesn't cut out in the Black Egg. Actually, there's two potential reasons, which could also coexist: either little Hollow trusts the Pale King to keep them safe, even after the borderline torture that they were just subjected to, or big Hollow is so hypervigilant that they're in full functioning-through-trauma mode even while they're at death's door.

If you don't see how much the Pale King scarred his child at this point, I'm not sure we were playing the same game.

Walking the Straight Line: How the Pale King's Teachings Show In the Pure Vessel

The Pale King loves order and control. Everything about the White Palace and every decision we see him make implies this. Everything is spotless white walls and well-maintained gardens; the only signs of disorder are hidden away, either in his workshop or in The Pit™. This also reflects in the Pure Vessel's title--pure as in holy, but also pure as in without flaw. Considering the Nailsmith's emotional state after completing the Pure Nail, TPK's fate with his Perfect Controlled Kingdom, and the Godmaster ending as a whole, attaining perfection is not a good thing in any sense.

We know the Hollow Knight isn't perfect--that's the whole catalyst for the plot. But considering their upbringing and their fighting style as the Pure Vessel, their imperfections absolutely kill them emotionally. I'll spare the lecture on how perfectionism affects neurodivergent kids even more severely than neurotypical kids, if only to keep this post to a reasonable length (look up "twice-exceptional children" if you'd like to know the theory I'm glossing over in more depth). But, in essence, the deck is doubly stacked against them--they have a higher goal to reach, and far more obsctacles in their path, including their own emotional scars.

I've already discussed how Hollow isn't meant for this kind of stress in a physical sense in other posts. They're not prepared for it emotionally, either--the Pale King wants perfection, and they can't even stand up straight (every spoonie in the audience already knows how exhausting people's obsession with Standing Up Straight is). There's another page on their stack of emotional baggage, even BEFORE you consider that the Pure Vessel knows their perfection is what bought them a ticket out of the Abyss.

Bringing Teleportation To A Sword Fight: Where The Pure Vessel Reveals Their Fears

How else are they going to cope with that need for perfection, that need to prove themselves worthy of the reason their life was spared, by being flawless in any way they can? Being a mechanical, flawless fighter puts so much pressure on them, both literally (repetitive strain injuries fucking HURT) and figuratively--if you're predictable, the only sure way to win is to mop the floor with your opponents before they figure you out. Hell, that's the way most people play their first run of Hollow Knight, by throwing themselves at the bosses over and over until they figure out the patterns. That strategy is inherently going to fail against an opponent that's, say, an immortal higher being.

There's no way that the Vessel didn't figure this out, and yet none of their TPV specific attacks are positioned randomly--the nails are always evenly spaced, and the Focus explosions are always in a specific height region of the screen. That's clinging to survival strategies even when they become maladaptive in its purest form.

Another dip into psychological theory: let's talk about disorganized attachment. Attachment styles describe how someone's relationships to their main caregiver(s) influence their understanding on relationships in general. Disorganized attachment is a result of an upbringing of inherently unstable parent-child relationships, where there's no way of a child predicting whether an adult is going to be delighted to see them, ambivalent, upset, or otherwise. If my parent woke up some days saying "all right my child, time for the Infinite Buzzsaws Obstacle Course," I'd be the same way. In adulthood this manifests as an inability to form a stable sense of self-concept as well as concepts of others. Mission accomplished, TPK, there's no will to break if you broke it yourself.

This is where the fighting styles as communication comes in--Hollow needs to keep Ghost at a distance to fight, but also wants to be closer to their sibling (the only being who has a chance of understanding what they've been through), BUT also has a trauma-rooted fear of attaching to people, as their experiences with attachment are inherently unpredictable and dangerous. Hence, both the teleportation that doesn't seem to match their fighting style any more reliably than "aim at the thing attacking you" and the second attack unique to the Pure Vessel--they're quite literally lashing out in pain to push people away. There's a reason that attack is so reminiscent of the Thorns of Agony.

Of note is that Holly does seem to teleport like the bugs of the Soul Sanctum do (favoring the edges of a screen, rather than going wherever like Dream Warriors do), which makes sense--they're the most obvious answer to the question "how did they learn how to teleport, anyways?" However, Sanctum bugs have abilities designed to capitalize on this, like homing spells and slashes from above. I can only assume this means that someone saw Holly's proficiency with the nail and assumed it translated to other forms of combat, and didn't feel the need to give them at least a bit of a primer on how to make the best use of it. There's another tally for the Hollow Knight as an autism metaphor.

Trauma Bonds: How the Radiance Speaks Through Hollow

Now, we're back to the Black Egg, and two people stuck in the same sinking ship. The thing that makes this hurt so badly is that Holly and the Radiance are at complete cross purposes here, and yet they both want the same thing:

They both want out, no matter the cost. For the Radiance, this means forsaking the pacifistic nature of the moths and nuking Ghost personally.

For Hollow, this means forsaking the way they were raised and everything that was bludgeoned into their personality: the only way out is to fail, give up control, and trust that Ghost will do what needs to be done.

Imagine how much pain they're in to actually go for it. Going against a literal lifetime of conditioning is something that takes the average person years to even consider, let alone go through with. It's a form of learned helplessness--if you try to break free and fall, again and again, it actively discourages further attempts. Breaking through learned helplessness is an interesting process, because it generally involves re-establishing a sense of control by recalling previous events where the person was able to change their situation.

Which, as far as we know of, are nothing but traumatic memories for Hollow. It's very unlikely that they'd break through it on their own, but we know they have by the time we see the second phase of their fight. This is them at their most desperate: the same music as the Path of Pain, the way they let, or can't stop, the Radiance throw their body around, the way they actively try to let the Radiance out by stabbing themself.

You'd think that giving up and learned helplessness are inherently compatible, but when giving up both goes against your core personality, and involves your active participation, they're in direct opposition. So either Holly was able to process all their trauma by themself (which I doubt, judging by how much effort the player has to go through to even see Ghost's and Hollow's traumatic memories), or someone gave them a nudge or three in that direction.

Considering that there's been someone living in Holly's head who has a vested interest in them Not Doing Their Duty, I think we know who. And the thing is, I think we watch Hollow have this breakthrough during their battle. Imagine for the first time in decades, at least, you can move. You're in pain from being in the same position, probably hallucinating from sensory deprivation, with an infection sucking at what strength your body has left. And there's this little creature who looks ready to fight you, who seems to have let you go for that exact purpose.

And you look down, and both you and the Radiance recognize them from a place rooted deeper than consciousness, in the murky depths of trauma. You see the other Vessel who just as easily could have been you, and who looks so much stronger for not being you, for being an imperfect, willful creature. And the Radiance sees history threatening to repeat itself, another one of the Wyrm's cursed children seeking to lock her away once more.

What else do you do when you're triggered? You scream, and you go on instinct, and you retreat into your head. Those first blows, with the epic music? That's the Vessel the Pale King forged, the fighting machine that will endure unimaginable stress because it knows no other way. What snaps you back out of dissociation? Usually, either the passage of the triggering stimulus, or an even more relevant stimulus (severe pain from getting beaten up by a nail, for example).

The tragedy is this: we know this isn't a triumph. I think most of us went into that fight the first time, knowing we'd be putting the Hollow Knight out of their misery. The music turns tragic, Hollow screams, and then we see the Radiance and Hollow themself break through: the Radiance trying to fight Ghost directly with the resources she has, and Hollow trying to help her along.

For what it's worth, Hollow even had the right idea, when it came to letting themself rest while helping Ghost stop the madness their father started--they were just digging for the Radiance in the wrong place. The dynamic between the Radiance and the Hollow Knight is something I could write on for pages and pages, but this has gone on for long enough. Tune in next time, where I'll presumably talk about this same topic but in reverse with regards to the Radiance.

#hollow knight #hk #the pure vessel #the pale king #the radiance #my meta #the higher being speaks #i hate fact-checking my abuse infodumps because the ableism against personality disorders is EVERYWHERE #but here this monster of an essay is #anyways the hollow knight as a character sniped my trauma on sight #so i may be a tiny bit biased here But Also I'm Right #abuse //#child abuse //#emotional abuse //#i legit do not know what tags to throw on this #also the overarching title is a reference to the song of the same name from just shapes and beats because. yeah

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lady-o-ren · 3 years

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Never Will I Love Thee

CHAPTER ONE // Read on ao3 HERE

CHAPTER TWO

The King of Scotia has yet to arrive in the land of his betrothed. Has yet to taint the crystal waters that separates the royal castle from the mainland, perched impressively high on an islet and surrounded by a lush forest below. The Princess of Albíōn has also made herself scarce from the eyes of her uncle's court and has taken refuge in the soft leafy hollow of a giant oak tree that grows crooked and wild with ivy, it's branches fluttering with birdsong. Above her the evening sky smolders like a brushfire and though she feels the heat caress her cheeks, her blood burns cold as she waits for a fate far worse than death. Claire can only hope with every beat of her bleeding heart that the lateness of her horrid husband-to-be means he's suffered the same fate as his uncle. But she could never be so lucky. Not twice. Even now she can hear her name echo in the faraway distance and feels her heart stutter beneath her tunic knowing what news awaits her. Wishes for nothing more than to vanish into thin air. When she hears the voices of the guards carry closer on the breeze, she takes off with the swiftness of a hare with her plum velvet cloak billowing behind her. She knows she's only delaying the inevitable. Doesn't care if her uncle must grovel in apology on hand and knee to the man who's known to have a heart blacker than the devils. ‘Damn them both!’ She seethes. But as her eyes gloss with ire, her foot catches on some protruding underbrush and she takes a small tumble down a grassy slope, landing flat on her backside in a patch of clover and lavender with her willowy curls a veil over her face. Slowly, she props herself up with her hands and feels an immediate sting that makes her wince and curse at the heavens above for not breaking her neck. . . Just as another calls to her, scuffling down the slope. "Are ye a'right, lass?"

She puffs at a fawn colored lock sticking to her lips and dryly replies "Never better" then looks up to see which of her guards the unfamiliar voice belongs to and is shocked to find a man clad in the white fur of a beast kneeling before her.

Without a moment's hesitation, he gently takes her hand in his, scraped red along the back, as she marvels at the perfection of his features glowing a ruddy bronze, at the dear gentleness that beams from his eyes a shade rarer than a sapphire. Claire would've thought him the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. Would've let her heart swoon imagining how soft his lips might be, where they'd wander to. . . were it not for the dark flame of his hair that marks him like the vile stain of blood.

Unaware of the storm brewing before him, his attention still on her hand, the man who ought to be guarding every ounce of his flesh (particularly the one no man can live without) instead pulls a handkerchief from the sleeve of his doublet. "Ye have a nasty scrape there," he begins to say, wrapping the cloth around her hand. "Best to tend to it now then. . wait. . ." His voice trails off as he finally lifts his gaze to hers bristling like a jackal. "Your name, speak it,” she says, and snatches her injured hand away, pressing it against her chest. A small sad smile mars his mouth before he speaks. "Must I tell ye?" He mumbles low, sounding ashamed. But still he stands revealing a man as great as the mountains that bore him and takes a step back to bow with the grace of a knight, hand in sincere reverence at his breast. “I come to ye humbly, my lady, as the last living son of Elhen and Bhrian Dhu of Clan Fraser but also as the unfortunate heir to the mountain throne and I'm sure a wretch to yer sight, James Fraser.” “You're bloody worse than a wretch,” she hisses through the bite of her teeth, and scuffs her heel against the earth that sends a wave of dirt flying towards her intended, who shields himself with his cloak now speckled like a sparrow's egg. "And I'm no lady of yours nor will I ever be.” She stands to her full regal height, hands fisted, shaking at her side. "Even when we marry, when I'm forced to be shackled to you, you'll have no claim on me. Now leave my sight. I demand it of you.” “I canna do that,” he says firmly, coming close enough to engulf her in his shadow. “I must and will speak to you." Her throat bobs as he towers over her but she juts her chin upward. “Speak to me like chattel again and I'll have your tongue.”

The Red King furrows his brow at her threat, how her eyes flare like two coals on fire, but beneath that anger she rightfully has towards him he sees fear prick at the princess's eyes, bleeding her face white and grabbing at her throat as if his hand were there squeezing tight. He knew his name had been tainted from the years of being his uncle's pawn but for this woman to fear him so. . . That struck him deep in the gullet, sharp and brutal. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says from his heart, wracking a hand through his hair as he takes a step back. “I've been a soldier nearly my entire life and have little experience in matters such as these."

He waves an uneasy hand in the air between them.

“But that's no excuse for being so forward wi’ ye. I had only wished to convey to ye that I am as much a prisoner to this arrangement between our uncle's as you.”

She scoffs at that. “Says the king with more power than any mortal man should have.”

“Yer’re right. But dinna speak as if ye ken what I've suffered under my uncle's reign. What I've had to sacrifice to keep myself and my kin alive.”

Indeed, Claire can see the harsh toll of unspoken grief and torment cross his face and darken his eyes before he masters his emotions, breathes the sweet air, and continues on.

“That's why I've come to your kingdom, sought ye out here amongst the trees and away from the meddlesome tongues of court advisors, because I needed to speak to ye in private. To tell ye I think it only right for ye to have yer say on who ye marry, who ye choose to love."

Claire questions him. “What are you saying?”

He smiles gently at her - a lopsided, boyish curl of mouth that could charm honey from a bee. Encourage a lass to say I do.

“That the choice for us to marry is yers and yers alone. I willna force myself on ye.”

His words echo in her heart that thumps with quiet hope yet she eyes him with suspicion, refusing to trust the King before her.

Refusing she could ever be so lucky. Not twice.

A/N: I tried to write more (I'm a pushover). Good or Bad?? Delete or not?? I'm still struggling with all this proper lingo. Think of this as a god awful WIP.

Also I remember seeing some fanart for Jon Snow with some white fur draped around him and didn't know if it was a dire wolf or what. But that's what Jamie's wearing.

#jamie x claire #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction

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andytheaverage · 3 years

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The Green Knight (2021)

(CONTAINS SPOILERS)

The Green Knight (2021), with its excellent cast and feast of visual storytelling, does cut a pretty trailer, but it’s hardly the adaptation we’ve all waited nearly 2 years to see. Rather on the slow side, there is plenty of breathing room (often to excess), but often feels wanting. The performances are well-played, albeit terribly subdued, which create interludes that feel tedious. Dev Patel has proven himself time and again that he has the capacity to play a nuanced lead, and he does well here, but it is the side characters that break the monotony and steal the show, most notably Joel Edgerton (Lord), Erin Kellyman (Winifred), and Barry Keoghan (Scavenger).

David Lowery’s “adaptation” explores the journey of an untested and somewhat undeserving not-quite-Sir Gawain, a far-cry from our Hero in the text, more akin to Prince Hal. This change adds elements to the character with which an audience might more easily identify, and should make this a coming-of-age tale, as well as a moral one; though, this film fails as both.

As a coming-of-age tale, Gawain never quite gets there, and it almost doesn’t matter if he does, because it's not really his tale at all. Nor is this film about morality, not even as a cautionary tale. Perhaps it's more accurate to call it an instance of ‘careful what you wish for’. Gawain doesn’t seem to know what he wants. Does he really want to be a Knight? Is this about living an honest life or living up to familial expectations, particularly your mother's? Hard to say, as many of the female characters, including Gawain’s mother (Morgause and Morgan Le Fay made one), are treated as mystery elements themselves. It’s also not clear just how far her control extends, if it has any limitations. Is there anything in this world that is true?

Perhaps we'll never know his mother's true intentions; it clearly wasn't for her son to be his own person and make his own decisions. A man simply doesn’t become a Legend without his mother’s entire fabrication of the quest, it would seem. Does Gawain feel so out of place in his own story because it’s already set out for him? Was Morgan Le Fay simply Lowery’s segue for the concept of Legend as a set path for Gawain to follow? But as such, Gawain’s tale of morality isn’t what it seems, as he doesn’t even have the illusion of choice. Or was it all just a journey back to nature, back to green? Lowery never lets us forget just what color matters most here. There’s even a fun monologue about it! Even the design of the Green Knight is just a little too on the nose; his appearance essentially being that of an ent.

About 2/3 of the way through, The Green Knight actually shows a hint of promise, but it is short-lived. In case you haven’t already lost interest with the lengthy side quests; everything turns sour at the arrival of Lord and Lady Bertilak’s castle (simply titled Lord and Lady), and what should be the bulk of our story, the “exchange of gifts” and Gawain’s true test of morality. The “exchange of gifts” is glossed over for a taste of something completely different, as it takes major liberties with not only a core part of our tale, but arguably what’s most memorable about the original. It becomes Lowery’s convoluted vision of a different sort entirely, one where Gawain seemingly refuses to take part in his own story. While possibly an interesting take in itself, it does a disservice to the text, and accomplishes nothing other than an attempt to be shocking.

There’s something richer in the “exchange of gifts” simply not explored in Lowery’s version, or the compulsive need to “subvert”, and the film is poorer for it. How can you even subvert something which you refuse to touch upon? It’s also extremely odd and honestly baffling, that in this day and age, homosexual themes and undertones would be downplayed or outright rejected (as they are here), rather than embraced and explored. Altogether, this omission seems a poor choice and a clear indication that Lowery holds little to no affection for the original text. Disregarding the “exchange of gifts”, the journey becomes something vain and hollow; perhaps intentionally, but doesn't serve anyone, least of all the story.

Following the tale’s example, the girdle (sans the accompanying scar) is the all-encompassing symbol for Gawain’s shame, but Lowery takes it a step further, in which he is so seduced by its promise of protection that he literally soils it with his lust. But this scene is so abrupt at the all too brief “exchange of gifts” (in a film that stretches everything to excess) that it seems to lack consideration and its only purpose is to disturb. The girdle furthermore becomes a symbol of his unearned and unholy life (which we’re shown), were he to continue to fail to accept his fate and his test, although this too seems superfluous. What’s interesting here is that in either scenario, Gawain remains undeserving. He is not especially virtuous, he’s not even decent from what we can see, and has failed in almost every chivalric aspect; after all, he is “no knight”. Even so, in the original, even the Green Knight can’t begrudge his lack of fidelity in this one aspect; “because you wanted to live, so I blame you the less”.

A message of The Green Knight seems to be acting out of selflessness as the only indicator of a truly good deed, with no expectation of reward. This is evident in the dismissal of the “exchange of gifts” and Winifred’s admonishment, "Why would you ever ask me that?", but this message is so muddled within the world of the film, that it’s somehow also completely out of place. After all, Gawain is rewarded in a way, with several of his trappings, which are returned to him after being stolen. Speaking of rewards for good deeds, religious themes are also notably lacking, favoring the pagan angle (as expected of A24), though which is never expounded upon. There is the decision to keep some not-so-subtle imagery of crippled Christianity; i.e Gawain’s shield (with Mary’s visage on the inside and a small pentangle on the exterior) and a cross at the Green Chapel.

Lowery gets too hung up on a confused mix of vague and painfully obvious ideas of symbolism and makes huge, unwarranted leaps. His work here reeks of self-indulgence, to the point of parody. It’s also simply never clear what anyone’s intentions are, his least of all. His ideas are so flighty and changeable that contradictions abound in the finished product (It’s clear why he needed all that extra time to re-cut). The whole thing is so nebulous that it may fool some into thinking it’s beyond their grasp, but it just reads as pretentious. The thing is, The Green Knight tries to be too many things at once, and in doing so, fails at all of them. Lowery lacks the conviction to support anything he presents and has no sense of narrative structure. Simply put, this film lacked proper direction and would have greatly benefited from fresh eyes on the script.

The Green Knight may question 'What is Honor and if it does exist, what is it worth? For even if there comes a time to prove yourself for Honor’s sake, what is it all for? “Is this all there is?”’, but Lowery drops the concept of Honor as soon as he picks it up and chooses to explore Legacy and Legend, and while it leads us on an interesting journey of interpretation, it’s very heavy-handed. It’s also difficult to answer any of these questions because Gawain is simply not worthy of anything. It’s not just that he is imperfect; he is not good and never acts out of selflessness or for the actual sake of Honor. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. The original text asks us to stay true, true to our word and our values, in uncertainty and despite our fears (as a Good Knight should, and which Gawain ultimately is.) Lowery, on the other hand, begs us to forget the narrative, because he doesn’t know how to do it, and the search for meaning, because there is none. I’m not even sure he knows what he’s made.

Overall, though heavily burdened by its sluggish pace and lack of structural integrity, The Green Knight, at least on the surface, appears to be a somewhat earnest attempt at exploration within the fantasy/horror genre, asking a lot more questions than it answers. But while its visuals may dazzle, it’s a cold and unfeeling thing, devoid of all charm of the original tale, and can hardly be called an adaptation for many of its choices.

Source: https://letterboxd.com/avega007/film/the-green-knight/

(I wasn’t expecting to go off when I just got a letterboxd, but this film left me heated.)

#the green knight #sir gawain and the green knight #david lowery #dev patel #I really wanted to like it #but it disappointed me #spoilers

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grayhouse3 · 4 years

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SJTR is my villain origin story

So I finished Stalking Jack the Ripper.

Originally I told myself that I was going to just stick it out and read the next one (“Oh, it’s about vampires and Dracula. It’s probably more fun. You can forget all about the pain this one inflicted on you"). No. I got 12% of the way through and had to DNF. So here are my messily compiled thoughts on the book, basically expanded from the last post. Honestly, kind of feel free knowing I won’t be writing more about this series. (Also I am adding some TWs down below but don't know if I am doing them right!)

More on the exoticism, weirdness with Audrey Rose's Indian mother, and the British Empire:

In chapter 14, we read, "Dark strands of hair were piled atop my head, my eyes more mysterious somehow with the dark liner, and my lips were the bright crimson of freshly spilled blood … I thought of my mother and the saris she’d brought me to wear from Grandmama’s homeland. I felt just as stunning now as I did then, and the memory warmed me.” I am still trying to figure out why Maniscalco made Audrey Rose mixed race. Why is Audrey Rose’s grandmother from India? Literally, what did it add to the story? Was it nothing more than just a cute lil quirky fun character trait to her? I don’t think I missed any key moments where there were important conversations about race, imperialism, British occupation, etc., mostly because Audrey Rose’s father (a big fancy rich lord) is a white man and because Audrey Rose is white-passing. I can’t recall any moments in the book where she faces the realities/consequences of being a socially mobile POC WOMAN in LONDON IN THE 1880s. Honestly, if someone else can point out a passage I glossed over or explain some nuance I missed I would actually really appreciate it, because this drove me CRAZY.

(Audrey Rose and her brother also go visit a circus in town in chapter 15; of course these events existed purely for England/colonizing countries to exercise and display their power and to exoticize/exploit the communities/cultures that they came into contact with. Audrey Rose sees silks, beads, etc. that remind her of her grandmother’s saris, smells the foods of her family’s “homeland,” etc. Also in the same chapter there’s this great scene where her brother is describing their mother and father’s marriage: “Grandmama told me she’d refused him twenty times just for fun,” Nathaniel replied. “Said he squirmed like a cobra in a basket. That’s how she knew he was in love.” Uhhh … Is that supposed to be romantic?)

On the feminism stuff:

I am too *gestures vaguely* to write much more on this. Yeah, it’s heavy-handed. Yeah, it’s cringey. But at the end of the day, it’s not really that harmful, I guess. Here’s just a fun sampling of some of my favorite lines from the book:A few of my favorite bites from the book:

***“close-minded society” (chapter 21) Okay

***"Why turn a murderer of women into front-page news?” (chapter 15) Bro do you know how the media works

***"But what of her [mother’s] insistence that I could be both strong and beautiful? Surely Father had to be wrong.” (chapter 21) Yes girl you are strong and beautiful!

***"There would be no skirts or bustles to wrangle with anymore. I was through with things confining me” (chapter 22) Ugh down with corsets just another tool of the patriarchy amirite

On the violence against women, weird classism, and stuff about prostitution:

I was bound to be uncomfortable about a lot of this because I have weird feelings about true crime stuff, and this is historical fiction set around the Jack the Ripper murders. It was going to go sour somewhere.

Consistently Audrey Rose wants to be sympathetic, but is unable to connect all the parts of this situation together: she struggles to imagine the women (very real-life victims) beyond their lives of prostitution, poverty, squalor. When she does, we see something like this: "The women he murdered did matter ... They were daughters and wives and mothers and sisters” (chapter 28). Oftentimes she wishes she could continue to cut cadavers open in peace (women in science!) without having to think about how those cadavers came to be on her examination table: “I needed to get away from those women and their tragic lives before my emotions got the better of me” (chapter 25). Perhaps Maniscalco deserves more credit here, and perhaps I’m just being a bitch, because Audrey Rose is a very privileged girl and her actions and thoughts make that clear. It’s just that the conclusions she comes to in the name of feminism, justice, etc. weren’t at all satisfying to me.

Also: OH MY GOD. Oh my god. There is this one moment that is BRANDED AGAINST THE GRAY MATTER OF MY BRAIN FOREVER and I will never forget it. At one point, Audrey Rose and love interest Thomas decide the best thing they can do is go out and—yes—stalk Jack the Ripper. To do this, they know they need to “blend in” with the crowds in East End. So … like … cosplaying as poor people? Audrey Rose manages to find and wear the dress of ONE OF THE MURDER VICTIMS (long story short her medical doctor uncle was in a relationship with this woman and when she died he acquired her worldly possessions). It’s like, so fucked up, I can’t even describe my reaction when I read it. In chapter 25 we read, "The dress was a little too old, a little too ragged, a bit too big. If I were to wear this ghastly dress out, I’d look as if I belonged in the East End, begging for work to feed my addictions … It was absolutely perfect.” Oh my god. And THAT’S NOT EVEN THE WORST PART. While they’re “stalking Jack the Ripper” on this incredibly stupid mission, the two main characters just … make out in an alley. Like, okay. People are being murdered and you’re wearing a dead woman’s dress and you suspect your father of being guilty, but yeah, that kind of stuff makes us all a little horny. Super relatable. Absolutely no concept of reality or consequences or anything at all.

Another random note on class: I noticed the only time Maniscalco writes in dialects/accents, she’s writing seedy/working-class characters. Not saying this is a problem unique to Maniscalco’s writing by a longshot, but ... something to think on. (I think it’s ingrained in a lot of author’s writing habits/minds at this point.)

Weird stuff about the dad, the brother, and what justice means to Audrey Rose:

I had to add a whole new highlighting color for this stuff!

Any growth Audrey Rose might’ve shown over the course of the novel—anything about how these women mattered, and how they deserved justice as any “highborn” individual might, simply by dint of being humans—goes away when she and Thomas come to the conclusion that the Ripper murders must have been committed by Audrey Rose’s father. She realizes her moral dilemma when she contends with the harsh reality: if her father is the Ripper, can she turn him into the authorities? Audrey Rose worries how that might impact her own moral virtue: "They’d hang Father. Given who he was, they’d make it as public and brutal as possible. Just because blood might stain his hands did not mean I wanted his on mine. No matter if it was right or wrong” (chapter 24). First of all, BITCH. You have to. You have to report this kind of thing. No ifs, ands, or buts. I HAVE to imagine Maniscalco’s intended audience would feel the same? It’s? Serial murder? Second: Audrey Rose, baby, sweetie, honey. This is just a reminder that ACAB. I actually don’t know a whole lot about how the late Victorian criminal justice system functioned, but something tells me her family's public outlook would’ve been less bleak than she imagines here.

Lucky for Audrey Rose, her dad isn’t guilty in the end—but her brother sure is. He’s a mad scientist, using the brutalized bodies and souvenirs of his victims for Frankenstein-style experiments. Ultimately, he wants to reanimate the corpse of his and Audrey Rose’s long-dead mother, and he believes he can achieve this by transplanting fresh organs into ? Her dead and decomposed body? The thing is that, this moral dilemma persists for Audrey Rose—and her dad, too. He pressures her not to bring the little matter of Nathaniel’s issue—you know, his casual murder of a number of local women—to Scotland Yard: “They’ll have your brother hanged,” he said quietly. “Could you honestly watch that happen? As a family, have we not suffered enough?” (chapter 29). Nathaniel electrocutes himself to evade capture by the authorities, and Audrey Rose and her father feel relief. The book ends by confirming that "Lord Edmund covered up Nathaniel’s involvement, I didn’t ask how. One day I’d let everyone know the truth, but the pain was too raw now” (chapter 30).

((Side note: Listen. I knew Nathaniel had something sinister going on from the GET-GO (I’m not trying to be obnoxious) because he basically started some nighttime vigilante group called the Whitechapel Knights of Justice or whatever bullshit, I don’t know. All I know is that my red flags IMMEDIATELY started going off because that sounds exactly like the terrible and awful Crusader cosplay clubs from my (bad) Catholic childhood, where everyone thinks they’re a knight for Good but really they’re the bad guy.))

Overall, kind of ...

I think one of my biggest issues with this ending was … You have already stepped into a realm of fantastical revisionist history here in writing such a fictionalized version of these real-life events. (I know Maniscalco is far from the first to do it.) That means that the rules you are playing by are essentially your own—evidenced by the liberties she points out in her Author’s/Historical note (dates changed for convenience or storytelling purposes, real-life individuals changed for narrative purposes, etc.). So WHY would you not conclude this fantasy retelling of the Jack the Ripper murders by meting out some form of justice? I hear the counterargument: "Well, because we still don’t know the culprit today. This book would ring hollow if it named someone since historians, forensic scientists, etc. still don’t know who committed these crimes." My question: is that really a problem though? This is a work of fiction. Nothing in history happened the way it is written here. Is it crueler to the women who were murdered and who remain spectacles for true crime junkies and authors like this, less satisfying to readers who want some more concrete kind of closure, to not offer that up? I am asking this in earnest here, because I don’t know. Maybe it is insensitive to make up a murderer, to fill in the gaps in order to make sense of the violence that happened. But in my brain it feels almost like a responsibility at this point, since these murders served as the backdrop for the romance between Audrey Rose and Thomas, for the background to Audrey Rose’s empty feminist diatribes, and as inspiration for a book that went on far longer than it needed to. To me it kind of feels like the least an author could do, but I have no clue.

Anyways, I'm just glad I get to put this series to bed. No more.I truly lost sleep over it this weekend. Onto something better, please, for the love of god.

#mnc reads #mnc writes #stalking jack the ripper #sjtr #I dont know what to tag this as but I dont want to leave anything out!#tw death #tw suicice #body horror #violence #classism #I guess #racism #maybe #I dont know #Im sorry

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

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Two Sides of the Coin (3)

Chapter 3: Picking Up A Lead | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis

Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.

Also in AO3

Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC

Chapters: Part 1 | Previous: Part 2 | Next: Part 4 | Masterlist

3 of ?

As Jidné got out of the castle, her stomach plummeted to her feet and her legs transformed into limp noodles—barely doing their job and instead dragged her along in every step. It was gradually sinking into her that the person who gave her the job was one of the most feared figures among the Jedi. She clutched her abdomen, crumpling the center of her jacket while waiting for the entry ramp to unfurl.

Not wanting to look back over her shoulder, she knew that she’d have the safety and privacy she needs within her vessel: a Dynamic-class freighter that she personally retrofitted and anointed the Crescent Scarab. It was a fine work of art that she greatly took pride in, so much so, that she has modified everything to her liking. She darted to the lounge of the ship, lousily putting down the canister and then splaying herself over the sofa.

Coming from the cockpit, an ID seeker droid acknowledged her arrival and greeted her. Its multiple claws on its tentacles flowed and twitched as its single eye panned left and right, scanning its owner.

“Hey, Eye-Dee Three,” Jidné greeted back.

The droid named ID-3, formerly Imperial property of another probe droid variant, is the only other passenger in the Scarab besides the pilot, Jidné herself. The droid chittered in its raspy, monotonous string of notes as it hovered closer towards its owner.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just… felt like jelly is all,” she brings her hand on the top of the black droid’s flat dome for a head.

The young bounty hunter detached the holster from her belt and set it down on the table, right next to the canister of credits. She stared at both objects for a good long minute, contemplating and pondering her strategy on how she’ll begin with this contract. Jidné reached out for her weapon holster first, taking it with both hands and then unbuttoning the flap—a polished, silver emitter pokes out of the lining.

She gently tilted the holster downward until an enough length of the weapon inside slid out. She caught the shaft before it could completely fall off. She rolled the hilt across her hand, feeling and tracing for the etchings, curves, and dips of the design. She held it high and proud, in the same way as she finished constructing it, the tassel that she knotted around the ring of her pommel caught her eye. Two strands, unequal in length, dangling at the very end of the hilt. The longer strand had seven turquoise beads, at the end of its thread is a cluster of feathers—three to be precise—though the wear and tear was very obvious; the short one had four beads of the same color but lacks a feather.

“Feathers are almost gone,” she hummed, fiddling the remaining tufts.

Her heart skipped a beat—it always does, even though she has done this many times. In her hand, the cold metal of the lightsaber’s sleeve stung the nerves of her palm. A small, somewhat satisfied smile curled along her lips—the weapon had brought her good memories, but also nightmares—and that smile became fleeting like a comet. Her thumb ran across the metal finish of the body and found the switch, the idea of igniting it was seductive—a temptation that she has no strength to fight back.

The snarl of the ignition took her breath away. A vibrant purple blade bore out of the emitter, its glow colored the paleness of her cheeks and reflected against the gloss of her brown irises.

“Jedi, huh?” she muttered to herself.

“Beeee-deee, trill?”

“That’s right, ID, we’re after a Jedi,”

Jidné sighed, and then switched her saber off before tucking it back into the pouch.

When her legs finally regained their strength, she walked to the cockpit and beckoned her droid companion—who still hovered close to her side—and joined her in the seat. As she put herself into work mode, she recalled the very helpful detail that Darth Vader gave. She breathed out a resigned sigh that drowned in the hollow hum of the Scarab’s engine revving up.

In a galaxy that stretched a thousand times more than the eye could see, how is she going to narrow down to finding a single Jedi?

“Say, ID, how likely are we to stumble into a redheaded Jedi on the run?”

“Beee… chirp!”

Jidné chuckled at the response, “I figured as much.”

With little base information she has, she knew she had to be resourceful. Lately, she’s picked up murmurs from Baz’s stronghold—as well as the gossips in the cantinas she frequented in Modala—that bounty hunters were also after a Jedi, solely for the bounty on his head, not because Darth Vader had hired others behind Jidné’s back or the other way around.

While gossip wasn’t exactly the best source material, she had to make do. The young bounty hunter swallowed her pride and entered the coordinates of her first stop.

Upon seeing the coordinates on the computer, ID-3 erratically chittered in protest.

“We have no other choice, buddy. They’re the closest we can get to the target,”

ID-3 lowed in disagreement, submitting to Jidné’s decision and continued assisting her in the ship, much to his chagrin. His owner sensed the disdain and petted its flat dome again.

“Don’t worry, you’ll stay close to me, right?”

“Beeep!”

Jidné smiled and boosted the ship’s throttle, following their course to Ordo Eris.

——————————————————–

Jidné piloted the ship with great care, evading the rock debris and asteroids that floated within the orbit. Her destination was dead ahead: one of the biggest rocks in the field, a needle of the infrastructure built within, a fiery orange glow encircled the central crater’s inner rim.

“I really don’t like this place,” she complained to no one in particular—except herself.

She slowed down the speed of the freighter until she got close enough to the outpost. A red blip flashed on her screen and vanished seconds after spotting it. There was a noticeable gaping crack of the arena’s ray shield wall that protects the outpost from the elements outside the planetoid, the young hunter added that to her list of questions once she lands.

The Scarab docked on the empty arena. It wasn’t entirely new for her see it devoid of animals and sentient creatures fighting for dear life, though it was a better sight than the deafening chorus of wild cheers mingling with animal roars. The Scarab’s landing gears disturbed the floor of the arena, creating clouds of sand around its pads, the exit ramp unfurled for Jidné and ID-3 to alight the ship.

A trio of bounty hunters approached her, there were more standing by the arena’s walls as well. Shortly after, they gave way for their Umbaran boss clad in silken, luxurious violet robes—he stuck out like a sore thumb around the orange light that filled his colosseum. For someone with sallow, prominent cheekbones and paper-white skin, he moved quite flamboyantly—contrast to his sickly appearance—perfectly matching up to the vibrancy of his rich, violet robes.

“We need to talk, Sorc,” the bounty hunter abruptly began, not having time for the dilly-dallying.

“Well, well,” he spoke in a singsong manner. He rubbed his goatee as he swayed. “It’s been way too long, dove. Come, come!”

Jidné didn’t come closer, even though Sorc beckoned her with his fingers covered in rings, so much so that the fingernails were the only ones exposed.

“Oh come on now, little dove, you act like we didn’t have history together!”

The bounty hunter rolled her eyes and shook her head, “Don’t call me that. Plus, that history was basically me being your delivery girl of animals and captives. It’s no big contract, just a sideline.”

“Ah, but you gave me a lot of good stuff for my arena! When you worked for me back in the day, I never ran out of customers—always looking for some mauling, goring, and all that crazy stuff!”

Completely uninterested of Sorc’s rambling about his business of arena fights between humanoids, humans or sentient beings against wild, senseless animals, Jidné cut to the chase.

“I don’t have time for stories, Sorc,”

“Of course, you aren’t. But, you know, intel—”

“Isn’t your expertise,” Jidné finished the sentence, even though that wasn’t exactly what Sorc was going to say. She put her hands over her waist, “But you’re the only one I know who could give me just that. Think of it as a compliment.”

The Umbaran pursed his lips, he opened his palm right in front of her. Fishing two gold chips out of her pocket and then tossing them to the hand, his fingers greedily caged the money into his fist and hurriedly tucked them into his robes.

“Always so hasty,” he rolled his eyes and smacked his lips. “Alright, what do you wanna know?”

“A boy. Redheaded Jedi.”

Sorc Tormo purred a long “Ahh” and wagged his finger at the girl, a mischievous grin stretching ear-to-ear on his pale white face.

“Handsome?”

Jidné’s eyebrows pulled together, creasing her forehead.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant, but okay, I guess?”

A throaty snicker rumbled from the Umbaran, still wagging his finger at the girl in a more teasing manner—it was almost childlike.

The surrounding bounty hunters subtly showed signs of hostility towards Jidné, her eyes already caught their movements with the slightest of side-glances: the ones standing closest to them were tightening their grips around their blasters, the ones who were a little far away but still within earshot had their hands slowly wandering towards their holsters.

She got the hint. Apparently, the Jedi was a prize indeed.

“Now that is an interesting subject—even for you, sweetheart!” Sorc Tormo guffawed, leaning to his knees while keeping his eyes on her.

She pointed at the damage with her thumb over her shoulder, without needing any words to make out the question, Sorc Tormo immediately has the answer.

“Ah!” he clicked his tongue. “We got a little… caught by surprise.”

“One hell of a surprise, if you ask me,”

“Oh honey, you don’t even know the start of it!” he swatted the air with his hand.

“He did that, didn’t he?”

Sorc Tormo’s boisterous guffaw startled the young girl as she awkwardly watched him laugh straight at her face. When he still hasn’t gotten all of the laughter of his system, he’s still chortling as he swings his arm at the air.

“Aww, ya shoulda see the baby go! Slashing away and getting chocked up by my pets and men. Crowd was wild, I had a full box that day!”

“You don’t know where he is, but you’ve seen him,” she insinuated.

Sorc got carried away with the compulsive need to tell it all, a force of habit, from the way she picked up his words, it was clear as the eye-straining color of his gaudy robes—the redheaded Jedi has engaged with the Haxion Brood.

“And you’re after him, too?”

“Hey, it pays the bills, sweetie!” he throws his arms to his sides, solely focusing on the topic of money. “Honestly, I could care less about the kid, but knowing the price on that pretty head of his, you really can’t blame us tryna make honest work, eh?”

“He’s mine!” she snarled, taking two steps towards Sorc.

Immediately, his bounty hunters became defensive of him, stopping her in her path by pointing the barrels of their rifles at her. That didn’t scare her, though, she takes another step close to the point that the holes of the blaster press against her body. She shot a dirty look at the pair of bounty hunters.

“If there’s one thing I hate: it’s competition.” She added.

Sorc chuckled, unintimidated and kept up his lurid façade, he gestured his hand in a circular motion that covered Jidné’s front.

“From what I could read in all this defensiveness, I strongly deduce that you have a contract out to get him.”

“Good job, man, do you want a prize for that?” she sardonically rebutted, keeping up with the Umbaran’s sarcasm with her own flavor.

There was no constructive reply from Sorc, other than another throaty chuckle. The girl’s patience is being stretched thin by the minute, not until she’s satisfied of filling the gaps that Darth Vader left in the job description.

Her sarcasm was quickly replaced with an imposing snarl through the clench of her teeth, “What else do you know?”

“He travels with that little gray grub that owes me a shitton of money!”

“A lot of little grubs owe you a shit-wad of money, Tormo, you’re gonna have to be much more specific.”

The syndicate boss sighed, often forgetting that this little bounty hunter was a persistent one—too persistent for her age rather. He shooed away his bounty hunters from being human barricades between Jidné and himself. They eased up, leaving a gap for Sorc and Jidné to converse with less distractions, but they still kept an eye on the girl—wary of her movements as she’s already starting to be aggressive.

“Alright, alright, fine! Your redhead is with the ship called the Mantis—it’s an S-161, you’ve been a mechanic part-time, right? You should know what that looks like. Now, for the grub that baby boy drives around with—he’s a stubby, little guy. Kinda old, wiry hair, bald on the top.”

“The companion—is he human too?”

“No, that grub is a Lateron. Stout, little thing. Four arms.”

Jidné tossed one last golden chip at Sorc, to which he skillfully caught into his hand; he fluidly slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes, making a soundless clink with the others, as he watched Jidné turn her back at him and walk away.

“Pleasure doing business with you, dove! Don’t be a stranger!”

“I plan to be!” Jidné clapped back before fully disappearing into the ship.

Sorc Tormo watched Jidné prep up the freighter, he even giddily waved goodbye at her to which she repaid with a fed-up rolling of the eye; she ignored him after that, focusing on the dashboard monitors of her ship as she eagerly flies the ship out of the rock. The freighter’s throttle blew at the entire arena—everyone’s capes and coattails flapped and smacked against their legs wildly as Jidné maneuvered the ship to face the gaping crack of the outpost’s wall.

“Are we gunna go after ‘er, boss?” one of the bounty hunters asked.

“Sure. It might be fun to have the baby boy and the baby girl together—they either kill each other or save each other, whatever and whichever works,” Sorc thought out loud, he rubbed his goatee with his ring-covered fingers and a grin stretched across his wrinkled, sallow face. “A ransom… no, a fugitive’s bounty on her head too! Yes, that would be very delicious. Go on now, SHOO!”

All of the bounty hunters dispersed, whooping in glee and greed as they gathered into their crude ships, bringing along the HURID-class droids for added muscle and brawn. Sorc Tormo stood idly in the exact spot he’s been staying in ever since Jidné came until she left, he listened to the barbaric laughter and chatter among his men; that greedy, coy grin never melted in his face—the only thing that ran around his brain was the idea of having sacks upon sacks of credits delivered to his private chambers, rewarded for the joint bounties of the Jedi and Jidné.

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galaxy-forgotten · 5 years

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Hi, I wanted to draw something glowy, so here you go!

Tfw ur dad completely glosses over u and ur sibling is chosen to be the savior of an entire kingdom but they're not void enough to withstand the plague and they get infected so u have to come back to kick their ass and take their place to get the job done properly but ur only a child

I imagine that since the vessels descend from "otherwordly/higher" beings, they'd be a bit...otherworldly? Instead of hair, the amount of soul or void that's within their body is projected out as strands or clouds of hair, with soul being the most dominant visable feature compared to the mixture of void.

Well, technically speaking, it's the most dominant feature if you're not infected by the plague.

The trait is unique to the Pale King, White Lady, and all of their offspring, save for Hornet. It's sort of a display of power within wyrms, I guess???? Other bugs simply have soul and plague reflected in their eyes.

(Also the Radiance has hair of pure light but we're gonna leave that on the side for now)

hc that the "Pure Vessel" displayed more prominent soul energy compared to Lil' Ghost according to the king's eyes, but Ghost had a better balance of void and soul from the start so in the end, they were always meant to be the Vessel (no shock there). It's just that they needed the Voidheart to better control their constantly shifting balance of soul/void.

Now, The Hollow Knight shows only plague and the slightest bit of fighting void/soul in their wild locks of hair. I'd imagine that during the boss battle as THK starts the whole stabby thing, their hair would slowly become more black? Idk

#hollow knight fanart #hollow knight #hk gijinka #i had nothing to do #i just wanted to draw

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alvaar-aldaviir · 4 years

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Movement: Melancolico Part 1/3

Time Frame: Heavensward. Spoilers accordingly.

Notes: Trigger Warnings for a more personal and introspective look at grief and depression, as well as accompanying thoughts of suicide.

This is by far the darkest piece posted thus far, but it’s important to Alvaar’s character and I don’t like to gloss over the impact it left on him and his subsequent relationships with others. Scions especially.

Cross-posted to Ao3.

Alvaar has never been the sort to give himself time for pause. There was too much to do as the Warrior of Light, too many wrongs to try and right as the world shifts under his feet after the Vault. But having ripped yet another tyrant from his throne and finally taking time to grieve...

Why is it the hardest battle he's had to face is the frozen state of his own blackened heart?

An introspection on grief and depression, and the importance of the people who stay by your side. Second chapter incoming.

It was over. Thordan was dead, Haurchefant’s killer had been slain with him, and in the quickly growing pile of problems already stacking before the remaining Scions Alvaar only cared about one. He’d dragged another tyrant low and put more Primals back into aetheric dust, the world could hold a moment for him to attend the funeral of the man he’d loved when he’d put his own grief aside to see justice done. And somehow, for all the near brushes with his grief he’d had chasing after Thordan, when he’d finally given himself leave to let it wash over him...

Alvaar still hadn’t managed a single tear.

It spared the Count a scene at least, having only held the hand of his beloved when he paid his respects. A hand that felt alien and cold, stiff and somehow like it was hollow, empty of the vibrant and warm soul that had once been bursting within. A man that could ask him to smile on his dying breaths...

He’d dipped his chin, murmured his words of goodbye, and walked away feeling as though whatever warmth that had lingered in him now lay in that casket to keep Haurchefant company. He wouldn’t need it. Surely he’d never feel anything so warm again without him.

Tataru and, somehow surprising to him, Alphinaud, had lingered by his side. The Lalafell’s hands wrapped tight about his and he barely felt it at all. He’d only sat still and silent through the funeral before he found himself being guided away once the candles had started to burn out. Led through the streets like some dumb beast of burden by the small hands holding his and the slim arm at his back.

He didn’t know what words they’d said nor what they’d done, only that he’d fallen face first into a bed that didn’t carry a trace of the young lords cologne and somehow the absence of it felt both fitting and obscenely painful.

The next day passed like a haze as he stayed still and silent in the darkened room and remained relatively mute to anyone that came calling. His solitude was only broken when Alphinaud finally shoved the door in after the third unanswered knock to let Tataru nervously follow along behind him. Once he’d sulkily sat up to stare at them both he was immediately greeted to a bowl of stew being held towards him as the Lalafell chattered about it being her latest learned recipe at the Forgotten Knight. And with the Arcanist already clearing off the side table and dragging over chairs for himself and Tataru, he’d had little choice but to entertain them, listening quietly as Tataru brought up what bits of inane gossip she could, pointedly staying far away from the issues at hand.

The next day Tataru returned, this time carrying a cutely adorned basket along with his breakfast. He’d no sooner finished (more from the pressure of her stare than hunger) when she was pulling out her embroidery hoop and asking him to teach her a new pattern. After an overly long silence which she stayed determinedly, if not earnestly, expectant at his eventually reply, he acquiesced. With a small flourish of light his own needlework set appeared in his hands and he’d studied the blank fabric for a while mulling it over. He knew invariably she would want to embellish her clothes with something unique for her newfound workplace and pondered what designs might work as he wordlessly accepted the fabric pen she held over to him.

Opting against designs of the straight spires of the buildings around them (for they only reminded him of bloodied lances rising from a corpse) he settled for a heavy lined sketch that left the Lalafell confused until his thread and needle began to fly, stitching white over the swirl of icy blue ink lines. Her eyes immediately lit up with excitement, hopping up beside him to watch as the frost patterns were quickly embellished in with delicate stitches and raised knots.

“I spoke with an elderly woman at the guild here. Apparently, there’s a technique called thread painting that’s become rather popular with the ladies of estate. If you were to very carefully bleach out some of the color for your base lines, you can embellish them with silver floss like so. Think of it like fern reeds at first but add more swirls to the frond ends and a few straight fractals with your thread. Like frost on the windowpane,” he murmured, holding his fabric away so Tataru could watch him work.

“Oh! Alvaar that’s genius! I have just the perfect blue piece that could use sprucing up!” she chirped.

“If you can, try on a part you can’t see first. You’ll want to see how much the bleach spreads through the fibers,” he continued, reciting the pointers he’d been given.

They’d spent almost two hours with their needlework, the Bard patiently advising and even handing off his teaching piece and a few spools of cotton silver floss for her to use. As soon as she left in her usual scurry for work, he’d waited for the door to close before fitting another piece of fabric into the hoop, securing his needle, and banishing them back into nothingness.

Without the chatter or direction, he’d returned promptly into a defeated sulk for several hours, interrupted only by Alphinaud letting himself in after his knocks were ignored.

Alvaar didn’t bother to sit up, not fully certain why the young Elezen was there when Tataru wouldn’t be out from her shift for another four hours at least. Not unless he was here to be dragged along as both physical and mental muscle for another round of Leveilleur politics.

And if that was the case the boy was about to be terribly disappointed by his newfound depths of apathy.

What else would it be? A rousing speech to rise up from despair and fight for a better Eorzea? A plea or summons from yet another far off city needing their help yet again? Another return to conflict against the shade of Nidhogg that had claimed Esti-

“Drink.”

The flat no nonsense tone made him flick an ear as weary puzzlement pulled at his brow. Sliding his gaze over to the Arcanist he stared at him mutely and the thermos he held out to him.

“You have to keep your fluids up or you’ll get dehydrated and sick, now drink,” Alphinaud commanded again, though Alvaar could hear the faint nervous tone underneath. The sound of someone trying to be brave in the face of something unfamiliar he figured, as the boy had scarcely ever seen the Warrior of Light in any state that wasn’t still rock steady. Even in the face of Bahamut he’d kept his emotions under control and been responsive despite internal fear. And even after losing himself to rage fighting against Ilberd, he had quickly come back around and behaved normally once he’d been snapped out of it…

It was perhaps the most telling of how his mood must appear, given the youth had marched headstrong into each major city without so much as a pause of step to speak with political giants.

A faint snort left him, but he sat up anyway to continue pinning the Arcanist with that stare for a few moments more before holding his hand out. Accepting the container he removed the cap, staring at the pale liquid inside as a strong whiff of mulling spice reached him.

“.... Mulled tea? ... the scent is right, but the color is off. Did they substitute tea leaves?” he mused, taking another light whiff before tasting it.

“They didn’t have any Thanalan tea leaves, likely because the secular attitude hasn’t left much in the way of trade routes with Ul’dah. Hopefully that will change in the near future when... well. We finish what we’ve started.” Noting Alvaar’s flat stare, Alphinaud fidgeted, looking away promptly and finally moving to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at his shoes. “.... I’m sorry if it doesn’t taste right. I... tried my best to brew it the way you showed me,” he murmured.

There was a pointed silence that stretched out between them before the Bard took another drink in thought.

“It’s different. A bit weaker. Coerthan tea leaves don’t have as much flavor due to the harsher growing environment and tending to be dried from the cold instead of the sun. It’s not as oxidized as in Thanalan, despite being the same plant. It takes almost double the amount, but a weak brew is sometimes a better option than a strong one. You can sometimes brew again, but removing bitter flavors is difficult,” Alvaar mused.

“Ah... sorry...”

“Don’t be. It’s not bad, just different but a good enough substitute. In fact, it brings out more of the mulled spices as Coerthan tea has more of an earthy flavor. It’s also not bitter from over steeping. That’s usually the most difficult part,” he whispered, staring at the container. “I’ll have to teach you how to make Ishgardian tea. They use yaks milk here and steep the tea right in the milk. It’s quite a bit different from in the south. There the milk is a primary additive and not used as a base.”

Alphinaud blinked at him, tilting his head some once Alvaar had fallen quiet again. “You know quite a lot about tea.”

It got another snort. “I’d hope so. I had to get a real good eye for it given it sells pretty consistently. Nobles love their herbs and spices. It’s a lovely show of status to have foreign spices in your food or at your table. ...Did you know Y’shtola loves Coerthan tea? I’d usually harvest a bit extra for her.”

“Does she? Hm, I wouldn’t have guessed. ... so, what made you interested in botany? I confess, it was not a topic I went to at the Studium.”

The Bard was quiet for a spell, still studying the pale liquid intently. When Alphinaud didn’t seem to show any sign of leaving or pressing him further, he at last sighed and looked up.

“Money. I arrived to Gridania with little more than what I carried and maybe a thousand Gil. Just enough to stay a day or two and find some work.”

At that the teen stared at him in silence for a few moments, during which the Bard took another slow drink while maintaining eye contact.

“... Y-you’re serious?”

“I needed the money.”

“No that you only had access to a thousand Gil. Did you have a credit line or access to-”

“We don’t all have very accommodating rich parents Leveilleur. In fact, some of us don’t have parents at all,” he cut in flatly before taking another sip as he looked away. “It can’t all be heroic battles and cajoling with the big brass of foreign nations. It hardly puts food on the table much less pays the cost of raw materials to craft into some form of steady income.”

At that the Arcanist seemed a bit chastised, studying the floor again. “Weren’t you paid for your work with the Scions?” he asked softly, still a note of disbelief in his tone.

Holding up a hand the Bard began ticking things off his fingers. “Travel expenses. Lodging. Equipment costs. Repair bills for said equipment. Food and potion expenses... At the end of the day I break even Alphi. And that’s only sustainable if I show up to do great heroic feats every day, which you might forgive me if I find that a little disconcerting to be that needed. Besides, I have retainers and a chocobo to pay for. That’s the bulk of the reason I joined the Twin Adders and that was mostly to open up a way into marketplaces while being mobile.”

Alphinaud was silent for a short while, contemplating the idea of it and hanging his head a bit more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Flicking his gaze over to the snowy haired teen, Alvaar frowned slightly at himself before ruffling his hair and looking away again. “I’m not. At least it’s honest work. Besides, Scion work is sort of, you know... nonprofit. I can’t really demand more pay and I wouldn’t anyway. Keeps me busy. And I genuinely like many of the trades I’ve picked up. It sort of... grounds the adventuring. Reminds you of why you do the insane heroics.”

“Yes... I’ve certainly found that perspective is all important to what we do...” the Arcanist replied, managing at least a vaguely upbeat tone. “Still, I apologize for being ignorant of your situation.”

“Don’t worry about it Alphinaud. It’s not your problem and you’re in a very wide majority of people that don’t ask about my life. Most don’t really care about what happens to their neighbors much less the man under the mask and I don’t make a habit of supplying details anyway. In fact, the only person that really dug into my life was... well. Haurchefant.”

At that the mood grew even more dim, punctuated by a single soft and saddened laugh from the Bard. “He used to trade me folktales and history for stories about myself... I suppose I’ll never find out how the story of the ‘Moonstone Lanner’ ends...”

Setting the now empty thermos on the nightstand with a ringing thud, he rested his head on his drawn-up knees and wrapped his arms about himself, burying his face away from view.

“Damnit Greystone...” he murmured, voice faint and hollow. Even now... STILL... No tears would come to him and-

“Do you know anything about Sharlayan?”

The words were a bit rushed but they made Alvaar pause anyway, lifting an arm up enough to see Alphinaud’s expectant look.

“.... No. Why?”

“Would you like to? I still remember many of the things on its history from my time in the Studium. And even a few myths and legends if you prefer that instead.”

Staring at him flatly for a long beat, he finally sighed when the Elezen seemed content to wait for a reply and even more than ready to stay seated at his bedside. “Fine. Give me a myth. Something fantastical.”

“I can think of a few. Here, eat this. Tataru said she would bring you dinner but that’s still a few hours yet,” he answered, holding over a wrapped-up handkerchief containing some form of braided bread.

A deeper sigh left him but he accepted it anyways, rearranging a number of pillows back behind him before falling into them with a feathery thump as the arcanist began his story.

Another day and then a second passed in similar fashion, Tataru asking him about this craft or another in the morning with his breakfast and Alphinaud telling him a story or three with his lunch. In the late evening they both made an appearance with dinner, sharing whatever Tataru had been allowed to take with her (which he noted was a much larger and more complex portion of leftovers than any one Lalafell would need) and chatting or playing cards.

And in the times between he would lie silent and still in the dark as if in some waking dream with only the ever-present sound of the howling winds to accompany his depression.

On the third day, both maid and Arcanist had dutifully reminded him (no less than three times a piece) that Tataru would have a particularly late shift and he should definitely make sure he went to or otherwise acquired dinner. He’d offered mute nods and mentally brushed it off as the vain test it was. He didn’t want food or water.

He just wanted to be left alone.

If the winds of The Pillars were colder than anywhere else in Coerthas, Alvaar couldn’t tell as he stared down into the inky black. The almost ever-present snow remained, spiraling away out of even his keen vision as it dwindled out of the lamplight of the city and vanished into the obsidian depths below.

Once he wouldn’t have had much interest in studying so steep of a fall, leaned against the balcony of his loaned room at the Fortemps Manor. Once he would have had much more of an interest in being inside where it was warm, curled up under the arm of his lover. Once he would have shared stories of his travels and listened for hours as the Lord of Camp Dragonhead regaled him with the long history and folktales of Coerthas.

Once, Haurchefant wouldn’t be lying cold in ground that was colder still and would have been there to keep him warm both inside and out with his cheerful demeanor.

Now Alvaar wasn’t certain if he’d ever really feel the cold again with how numb his heart still felt. Like it hadn’t beat since Haurchefant had been run through. His insides colder still then the hellscape of ice and snow about him. Indifferent to the frozen winds that ripped at his loose cotton tunic and leather breeches.

He stared into the inky black, gaping like the maw of some colossal dragon intent to swallow all Ishgard and her people, and he felt nothing.

Three days and still...

He felt no outrage that often sparked in him after those he loved were attacked. He felt no sense of duty driving him to feats of heroic stupidity. No sadness to linger and mourn the loss of a man he’d truly come to love. There was a growing pile of bodies about him to avenge, a city stirring in unrest in the wake of a millennia of lies, Scions to track down, and a war to help end.

Even so he stared at that abyss and he felt nothing but a desire to be consumed in it. To let it swallow him up and put an end to the unyielding march of the Warrior of Light. The heroic figure of myth and legend that made a target of every mere mortal around him... until, inevitably, he would die standing alone. Haurchefant and Ysayle, both dead on this journey, and surely by now Estinien has been consumed in Nidhogg’s rage...

His friends were dying around him as he fought for a country that wasn’t his own. Hadn’t he done enough? Couldn’t he at least grieve for what had been lost?

It was bitter, and it was petty, but in his dark apathy he thought maybe if he let that yawning void consume him then he’d at last feel like he could break down and cry.

Finally shed the tears that had burned in his eyes as he held his dying lover in his arms. The same tears that remained hot and still refused to fall in the ensuing chase. When he’d battled Primals, and Garleans, and lost more friends. Even at Haurchefant’s funeral and afterward, when he’d felt the concerned stares of his few remaining Scions and the House of Fortemps who knew what the man had meant to him.

He’d told him the night before the Vault that he loved him... and now when he finally stole a moment of his own he couldn’t even shed the damn tears with this cursed icy heart in his chest.

It would be so fitting...

Just a step...

Just a short climb...

And he’d vanish into nothingness again…

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rcris123 · 5 years

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He thought of Arthur sucking that man off.

He thought of Arthur; how he pinned that outlaw down on the bed. He remembered that look Arthur gave: long, thin strands of auburn hair drawn messily over his face, eyes glossed over, gaze sweet, awed and that mouth let to hang open. Those lips of his, square, yet full when he don’t purse them in a thin line, were quite the sight; in part ‘cause he ain’t seen someone with a mouth that damn pretty, the rest ‘cause it made Sebastian want to shove his cock down it.

But now Sebastian’s lips are ‘round someone else’s girth; he ain’t all that careful, man was moaning hard enough to sound satisfied. For 20$ that’s all he’s getting.

He kept thinking of Arthur. Underneath him. Or above him. It didn’t matter. It felt raw; the way rough and tender Arthur kissed and bitt his neck while Sebastian was still grabbing him by the collar. He wanted that; ‘cause it ain’t making him feel hollow. A body ain’t ever meant much; somehow back then it did.

It was always physical with him; he grabbed Arthur, pulled Arthur, dragged Arthur in – and Arthur pulled him out, touched his wounds... And Arthur fucked him; did it with charm, lifted him up against the wall like he was barely some bag of groceries-

The client cummed in his mouth; Sebastian swallows and pulls away. He’s hard, pants tight; not for this feller thou.

“Ohh—I wish my wife blew like that.” The man was a mess on the bed.

“What a shame...” Sebastian smiles as courtesy.

“Oh, she’s bland, mister. Plainest. But Pop said I gotta take a wife.” Man drags his pants up. “But she’s a nice woman. Wants kids.”

“Mhm...”

He sits up, tone overly sweet: “You ain’t plain, mister.”

Sebastian chuckles: “Don’t get over your head.”

“No no...” He sounded disappointed. “Is just, ye’r pretty. Handsome.”

“Get outta here.” He tries hard to play the flirty banter game, but it ain’t coming out quite as it should.

Why would it matter if Arthur thought he’s handsome...

An odd thought. He lets the man go downstairs first, before he climbs down himself-

“Arthur?...” The cock’s still hard between his legs and it twitches at the thought.

“He got Jack-” Isaac rushes at him; Sebastian pulls away.

Who?

“Valentini.” Arthur completes the sentence. “Valentini got Jack.” That man never sounded as angry.

Sebastian’s face changes to what must be a terrifying grimace, ‘cause Isaac slips away.

“Would you tell me where he lives.”

“You won’t go there.” Sebastian cuts him, harsh. The wounds Stefano gave him were gentle, and the man owns the city.

“Dutch’ll go. And John.” Arthur insisted. “But I need to know-”

“Flavian Street; the big mansion, opposite the park.” And just as Arthur was to pull away, he grabs him by the collar spins him round. “Don’t you get involved in this, you hear- Don’t you dare.”

He knows both Arthur and Isaac at this point and if any of ‘em get involved, either dragged by Dutch or something else Sebastian fears he ain’t gonna see the end of this. Or maybe he will, but not as himself and he ain’t knowing what’s scarier: dying or losing the chance of being someone again.

“And what will you do...” Arthur’s got his own concerns and the 4 other people in the saloon at this time stop to watch.

“Hopefully, my best.” A lie. The thoughts cooking up in his head are all but possibly the worst idea he’s had.

He lets go, but Arthur doesn’t. There’s words behind those lips, but they’re sealed shut so tight he thinks they ain’t ever gonna see the light of day. And somehow, he has a hunch as to what the man wanted to say, and that’s ‘cause they just got up on their feet, and for one day it almost felt hopeful. But fate ain’t about to give Sebastian that. And he dragged this man and his son along with it.

“I’ll make sure you get the boy back.” Sebastian had to say something to break this tension; cock’s gone flacid in the meantime, and still the way Arthur gripped him threatened to have gotten it hard again if the situation were any different. “I’ll see you back at camp.”

And he wished those words were true; the smile was practiced.

“Why are you here?” One of Stefano’s men almost pointed a gun at him. “Thought you said no.”

“Changed my mind.”

“And you think it works that way.”

Sebastian looks up: there he was, Stefano sitting on the upstairs balcony with what looked like a glass of expensive wine tipped between fingers. Man raises the glass and even though he can’t see that far Sebastian knows he’s grinning, just before he shouts:

“Let him in!”

And in he’s let, then escorted upstairs to Stefano.

“Lucian is right. Why are you here, Sebastian?” The wine is twirled inside the glass before a sip is taken.

“I have a request.” Heart drummed in his chest.

The gulp is audible: “Oh?” Glass is set down. “And what would that be?”

“Erase someone’s bounty.”

Stefano chuckles: “I’m not the government.” And he spares a glance for Sebastian, eyeing him up and down, then returns to admiring the view: “But I can pull some strings.” And then the man sits up: “Just one question, dear old Sebastian. Why? Is it for the same reason that man and his son stood in when I came to see you. I hope you’re aware you’re a terrible liar.”

Sebastian simply had his lips pressed together and his chest out trying not to breathe too loudly or to simply break out in a fit of rage.

“But I’m still curious, what’s it about that outlaw that makes him attractive. I know he runs with Van der Linde. Yes, I have one of those sheep-fucker’s offspring. They came ‘round and asked. You sent them here didn’t you?” Stefano puffs with a grin, presses two fingers to his lips, taps and pins Sebastian, the quiet, stiff, unshaken Sebastian, with another gaze: “But I have to say, this is quite entertaining. You came begging to me. Or well as close to begging as those sealed lips of yours will come to.”

Stefano passes by him, purposefully on the right side so he can tap the shoulder he so much loves to brutalize.

“I’ll play your little game, Sebastian. I’ll look into your little cowboy friend.” And the man draws away, returning to his office, but not before: “Oh, and you’re free to try and escape, but I think you’re smart enough to know you won’t exactly be going out anymore. So make yourself at home, darling.”

It’s not home, but he lit a cigarette in the middle of the downstairs living, lounged on the couch like he owned the place. Was there mud on his boots? He doesn’t care, they’re on the cushions.

Small steps trot in; Sebastian huffs out the smoke he held in his chest to look over the back of the sofa:

“Sebastian?”

He smiles.

“Hi there, Jack.”

“You came to stay with Papa Valentini too.”

Don’t call him that...

A quick draw of the cigarette: “Yeah...” but he’ll avoid that question: “How’s your reading these days, Jack?”

“Uhhhh...” the kid rolls his eyes back, then they dart across the room: “Will you tell Momma and Uncle Hosea that I don’t like reading? ‘cause I don’t.”

“Isaac likes reading.” Sebastian insists, standing up and coming closer; and by God Isaac tried to make the kid read, told him everything of the Knights of the Round Table. King Arthur, huh?

“Isaac’s different.” Jack pouts. “Isaac’s old.”

“He’s still just a kid.”

“No, he’s not.”

“He still plays with you, doesn’t he?”

“He does...” Jack muses. “But he’s always away. He’s busy with Uncle Arthur and Uncle Dutch. And Papa.” Well John was hardly the parent, but Sebastian knows he loved his son and could bet that the moment he got taken away he raised Hell. That’s a parent’s love.

Sebastian crinkles his nose: “Say, would you like to play with me? We’re gonna surprise Momma with how smart you’ve become, what you say?”

“Yeah!”

One hour. Two. Three. It gets dark and there keeps being a shiver up his spine and down his arms as if he’s cold, but the air is hot and muggy like it’s always been in St. Denis.

Stefano moved in to sit across from them, legs crossed, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap. And Sebastian stiffened, Jack noticed, ‘cause he clutched him harder, while trying to teach him the animals.

Lucian came in at one point: “Signor Valenitni? Dutch van der Linde is back.”

“Oh, perfect.”

Jack perked up: “Uncle Dutch!?”

Stefano opens the door and the kid runs out like a dog on the hunt. Sebastian can only watch from inside; he doesn’t want to make it worse for Arthur- and there he was, Isaac in tow. So Stefano asked them for something-

He overhears the conversation:

“Signor Van der Linde, would you by any chance be interested in a social meeting with the upstanding citizens for this city?” He eyes Arthur, even if the man stood ways away, still in the saddle. John had the child in his arms, head pressed to the chest.

And with that Sebastian smells a trap.

That Dutch fell face first into: “O’course.”

They leave; Sebastian’s left alone with Stefano; a pang hollows his guts and a shiver runs up his spine.

Stefano lets Lucian close the door behind him: “I’m really curious to see what your little cowboy does at the ball when he sees you~”

A deep breath in to gather courage: “Then wait and see.”

“Oh, seems you’ve gotten cocky?”

“I do bite.”

Stefano hums almost as if aroused: “I’d love to see that, darling.”

He never penetrated Stefano, or have it the other way around, but the man fucked Sebastian in more ways; other ways. The downstairs bedroom with the red sheets, always stained and smelling of blood; his blood. Man was sick, always asking the same thing: half dressed, cutting himself up, moaning in pain, because it got him hard. And he saw Stefano come completely undone in those days ‘till that party.

It might have looked like the work of a doctor, precise and clean: a long line stretched down the middle of his chest, above the bone and only the bone, with the purpose of drawing blood and looking pretty. It fucking hurt. He bent on his elbows shuddering, while Stefano pleased himself, snapping shots to the wet sound of masturbation. Sebastian hated it. Other times it was bearable ‘cause he got to get away. Now he’s here; no escaping. Yet. And Stefano strung him up, tied his feet, bound his hands, stabbed his shoulder, bruised his knuckles, his knees, his face, cut his lips, his temples.

He went numb; jaw, limbs trembling without even wanting to, vision blurring, head emptying and his self feeling entirely detached from the body just so he couldn’t feel it anymore.

But he thought, all those endless hours he thought of a way to get the fuck out of this place. There’s going to be a party and Stefano’s gonna get him there just to entertain some sick idea of a tragedy like he was some British Monarch. And Stefano sure as hell ain’t Shakespeare so Sebastian could be his Romeo or Macbeth.

He’s gonna get out. He thought of it long and hard and it had to work.

He was still bruised when Stefano handed him the suit he was to wear; a top hat as well to hide the marks on his face. But it wouldn’t matter much. Lucian ain’t seen when Sebastian slipped a knife underneath the seam of his pants, that he then dangled loosely by a string attached to the suspenders. It grazed his leg, but he didn’t care. Jaw was clenched from all other pains; some more cuts ain’t mattering.

And in one more sloppy act Stefano left his precious camera idle and Sebastian free for barely a moment-

Sebastian was brought to the balcony at the Mayor’s house, along with other friends of his that he only spoke in Italian with. Sebastian didn’t understand much, but whenever one of them or ever Stefano for that matter tried to talk English to him he would reply in Spanish. He was brought up American but his Daddy taught him his mother tongue.

“Ah, there they are, the angry cowboys~” Stefano was most pleased with himself. It hurt biting that lip like he did but he couldn’t look at Arthur’s expression as he came onto the balcony.

Still he looked; the confusion, the betrayed, the heartache, then the flame that lit up when the man pursed his lips. Dutch only spared Sebastian a distrustful look before going on to converse with Dutch.

It’s small steps: from Arthur, from Sebastian. Arthur lights a cigar, lips wrapped around the girth while hands look for a light. The hat probably hid his face well enough that it’s only now, more upclose that Arthur finally notices the cuts and bruises, and his features slack then draw together even angrier.

Sebastian puts a hand on his free wrist- don’t he do anything rash.

But it ain’t seeming like Arthur was intending to. Instead he fumed in silence watching Stefano introduce the profiles of the St. Denis high society: the Mayor, Alberto Fussar, Evelyn Miller, Rains Fall. The way Stefano talked, as if he owned the universe of this city had even Dutch speechless, features slacked, offended.

“Maybe one day you’ll kill him for me-”

“We ain’t paid killers as such...”

“Oh, I am sorry-” Stefano wasn’t as openly amused now; the dark grin slipped in. “But you do need money don’t you.”

Arthur drew in a sharp breath.

“Yes.” Dutch said.

“It’s a setup...” Arthur said it on a sigh, a whisper, to Sebastian. And he wanted to say more but lips fell shut.

“You didn’t hear it from me but there’s plenty cash at the trolley station.” Stefano keeping musing to Dutch, drawing him in. “But do enjoy your party, fine gentlemen.”

Stefano draws closer in to the pair of them, arranging his gloves as if they slipped- Sebastian lets go, leaning in for barely a moment:

“Me encargaré de esto.” He knew Arthur didn’t understand a thing, but he’s hoping that’s enough to put the man’s mind a bit at ease

“Arthur!” Dutch beacons, and Arthur follows diligently downstairs, one more stolen look.

He’s sore when moving so he doesn’t do much of it; he’s waiting for the fireworks. For now he watches Arthur from the balcony, he slips into the crowd, to gather information, same as Dutch, Hosea and that Bill.

And there’s the fireworks. A glance at Stefano, before Sebastian heads down the stairs

“Sebastian.” The man’s voice is stern, scolding, maybe even frightening.

Something compels him to smile and pretend he didn’t understand: “¿Perdóneme?” And he keeps descending, step rigorous.

It’s loud and crowded; Stefano comes after him himself, fists clenched. That camera he pocketed is taken out right when he knew that the man’ll see it, walking towards the dock, where the crowd’s thinned. He hears Stefano calling him out, walking harsher.

As much as his torn body lets him Sebastian jumps in the boat docked there, untied the rope, but doesn’t depart yet, until he’s sure Stefano’s one foot away. Camera is dangled above the water.

“You think that’s a threat? I can always get a new one-”

Oops. Sebastian drops it, and it sinks to the depths of the lake.

“You seem pretty threatened.” Stefano puffs his chest out, jaw clenched. “Come on in.”

“Sebastian-” Teeth clatter onto each other and Stefano jumps on the boat.

With all the strength he has Sebastian pushes the boat off the shore and starts rowing. Stefano falls down, from the sound of it like it’ll leave a bruise. But he ain’t caring. No he ain’t caring at all. Sebastian keeps rowing as hard as he can. One short glance at the people of the party: they ain’t looking.

One hand slides under his pants to grab the knife, just as Stefano, bare handed and filled with rage stumbles up and forwards to strangle him. Sebastian’s numb to the pain, to the fact that he sliced up his own thigh lifting the weapon.

It’s swift, harsh, filled with hate. One short grunt from him.

Blade sticks clean into the skull, poking right underneath the jaw. Stefano goes numb with barely a wheeze. Eyes stare blankly forward as the body slumps on top of him.

Sebastian can breathe again; shakes the hands that pinned him off himself, blood gushes onto him, onto the boat. It’s warm and tastes like fucking revenge; it’s sweet and salty like expensive caramels. Rows are take back into his arms and keeps on traversing the lake. The throbbing of his torn thigh starting at last to sting. The fireworks die down not long after.

Body’s thrown in the swamp.

And Sebastian should row back to the mansion. Maybe he can still meet up with Arthur... and the rest-

That’s the shore there. Not much further to row-

He can’t walk. He can’t get out of the boat; falls face first in the mud just by the side of the road.

A coach stops. He recognizes those voices. Ah... here’s hoping...

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #sebastian castellanos #stefano valentini #sebthur #graphic violence #torture tw #gore tw #whump #W E L P #this might be the most chaotic chapter so far and idk if in a good or bad sense wehkrwkjer

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purplepokili · 5 years

Text

any "happy family" hollow knight au would de facto:

ignore and detest any sign of the radiance, since the radiance is veritably the cause of the problems within the "family", and

gloss over the fact that the hollow knight, the ghost, and all their siblings were created specifically to defeat/contain the radiance, because otherwise they wouldn't exist

therefore it is my headcannon that every "happy family" au exists souly in the mind of the hollow knight, as he is chained up in the black egg temple.

please excuse me while i go cry

#hollow knight #hk #headcannon #why do i do this to myself

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homesception · 6 years

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May 31, 2013 - part 1: wherein Lobac eats a cookie.

To be fair, it has been like two hundred years since my last update. That’s a pretty good nap. Just means I’m all the more rested to work on new stuff, right? I mean, I need to keep a spritely pace up if I still plan on catching up to Lobac’s liveblog before said liveblog catches up to the comic. Which for sure is still an actual thing at all, and not a bit of exclusive humor between friends.

Last time Lobac was getting into some theory crafting and analysis of the classpect system. I didn’t have much to say about that at the time, particularly not much that wouldn’t qualify as spoilers, so iirc I was mostly just responding with random thoughts and video links, half of which are dead now. There was a bit left over looking at the troll’s perster names, which was also good stuff, but lacking anything coherent to say about it, I’ll just gloss past the rest of that post, apart from:

Lobac said:

Thank you all for sticking around °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

As if you could ever get rid of me. ~{@PQ}~

Moving on, we rejoin the comic with PM visiting the Black Queen to retrieve the mysterious GREEN PACKAGE, which had been impounded by agents of the Black Court as a result of a traffic violation. The Black Queen cuts an imposing figure, and Lobac is, of course, duly imposed.

later, Lobac said:

Are those… tentacles ( ´ _ ｀) I thought only the imps were affected by the prototypings?

OH SHIT OH SHIT THAT LOOKS SO COOL HOT DAMN (゜▽゜) Wowow look at her joints! Look at all the carapace-y stuff going on there!

These days, Lobac’s soft spot for this particular sort of shiny, black, possibly betentacled monster-type aesthetic is well documented. I’m pretty sure she would have loved the black queen’s design even if it wasn’t just objectively cool as hell, but that certainly doesn’t hurt. I’m kind of sad that we never got a proper fight scene out of this particular version of her.

That’s not a spoiler is it? I’m pretty sure that’s not a spoiler.

Yeah, the random objects the kids threw in the general directions of their seizuresprites are directly affecting the final boss. NOTHING COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG HERE EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE

I don’t see the problem here. Nothing the kids could possibly put in those sprites could be at all unsettling or dangerous.

haa haa. hee hee. hoo hoo.

Her face is so weird though It’s Jaspers-shaped, and her eyes are constantly narrowed, I can’t even tell whether it’s in distaste or amusement

Why not both?

Andrew sure is proud of that hand’s close-up She’s not even dramatically pointing she’s literally just saying “yeah I dunno anything about that kinda shit you best go down there and ask my pretty princess, I mean, subordinate”

It is a pretty great hand, honestly. I think this particular image gets called back to a few more times yet.

Yeah Rose! You go and fulfill your as of yet unclear vaguely Seering-related destiny

Yeah, Rose! Get on that, maybe!

ROSE NO YOU ARE 13 THAT IS GONNA TASTE AWFUL TO YOU Heh I legitimately don’t know whether her mom would be proud of or disappointed in her if she could see her now Is this an act of defiance or emulation Just silly teenage antics, probably, but I’d like to think she misses her

Rooooooose Rose nooooooooooooooooo （ ´ω｀） Ehehe I love how the artstyle turns super silly to reflect how upset/surprised she is

These two panels constitute one of the most iconic funny moments in the comic. It works really well. Shoot, I should have done the post topper-edit based on these, huh? Oh, well. The one I already did took like four hours, mostly due to my extreme rustiness, so I’m not going back now.

Otherwise, I also like to think of Rose missing her mom here. Maybe not admitting it to herself, but still. I also still ascribe to the “everything Mom ever did was 110% unironic, Rose made up the whole passive aggressive conflict between them in her head, her mom wasn’t passive agressive she was just a bonkers drunk rich lady” headcannon that I think I spoke about ages ago in this very liveblog.

Anyway, yeah, this is both a hilarious joke and a fantastic little character moment for Rose. Another contributing factor to Rose being my big early favorite with a seemingly insurmountable head start in the ‘best character’ race.

Actually, lately, since the end of the comic, she’s been gaining ground again for me? I mean, one of the trolls definitely surpassed her for most of my Homestuck fan life, but... eh, whatever. There’s no way I can getting into how my feelings about those characters developed over the comics life without being way more spoilery than even I’ve already been, so that kind of talk will have to wait for later. Even if later means ‘years from now’ or ‘never’.

BOO FUCKING YAH, IT’S THE WHITE QUEEN Or Windswept Questant, for now She’s also as of yet uncorrupted by the kids’ silly sprite shenanigans

Lobac had been waiting for this reveal for a while, I think.

PM: Command John to put the carved tablet into a pyxis.

You follow the command telling you to command John to put the carved tablet in the pyxis and type, “John, put the carved tablet into the pyxis.” You successfully do that, and he successfully does that too. Everyone is friendly and cooperative.

Ah yes, you so rarely get this kind of friendly cooperation from narrators these days

It was a rather uncommonly tidy sequence, for this comic.

Shit I just remembered those typing hands we saw when trying to name Jack, the reader is like a physically present entity??? Maybe???

What prompted this thought? The earlier black queen hand image hanging in your head, then a bit about narrators entering text, and that old bit just pops up? It’s cool how brains work, making intuitive connections and all that.

What if we eventually zoom out to reveal a human exile commanding everyone. We’ve only been watching that human mess around up until now. The real story begins when they just suddenly go “whelp that was kinda fun. gotta look for food tho” at an incredibly dramatic moment.They turn away from the console. And then we watch them slump through the desert for thousands of pages and their journey of introspective self-discovery is the actual story. Yes.

Shit, Lobac just predicted the whole narrative! No point in continuing this liveblog, I guess. “[#P%]t

Well, obviously this means that WV has an uncanny knack for distances and PM has one for sounds AR can probably track down crimes by their scent He’s like McGruff the Crime Dog, but a little less fluffy

I used to love McGruff the Crime Dog. Until I grew up and realized he was a tool of THE MAN.

dear gOD SHE REALLY IS PUTTING JACK IN DRESSES (*≧▽≦)ﾉｼ He and Slick are basically the same person, right? Oh man he is gonna stab the shit out of her one of these days

~{%|%}~

Jack Noir, more like JACK NO. NO YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE OUT THERE MURDERING PEOPLE AND FROLICKING THROUGH THE STREETS WITH YOUR ASSHOLE CREW. WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS IS PATHETIC o(`д´ ｡)

I’d say this is a “be careful what you wish for” moment, but I think Lobac knew exactly what she was doing here.

Ticket? Oh, this thing. Ha, ha, look at that, you are holding a ticket. How did that get in your hand? It belongs on the desk with the others. No, you are not here to pay a parking ticket. You explain to the frightening man that you are here to pick up that green parcel.

GIVE ME A C! GIVE ME A U! GIVE ME A T AND I AND E! sheeEEEE’S A CUTIE!!!!

Honestly, they’re all cuties. the cuteness of the entire cast, even the villains mostly, in both visual depiction and personality, really is a big selling point of the whole comic.

There was a time when I wasn’t super into cute things. I was never viscerally opposed to cuteness, never when through a virulently anti-girly-stuff phase, but these days I’m MUCH more into things being cute. I just like cute characters! Sure, I like things that are somber and spooky, but the best is when they’re somber and spooky AND super cute!

Like, Hollow Knight. That whole game is like exactly my favorite aesthetic these days. Sad and morose and dark and adorable.

But more often than not homestuck still comes pretty close to that ideal. You just want to hug the shit out of all of these doofuses, a few stab wounds here or there be damned. Speaking of stab wounds...

WHOOPS TENSION. THIS IS NOT WHAT I MEANT. I DO NOT ACTUALLY WANT YOU TO START KILLING PEOPLE OK

Maybe Lobac didn’t know what she was asking for earlier.

Wait, the crowns, what the fuck, he wants her to KILL THE KING AND QUEEN??? SHE’S JUST A MAIL LADY ヾ(´･-･｀)ノ”

How does he even know she’s desperate enough to kill people just to get one package?

The PARCEL MISTRESS departs with her mission of double agency. You wonder if she’ll actually be so foolish as to attempt to uphold her end of the lopsided bargain. You make a policy of handing out a REGISWORD and a HITLIST to just about everyone who enters your office. But you never think anyone’s actually going to GO THROUGH with it.

What a phenomenal asshole That explains that

pretty much. As for the box itself...

Yeeeeah you’re not actually gonna show me so, go ahead, taunt me, get it over with

PFFFFPFPFPFPFFF WHAT SOMETHING COMPLETELY RIDICULOUS APPARENTLY? NOT AS RIDICULOUS AS HIS FACE THO. Magnificent asshole cutie

Hahah, \[&P%]/

Anyway, at this point the action cuts back to the kids, and that seems a good a time as any to take a break. I could just save this as a draft and finish the rest of lobac’s post later? I mean, then I wouldn’t have to take extra time for another panel edit? But I kind of want to post something now, so I guess well do this one in parts again. part 2 scheduled for, let’s be ambitious and say may 2022

How did I ever use to have the time for this blogging shit? I’ve been working on this for like six hours, and only got like a third of the way through one update? I guess I was just younger then.

I’m so old now. Time just gets away from me.

And my back hurts all the time.

#homestuck #homestuck liveblog #homestuck liveblog liveblog #lobac #chaos chaos #i can do anything #apparently tumblr mobile displays #this neatly and cleanly formatted post #as a nightmare mishmash of different font sizes #and text styles #with no particular marcation for quotes #oh well #if you're 'reading' this on mible #i'm sorry #it looks fine on desktop I promise you

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