#i can buy the wretched poison???????

[justasillylittlegirly]

ive got even worse news

this is a fucked up thing to see on a youtube video

[kalolasfantasyworld]

Chapters 372, 373 comments

The comments were written as I was reading. I'll make another post with my overall opinion and analysis. These are live reactions 💕

Chapter 372

We’re starting with Nozel crashing down and Pablo coming to the rescue. CLASSIC. (Helena get over here and heal your husband please)

Thankfully Kahono and Kiato came in. I actually stumbled upon a post on twitter saying that BC mobile foreshadowed this a little, giving us both of them together. 

Moving on I love how they’re giving Noelle a way to fight. 

I’m really glad how Tabata’s showing us Acier’s spells. We didn’t really know about anything except her Valkyrie armor, so it’s great to see how they’re more “bird” related. 

Noelle and Acier are going all out. The fact that Acier is using water is interesting. Maybe it’s to show the similarities.

THE PANELS, THE ART. They’re amazing, we can see how dynamic this fight is and we can only dream how it will look animated.

Acier once again using an eagle and Noelle fighting her off with a dragon, amazing.

YES Solid and Nebra panels! They realise how powerful Noelle is and at the same time they’re terrified, they feel weak and we see them reflect on their actions, on their behaviour. 

I’m glad they realised their mistakes, but no you’re not wretched you were until you realised and tried to make it better.

They get inspired by their little sister and the inspiration trope goes on in BC.

Now once again the epic fight between Noelle and Acier. ART is at its peak here, the foreshortening, shadows, expressions.

And Acier nearly had her, but NEARLY, because SOLID my boy. 

I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you! I knew you had it in you!

Nebra fights as well! She’s terrified, but she’s not giving up! 

“It isn’t the weak who should be embarrassed. It’s the ones who STAY WEAK!”

YES YES EXACTLY

And they want to atone, want to make a fresh start and want to BECOME A FAMILY!.

All I ever wanted from BC was this last panel. 

Thank yous so much Tabata. The four of them. You made it so beautiful.

I’m extremely grateful I stuck around in the fandom to witness this.

Also hey Nozel you’re up and back in the fight!

Chapter 373

“Take care of the rest for us… SILVAS!!” 

I’m not sobbing guys, no not at all.

Nebra using her strength and covering everything so that they can talk.

Ohhh I love how the next panel kind of flashes back to when he said that she’s a Royal and she has to come protect the capital with him!

Same motifs everyone. Amazing.

Nozel is finally guiding Noelle and teaching her. I wonder what would had happened if he did that since the beginning, but well we’ll never know. Good he’s making up for it now.

Acier comes back and they need more time, Noelle needs more time for this attack. I know what’s coming. Nozel relaying on others! Character development.

“Big brothers exist to protect their siblings!!”

Nozel you’re making me cry 😭😭😭 I’m so proud of you. 

AND yes he’s changing his style, he’s learning, evolving. DEFENCE.

DAMN, so I saw that panel earlier… but I’m still looking… respectfully…

NEW SPELL, I already made Helena make dirty jokes about it… 😂

But honestly even though he looks exactly like the Silver surfer and he had that surfing scene in during the captains’ battle. I LOVE IT. 

And see guys Nozel has some lean muscle, my drawings and descriptions are accurate.

And he kind of got an armor.

I’m discontinuing simping right now.

He’s buying them time! They obviously worry, but how badass that is.

I love how determined Solid and Nebra are here. 

“Solid and I will support your spell!!”

YES Nebra! Good job girl!

They will help, they will support you Noelle.

Maintaining that spell does hurt. I head canon that Nozel has some immunity to his magic in a way that he can control it a bit from not hurting him, but nonetheless it is hurting him. Mercury is poisonous.

However he fights through it now, he goes against his mother, doing his best to buy time for his siblings.

Nebra and Solid have a hard time, it’s hurting them, but they don’t speak they’re focused and they will help her. On the contrary they tell her to push forward. Such amazing development. We can also see their repentance. They know they were wrong and they’re trying to make up for it in these crucial moments.

I saw this panel in @thoughtfullyrainynightmare’s colorings and I LOVE it so much! Nozel and his punishment are very dramatic. He looks so good here!!! (Simp mode is back)

However what he SAYS is so much more important, what he wishes to achieve. He believes in his goal, he will atone and be able to rebuild to heal the bonds in his family.

Okay this is going to be heavy. I just know it.

Noelle doesn’t want to hurt Nebra and Solid. 

CONFESSIONS

I knew it 

😭😭😭

I always head canoned that Nebra was jealous of that and now it’s confirmed. It’s so brave of her to confess it now.

Solid also was jealous, the same magic attribute and Noelle was just more powerful. He was scared, scared to be weaker than Noelle, which he ended up being (self fulfilling prophecy everyone).

But they are SORRY!

And this means to Noelle more than anything.

She charges her magic, as Nozel continues the fight! Spectacular.

(I haven’t red Jojo, but it’s a mojo looking panel) once again I’m so impressed by the movement and just how amazingly Tabata can show the action.

The spell crashes Acier’s eagle.

“It’s a shame, but I got to see my children all grown up and strong As a mother, I’m satisfied!”

Acier despite being an evil paladin is the one of the best mothers’ in BC.

She’s proud of them (me too girl me too)

“You took the long way round, but you’ve finally become a family, haven’t you?”

Yes they have.

[dirtyfilthy]

I am staring down the barrel of tomorrow, hoping slash fearing it might actually pull the trigger on me.

I kinda despise what I do for a living. I consider it basically to be "tighting the screws on capitalism". Then again, I love solving the technical problems it presents.

But, it's not real hacking. It lacks that essential spirit of good honest wholesome mischief. At the end of the pay: I only make profit driven corporations more secure. Which, by fact of happy accident, might also stop individual people from getting fucked over. But it is definitely not the point of the exercise.

I try to get the pan to spit a little pork fat back at them, now and again. Keep one hand in my pocket, so as not to sell my whole soul, if you get my meaning.

You have to, don't you? To stay human. To convince yourself you ain't yet completed poisoned, and you can keep on drinking the same old koolaid day after day, despite that strange, bitter, almond after taste.

Shit. Given no one reads this anymore I guess I can confess I've thought about just buying a hundred xanax and simply not closing the door on my way out.

I won't though. Cos there's a large part of me that still believes in the potential and possibility of people. Of what people can achieve, even such a wretched creature as myself.

I spent three hours yesterday wondering if I'd ever fall in love again. Like who the fuck could fall in love with this. I got a fine mind on me, and I'm mostly kind to people, but that's the best that can be said, I reckon. There's not much else to recommend me in the dating market. I am a shambling, chaotic blur.. A dice roll away from being no more than a emotional game of snakes and ladders. From a distance, yes, I may somewhat resemble a real person. But, get close up and you'll soon find out; the sides of the slope are far too steep and you'll quickly tumble down the uncanny valley.

Well if you can't tell I'm not doing well. I am throwing myself into the technical problems for distraction, cos I reckon I got ideas no one else has tried yet.

It feels like there is no other value to my life.

[theresattrpgforthat]

hi there again! I loved your suggestions for the trans rights florida bundle, I've already convinced some of my players to try them out with me

I found a ttrpg bundle called "Solo But Not Alone 3" and man, it looks amazing, so I was wondering if you've any recommendations from it?

there's not a lot of ttrpgs in it as compared to other, bigger bundles, so I'm still weighing my choice as to whether to buy it. there was a lot of solo in the trans rights florida bundle too and I'm kinda broke so I'm weighing it all on whether you think there's some unique ones here worth playing

what do you suggest?

THEME: Solo, but not Alone.

Hello friend! I actually bought this bundle! I had a chance to poke around and read some of the games, many of which have a spectacular layout or really nice art.

A number of these games have existed in previous bundles. Monster Realm Exchange Program was also in Trans Rights for Texas, and A visit to San Sibilia was in the Bundle for Ukraine. If you already own those bundles (on top of the Trans Rights for Florida bundle) and you don’t play a lot of solo games, there’s going to be a bit of overlap. However, if there’s a game that exists in this list that you feel feral about 

For those who are not familiar with this bundle, it is raising money for suicide awareness until Mar. 31, so if you’re interested, you should check it out now!

Click Here.

Monster Realm: Student Exchange Program, by Lucky Newt Games.

A portal has appeared in our world that leads to a realm of monsters! The environment is deemed safe, the natives peaceful, and ambassadors exchanged. Now a foreign exchange student program has been struck up between the two realms, and you’re one of the chosen few to go first! While attending school, you’ll be asked to record a journal about the different interactions you have with the other students and the different relationships you develop.

Monster Realm: Student Exchange Program is a solo journaling game that can also be played as a question/answer game with younger players. Meet people very different (and not so different) from you and reflect on the reasons for the types of relationships you have with them. Each round is equivalent to a single month, and you’ll attend school for a year. All you need is a deck of playing cards (Jokers removed), three 6-sided dice, and a way to record your journaling.

This is a journaling game that focuses on making relationships with people who are very different from you, using a deck of cards to generate the monsters you meet, their personalities, and the initial relationship you have with them. The journaling game is meant to represent a year’s worth of study, but there’s alternative rules for anyone who wants to streamline the game and write a smaller amount of journal entries.

I love games that basically give me an excuse to flex my creative writing skills, and I’m a sucker for monster tropes, so this was an easy rec to add to the list.

Grackle Teeth, by Majcher Arcana.

Grackle Teeth is a solo journaling game informed by the Wretched & Alone SRD. All you need to play is a deck of cards, a handful of regular dice, and some stuff to write with and on—the crummier the better.

You play as the last survivor of a human extinction event, an apocalypse on a massive scale. Buildings still stand, the sun still rises, and vegetation has reclaimed the works of humanity. Few animals roam the empty streets, and those that do are feral, ravenous, and relentless. 

This is Austin, Texas, USA. Date unknown—the only time that matters is that between now and the next time you must go out to scavenge for supplies.

You have survived this long, but not for much longer. Food is scarce and terrible. Springs and rivers are clogged and poisoned. And the birds hunger for your flesh.

But still, you persist. You endure, because that’s what humans do.

Wretched & Alone games are solo roleplaying games that often direct your character to some kind of lonely end. Usually, this is represented in your character’s slow depletion of resources, as in Grackle Teeth. 

This game is extensively thought out, with specific events attached to each card in a card deck. Every week, your character will have to spend resources to survive, and certain events give you the chance to spend more resources to accomplish additional tasks. If you like a game about survival and struggle, this might be worth checking out.

A Visit to San Sibilia, by JimmyShelter.

This city never changes, this city never stays the same. Close to the coast in a river delta, San Sibilia’s sprawling districts are connected by rambling trams and ramshackle ferries. You may have read about San Sibilia once in a 20-part encyclopedia in a dusty shop around the corner, but haven’t been able to find the bookstore since.

A visit to San Sibilia is a solo journaling game in which you roleplay a character chronicling their visit to the city of San Sibilia. It is a city not found on any maps—San Sibilia is both part of and distinct from our world. The city manifests itself differently to every visitor.

I love this game (which might be obvious, since it’s my second time recommending it). It can be short or long, depending on the luck of the cards and how much you’re interested in the premise. The city is strange and full of mystery, with opportunities for both wonder and creeping dread. I went into this game deeply inspired by the Ambergris stories by Jeff Vandermeer, so if you like the weird, unsettling feeling that his settings evoke, I’d recommend picking up this game.

Wonderfall, by Catscratcher Studio.

WONDERFALL is a solo hexcrawl RPG about exploration and community building in a post-apocalyptic world. Your people was separated, but playing as a WANDERER (a cute anthropomorphic adventurer!), you'll recover and preserve lost knowledge and culture, help your community heal, and help the world rebuild!

To play, you will need this pamphlet, a few 6-sided dice (d6), a small token of your choosing to represent your Wanderer, and a way to record detailed accounts of the world and your experiences.

This game is pretty compact, but it has a lot packed into it. There’s space to draw your anthropomorphic)character, a hexmap, and a number of tables that you’ll roll on to determine elements and encounters that your little wanderer will come across as they try to re-unite themself with their community. This is a hopeful post-apocalyptic game, so if you like imagining new futures and new frontiers, this game might work for you!

6 Trials of the Weavers, by tallywinkle.

6 Trials of the Weavers is a solo exploration game where you find yourself transported into the realm of the Weavers, a group of mysterious spider-like creatures. You must complete the six trials they present you with before you have a chance at escaping, encountering plenty of horrifying things along the way.

This game is a horror game that uses face cards and number cards from a deck of cards in different ways. The Ace of Hearts and the King of Spades are markers of the beginning and end of your trials as you attempt to escape. You will have to pass 6 trials (and answer prompts along the way) in order to escape, but you have only as many chances to pass as you do faces on a d6. Failure doesn’t stop you from moving on, but your final trial (and your ending) depends on how much stamina you’ve lost and how difficult it is to face the trial in the first place.

A caution: this is not a game for people with any kind of insect-phobia or arachnophobia, as there is quite a bit of well-done art that would reasonably spook anyone who’s a bit squeamish about bugs.

Games I've recommended from this bundle in the past

Untitled Moth Game, by S. Kaiya J.

Voyage, by Brendan McLeod.

ScareBnB, by Jacqueline Bryk.

one thread, many patterns, by Rue (ilanight).

Taken by the Shadows, by Mundos Infinitos.

Swamp Troll Witches, by Cats Have No Lord.

[geekcat]

@alt-zadr-b1tch3z A little written piece for Alt ZADR Week: Slasher (Gore, Parody, Camping, Grunge)

Dib took a step back, wiping the sweat off of his brow as he looked over the tent he had set up. Sure, it might have been a little lopsided, but he was confident that it wouldn’t collapse on top of them in the middle of the night.

"About time!" Zim said from the other side of the clearing. Dib turned and saw that he was still sitting on that log, looking at him haughtily. "What happened to it being ready before the sun set, hmm?" He gestured to the sky, now a deep purple and filled with stars.

Dib blushed, but shot him a look. "Would’ve gone faster if you helped," he pointed out. "What have you done during this camping trip, huh?"

Zim pointed to the pile of sticks in front of him, which Dib had collected earlier. One of his PAK legs emerged, firing a laser and setting it all ablaze. He gave Dib a smug look.

"...you’re terrible," Dib said without vitriol, crossing the clearing and sitting right beside him. Zim smiled, leaning against him and butting his head against Dib’s chin.

“Like you're any better,” Zim countered. “Besides, the trip was your idea.”

True, but that didn't mean Dib wanted to buy all the supplies, lug everything around all day, and find a good spot to rest. It would have been nice if Zim had helped a little. At least he hadn't gotten either of them injured on this trip yet.

Still, he lightly kissed the base of Zim's antennae, making Zim chirp in response. Zim nuzzled his neck, and leaned in for a kiss—only for them both to flinch when Dib's stomach growled loudly.

Dib sighed, reaching for his pack and digging around until he found the cooler. “Thanks for making the fire,” he said as he pawed through the food. “I guess I won't have to wait to cook these.” He pulled out a package of hot dogs. He quickly tore open the packaging and grabbed a long stick sitting by the log.

“Ugh, meat?” Zim said. Dib ignored him, skewering one hot dog on the stick and holding it into the fire. It was rather peaceful, watching the flame lick along the sides of it…

Zim clearly disagreed, his face scrunching up as he made exaggerated gagging sounds, turning from Dib and his soon-to-be-meal and sticking out his tongue. "I can’t believe you’re actually eating that," he said. "It smells wretched."

Dib rolled his eyes. "It can’t be that bad." He twirled the stick, cooking the other side. Zim gagged again, reaching up to try and cover his antennae.

"Do you even think about what’s in those?"

"I try not to." Dib nudged the bag beside the cooler. "And it’s not like I’m making you eat one. There’s things for s’mores in there."

Zim lightly perked up, and began to paw through the bag. But, instead of cooking anything, he chose to tear open the bag of marshmallows and pop them into his mouth one at a time. He was still unhappily looking at the hot dog.

It didn’t take long for the hot dog to finish cooking. Dib pulled it out of the fire, sticking it into a bun and standing up, his knees popping. He sat next to Zim, leaning his head against his alien’s shoulder.

...well, he attempted to. Zim recoiled before he even got close. "Keep that vile meat tube away from me!"

Dib frowned at him, tearing open a ketchup packet. "You’re making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be."

Zim hissed quietly at him. Dib shoved the hot dog to Zim, who leapt away. It hadn’t even been close to him.

"Ugh, the smell...!" He gagged and quickly stood up. "You can poison yourself with that, but I refuse to be around that thing." He began to walk to the edge of the clearing, shocking Dib.

"Hey, wait!" Dib yelled. "It’s not a good idea to go alone. You don’t know what comes out at night here!"

Zim turned to look back. His grin stretched a little too widely, showing off all his teeth as his eyes gleamed. "Oh, my Dib," he said. "Nothing around here could be prepared to handle me."

And with that, before Dib could say anything else, he stormed off into the dark foliage, taking the marshmallows with him.

Dib scoffed, glowering after him as he took a bite of his hot dog. He knew that Zim could handle himself, but that didn’t mean he liked having his warnings brushed off.

He continued to devour his hot dog, glancing back at his cooler and debating on whether to cook another. Suddenly, an idea popped into his mind. He glanced between his cooler and the dark woods, a devious grin spreading over his face.

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

Zim came back into the clearing not long after he had left. He had polished off most of the marshmallows, and had gotten bored of wandering through the trees and scaring local wildlife. Dib had to have finished his meal by now.

He was pleased to note that the fire was still crackling brightly. But his antennae drooped slightly when he didn’t immediately spot Dib.

"Dib-beast! Zim has returned!" No response. "...Dib? Do not ignore me!"

Still nothing. Zim scowled, tossing the marshmallow bag next to the rest of Dib’s things. It looked like everything was still there, so he couldn't have gone very far…

A soft wheeze from by the tent caught his attention. His antennae shot straight up, and he quickly rushed over to the sound's source. Dib was lying on the ground, curled into a ball with his back to Zim.

“Dib!” Zim rushed forward, shaking his shoulder. “What are you doing? I thought the point of the tent was to not sleep on the ground."

Dib wheezed again, looking over his shoulder. “Zim,” he gasped. “I'm not…it's…I told you about things at night…”

Zim noticed the red liquid staining his fingers just as Dib shifted, revealing his torso. His whole stomach was stained with that same red liquid, and…Zim saw what had to have been Dib's organs lying on top, not inside of his Dib where they needed to say.

A piece slipped off and fell to the ground. Zim screamed, scaring away any wildlife still in the area.

“D-D-Dib,” he stammered. “D-Don't worry, Zim can fix this! Just need to get all y-your vile, puny organs where they need to go!”

He pressed his hands on Dib's stomach, stopping any more of his blood from gushing out. Quickly, he gathered the loose meaty bits into a pile and tried to shove them back into Dib's body. But of course, nothing of Dib's would ever cooperate with him, so they kept slipping out from between his fingers, much to his growing frustration.

A soft wheeze made him look at Dib's face. His shoulders were shaking, and he was biting down on his lip, tears in the corners of his eyes. “Stop crying!” Zim snapped at him. “You'll be fine. I'm going to make sure you're fine, and I’ll make you regret it if you're not!”

He continued to try and fix Dib up. Dib's shoulders shook more and more, making Zim panic more…until several organs slipped away from him. He let out a high-pitched, undignified squawk, scrambling after them.

Dib finally opened his mouth…and burst out laughing. Zim froze, shocked. Had the human become delirious in his last moments?

“Oh, my God,” Dib wheezed. “I'm fine, Zim! Check it out.”

He sat up and lifted his shirt, revealing that he was unwounded. He was still laughing as he let his shirt back down, and Zim stared at him with a dumbfounded expression.

“But…your blood! Your organs…”

Dib laughed harder, picking up one of the bits of organ that had fallen on the ground and holding it out to Zim. Zim took it and narrowed his eyes. It looked like a shredded, meaty tube, somehow very familiar to him…

He gagged and tossed the raw hot dog away in disgust. Dib pulled empty ketchup packets out of his pockets and put them into his bag, still laughing. “Oh, man, your expression…you should have seen…it…”

His laughter died down as he looked back at Zim…specifically, the very dark look on Zim's face. He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence, the alien shooting him a death glare. “…I thought it would be funny?”

Zim hissed, lifting himself up on his PAK legs and towering over him. “Yes,” he spat. “And I'm sure my panic for your safety was downright hilarious, wasn't it?”

A little, yeah, but Dib knew better than to say that out loud. Still, Zim stepped closer, getting right in his face.

“Then I’m sure that me not letting you out of my sight for a second is going to make this a very amusing trip for you!” Zim continued.

“Eh…heh…what?”

Zim jabbed a finger into Dib's chest. “You tricked me into thinking you were dying by the claws of some awful beast. Well, you aren't getting out of my sight, so that won't end up happening! And you won't get the chance to trick me like that again.”

He flicked Dib's forehead, then stepped away, crossing his arms and glaring at him. Dib rubbed the back of his neck. At least Zim hadn't threatened to actually gut him for pulling that trick on him. Being glared at, he could deal with.

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

Not long after, Dib had changed into his nightshirt and shorts, and was laying down in the tent. True to his word, Zim refused to look away once, even as he changed. Dib half-expected him to sit in the corner of the tent and glare at him all night.

Imagine his surprise when Zim came over and began spooning him, his arms wrapped around Dib's chest and his head resting on the nape of Dib's neck.

Dib had brightened up at this—it must have meant Zim had forgiven him for the prank. But now, after hearing Zim click and chirp angrily with every small move Dib made, he realized…

Zim had him trapped.

To test this, Dib shifted, attempting to roll over. Zim growled, grip tightening and claws digging into Dib's skin. Dib froze, and Zim slowly relaxed…though still kept his grip tight.

“…I love you?” Dib said, trying to sound placating and apologetic.

“…love you, too,” Zim said. “You're still not getting out of my sight.”

Dib sighed and relaxed. It had still been worth it.

[hibiscera]

I hope you feel better soon mir 🫶 what do you think it was like for Kitten growing up raised by Drury, Pam, and Jonathan?

Thank you so much!! 😭💖

Honestly Kitten winds up being shockingly well adjusted (relatively speaking) despite being raised by a gaggle of B movie monsters.

They all have their different methods towards caring for her. Drury’s very concerned about being a good parent, and stresses out over it easily, but he loves spoiling her and buys her everything. Of course, since he’s her dad, he’s the main one raising her!! That’s a whole essay of its own, but he does love his little girl dearly, even if sometimes he’s really unsure about what he’s doing or if he’s doing it right.

Also of course he instills in her that insects are the most important creatures in the world and we have to respect them. She gets a lot of science know-how from watching her dad work in his lab and asking lots of questions. She LOVES asking questions.

Pamela she calls her auntie (Pammy loves it), and honestly I think Pamela absolutely eats up her attention LOL. It’s so euphoric for her having this little girl looking up to her AND she can show her the beauty of nature early and teach her to respect plant life! Kitten adores her auntie, she likes to draw new outfits for her since Poison Ivy is always trying a different look. They get along great, and it’s awful for everyone when she gets older so she can be EXTRA scheming with her auntie.

Pamela was the one who was in her life earliest too! When Kitten was not even a year old, that’s when Drury started The Mothening, and Pamela was the only one he had told about those plans and she encouraged it. So she helped with taking care of her while Drury was like. Dealing with becoming a moth monster.

Jonathan is less straightforward in how he shows affection. Drury calls her every endearing name in the book, Pam calls her things like her little sapling, and Jonathan… wretched little beast. Horrid little monster. She loves the names too, she giggles when he calls her those. He’s her favorite to get bedtime stories from too, she always loves the fun scary ones he tells!! Or sometimes he’ll just start giving some of his psychology lectures for her to fall asleep to.

He does love and care about her, though at first he’s unsure of how to interact with a child. But once he gets used to being around her he’s like. Tosses her onto the couch while she laughs.

Oswald is also involved in her growing up!! He’s her uncle who spoils her with lots of gifts and treats her like a little princess and takes her for days out to pamper her!!

In the end, Kitten does end up loving all of them even if when she hits her teens, she starts bullying Jonathan because she realized her dad was in love with him and now he has to test him to see if he’s good enough for her daddy.

[newnoirstories]

Neo-Noir Sequel

(I encourage fan fiction based on these characters, to give fresh perspectives on them.)

"Losing the Dragon"

Chapter I

London, 1967, Sally Orton, known to most just as "Wailing Sally" for her frequent weeping, had died of an overdose. Her unnatural posture in the grimy alley was too much for one of the policemen on the scene.

"We know who sold her the horse, Reggie," said the policeman with stronger nerves, "It's that b*stard Smack Boy. Any excuse to take him in."

However, before the bobbies could bring in Smack Boy, an addict of the substance that was his entire identity, as well as a dealer, someone else, someone outside the law, got at him first.

Smack Boy, sensing that the police would be looking for him, cut through an alley in the seediest part of London, only to see a woman on the other side of fifty, a bit haggard, toying with a switchblade and strutting like the roughest of men in these parts.

"Where do you think you're going, Smack Boy?" asked the woman.

"What's it to you?"

"Let's get this straight, Smack Boy. I've got a better supply. You're not buying from 'enry no more, but from me. You'll be taken care of so long as you understand this."

"You say it's better?" inquired a twitching, sniffling Smack Boy.

"Much stronger stuff. Follow me, but remember, I'll shiv you soon as look at you, so mind your manners."

Smack Boy followed the brazen new queen of the neighborhood into a dark area behind an abandoned store. Paraphernalia, one could say, and the woman reached for a needle.

"Let me give you a free sample," said the woman, her eyes suddenly glowing in a fury, as she lunged at his arm.

Poisoned, Lee "Smack Boy" Carter's death was almost instantaneous. Looming, seething over him, the woman removed bits of a mask, slowly erasing the haggard Caucasian face, revealing a beautiful woman, Chinese by heritage, as we shall see, closer to forty but looking thirty, if even that, still glowering at the remains of Smack Boy.

Chapter II

About a fortnight later, a similar incident occurred in the same part of town. The Low Crow pub was much like any other gutter pub, except for its barman, a haggard, wretched, dejected philosopher, at least in his own mind.

"Gloomy" Gorman Knowles, rather than saying a greeting or trying to sell you a drink, would greet every customer with a saying such as "Science proves we are decaying already, but the heart of every poet knew it already."

Many came to the pub just to laugh at Knowles, or to prove to a friend that the stories about him were not an exaggeration. On this day, however, the focus of the deadly assassin who took Smack Boy was not on Gloomy, but rather on the bouncer, William "Billy Bouncer" Smith Jr.

Billy's great weakness was not drink, as so many of the patrons, but women, and evidently, the fair lady knew it, for, locking eyes with Billy from the first instant, she arrived as herself, catching more eyes than just Billy's. Her outfit was a gaudy mismatch of colors, as if an awkward attempt to be up to date and fashionable.

Within a minute or two, Billy was boasting that he was the toughest bouncer in London, "harder than Lenny" (likely a reference to Lenny McLean), and telling the mysterious woman, batting her eyes at him, that he was "the most man even a woman like you ever 'ad".

Using much the same wording as before, the beautiful woman said, "Well, give me a free sample in the alley. Work can wait…"

The bobbies, this time with Inspector Daniel Graves on the scene, a rather more formidable intellect than most police in the area, found Billy dead, a knife evidently thrown at him, based on the forensics, the deduction of Graves.

"Also," said Graves wrily, "I believe the assailant was kneeling when she- perhaps he, but more likely she- threw the knife, from the angle of the injury."

Chapter III

So it continued, three weeks on from Billy's death, with another target of the mysterious assassin in London's lowest areas, and this time, the target was a fence of any and every sort of illicit or stolen good, Judy "Nixer" Nixon.

The Chinese woman, this time dressed more normally, posed as someone trying to get rid of stolen goods, and negotiations began over a price. When the assassin demanded rather more than Nixer thought the items were worth, however, the conversation became heated, and Nixer grabbed the other lady by the blouse.

The assassin, however, had intentionally provoked just such a moment, and did the least expected thing, kissing Nixer on the lips.

"Have you gone mad? You're a…"

Judy Nixon fell over, dead from poison, to which her killer had taken a partial antidote.

Once again, Inspector Graves was on the scene, though a driving rain was washing away any evidence that might have been found.

"Unless there is a man wearing lipstick, this killer is a woman, the same as the first two murders. She must also be an expert on poisons. A literal kiss of death, gentlemen," said Graves.

"What motive is there? I don't see any robbery," inquired a Sergeant.

"The first two victims were both associated in some way with the Red Goats, the men responsible for the Mollyside Bridge explosion, about three years back. I was at the scene of that. If we find that this woman had the same connections, we have a motive."

"Family of a victim?"

"Most likely, but that means 32 families."

On inquiring, Inspector Graves found that indeed, Judy "Nixer" Nixon had, for a price, helped transport explosives for the Red Goats.

Chapter IV

About a month after this, during a particularly rainy November, the killer from London appeared at none other than Oxford University, seeking employment lecturing in language, as she, Pak Wai-Lam, spoke English, Cantonese, Greek and Latin.

After a few lectures as a guest, Pak was placed on staff, and as part of her research, often went to a library on campus, where she developed a close bond with the normally taciturn librarian, Wilhelm "William" Euler, one that quickly blossomed into romance. Euler was not conventionally handsome, but he had another trait Pak loved far more in men: Genius, so much so, however, that he deduced her secret.

On a bit of leave, Euler invited Pak to his home. She began to undress, but Wilhelm stopped her, explaining that was not the purpose of their visit.

"I needed to tell you two things I could not on campus: First, I know your secret. I know about those three killings in London. Second, I sympathize with you entirely."

Pak looked at him with a concern far deeper than apprehension of capture, to which she had resigned herself as a possiblity, but a fear of losing the first man for whom she had allowed herself any true feelings in years. Her eyes welled up with tears.

"No, Pak. Don't cry. I'm on your side. I know why you came to Oxford. The Political Science Professor, he is a member of the Red Goat lodge, and not only that, I know one or two other things about him that make me hate him with a passion of which I did not think myself capable."

Pak looked Euler hard in the eyes, but saw truth there, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapter V

A visibly haunted Wilhelm Euler explained the situation.

"It was seven years ago that I learned what Charles Whale was. Everyone heard rumors about the Red Goat, that Whale was a member. This was before Mollyside, so that did not bother me. Then Whale carried on with a student of his, Bobby Chaucer, and the Bursar made Robert's education here free to keep him quiet. Even then, Pak, I still went out drinking with Whale. That was in 1960, but as he drank, he began to tell me things, not only boasting about Chaucer. Everyone knew that. He told me he was a Red Goat. Everyone knew that as well, but after enough pints he told me… he told me about what he did on a playground, and he laughed, he laughed, Pak. I was sick for weeks. I went to Dean Clarke, but the Dean said many men make up stories when they are drinking. True enough, Pak, but I saw what he was, and I will not forget the ring of that laughter. Something of the sort happened to me as a lad. I made up my mind that Charles Whale would die, and I would have something to do with it. Patiently, I have waited seven years for an opportunity, and now you're here."

"So… are we simply partners in what the law calls crime, or more than that?"

"Believe me, Pak, I love you. I never said that to anyone before, as I never felt it until now. But we cannot have peace together until we carry on with this. Since that day with Whale, I have kept an eye not only on him, but on the Red Goat. When everyone with a brain knew they were behind Mollyside, I recall your name as the widow of one of those… one of the ones that day."

"Colin McShane, my late husband, killed by those demons. He was the only man I loved until I met you, Wilhelm."

"I know," said Euler, wiping away a tear on Pak's cheek, "And that's why we have to finish this matter, no matter what the law thinks."

Chapter VI

Back on campus, neither Pak nor Euler showed any signs of the emotions of their painful conversation, both returning to being intellectual machines.

Pak made the acquaintance of a Comparative Religion Professor, Charlotte Norris, a prim, elderly lady. Pak soon discovered that Norris would give a chapter and verse from the Bible- not a quote, but only the book and the numbers- and said nothing else to fellow faculty.

"She is actually quite eloquent in her lectures," explained Euler, "I have myself attended them, but the rest of the time, she gives only chapter and verse."

Later that day, without saying a word, Pak went up to Euler's desk and pointed, in a book, to the name of a poison. Little by little, without anyone suspecting, by pointing at words and passages in various books, some on utterly random subjects, they constructed a plan to rid Oxford of Professor Charles Whale.

A startling interruption in their plans, however, came in the person of Inspector Daniel Graves, visiting that very college, and that very library, though technically off-duty. A friend of his, also off-duty, Special Constable Harry Higgs, accompanied him.

Higgs, however, blushed hotly at the mere sight of Pak, and Graves looked at Higgs, saying cryptically, "Oh, she was the one, was she?"

Pak knew that Higgs was a policeman, and explained this to Euler, as Graves appeared to be a mere bibliophile.

"Why did he react that way?" asked Euler.

"Two years ago, I was driving too fast. I made the Special Constable feel a little more special, and I paid no fine. I told myself it was to save the money, but really, it was for me. I was lonely. I would have done anyone in pants, honestly."

"A familiar feeling to me, except for the pants part… kind of amusing about the Constable, there. I never saw a man turn quite that shade of red."

Little concerned with Higgs, the duo were visibly shaken, however, when Inspector Daniel Graves introduced himself, by that title.

Chapter VII

One look at Graves and the conspiring duo knew that he was more formidable and clever than Higgs. He took them to a secluded parkland. Obviously, not being on duty, he could not be arresting them, but the Inspector's stern face still made even the strongest nerves tremble.

"Sorry to give you a fright. I cannot say this in front of the less than brilliant Higgs- don't misunderstand, he is a friend, but, well, you know, madam, that his judgment is not always the best, but I digress. When Mollyside Bridge was destroyed, I was the first Inspector on the scene. I will not describe what I saw, especially not in front of Miss Pak, but it made me sympathize entirely with the murderer in those London cases. However, regarding Charles Whale, I think that I know a better way to ruin the Red Goat lodge once and for all."

"What would that be?" inquired Euler.

"On what does the Red Goat depend? Some measure of secrecy. Since Mollyside, I have compiled a list of names. I know everyone affiliated with the Red Goat lodge, I am sure of it. As a prominent man at the British Broadcasting Corporation is actually on that list, they will not touch it, but a sensational tabloid man, both the best and the worst in England, he will be very eager to sell his papers that way. This is his business card."

"Handy Andy the Dandy, Sensation for the British Nation", it read, along with a telephone number and address.

"Andrew Powers is his full name," explained Graves, "He will seem a buffoon at first, but he is extremely clever, albeit unscrupulous, but also unaffiliated with the Red Goat, as he would think them superstitious for their occult practices."

"How do we know this isn't all a trap for us?" Pak was bold enough to ask.

"As one cannot prove a negation, madam, technically you do not, but if you look at press clippings, you will find that I was at Mollyside. If you decide not to pursue the tabloid option, and to take more drastic measures against Graves, I have been transferred to Oxford by my own request, and shall, of course, have to make an official investigation, but I will do my best not to implicate either of you."

Pak, who felt certain of her ability to read the soul through the eyes, turned to Euler saying, "He is telling the truth."

Chapter VIII

Pak and Euler decided to take the Inspector's advice, and ruin the Red Goat by means of the press, but their plans again shifted when Euler heard word that Whale had been with another of his male students, who was threatening to expose him.

"Between this and Whale's increased drinking of late, I fear for the young man's life," explained Euler.

Later that day, Professor Norris approached Pak, saying only, "Genesis 4:8", then leaving as quietly as she approached. Pak looked up the passage in one of the college libraries, and it described Cain slaying Abel, said to be the first act of murder.

Even amidst the horrors of their lives, Pak had not lost a certain impish sense of humor, however. Euler questioned her utter confidence that she could sneak up on Whale without the latter noticing, and in response, Euler found his trousers around his ankles.

"You did not hear me sneak, neither will he."

While reading a book on criminology, Pak was herself approached quietly, the same day, by a student, Cassandra Nolan, nicknamed "Lonely" by the other students.

"I study criminology too…" said Nolan, in a crackling voice, stammering a bit as she told Pak her name.

"Hello, Cassandra, can I help you with something?"

"M-maybe… you're very beautiful, so beautiful…"

"Thank you, Cassandra. You're pretty too."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes. I love your hair."

Stammering nervously, Cassandra finally got up the courage to ask, "Do you, d-do you like girls?"

"Technically, I kissed one," said Pak, with an ironical face, remembering Nixer, "But no, not in that way."

"Oh, okay. I'm used to that…"

Pak took Cassandra by the hand, encouraging her to smile.

"I wish I could love you that way, Cassandra, but you know how it is. Is there anything else I can do?"

"You could let me paint you. I paint women. I want to be a great painter."

"Okay, I promise you can paint me. Good day, Cassandra, and show people that pretty smile."

Chapter IX

Charles Whale, drinking heavily, had a knife in his right hand. He may have planned to use it to silence a student of his, but that would never be known with certainty, as like a cat, Pak Wai-Lam approached, and twisting Graves's own hand, made the wound, a mortal one, appear self-inflicted.

Inspector Graves, by now advanced in years and status, had indeed arranged his own transfer to Oxford, and so was assigned the case. Performing a perfunctory investigation, he kept his word to Pak and Euler by commenting only, "Probably self-inflicted", to the Sergeants and Constables.

Pak and Euler also, however, took up the Inspector's offer to send the list of names to "Handy Andy the Dandy".

"One thing baffles me, Inspector," said Euler, "Why did you not give the names to Andy yourself?"

"Because if a Yard Inspector released such information, which would be deemed irresponsible rumor by official sources anyhow, to the press, his career would be finished, a price I would gladly have paid to ruin the Red Goat, yet I wished to remain on the force to arrest them also."

With their names released, the Red Goat's leadership dissolved, membership having already declined for fear of their mysterious hunter.

Pak Wai-Lam and Wilhelm Euler were married in April, 1968, and true to Pak's word, at their wedding was Cassandra Nolan, painting both bride and groom.

The end.

[uncleasriel]

I think it's the open-ended nature of these games. Between the Facts there's a whole lot of room for Speculation, so you can imagine the fucked up winged religious beater of a defenseless woman as a sad little meow meow by filling the spaces between with whatever details can make this justifiable

Yes, we know Kuprias the Unbidden Guest was raised in the Orphanage of Want and survived by eating the Darkbloom Fungi that grew in the lightless depths of the Winnowing Wood, and how the lens of his faith made the Snuffer of Light's message sooth his frantic mind. yes, we know he flew into a murderous rage when Sister Pentemont sought the Ember of Truth from the Narthex Untethered he had swore to defend as it was the only place he had felt properly loved, and the Sister - wearing the vestements of the Nuns of Saint Illumine, aroused violent memories of his awful childhood. He did nothing wrong, given the circumstances!

Because we've already wanted through the Cloister of Illumine and fought the Sisters Of Burning Penance (and hated their grab attacks), sympathized with the whimpering &wretched orphans (including the charmingly craven Little Snippet, whose quest us the Callow Dagger and let us buy Ragwheat from Murdock the Vendor at Grothub). We beat the major boss Bishop of Unvarnished Hope, and crafted the impressive Censer of Cleansing Ash (which pairs great with our Dark Faith build), which made mention of the his opposition to the Snuffer of Light (who, frankly, sounds pretty cool, what with all the bullshit the Bishop gave us in his second phase.) So by the time we're at the Narthex, we're inured to this awful world and are find the next boss we have has cool attack patterns and is an enjoyable fight and we're left wondering what cool weapon we get when we beat them.

By the time we've progressed deep into the game and honed the skills to let us survive there, we've built up a personal relationship with the world and it's inhabitants and factions. We're left with weird sympathies to its monstrous inhabitants as we've gone through the same things they have. Ah, yes, you also hailed from the Ashgrave Shitheap and fled through the Poison Swamp. I can now see why you pulled out your own limbs and using them as a weapon.I've been there, I get it now.

Plus, in a world this unpleasant, it woiuld be really nice to the the one person who goes up to the terrifying Unbidden Guest and be nice to them, because THAT would be completely novel for that world. And besides, you're already making up so much of it already - why not a scenario in with Kuprias the Unbidden Guest decides to set down the goremaul and take an affectionate, loving Cursed Undead Hunted One into his arms and just snuggles you.

other fandoms: this character said something completely expected from their context and hard situation but slightly insensitive according to 2020's Western Twitter mentality therefore they're inexcusable and irredeemable and fans who argue with this are untrustworthy and are part of the problem :/

Soulsborne fandom: wow this character really [demonetized] his sibling but he had 0 frame of reference for normal life morality and relationship so idk what I expected. I still feel bad for him. his wings look so cozy to lay on! I'd love to see him in cute pajamas! isn't his voice acting silly? :333 also I just remembered I wanted to draw a fun doodle of the crazy asshole that beaten a defenseless woman into a bloody pulp in religious fervor! he is like a little abhorrent puppy for me!

^^^ Love this fandom a lot as we are crazy (affectionate) when other fandoms are crazy (derogatory)

[sgcairo]

Anastasiy and the Marriage Proposals

It's only natural that a young man of marrying age (and quite a handsome one, at that) gets many marriage proposals in the frigid season of spring in Snezhnaya. It's something of a tradition, under the guidance of the Goddess of Love herself, and Anastasiy has never been spared from the onslaught of letters ever since he came of age and debuted as an official Snezhnayan diplomat and speaker. While his public showings are few and far between, he has never failed to capture the hearts and adoration of the Tsaritsa's people, not to mention the young ladies who believe they have a chance at becoming such a nice and benevolent young man's partner. The money is quite nice as well, being lavishly decorated in gold at a powerful man's side is always enticing to the youth.

Many have written love letters, poems, full sonnets that describe the beauty of Anastasiy Danya-Ilya, the prodigal son of the Regrator and Doctor. Locks of silvery-blue, voice like a nightingale but rich like the finest silks, eyes so vividly red that they are a direct window into his heart. Skin like ivory, draped in velvet and silver that only the best money can buy, the list goes on.

Anastasiy quite likes receiving these proclamations of love. Pantalone absolutely hates them and the proposals he gets with them from the wretched noble families, Anastasiy finds it quite endearing that so many people would go out of their way to write to him, and when he has spare time, he reads through them, occasionally setting a few aside that he finds particularly beautiful. And if he remembers them vividly enough, he'll write his own poem back.

These return poems have caused elation, confusion, and the rumor that Anastasiy only writes back to his ideal lovers, which have been puzzled over and scrutinized. He compliments their eyes? He must like blue eyes then. He writes odes to the silken texture and brazen color of their hair? He's got a thing for gingers, doesn't he.

In the end, no one can figure out who he likes, and in a brilliant moment of reporter glory, the question finally comes to light.

"My lord, may I ask what you are looking for in a future spouse? The people are begging to know."

"Ah... I already have someone I love dearly. Though I cannot tell them yet, you see. I am afraid they won't love me back."

Awww... wait what.

You would've thought that someone had poisoned Pantalone's high quality tea from the look of utter shock he gives Anastasiy. Pure terror.

Anastasiy notices but doesn't put the two and two together, instead musing about his mystery lover, which gets the people whipped up into a frenzy on who it could possibly be.

No one knows and it's infuriating. Anastasiy describes them vividly but also vaguely, with "bones of ice but a heart of gold" and other poetic phrases, that people don't take literally- even though they should be.

In the end, Pantalone loses sleep over reviewing even more marriage proposals and going back over the old ones to figure out who could possibly be the mystery person that captured his son's heart, but he has yet to figure out even a gender, let alone a trait.

All the while, Anastasiy fuels the fire with his lovey dovey descriptions of his beloved and his clear adoration that is displayed so fervently to the public. He can't help it, he's genuinely in love and true to himself!

It becomes a whole scandal in no time, and in the end, it's Tartaglia that somehow figures it out first.

How? Simple, it takes one to know one.

Now, if only everyone knew who this mystery person was...

[bookshelf-in-progress]

More Than All The Gems on Earth: A Retelling of Diamonds and Toads

My mother beats me black and blue while I cast diamonds at her feet. The gems fall from my lips with every apology and plea for mercy, and they scatter across the rough-hewn floor like bits of broken glass. My mother would crush them if she could, and she hates them all the more because she cannot destroy them. The vipers from my sister’s lips slither among the diamonds, cold-blooded creatures born of poison words.

“You did this!” Mother screams, twisting my arm in her iron grip. “You spiteful little wretch! You’ll pay for this!”

It has always been this way--my sister makes the mistakes and I am punished for them. Olive’s task had not been difficult. She had only to walk to the well and give a drink to the old woman who asked. A mere moment of kindness. Yet Olive failed to give even that, and received toads and vipers as her reward.

"I’m sorry!” I cry, and I am. It’s a frightening punishment, even for someone as cruel as my sister. I pity her more than I ever have.

Olive has never felt pity. She slaps my face with the back of her hand. “Witch!” she spits. The word turns into leopard snake as long as my arm; it falls to the floor and twines itself around my leg. “You said she was a beggar, not a princess!”

I try to avoid the toads created by Olive's words as I struggle to escape from Mother. She is pulling me toward the cellar, the place of my most feared punishments. Why is it my fault that the fairy chose another shape? Should it not have been easier for Olive to show kindness to a grand lady?

“No, please!” I scream. A desperate plea for mercy. For understanding. For love.

I had thought that my jewels would make Mother love me, but not even my diamonds were good enough for her. They had to come from Olive. Her hatred of me has destroyed them both, and as always, I am the one to blame.

The thought hardens in my heart like the sapphire that forms in my mouth. They will never love me. They despise the very diamonds I give them simply because they fall from my lips. There is nothing for me here but hatred and misery.

As she strides toward the cellar, Mother steps on a bulbous toad. Her shriek of horror splits my ears, but her grip on my arm loosens. I pull away and sprint out the open cottage door. I flee into the forest with nothing but the clothes on my back and the gems that fall from my lips.

#

Standing by the stream, my words turn into pearls. Milky white, blushing pink, and one as large as my thumbnail that’s as warm and black as a soft summer night. I let them fall into the soft mud of the bank, smiling as I watch the pile grow. Though gems are now common as sand to me, I haven’t tired of their beauty. I speak poems to the sunrise just so I can watch them fall.

I pick out the purest ones from the pile, leaving behind the very small and very large, the ones that are more difficult to use as payment. I brush the rest into the stream, hoping the current will carry them on adventures. Perhaps they’ll be a windfall to a widow in need. A surprise catch for a fisherman. The prize a prince needs to win the heart of his true love.

I put the rest into my pocket, preparing for another day of silence. Which village shall I travel to today? My legend has spread to most of the countryside. Most believe me an eccentric princess. Others accuse me of thievery. I stay where people will accept me and not question my muteness or my money too closely. I’ve paid for nights at an inn with an emerald that could buy a lord’s palace. I buy dresses with pure pink rubies, groceries with chips of diamonds. Most people can’t fathom the value of the gems I give them, but people are starting to suspect, and I’ve become more wary of strangers.

Perhaps it’s time to settle down. Speak myself a fortune that will buy me an estate and servants. Walls to hide behind and people to protect me. For a price, of course.

It’s a cold, uncomforting thought. Would I really be safe among people whose loyalty was bought by my jewels?

The sky darkens with my mood as I travel along the forest path. Is this the best I can hope for? A wandering, lonely life with only as much security as money can buy?

My tears fall with the first raindrops. The cold rain drips down the neck of my gown. Chills run up my spine. I remember the cottage of my childhood. The snug roof. The warm kitchen fire. So long as I avoided Mother’s wrath, it wasn’t a bad life. At least I had a place. A purpose. Sometimes I find myself longing for a hearth to clean or a kettle to scrub.

When thunder rumbles, I remember the cellar. The slam of the door blocking out all light. Long, cold nights with bruises forming on my arms and legs. Mother’s red face as she slapped me that last day. Olive’s snakes winding along the floor.

The memories are too much, and I curl up beneath a tree to weep. I have no past that isn’t tainted by pain. No future that isn’t fraught with fear. I have only myself, and she’s a pitiful comfort in this rain-filled forest. The fairy called me beautiful and good. What use is either to a girl forever alone?

A voice from above, warm and deep, cuts through the cold rain. “Are you hurt?”  

I look up to see a young man on a horse. His clothes are finer than my ruby-bought dress, though he’s rain-soaked and roughened with forest dirt. He carries a gun, and three red and white spaniels stand beside his horse, but he’s no huntsman. I cannot mistake the ring on his hand.

Curled up as I am, I require only the slightest shift to fall prostrate. “Your highness,” I say. Two amethysts fall, hidden beneath my down-turned face.

I hear him jump from his horse. His footsteps are soft in the damp earth and stop mere inches from my ear. “Are you hurt?” he asks again, voice full of concern.

I shake my head in denial.

“Then there’s no sense laying in the mud,” he says. He offers a hand and helps me to my feet. He examines my mud-stained silk dress, my rain-soaked hair, the pack over my shoulder. He meets my eyes and says softly, “You’ve been crying.”

I nod and wipe away a tear, or perhaps a raindrop.

“Why?”

I cannot refuse a question from my prince. After months of silence, it almost feels good to have the choice taken from me. I give him the simplest explanation I can. “My mother has driven me from my home.”

Two roses, a lily, three sapphires, and an emerald the size of a blackberry fall into the mud. The prince watches them fall in astonishment. He picks up the lily, running a reverent finger along a pure white petal. He looks at me. His eyes are like a child’s, wide and innocent and bluer than the sapphires at my feet.

“Why?” he asks again, the question barely more than a whisper.

I don’t know if he’s asking why the flowers fell or why my mother cast me out. Since both questions have the same answer, I tell him my story, beginning with the old woman at the well and ending with my flight from the snake-infested house. Gems and flowers pile at my feet, one for every word I speak--diamonds and daisies, pearls and pansies, rubies and roses. When I finish the story, he takes in the bounty through eyes as wide as dinner plates.

The prince closes his eyes and shakes his head like a man snapping free from the effects of a spell. Then he gives me a sympathetic gaze. “You’ve been alone ever since?”

The sorrow in his voice steals my breath. I haven’t heard such sympathy since my father died. My mother certainly had no concern for my emotions.

Struck speechless, I can only nod.

“Here in the woods?”

I shake my head. “I’ve stayed in inns. Traveled town to town.”

Four more flowers. Four more gems. He watches them in wonder.

“With a fortune falling from your lips?”

“I never speak around people.” I catch five pearls and put them with the bounty in my pocket.

He notices the action and his eyebrows rise. “Yet you carry gems with you. It’s a wonder you haven’t been robbed.”

I can only nod in agreement. Nobles with far less wealth than I have been waylaid on these roads. Now that my story is spreading, I’m not sure how long I can safely travel alone.

He holds out a hand. “Come home with me,” he urges.

I step beneath the sheltering trees, shaking my head. “I don’t know you, sir.” Four carnations and one perfect diamond disappear into the undergrowth.

He sweeps into a courtly bow. “His Royal Highness, Prince Simon Everill.”

Propriety demands I curtsy in return, but I do not speak.

Softly, the prince says, “It’s not in my nature to abandon young women in the woods to fend for themselves. The castle often takes in travelers. You can stay for as long as you like.”

I’m not sure if it’s me he’s inviting or the pile of gems at my feet. But what other option do I have? Miles of walking in the rain, to a town I’m not certain will accept pearls as payment? Days upon days of looking over my shoulder and waiting for highwaymen to find me? This prince, stranger though he is, may be my best chance for safety.

I dip a deeper curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” I catch the three seed-sized diamonds that fall and place them into his palm.

He brushes them away. “No payment,” he says. “Not for hospitality.”

But for other things, perhaps? What plans does he have for my future?

He helps me onto his horse, then mounts behind me. What is your name, my lady?” He asks.

“Agnes,” I say. The word drops to the ground as a flawless ruby.

#

Simon and I sit on the hillside, the castle wall a comforting guardian behind us. We laugh as a spaniel chases away a flock of sparrows. Another spaniel, less zealous in our protection, sits with her curly-eared head in my lap. I run my fingers through her fur and feel a warm thrill in my chest. I have food, clothes, comfort, companionship. I have never been so rich, and it has little to do with the store of gems beneath my mattress.  

Simon has kept my secret during these weeks. At least he says he has. I’ve gotten strange stares from the servants lately, like they don’t know what to make of me, and during a few sleepless nights I’ve wondered if the story I told Simon has been making the rounds. It’s more likely that they wonder about my extended stay, but I can't quite silence the doubts.  

Simon tells me a story of his last visit to the River Kingdom, and I  pepper him with questions. When we are alone, I don’t guard my tongue.  My words blow away as buttercups on the breeze, and we let pearls  scatter on the hillside like seeds for the sparrows. Even if someone  were watching from a distance, I doubt they could make out the miracle  among the waving grasses.

When Simon’s story is done, I am breathless with laughter. I’ve never met anyone as gifted with words as he is--high praise from the girl whose voice creates jewels.

Simon smiles at me as I wipe tears of mirth from my eyes. “Agnes,” he says, “You are the most charming girl I’ve ever met.”

“Because I laugh at your stories?” I ask, my tone teasing. Daisies dance away from us.

He takes my hands between his. “Because you’re beautiful, and kind, and gentle and generous and you have more patience than I could show in ten lifetimes.”

The praise surprises me. I’ve long known I’m pretty--I do have a mirror--but I’ve never received compliments on my personality. Mother and Olive made it clear that I was a weak, stupid, spineless thing, and given how long it took me to escape their clutches, I’ve never had reason to disagree.

I feel a blush burning on my cheeks. “You don’t need to flatter me.” The words fall as dull, uncut shards of brown topaz.

“Agnes.” His eyes burn like sapphires in the sun, his voice desperate as a man reaching for a lifeline at sea. “I hadn’t known you three hours before I knew there was no woman in the world who could compare to you. Please, marry me.”

He pulls a golden ring out of his pocket. Within it sits the perfectly-cut ruby that fell when I first told him my name.

I pull away, heart racing. I wonder if it’s possible for my eyeballs to fall out of their sockets from behind my too-open lids. “Simon,” I gasp. His name is a diamond that blinds me with its brilliance. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

The whole universe has been built upon such things being impossible. I can’t explain reality in a few simple words. I settle for saying, “I can’t marry a prince. I have no title. No family.”

“What does that matter? My father would never forbid it. The gift you have is worth more than any dowry.”

My heart hardens like the sapphire that I spit at his feet. My weeks of happiness here fade away like the childish dream they were. This has been his plan from the beginning. The invitation, the conversations, even his silly little story as we played with the spaniels. All given in hope that I would let my guard down and let him claim every word I speak for the rest of my life.

The ruby in his hands now gleams like a drop of blood from my beating heart. He had gone back to retrieve it, without a word to me. Has he hoarded all the other gems I’ve dropped during our conversations? Have I ever seen the real Simon? Or has this all been an act to get me to the altar? I think of Mother in a million moments of my childhood. After her worst outbursts of temper, she would sigh and beg forgiveness, saying such sweet things that I rushed to her open arms, desperate for long-withheld affection. The moment I came within her reach, she would hit me so hard that my ears rang. I am suddenly certain that Simon’s real face will emerge the moment we  marry. I will be his precious trained pet, speaking only to fill his  coffers.

I would rather live in Mother’s house again. And I would rather die than do either.

I leap to my feet, gathering my skirts.

“Agnes!” Simon leaps up, alarmed.

I back away from his outstretched hand, tears flying. “No!” I gasp. The word is a dead daffodil. “No, never!”  The last word is an opal, and I fling it at his chest. Then I clamp my lips shut. I will give him no more of my treasures.

I race down the open hillside. Though Simon is taller, he cannot catch me. Years of living in terror have given me speed. The spaniels race after me, barking in alarm, but I soon outpace even them.

I disappear into the forest, trailing silent, worthless tears.

#

It’s an apple blossom morning. My orchard is full of the fragrant blooms, branches weighed down with millions of pale pink and cream flowers. Matching blossoms fall from my lips as I speak my morning prayers. The flowers land lightly on the rain-dampened earth, a carpet of silk for the would-be queen.

I haven’t seen Simon since last summer, and I’m glad of it. I’m proud of the life I’ve built outside of his palace prison. I spent the first weeks in terror, certain he would send soldiers to scour the country and bring me back to the palace in chains. When my first whispers of courage appeared, I traveled on foot to a northern city, one large enough to hold several jewelers. I sold off a month’s worth of words for a small fortune. I bought a modest house on the outskirts where the city kissed the open countryside. I hired servants from agencies, then replaced them until I found people I believed I could trust. My housekeeper has a moral spine of steel. I speak freely in her presence, and she does nothing more than lift a disapproving eyebrow toward the gems that cover her clean floor. She believes my habit to be extravagance bordering on indecency. My butler is a sweet old man, half-blind and half-deaf. I don’t believe he notices my flowers or gems. I sometimes slip him one as a present, spinning some tale of a grandmother’s jewels that I’m giving away.

The garden I care for myself. I’ve planted some of my word-flowers as cuttings, and I hope they will grow. I think the roses have the best chance of taking root. I spend hours out here whenever the weather’s warm, letting the silence and sunshine and blessed hard labor wash every thought and emotion from me. It is only on mornings like this that I let myself feel anything at all.

Something rustles the tree behind me. In the corner of my eye, I see a million apple blossoms rain down. I turn, expecting to see a bird or a particularly heavy squirrel.

It’s Simon. He stands beneath my apple tree in all his palace finery. He is still pale from the winter, but his eyes are bright as ever. He bends at the waist, an apologetic bow. “Your housekeeper let me in.”

Of course she did. Greta can’t refuse entry to a prince. I’m reminded again of how powerless I am before him.

I stand in silence, waiting for the renewal of last summer’s offer. I steel myself in advance against his declarations of love, his flimsy praises of my person, the lies upon lies upon lies he will spin to snare my heart in his web. I scan for movement along the garden walls. Has he brought servants? Soldiers? If he has, there’s nothing I can do, but I won’t give him victory by showing him how frightened I am.

He doesn’t speak. He barely moves. He could be a new statue I bought for the garden. Finally, he asks, “Are you well?”

I nod.

“It’s a lovely house,” he says. “These trees are exquisite.”

Another nod.

Simon’s eyes stay on the blossoms. “The neighbors say you never have visitors.”

Of course I don’t. My gems can buy a house, but they make a social life impossible. How could I attend card parties and balls with diamonds falling with my every word? A mute heiress is a curiosity, but never a friend.

Simon runs a hand along a branch. A dozen petals fall. “Are you lonely?” he asks.

I am, but I hate him for asking. It makes me sound pitiful. I want to be alone. Loneliness is safe.

A falling tear betrays me. The eyes that can spot a partridge across a field watch it fall to the petal-strewn ground. “I thought so,” Simon murmurs. “That’s why I brought this.”

He reaches behind a tree and slides out a basket. Something inside rustles and whines. I step toward it, too curious for caution.

Simon lifts up a squirming puppy. Russet patches blaze on its white fur. I gasp and run my fingers through the silky curls of its ears. It’s so young and warm and alive. I gather it into my arms and let it lick the salt water from my face.

Puppies don’t care about dowries. Diamonds are nothing more than pretty stones for them to chase. They care about food and fresh air and the sheer joy of being alive. I could have no better companion.  

I bury my face in the puppy’s fur. “Thank you,” I breathe, crowning the puppy with apple blossoms.

Simon’s grin makes me think of a summer sky. “She’s fine hunting stock, and I think she’ll make an excellent guard dog someday.”

I don’t care about the future. She’s mine now, and I cry from the sheer joy of having a friend.

Two friends, a tiny voice in my mind insists. Even if this is only a ploy to capture my heart, it’s a very kind stratagem. “Thank you,” I say again.

Simon nods and gathers up his basket. “You can write me if you wish. Tell me how she’s doing.”

My heart shies away from the idea, from another strand that could tie me closer to the crown. But I know what Simon’s dogs mean to him. Refusal would be pointless cruelty. “I will,” I say.

The words fall as a perfect pink pearl. The puppy treats it as a toy.

#

Leaves fall in clumps of color, crimson and orange and gold. Lady wrestles with them while I read my letter; my dog knows better than to disturb me while I read on this bench. It overlooks the orchard and seems the only fitting place to read letters from Simon.

We’ve exchanged more than twenty in the past six months, starting with mere updates about Lady’s health, and slowly expanding to include tales of our days, stories of our childhoods, discussions of philosophy and our feelings about the world. It’s a relief to use as many words as I want without worrying about the flowers and jewels that fall, and I filled five whole pages, front and back, with crossed writing in my last letter. Simon’s reply is nearly as long and I devour every neatly scrawled word, delighting in the sentences that seem to carry the sound of his voice.

His stories are as engaging in writing as they are in person, and before I realize it, I’ve reached the last page. These words have not been crossed; only one set of neat sentences covers the half-sheet.

Darling Agnes, he writes. The endearment shocks me like a thorn among roses. My heart is more yours than it has ever been. I wish with everything I am that those diamonds would dissolve to dust, if it would help you believe that I love you despite your jewels. I repeat my offer from two summers past, and I hope you know me well enough to rightly judge my sincerity. I can only pray you will pity a foolish prince who has done nothing to deserve a wife so far superior to himself.

The pages of the letter fall like flakes of snow, and I tremble like the leaves that cling so precariously to the apple trees. The last months dissolve like a dream and I’m back on that hill outside the palace, back in the cellar with my blossoming bruises. Love is real, I know, but it is never given to me. Simon cannot be offering it, not truly. These months of friendship have been glorious, but a few heartfelt letters are not the same as agreeing to be a man’s wife, giving him my heart to treasure or cast off at will. He will cast it off, I know it. In a day or a week or ten years, it will be thrown into my face as a weapon, my heart aching all the more because I gave it so freely to someone who despised me.

I race into my writing room, pull out a paper, and dip a quill in the ink. My hand shakes violently, but it doesn’t matter. The page only needs one word.

No.

#

Snow covers the garden like diamond dust. The jewels I speak disappear into the drifts behind the house. I cast them out for Lady to chase, and my words of praise provide gems for the next game.

When Lady tires, we walk to the front garden. Two of my yellow roses took root last summer and have become tiny spindles of bushes. I brush the snow from their branches to keep them from being crushed. Dogs and roses--the only things I can safely love.

“Such kindness,” says a voice from outside the gate. I look up to see a gray-haired crone in a ragged cloak. She smiles with crooked teeth. “Do you have any for an old woman?”

I hurry to the gate, reaching under my cloak and pulling coins from my purse. I regularly exchange my jewels for coins now, and I always keep a supply for the poor. I place five of the largest in the beggar’s hands, enough for a month of meals and a comfortable room.

The woman gives it a satisfied smile. “Bless you.” She tucks the coins into her glove. “You’re seen as something of a ministering angel among our kind, lady,” she says. “Beautiful and kind and as mysterious as the holy mountain.”

I laugh. I’ve gotten better at holding back my jewels when I need to, so I feel safe saying, “I’ve been very blessed.”

"Then why are you so sad?” the woman asks.

Her gray eyes pierce me, making it seem pointless to hide my secrets. I give her the least dangerous part of the truth. “I have no family.”

“Girls with that problem usually try make one of their own. A lady like you must have a hundred beaus to pick from.”  

I pretend to cough into my hand, and I slide eight tourmalines into my purse. “Only one,” I say.

“And what a one,” the woman says, leaning over a fence as if to share a secret. “The prince himself pining away for you in that great palace.”

I gasp and forget to stop the daisies from falling. “How did you...?”

“Half the town knows about the royal seals on those letters,” the woman says, “and knows the postman hasn’t seen one for four months, about the same time that the prince stopped attending social functions.”

My blush burns so hot that the beggar could warm her hands by it.

The woman places a comforting hand over my trembling one on the rail of the fence. “You’re being very unkind to that poor boy. Do you think you’re the only one in the world with a good heart?”

It’s like she sees into my soul, and I suddenly remember a gap-toothed woman by a faraway well who knew my history just by looking at me. This woman is shorter and darker-skinned, but those gray eyes hold similar secrets.

So I speak to her like I’ve spoken to no one else--pitiful, pathetic words. I sound like a frightened child as I reply, “It’s the only heart I can be sure is good.”

“Nonsense. Ain’t you talked to him? Seen him? What has he said, promised, done? Has he ever been cruel? Angry? Wicked?”

No, no, and no. He gave me shelter, friendship, love. He let me run away from him. He brought me Lady. If he wanted my jewels he could have sent a hundred men to drag me back to his palace in chains, but aside from the ruby for my ring, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him touch one of my precious words. The only monstrous things he’s done have been inventions of my own terrified imagination.

But my imagination won’t give up so easily. “He could be one day.”

“So could you,” the woman counters.

“I couldn’t throw him in the dungeon.”

The woman closes her eyes and sighs. “Love is a risk. Trust is a great gift. Will you hoard it all for yourself or find the courage to give it away?”

I let out my breath in one long, weary sigh. “I don’t know if I can,” I say. The first words are daisies and chips of diamonds. The last one falls as a perfect ruby in my gloved hand.

The woman presses both her hands around the hand with the ruby. When she pulls them away, the jewel is set in a ring of pure gold.

“Try,” she says.

#

Simon steps into my writing room, looking disheveled and a little bewildered. He brushes snowflakes out of his hair and steps toward my desk. He holds up a hastily scrawled letter. “You called?”

I step toward him and place the ruby ring in his outstretched hand. “I would like,” I say, the words creating a bouquet of roses in my arms, “to make a proposal.”

#

Simon and I kneel before the priest. The pearls from a thousand grateful prayers are draped in long chains across our shoulders and arms. Simon is radiant, a million silent words speaking of his love. He makes his vows with unhesitating enthusiasm, then the priest places the same questions to me, asking me to take Simon as my husband, whatever may come, to the very end of our days.

“I do,” I say.

The sapphires that fall from beneath my veil gleam like tears of joy.

[artzychic27]

Can we get a sneak peak of Heart Thief Nathaniel version?

Sure thing

"Morning, my little doll." As he opened his walk-in closet's door, Emani swooned at the sight of the dozens of photos of his darling little redhead taped to the wall. Sadly, the numbers haven't grown like they used to ever since... That day, but he doesn't mind. As long as he gets to gaze at his little doll, every cute little position he's in, that's enough to get him through every single day. He glances at one photo taped to the corner of his endearing shrine and caresses his little doll's sleeping face.

He remembers the very day he took that photo. His poor doll didn't get enough sleep last night and fell asleep right during study hall. Emani wasn't just going to let that adorable moment go to waste, he needed to snap just one quick picture to add to his collection. Plus, it was always just so fun to take pictures of his doll when he was unaware, acting so natural, looking so beautiful. They had such a perfect thing going on and yet, someone had to go and RUIN IT!

Emani's eyes trail over to the big black X next to another photo of his doll. If one were to look closely, they could see just a bit of pink hair belonging to the wretched girl who ruined his life! Out of anger, he takes the photo off of the wall and tears it in half, careful to not tear off a piece of his little doll's face before crumpling the other half and tossing it over his shoulder. It felt good, but it wasn't enough, not when she was still out there, poisoning his sweet, innocent mind. With a sigh, Emani kisses his finger and presses it against the last photo he ever took of his doll before grabbing some clothes and heading out of his closet to get ready for the day.

On his way out, Emani's foot brushed against something. Looking down, he finds a headband with glittering fake purple carnations attached. "What's this doing over here?" He picks it up and then goes to put it back in its' rightful place with the many other flower crowns and other adorable accessories. He was hoping his little doll would keep them, maybe look at them every day and be reminded of all the good times they used to spend together, how Emani would always buy such wonderful gifts for him, dote on him like the little prince he is and then one day, he'd come running back and apologize for leaving him on the words of his so-called friend.

But no. No, he just threw them in the trash like they meant nothing and he had to fish them out for five whole minutes!

"... I forgive you, little doll," he whispered.

By the way, the fic’s titled ‘Doll Master’

[shimmerbeasts]

Seeing her chest deflate at his words made Wyll sad too. He was never fond of relying on underhanded and uncouth methods to get what he wanted. It reminded him all too painfully of the beast, he was pacted to. Calling Mizora a woman was too kind to the Cambion. Yet in his years of adventuring, the Blade had learned that very often the best way to fight a monster was to be one yourself.

"I know", Wyll said sadly, "Believe me, I am not relishing in the idea of this plan either. But those are goblins. I doubt we can just buy the owlbear cub from them, at least not without a lot of trickery. Those wretched insects will try to bleed our pockets dry for all its worth."

He leaned closer, voice gaining a darker whisper as he reminded Morren: "You have to remember why we are here, Morren. We have to take out the goblin leaders if Zevlor and the Tieflings are supposed to have a chance to reach Baldur's Gate. The moment we move against the leaders, the whole pack will try to kill us. So we might as well get ahead of them."

Poison was among the easiest, yet most vicious ways to kill someone without them realising it. It had taken Wyll many sleepless nights until he had gotten comfortable with the idea of slipping poison into an opponent's drink. Now, however, this was no longer a question anymore. As Morren promised, she could do it, Wyll nodded appreciatively before he looked at the other members of their merry group:

"Thank you, Morren. Do not poison the punch bowl until we are all ready and in position. Astarion, take the high ground. Find someplace to hide from where you can attack easily. I'll try to join you shortly after. Karlach, try to find a good point from where you can tank multiple hits as you are going to need to be the one to take the blame here. Morren, after you poisoned the punch bowl, retreat to high ground as well. Also, try to call in your animal companion. We will need them to tank the majority of the attack alongside Karlach. If we pull this off correctly, we have them out before they even realise what happened."

Continued from here @shimmerbeasts

Morren's shoulder's sagged with his words. It had been her hope that no more violence that was strictly necessary would be needed but it seemed yet again she'd misjudged.

"I had hoped." She had hoped for many things since the Nautloid, this would just have to be added to the growing list of disappointments.

Her golden gaze flicked to the owlbear cub. Ideally he should be with his mother and hatchmates in some cave somewhere. How the goblins even got hold of him without being torn asunder by his angry mother, she would never know. Of course he was terrified of them. It was only a cub and they were being needlessly cruel. It had taken all her willpower not to immediately confront them when she had first spotted him. Poor creature.

Her eyes were drawn to a glint as sunlight hit the bottle in Wyll's hand. She didn't need to be able to read to realise what was contained within it. Poison. In her mind she knew it was the most logical move but it didn't sit right with her. There was no way they could successfully fight off the whole goblin camp, even just the ones who were outside the temple.

"I can do it." Morren was used to moving stealthily, years of hunting had taught her how to creep up on an unsuspecting prey with ease. This was different but not so different. She could do it if asked but t was Wyll's plan, he might prefer to do the deed himself.

[asleepyb0i]

Lupus companion quotes (part 1)

Just gonna yoink @thebigolbee ‘s companion dialogue for Chard real quick

Don’t worry, I’ll give it back… maybe

Lupus companion dialogue-

(Receiving stimpak): “Hmm… much better.”

“Got anymore for the road?”

“Can’t make this a habit.”

“Hmm. Thank you.”

(Getting back up without help): 

“My back…”

“I’m doing great, thanks for asking.”

“Ouch…”

(Getting hurt by an enemy): 

“Asshole!”

“You’ll regret that!”

“You’re dead! Hear me? Dead!”

(Getting hurt by falling/poisoning/etc.):

“I think I broke something…”

(Getting ragdolled):

“Gah!!”

“Shit-”

(Fight engaged with enemy): 

“I’ll handle this one!”

“Food for the vultures!”

“Eat lead, cadaverosa comedentis!”

“Pathetic wretches!”

(Courier pointing gun at him):

“Mind pointing that somewhere else?”

(Courier accidentally hitting him): 

“Ow- asshole!”

“Watch it!”

“I’m right here!”

(Fight engaged with Courier):

“You’re gonna regret this…”

“I’m just warming up…”

“I’ll tear you to pieces.”

(Entering Goodsprings):

“I’ve been to Goodsprings before. It’s a nice little place. Good people, too.”

(Entering a vault):

“They’re quite ingenious inventions that pre-war humans made. I read in a book that they reinforced the walls with solid lead to protect against against any potential radiation coming through.”

(Entering a vault 2/encountering vault skeletons):

“What wasteful fools. An unopened vault is the safest place in the country- no, the continent. To throw that all away for human stupidity and greed-…”

(Entering Nipton):

“They… they had it coming.”

(Entering Novac):

“I read in a book that actual living creatures at one point were even bigger than Dinky. Reptiles with reaching necks to grab leaves and fruit. I can’t exactly remember the name, it’s been so long. Brevi-something-saurus.”

(Entering Freeside):

“Careful with the alleyways. They’re full of drug addicts and freaks…”

(Entering The Strip):

“Hmmph. Rich people irk me. Posh, condescending pricks.”

(Asking him to pickpocket/steal):

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“Nope.”

“You first.”

(Asking him to go somewhere inaccessible):

“Nope.”

(Asking him to carry items):

“You paid me to shoot people, and you want me to carry your stuff as well? Ugh, just get on with it.”

“Fine, but if you make this a habit, you’re better off buying a pack Brahmin.”

(Asking to see his inventory):

“Sure.”

(Courier drinking alcohol):

“No thanks. I’m not a drinker.”

“You shouldn’t drink while on the road. It does nothing but fog your head and make you careless.”

“Can smell that from here.”

(Courier using chems):

“As long as you’re careful with your shit.”

“Be sure you can handle your trips. I don’t want to have to haul you to the nearest doctor.”

(Courier jumping from a tall place):

“You expect me to follow you down?”

“Nice one, Icarus.”

“Ouch…”

(Courier goes into crouch mode):

“Lean forward and keep a steady weight on your toes. Should the enemy see you, you’ll be able to have a fast start to run.”

“What do you see?”

“Be ready to kill.”

(Dark environment):

“Could use a few torches to brighten things up.”

(Dangerous environment):

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea…”

(Smelly environment):

“Ugh.”

(Scary environment):

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll kill anything that gets too close.”

(Quiet environment):

“*incoherent mumbling*”

(Irradiated environment):

“Make sure you have some rad-x. Radiation poisoning isn’t fun.”

(“Here’s the caps. Follow me. *give 500 caps*” Hiring for the first time.):

“Alright. Lead the way.

(“Follow me, I need your help.”):

“My gun is at your word.”

“No need to pay me again. I’ll follow for the thrills.”

(“Use Melee”):

“Fine. I’m not very good at it though.”

(“Use Ranged”):

“My pleasure.”

(“Stay close”):

“Alright.”

(“Keep distance”): 

“So be it.”

(“Be passive”):

“Fine, but only as long as the enemy is.”

(“Be aggressive”): 

“They’ll be dead before they see us.”

(“Wait here”):

“Don’t keep me waiting for too long.”

“I’ll keep watch.”

“Yell for me if there’s trouble ahead.”

(“Follow me”):

“Lead the way.”

*This is with low/starting friendship. His quotes change as time goes on. Will add a part 2 for high friendship.*

[penhive]

Quotes

Wisdom comes from the experience of life.

Poetry is music for the soul.

Carry your lover’s heart with reverence and love.

My mind feeds on books and my soul feeds on love.

Dance to life’s tunes.

It is the most wonderful thing in the world to be blessed by God.

God cursed Adam for eating the fruit of good and evil; the same God made provision to remove the curse by sending Christ.

The novel of life’s pages is not in order.

After my death, I leave a legacy of writing.

Love is found in the rhythmic copulation of poetry.

Hagar though being a gentile was blessed by God.

Flowers have the shape of the human soul.

A flower not plucked at but looked at is beautiful.

Time is a thing that does not stop.

My heart will sing with tears of joy.

Patience is a wretch.

Be ambitious as the stars that twinkle in the night sky.

Yes, money can buy happiness.

To help someone is a gift of life.

Fear eclipses the soul.

Be happy and true to yourself.

Live a novel life.

Dream your ambition to the crest of a hill.

The race of Ishmael has been blessed with a bounty of oil.

The Trinity is a puzzle that cannot be understood but only believed.

Fortune is a ghost that inhabits the soul.

Be a heart filled with gratitude and thankfulness.

Hope has the wings of a butterfly.

Your self is stronger than you think.

Making love is the poetry of the bed.

Love is a poem being written.

Solitude is a pleasant garden of thought.

God has mysterious ways of answering prayers.

Forget yesterday, live for today and prepare for tomorrow.

Serpent is an idiom for temptation.

Dove is an idiom for peace.

Discernment is the understanding of meaning.

Gift your lover a poet’s heart.

Present the heart of calligraphy to your lover.

The most fortunate thing happening on earth is to be in God’s favor.

I want to reach the highest pinnacle of literary glory.

All texts can be deconstructed of meaning.

Solitude with nature is the highest form of meditation.

Life is a fruit to be eaten.

Corrupt politicians besmirch democracy.

Can knowledge make a person free?

Slay the negative thoughts of despair.

Angst brings remorse to the heart.

On your walk of life, be kind and helpful to others.

Make love to a woman with all your passion.

Life is a feast to lavish.

Beauty is found in the reflection of things.

To be a philosopher is to cradle the edifice of wisdom.

God is a pearl of knowing.

Catharsis is an affirmation of meaning.

Carry your will to highest summit of hope.

Carry on your dreams with gusto.

Thwart all fear with courage.

The walk of life is to be sung and danced.

If you listen to the experience of life, it will be your best teacher.

Be gentle on yourself.

Free will is a choice given by God to accept or reject him.

Lucifer is an idiom for pride.

Comfort is when you know God is with you.

Calm the storm that rages in your mind.

It’s philosophical question as to why God made humans scapegoats in his battle with Lucifer.

Idolatry is lack of respect for the soul.

Free will ends with the choices that one makes in life.

It’s puzzle as to why God allowed Satan to tempt and disparage Job.

God’s love can’t be understood.

Don’t kill yourself by reading horoscopes.

Listen to your heart and it gives the best advice.

Worry is poison for the mind.

Be proud of your accomplishments even if they are small.

Like Picasso who made great strides in painting, I also want to make great strides in writing.

Writing is as passionate as making love.

Don’t fornicate your passions.

One can forgive but one can’t forget.

Money is a privilege to be kept in possession.

I am a slave to the universe of abundance.

Making love is sheer music.

I rebuke the tempests that arise in my mind.

Opportunity comes at the moment when you are least expecting it.

Men can also cry.

Dissolve optimism into the fire of abundance.

I conquer sloth with writing.

I have a poet’s heart and a novelist’s soul.

The body of desires nurtures Epicureanism.

Free the chains of angst with optimism.

Anarchy is chaotic.

Nihilism poisons the beauty of life.

Life is a battle to be won.

Freedom is a live obelisk.

Transgressions have a purgatory of forgiveness.

Life is a drama where the actions, characters and plots are undetermined.

Life is an opportunity to be grasped.

India’s secularism is being threatened by the forces of fanaticism.

The Ego is an excess of will.

I have the will to desire and the will to love.

Promiscuity is a cancer eating modern society.

Fame, money and fortune are the nuggets of will that can be accomplished.

Rape is a brutal beast.

Every personality is unique in the art of becoming.

Let not the soul rot with pessimism.

Death is a paradox of pleasure an agony.

The experience of catharsis is the highest form of ecstasy.

Love is a mature fruit in a garden waiting to be eaten.

Will of the mind is a feast of desire and hope.

Ambition enriches the quality of life.

When life sucks have don’t care attitude.

Marxism is a dead ideology.

Money is a pleasure to own.

Cultures are a feast of experience.

Affirm positivity in the mind.

Though God blessed Solomon, he went after pagan Gods and Goddesses of his concubines.

Job deserves the epithet blameless.

Live off the past, live in the present and live for the future.

A native English speaker should be everyone who lives in the colonies that were established by the British regime.

[firstfullmoon]

what are some quotes that are so visceral they feel like a gut punch to you?

“A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed. It won't stretch to make room for you.”

— Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns

“At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?”

— Ilya Kaminsky, “A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck”

“I want someone to tell me what to wear in the morning. I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat, what to like, what to hate, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to buy tickets for, what to joke about, what not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”

— Phoebe Waller-Bridge, from Fleabag

“Les femmes de notre famille, nous sommes engluées dans la colère J’ai été en colère contre ma mère Tout comme tu es en colère contre moi Et tout comme ma mère fut en colère contre sa mère Il faut casser le fil.”

(The women in our family are all stuck in anger I have been angry at my mother As you are angry with me And as my mother was angry at her mother The thread must be broken.)

— Wajdi Mouawad, Incendies

“I know what I want: an ugly, clean woman with large breasts, who tells me: what’s all this about making things up? I won’t have any dramas, come here immediately!—And she gives me a warm bath, dresses me in a white linen nightdress, braids my hair and puts me to bed, very cross, saying: well what do you want? you run wild, eating at odd times, you could get sick, stop making up tragedies, you think you’re such a big deal, drink this mug of hot broth. She lifts my head up with her hand, covers me with a big sheet, brushes a few strands of hair off my forehead, already white and fresh, and tells me before I fall asleep warmly: you’ll see how in no time your face is going to fill out, forget those harebrained ideas and be a good girl. Someone who takes me in like a humble dog, who opens the door for me, brushes me, feeds me, loves me severely like a dog, that’s all I want, like a dog, a child.”

“I can feel myself holding a child, thought Joana. Sleep, my child, sleep, I tell you. The child is warm and I am sad. But it is the sadness of happiness, this appeasement and sufficiency that leave the face placid, faraway. And when my child touches me he doesn’t rob me of my thoughts as others do. But later, when I give him milk with these fragile, beautiful breasts, my child will grow from my force and crush me with his life. He will distance himself from me and I will be the useless old mother. I won’t feel cheated. But defeated merely and I will say: I don’t know a thing, I am able to give birth to a child and I don’t know a thing. God will receive my humility and will say: I was able to give birth to the universe and I don’t know a thing.”

— Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart

“I know that my phrases are crude, I write them with too much love, and that love makes up for their faults, but too much love is bad for the work.”

“I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh.”

“But when winter comes I give and give and give. The excess of me starts to hurt and when I’m excessive I have to give of myself.”

— Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

“And that was what I felt when reading your book: that solitude.” “Imagine the solitude of the person who wrote it.”

— Clarice Lispector, from an interview

“suppose the body did this to us, made us afraid of love—”

— Louise Glück, “Crater Lake”

“When I put my hands on your body, on your flesh, I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake, but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organs gradually fade into transparency, leaving a gleaming skeleton, gleaming like ivory that slowly resolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight, the way your flesh occupies momentary space, the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curves of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could attach our blood vessels in order to anchor you to the earth, to this present time, I would. If I could open up your body and slip inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours, I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures, to reach up around my neck, to draw me nearer. All these memories will be lost in time like tears in the rain.”

— David Wojnarowicz, from The Half-Life

“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.”

— Gillian Flynn, Sharp Objects

“and cain said, There’s an idea I can’t get out of my head, What’s that, said abraham, There must have been innocent people in sodom and in the other cities that were burned, If so, the lord would have kept the promise he made to make to save their lives, What about the children, said cain, surely the children were innocent, Oh my god, murmured abraham and his voice was like a groan, Yes, your god perhaps, but not theirs.”

— José Saramago, Cain

“I’d like to jet-ski / straight out of this life because right now I am / way attached to real things like for instance / people how they are all so tender how they / love to just go walk around and someof them are / wearing pink now and it hurts me and they / bathe their dogs”

— Heather Christle, “This Is Not The Body I Asked For”

“The idea of deserving love. And then watching love being given to people who did nothing to deserve it.”

— Anaïs Nin, from her journal

“And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it, for the ability, at last, at last, of believing a parent’s reassurances, of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness, because of all his mistakes and hatefulness.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“The veals are the children of cows, are calves. They are locked in boxes the size of themselves. A body-box, like a coffin, but alive, like a home. The children, the veal, they stand very still because tenderness depends of how little the world touches you. To stay tender, the weight of your life cannot lean on your bones.”

“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

“I know we’ve just met but I feel like maybe / you’d feed me and tuck me into your big bed / and only touch me as you covered me with the comforter.”

— Kim Addonizio, “Party”

“The body has no thoughts. The body soaks up love like a paper towel

and is still dry.”

— Kim Addonizio, “Body And Soul”

“I don’t know how God can bear / seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings, / the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts.”

— Kim Addonizio, “The Numbers”

“I keep wishing for you, keep shutting up my eyes and looking toward the sky, asking with all my might for you, and yet you do not come. I thought of you, until the world grew rounder than it sometimes is, and I broke several dishes.”

— Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Minnie Holland

“The unknowness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit

“I used to be a hopeless romantic. I am still a hopeless romantic. I used to believe that love was the highest value. I still believe that love is the highest value. I don’t expect to be happy. I don’t imagine that I will find love, whatever that means, or that if I do find it, it will make me happy. I don’t think of love as the answer or the solution. I think of love as a force of nature - as strong as the sun, as necessary, as impersonal, as gigantic, as impossible, as scorching as it is warming, as drought-making as it is life-giving. And when it burns out, the planet dies.”

“As for myself, I am splintered by great waves. I am coloured glass from a church window long since shattered. I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

“I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED GENOCIDE TO STOP I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED AFFIRMATIVE ACTION AND REACTION I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED MUSIC OUT THE WINDOWS I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED NOBODY THIRST AND NOBODY NOBODY COLD I SAID I LOVED YOU AND I WANTED I WANTED JUSTICE UNDER MY NOSE”

— June Jordan, “Intifada Incantation: Poem 38 for b.b.L.”

“Maybe when I wake up in the middle of the night I should go downstairs dump the refrigerator contents on the floor and stand there in the middle of the spilled milk and the wasted butter spread beneath my dirty feet writing poems writing poems maybe I just need to love myself myself and anyway I’m working on it”

— June Jordan, “Free Flight”

“It’s not that I gave away my keys. / The problem is nobody wants to steal me or my / house.”

— June Jordan, “Onesided Dialog”

“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”

— John Berger, And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos

“I wept and wept. I had come to believe that if I really wanted something badly enough, the very act of my wanting it was an assurance that I would not get it.”

— Audre Lorde, from “Zami: A New Spelling of my Name”

“You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. / Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”

— Shauna Barbosa, “GPS”

“It has to be perfect. It has to be irreproachable in every way. (...) To make up for it. To make up for the fact that it’s me.”

— Suzanne Rivecca

“I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad.”

— Richard Siken, Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper

“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”

— Richard Siken, “Snow And Dirty Rain”

“Love, for you, / is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's / terrifying. No one / will ever want to sleep with you.”

— Richard Siken, “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”

“The hardest thing still remains. It remains the hardest, to bear all the tenderness and only to gaze on.”

— Ilse Achinger, “Mirrorstory”

“i killed a plant once because i gave it too much water. lord, i worry that love is violence.”

— José Olivarez, “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains”

“Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy. Sometimes the men - they come with keys, and sometimes, the men - they come with hammers.”

— Warsan Shire, “The House”

“I’ll take care of you. / It’s rotten work. / Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

— Euripides, Orestes, tr. Anne Carson

“We have this deep sadness between us and it spells so habitual I can’t tell it from love.”

— Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

“There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is.”

— Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays

“I wish I could peel all my sadness in one long strip off my skin & toss it in a bucket. No one would have to carry it. It would just sit there & be punished. It would just sit there & think about everything it’s done.”

— Chen Chen, “Elegy For My Sadness”

“There is too much or not enough room in my stomach for everything we will do to each other.“

— Adriana Cloud, “Bento Body”

[m-r-levine]

Neither Teca nor Vishan smoke - Dan Seward does, though, so there is the possibility one of them might buy fancy tobacco sotweed for him when they start thinking about the return trip.

Neither of the boys are habitual or heavy drinkers by the standards of their time. They currently have no spirits with them at all, as I expect the one bottle of white lightning they picked up in ‘zozo was probably unpacked to take the edge off with a judicious mouthful and therefore lost in the flash flood outside of Trastornada. The cider served in Manzanos should have been typical low ABV refreshment, so the last time either of them intended to truly drink would be in Carrizozo, roughly halfway into the arc.

I’m not sure Vishan has had more than four shots on page, actually, and he was desperately trying to mute his awareness of Fiona’s murderous demands at the time.

Teca on the other hand was avoiding grappling with the specific nature of the the hotel maid’s fear of him (he’s accustomed to fear of his magic, and fear he will take precious things/money from them, and fear of his capacity for physical violence, but she admitted to both fear and expectation of sexual assault specifically, and that rattled him quite badly) and also he wanted to numb himself to the entire multilayered issue of Vishan.

Vishan has never expressed a particular preference in poisons, but given his predilection for sweets and fruit, I would imagine he’d prefer ciders and meads and sweet wines.

Teca is pragmatic about the function of alcohol, so while his default is (common to the region) tequila, he will drink the most wretched moonshine if that’s all he can get. Nonetheless, he appreciates complex, robust, and nuanced flavors in rum, whisky, mezcal, wine, brandy, tequila… if he ever attains a modicum of stability he would absolutely spend it indulging his Epicurean leanings.

Let’s have some character questions!

Which of your characters smoke? Who spends their time drinking and what is their preferred drink? What’s the last reason they had more than just one drink?