#i just am so awed by the variety of little things in this world i have to share them.......

[misterradio]

oh my word i took bogleech's advice and just looked at the aliexpress results for "gachapon" and there are SO many delightful BEASTS in there. look at these... i'll link their listings below, so if you're not sure what you're looking at just check their link (or its title).

Cooking Zombies // Camping Animals // Egyptian Pantheon

Mushroom Dragons (series 2) // Mushroom Dragons (series 3)

Cat Butterflies/Moths // Alpaca People (?!?!?)

Cryptids Waiting for the Unknown // Animal Attraction (vol 2)

There's a cheaper listing for the 1st of the mushroom dragons but i lost the link. I saved the camping animals because I thought the beetle sipping coffee was so cute ::-D (but i don't really care about the fact that they each come with various parts for building the tent...)

i think my favourite little guys here are the inkcap dragon, the alpaca covered in blobby heads, and the arugula koala.

[moonferry]

hii guys i decided to try my hand at writing for shane.

title: just trust me, you'll be fine.

word count: 2741

genre: fluff? emotional hurt/comfort

warnings: depression, suicidal thoughts, alcohol use, depressive thoughts, shane's cliff scene.

pairing: shane x gn!reader / shane x player / shane x gn!farmer

summary: shane begins to have depressive thoughts & even brings himself to the cliffside. he is soon greeted by the farmer and is reminded of everything he's grateful for

Everyday had begun to seem exactly the same for Shane: wake up at noon, go to his soulless job, drink at the saloon until ungodly hours of the night and  then pass out at two in the morning. Even the lush plant life seemed to take on an air of gray whenever Shane was around. Nothing seemed colorful anymore - like the whole world was a painful reflection of his mental state.  Occasionally, he’d “spice it up” and throw in some concerning thoughts about his life situation. Not like he particularly enjoyed these, but they added some variety into his drab life. Not good variety, but variety nonetheless.

Shane glanced at the ceiling with a loud sigh. It seemed like tonight would not be a good one. He glanced over at the small, broken alarm clock on his nightstand. 3:00 A.M. the small LED lights flashed. “Great,” Shane mumbled to himself, “Just great.” He hoisted himself into a sitting position before burying his face into his palms. He heaved another sigh as he rubbed what little sleep from his eyes. Shane knew something like this would happen. 

“This is why I don’t take naps,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed with himself. Today was one of the rarer days, well, yesterday, considering the time. Shane had been given the day off - courtesy of a “Joja family bonding day” where all employees were required to attend a short “employee appreciation” ceremony. All they received was a cup of lousy  coffee and a stale cookie - and the knowledge that they would not be paid for this time off. Not like Shane was making that much, anyway. He gladly took the day off and intended to spend it doing his favorite thing: absolutely nothing. Of course, he hadn’t intended on sleeping, but his body was begging for a break, so Shane decided to “rest his eyes” at 4 p.m. the previous afternoon. Now, at 3 in the morning, Shane was reaping the consequences. Usually, he would have enough alcohol in his system to help him sleep through the night, but it’s typically frowned upon to drink before 5 pm. 

Shane dangled his legs across the side of his small mattress before letting his socked feet thump against the hardwood floor. He slipped on the nearest pair of shoes - a worn pair of green slippers with barely enough tread left on the bottom to keep him from tripping. They would have to do. It’s not like Shane had enough to buy new ones, or that he wanted to, anyway. He glanced around at the messy state of his bedroom and felt immensely guilty. How could he do this? He thought to himself. Marnie had let him live here, had rented him this room for the lowest amount of money humanly possible, and Shane couldn’t even keep his room clean. He felt awful. 

“Ungrateful piece of shit,” Shane mumbled to himself as he felt small pinpricks of tears well in his eyes, “That’s all I am, really.” No matter what his mind screamed at him, Shane could not make himself move to clean the mess. It wasn’t that he particularly enjoyed the mess, he could just never find the motivation to clean it. Shane could barely find the motivation for anything, anymore. That worried him. He had often had thoughts about what others' lives would be without him and ultimately decided they would not be much different {or if they were, it would be for the better}. It was these thoughts that ultimately led to him leaving the small farm house and walking towards the edge of a cliff. Shane crouched down and wrapped his arms around his knees. 

“Why do I even try anymore?” Shane wondered as he glanced over the rocky ledge beneath his feet. He reached down and grabbed the nearest can - a cheap, Joja brand beer with the expiration date smudged off. He slipped his fingers beneath the pull tab and heard the familiar crisp hiss as the can eased open. Shane brought the cool aluminum to his lips before taking a hefty swig. The bitter liquid, which had normally been his friend, decided to burn his throat as he swallowed. 

“This shit’s awful,” he gagged out, nearly becoming a sputtering mess as the foam continued trailing down his esophagus. Shane took another sip anyway. He soon emptied the can and looked at it disdainfully. This was supposed to be making him feel better, not worse, so why could he not stop thinking. His mind began racing with every decision he had ever made - most of them far from great, other’s mediocre at best. 

When he looked at his problems, it seemed there was only one common denominator: himself, or that’s how he saw it at least. Others would try and make him feel better by insisting “it’s just your circumstances,” or that it was some ethereal force with a plan, like Shane believed any of it. If someone really had a plan for his life, why had it all gone to shit? He could never figure that one out. 

“God, I’m a failure,” Shane spoke, his voice breaking as a small sob choked him. He inched himself closer to the rocky ledge and looked down once again, the familiar yet horrible thoughts seeping into his brain once again. His heart ached with the weight of his emotions and another sob bubbled in his chest. Shane opened yet another can and took a drink - desperate to feel anything other than the waterfall of unprocessed emotions that threatened to drown him. No, he didn’t want to feel “anything,” he wanted to feel nothing. To become numb. To seep into the grayness around him just to experience a color other than the violent blue hues that formed his aura. To feel something other than unjustified rage at the wrong people. Shane couldn’t count how many times he had lashed out at Marnie or the new farmer. 

Shane felt his breathing catch in his throat. He was suddenly unable to think clearly. He was overcome with a large wave of regret and guilt as he watched the waves crash against the rocks beneath the cliffside. Shane dangled his legs over but some small force in the back of his mind kept him from moving any further. Another force spat terrible things at him and told him he should stop being a coward, that no one would even notice one small, insignificant speck removed from the vast universe. He remained unmoving - each voice desperately trying to get their pleas heard throughout the turmoil inside his head. 

It was all too much, so Shane did what he did best. He did nothing. While Shane was debating with himself, a small downpour had started and he was currently getting drenched. The rain was deafeningly loud and Shane felt a kinship. His thoughts blared inside his brain and he was once again overwhelmed with emotions. Shane buried his face inside the palms of his hands, his elbows resting on his thighs. Salty tears streamed down his cheeks. 

Shane didn’t seem to notice the soft crunch of footsteps behind him or squelch of mud as someone sat beside him. He only looked up when he felt the soft pressure of a hand against his shoulder. 

“Are you okay, Shane?” A quiet voice spoke. It was the new farmer. That damned, incessant farmer. No matter how rude to them Shane was, they kept coming back. They kept talking to him, of all people. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they managed to stumble upon him at his lowest. 

“What? Here to make fun of me?” Shane spat back, the familiar anger seeping into his voice. Though he had reacted with hostility, Shane was glad the farmer had approached. Whenever they were around, Shane’s mind seemed to find something else to focus on. 

“No,” They spoke, an unusual gentleness in their words. They surveyed the scene before them: Shane with a nearly empty 6-pack, maybe a foot at most from the cliff edge, completely drenched. “I was on my way home, then I saw you.”

“It’s nothing,” Shane lied. When he was met with silence, it was clear to him that the farmer didn’t believe him. Shane sighed and gave a small nod. “Fine,” he confessed, “it is something.”

“Tell me,” The farmer urged. They propped themself up and gave Shane their full attention, “If you want to, I mean. I’m not going to force you to.” 

Shane inhaled deeply, his cheeks puffing up as he took the air into his lungs. Where to even begin? He wondered. So much had been on his mind, he didn’t even know where to start. Shane simply shrugged before speaking, “Do you ever feel like you’re not good enough? No matter how hard you try?” 

The farmer stayed silent as they listened intently.

“I mean, for months now, it’s been the same shit, different day.” Shane confided, he pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped an arm around them. He thought for a moment before thinking again, “Nothing seems to be getting better, or worse. It’s just… stagnant. Like I’m living in the world’s worst fuckin’ time loop.” 

“Nothing has meaning anymore, Farmer,” He huffed before emptying another can in one gulp, “and it makes me wonder, what’s the fucking point? Why should I live to experience the same day on repeat?” 

The farmer glanced at Shane before silently scooting closer to him. They rested their hand on Shane’s shoulder once again. 

“Tell me. Tell me what the point is,” Shane pleaded. Emotion coated his voice once again. Shane sniffled and glanced down at the ground beneath him. 

“Well, I’m not an expert,” The farmer started, rubbing the back of their neck with an awkward noise, “But I think that’s something you need to answer, Shane. What is the reason you’re still here?” They hesitated a bit before adding, “Something obviously keeps you here, even if you don’t realize it.” 

Shane went silent. He hadn’t thought about it before. Obviously, something had stopped him, or he would have “left” a long time ago. Was it guilt? Or maybe the responsibility he felt for Jas? Shane wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was a culmination of multiple things: all the small joys he encountered on a day-to-day basis, like frozen pizza or the way he feels when helping with Marnie’s chickens. Shane couldn’t help but feel like he was forgetting something. He glanced over at the Farmer and noticed how the rain made their hair stick to the sides of their cheeks. Shane began to realize it wasn’t things that kept him here, it was people. Maybe he couldn’t see it at times, but he was surrounded by a town full of people who tolerated him - some more than others. This farmer, from the day they moved to Pelican town, had made the conscious effort to speak to Shane - no matter how awful he had been to them. 

“I think,” Shane started, his deep frown slowly forming into a thin line, “I think I know what it is.” 

“Oh?” The Farmer asked. They tilted their head curiously and waited for Shane’s answer. 

“People.” He replied with a small nod. “I have never been surrounded by so much life and whimsy. You can’t help but get pulled in. When I sit here, at the edge of these cliffs, I think about how different their lives would be without me. Some evil voice tells me they wouldn’t even notice – and then I remember the warm atmosphere of the saloon and how everyone warmly greets me when I enter.” A small, but heartfelt smile begins to creep onto Shane’s features. He fills his chest swell with adoration of his friends. Those people couldn’t fathom just how much they’ve changed Shane’s life, even if he does complain and grumble at them. 

“You know,” Shane started. He sat down the can nestled in his fingers and turned to look at the farmer. He saw the way the moonlight bounced off of the rain and perfectly framed their face. His breath hitched as he realized just how ethereal they looked. “There’s another thing…” 

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” The farmer asked. They readjusted once again and a hopeful look spread across their features. 

Shane’s cheeks lightly flushed. He took in their features: the perfect shape of their lips, the light dusting of dirt spread across their right cheek, the way their soaked clothing sagged and clung to their arms. “Um,” Shane hesitated. He shook his head and let out a small sigh, “Nothing.” Shane mentally facepalmed. He glanced back down at his lap. He could be imagining it, but out of the corner of his eye, a small flicker of disappointment seemed to flash across the Farmer’s features. Shane wasn’t sure, as it was gone in an instant. 

The farmer hesitated before moving their hand down and gently resting it on the backside of Shane’s hand. Shane looked up at them with a small look of confusion. 

“If you ever need me, I’ll be there, Shane. I don’t want to lose you,” They said. The farmer gently squeezed Shane’s hand and began to stand. 

“Farmer, wait,” Shane called out. He reached his hand out and grabbed their wrist. He stood up and approached them– careful not to slip on a stray rock and go tumbling into the ravine below. 

Once he had reached them, Shane took a deep breath before speaking. “I’ve been an absolute asshole to you lately. I mean, talk about a mega dick.” Shane glanced down at the muddy ground beneath the two of them. “You didn’t deserve any of it. I’m sorry. For some reason you decided to stick around – despite everything. So, thanks… for that.” 

“Of course, Shane. I mean, what are friends for?” The farmer replied, a small, humorless chuckle leaving their lips. 

“That’s the thing, Farmer. No one else has done something like that for me,” Shane confessed. He stammered over the next words as a small flush crept into his cheeks once again “It.. It really means a lot.” Shane gulped and met their eyes once again. He gently took their hand in his before adding, “You mean a lot to me.” 

The farmer smiled softly before scooting themself closer to Shane and placing a gentle peck on Shane’s cheek. Shane had never been more glad to be a coward. He was grateful to whatever force kept him from the edge. 

That was a year ago. Now, at another dreadful hour of the night, Shane lies awake in bed. However, he isn’t alone this time. He glances over and sees the farmer: they lay facing Shane, the soft curtains of sleep surrounding their face. He reached out and gently brushed a stray hair behind their ear. 

The farmer stirs awake at the soft touch and sleepily looks at Shane. 

“Everything okay, honey?” They murmur, a small yawn interrupting their speech. 

“It will be.” Shane replied. He rested his hand against their cheek and felt his heart swell with gratitude. Had it not been for the farmer, Shane would have never been inspired to  pursue the help he needed. 

The farmer hadn’t “saved” or “fixed” him, they simply showed him that he could still be loved, despite the horrors of living. Shane still experienced bad days, but it helped to know that he wasn’t alone. He had a whole support system: his lovely spouse, his Aunt Marnie, Jas, hell, even Harvey. So many people who would happily help him up if he stumbled and never judge him for falling. It was quite nice. If you were to tell Shane from a year ago how his life would turn around if he learned to rely on other people, he likely would have spat in your face. He had always assumed he could handle it himself, but some things are easier if you ask for help. 

The farmer nodded and began to drift back to sleep. Shane watched them lovingly, a small smile forming across his features. 

“I love you,” Shane whispered. When he received no response, it was clear his spouse had fallen back asleep. He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss onto their forehead before resting his own forehead against theirs. 

“Thank you for never giving up on me,” Shane spoke quietly, his words being lost to the night as he began to drift off.

AN: i hope you all enjoyed this. i wanted to try my hand at writing for shane. as someone who has experiences with depressive thoughts, i relate to shane's experiences a bit. if you find yourself in a similar situation or you also experience depressive or suicidal thoughts, i want you to know that despite what your brain may be telling you: you are not alone. it will get better. these things take time, so keep at it. please reach out to someone - preferably a mental health professional - and receive the resources you need. i know not everyone will have the luxury, so if you are unable to find a professional, reach out to family or friends. it's important to note that you are not alone. so many people care about you - even me, a random stranger on the internet whom you've never met. the world will not be the same without you. i love you, you've got this. <3

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 1: How I wanted it to go

When I awoke one morning from uneasy dreams I found myself transformed in my bed into a mythical beast.

It wasn’t really that long ago, and I’m still getting used to this, but the circumstances strike me as so similar to the opening to Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis I feel I have to start this account with those words.

I’d be lying if I said it took me by surprise, though.

Even if you live in a world, as we do, where the magical and the miraculous don’t tend to happen, if that world has always felt so Hellish and unbearable as it did for me, and you’ve spent your whole life since early childhood yearning with every molecule of your being for the truth that you feel in your very soul to become reality, when it happens I can report it just makes sense.

Everything feels like a ridiculous impossible dream, absolutely.

I cannot convince myself that any of this is real, yet. But I am not at all surprised by it.

I was so done pretending to be a man. It’s good that I no longer can.

You’d think it would cause all sorts of problems, too. But so far it isn’t.

Socially, I mean. Legally.

You’d think somebody would call animal control, or the national guard.

But once again, this morning, after puttering around my apartment in my true form, experimenting with ways of making and eating breakfast, and getting used to drinking coffee form a large wide bowl, I crack open the door and poke my snout outside to taste the air and determine if anyone else in the hallway before I can even catch sight of them.

And, once again, it is my neighbor, Rhoda. Her perfume stings my tastebuds briefly.

I push my head further out, tentatively, and tilt my skull so that I can put her door in the center of my left eye’s sight.

She’s leaning against the door frame, teacup in her right hand, left arm clenched across her lower ribs, holding her robe shut. Her simple wooden cane is hanging from her left elbow. And she’s smirking.

“Good morning, Sleepy Head,” she says. “Still a dragon today?”

Obviously, I am.

I can’t exactly smile with my mouth, and keeping it closed makes it far less threatening than opening it into any sort of grin, so I once again take a cue from cat body language and slowly squint my eyes at her and lift my head a little.

I’ve been practicing all sorts of things alone in my apartment, and I’m on the verge of figuring out how to talk again. But not quite yet.

I can make a pretty wide variety of awful squawking noises and phenomenally deep rumbles. And I’ve managed something that comes across as similar to a glottal stop, but it’s happening much deeper in my chest than anything I’ve got that resembles a glottis.

So, I’ve taken to answering her questions by giving her a cat smile for “yes” and turning my head away for “no”, and she obliges by asking a lot of relevant questions. It’s worked pretty well so far.

She knows not to call me by my old name anymore, even though I can’t give her a new one.

There’s no evidence besides her recognition of who I am and her bizarrely calm reaction to my presence, but I do suspect that Rhoda might be at fault for my transformation. Or, to credit for it, rather. I don’t know how. She doesn’t look like a witch. But when I first exited my apartment to find her waiting for me, it was the first thought that popped into my head, and it’s still there.

The thing is that I can go down to the coffee shop on the corner and the baristas will greet me with smiles, grins, and cheers, and serve me my usual but in the widest cup possible. And I don’t know why they’re doing that. How do they know who I am?

Anyway, today is going to be fascinating, because it’s the date of my first counseling appointment since my transformation, and I have no idea how it’s going to go. But I’m absolutely going to keep it.

It is, after all, one of the many requirements I have to continue to meet in order to continue receiving rent assistance and keep my apartment in my name. Also, SSI and medicare hinge on it as well.

They shouldn’t, but the government is like that, you know.

Anyway, before moseying toward the stairwell, I pull myself fully out of my apartment to rear up and close the door as carefully as I can, and then turn to Rhoda to give her my full attention, in case she has more pertinent questions that might actually teach me a few things about my new state.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. Her face is glinting in the hallway light, fresh from her morning routine, and her hair is still in her favorite silk bonnet.

In turn my head to the side, still smiling.

“Are you sure?” she prods.

That honestly deserves a shrug, so I face her again and lower my head. It’s the closest thing to raising my shoulders I can manage now. I don’t really have shoulders anymore. Not like a human.

She looks me up and down, reading me with a smirk on her face, and says, “I’ve been thinking about AAC options for you. Your claws are going to make using a tablet really hard for you. But I bet you could use that tongue.”

That is, actually, how I’ve been using my own hand-me-down tablet. Typing with my tongue really sucks, but I’ve been able to respond to emails by selecting the suggested responses that gmail offers. So far. It’s how I’ve confirmed today’s appointment. But I hadn’t thought of AAC.

“I’ve got a sample app on my phone,” she says. “Would you like to try it?”

I widen my eyes and make a point of smiling again. I have the time.

The problem is that I don’t have very good eyesight right in front of my nose. Humans don't, really, either. Try typing with your own tongue on your phone. It causes a bit of eye strain at least, I wager.

And I do have pretty powerful binocular vision that gives me great depth perception, but my eyes work a bit more like an eagle’s, now, I imagine. I don’t really know. I’m guessing, but it’s definitely different. I have way more peripheral vision, and I have to turn my head to look at different things. No eye muscles.

So, when Rhoda loads up the app and then places the phone carefully on the hallway floor in front of me, I have to do a whole routine for each word I want to say.

I look at the screen with one of my eyes. I tend to default to my right eye, close enough that I can focus on the glyphs and read the words below them to pick out the one I want. Then rear back to put that glyph in the middle of my vision, to target it with my hunting instinct. And then stick my tongue out and dart my head forward to gently attack it. And then do it again for each word or command.

I’m really not used to this, and I don’t like it, but it is much easier than using a keyboard to try to spell things out. It is exactly the same thing I’ve done to reply to my counselor, only with a dedicated app.

“Works,” I report, the phone serving as my voice. I keep it really simple, “Thank you.”

“I bet that would be so much easier on your tablet,” Rhoda says.

I smile in my way.

“But if I install the full version of this on your tablet so you can talk to people, how are you going to carry it around?” she asks.

I look at her pointedly, tilting my head.

She smirks, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head down at her phone that’s still lying on the floor.

I make a point of rolling my head in an exaggerated gesture like someone rolling their eyes, then go about poking at her phone with my tongue again. It takes a while.

“Not idea,” I manage to reply. It was sort of a mashup of two different sentences I wanted to say, but where my frustrations led me to choosing the primary components of both and mushing them together, “not know” and “no idea”. I started with “not” but then couldn’t find “know” and went with “idea”. Next time, I’d just go with “no idea”.

I guess that’s what learning is, and I’ll get better at this with time. Faster, but not as fast as talking with my voice.

Rhoda holds her cup close to her face and taps it a few times with her left index finger, then says, “I’m thinking that I’ve got an old purse that would hold that old tablet of yours. You’ve still got it, right?”

I smile.

“Good. So we put that around your neck and then put a sign on it, saying something like ‘AAC inside, please place on floor for me.’ If that’ll fit. I could paint that on the purse with nail polish until we’ve got a better solution,” she mused. “What do you think?”

I hesitate. This is sounding like a lot of work to set up, and I suspect she’s planning on doing it right now. And I do want to go for a fly before my appointment. But, it would also be a good idea to have a better way of communicating with my counselor.

But now that she’s got me thinking about AAC, I realize I have been manipulating things with my claws surprisingly well. My foreclaws are a lot like the claws of a parrot. And they aren’t much bigger than human hands. I’m a small dragon, by dragon standards, I think. I just can’t operate a tablet with them because the claw itself gets in the way of my fat pad. Or, oh shit, I could use a knuckle! Why have I been doing this the hard way?

I guess I just think of my mouth and tongue first now for most things, and claws second. It’s just reflexes or something. But now have the idea in my head and I can do it all better and faster.

But then, also, I’m thinking that if I had a tray of kinetic sand, I could just write words in it with my claw.

Ordering that from online with my knuckle will be so much easier than doing it with my tongue.

Or I could find and go to an actual store. I think there’s a toy store with kinetic sand in town.

Rhoda watches me think about all this, and says, “You know you’ve got to be able to tell the world what it’s like to be a dragon, right? It’s your right! It wouldn’t be fair if you couldn’t. Let me do this for you.”

I fall back on my haunches and lift my head. Then I skootch aside to let her past to get to my door, which I now leave unlocked because I just can’t with keys anymore. And we do this thing.

If anyone is going to skulk into my apartment to steal anything, they’re going to be stealing from a dragon, and anyone around here has got to know that by now. And I haven’t seen any hobbits. But getting to carry my tablet around is going to rock.

And then, while she’s got the polish out, Rhoda asks me if I wanted painted claws.

This is really eating into my flying time, but I just can’t pass it up, so I tell her yes.

And she works on painting all of my claws, even the ones on my wings. And she apologizes that she doesn’t have enough polish for my horns, but I wasn’t expecting her to do those too.

Then, when she’s done, she pushes my tablet toward me, face up on my coffee table.

“What’s your name, Hon? What should I call you?” she asks.

Now that she’s got me thinking about AAC and I’ve figured out using my knuckle, I realize I could have done this on the first day.

I hit home and pull up the Tumblr app, then hit the link to my blog and make sure it’s scrolled up so that she can see the name I’ve been using for myself there for the past ten years. The full name is in the bio. She also sees the URL, of course.

For Reasons, I haven’t shown this to anybody I’ve known in person before. But, it feels less embarrassing now, and I think I trust Rhoda.

After staring at the screen for a second, taking it all in, including my profile pic of a dragon from an ancient illuminated manuscript, she sits back, turns her head to the side, and looks at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Girldragongizzard, huh?” she asks. “I have to admit, I didn’t know that about you. But I like it. OK, so, she/her for you?”

I blink, and then nod like a human, long and slow, then smile.

I didn’t realize quite how nervous I was feeling about that until that shock of recognition and excitement I felt throughout my gut and chest when she said that pronoun.

I have a moment where I feel confused and dizzy, because I’m a dragon. Human gender isn’t really supposed to be something that makes sense to me. Maybe I lay eggs now? I’m not sure. I’ve been assuming I don’t, that I still carry spermatozoa, and can deliver it with a cloacal kiss or something like that. And I thought I was OK with that because I wasn’t feeling my physical dysphoria anymore. Who the heck knows exactly what’s going on.

But, apparently, I’m genuinely trans? If that was gender euphoria, I guess I am.

I’m fifty years old. I was a big guy as a human. I’d just been playing girl on the internet for as long as I can remember to keep myself functional and reasonably happy, I guess. But I’d never actually considered transitioning.

This transformation is the transition I always wanted, anyway. But, then I get gender euphoria from she/her still.

I think, momentarily, about someone trying to misgender me now, and I end up grinning like a human.

“OK, woah,” Rhoda says, lifting up both hands. “That’s a lot of very sharp teeth!”

I carefully close my mouth, smile like a cat again, and lower my head, to indicate to her an apology of sorts. Which she seems to accept.

“Anyway,” she says, “I really like your name, Meghan the Dragon. I see it says that Meg for short is OK?”

I indicate a yes.

“It’s unusual for a trans girl name, from what I’ve seen,” Rhoda says. “But I bet you’ve been sitting on that name for years and years.” She leans back and puts both her hands on her knees. “Well. I bet you were going somewhere. Now that you can talk a little more freely, I probably shouldn’t keep you any longer.” Then she looks around at what’s happened to my apartment since my transformation, and says, “Hm. Do you want me to help you dragon proof this place?”

—

I don’t go flying before counseling, but I do make my appointment on time. And I’ve got an agreement with Rhoda to work on my apartment together later this evening. I’ll get my flying in after the appointment and before that. Also, some coffee.

But now I’m standing in front of my counselor’s door, wondering if this is a good idea.

So far, I’ve had no trouble with anybody.

It’s bizarre.

It’s like they’ve all expected this and recognize me anyway, if they’ve known me. And if they’re a stranger, they don’t really give me another glance. Unless we’re doing business or something, in which case they’ve all given me a considerable amount of patience and understanding.

And the longer it goes on like this, the more it makes me nervous that the other shoe is going to drop. Or it’s all going to fall apart. Or I’ll wake up and discover it’s a dream.

And I do worry a little, every time I meet someone who hasn’t seen me as a dragon yet, that they’ll react badly.

But what’s eating me, and keeping me from trying to figure out how to open this door with a round knob, is that I’ve realized that maybe today is the day I come out as trans to my counselor.

I’ve been hiding that from her, and waffling on whether or not to go through with it. That is, when I’m not in denial, and I let myself even think about it.

But I really, really like being called Meg in person, and I don’t think I can stand to hear my government name anymore.

So this is a dilemma.

But it turns out that the previous client has been taking longer than usual and running into my time, and the door opens as they emerge from the office and come face to face with me.

This solves the dilemma of whether to open the door.

I’m presented with a short, fat person with pink hair, jeans, and a navy blue t-shirt that says, “I am Nimona” on it. 

Their side cut coupled with that shirt causes me to flash them the peace sign.

Which they silently, meekly return.

Then I do my sideways shuffle to get out of their way, and they edge carefully by, eyeballing me the entire way.

They keep an eye on me all the way to the elevator.

This is the first time anyone has done this.

I’m watching them, trying to figure out if they’re scared of me or what, when I hear my counselor.

“Come on in,” she says.

But I keep watching long enough to see the other client bite their lower lip as the doors of the elevator close between us.

---

girldragongizzard is copyright 2024, the Inmara Fenumera

[literaticat]

With Algonquin closing, ive been hearing talk that YA is dying, YA writers are ditching YA to write adult, and only unicorns and super trendy YA books will get bought now. As a debut author, this is making me feel SO doom and gloom about my career even before it’s started! Do you have any thoughts? Thank u Jenn !

Not to be mean, but baby where have you BEEN?

YA has been "Dying" for like, the better part of a decade, and has been fully rigor mortis, toe up with a tag on it, authors "ditching YA", etc, for several years. If anything, YA has recently experienced something of a reanimation -- the former corpse has officially got a pulse again and is breathing, though perhaps still a little clammy. The hotness of 2024 is complaining about how MIDDLE GRADE is dead. Keep up! ;-)

In reality, everything is cyclical. Categories or genres or trends or whatever boom, they get oversaturated, sales fall off, eventually they come back. And people ALWAYS say that "publishing is dying" that "only trendy books will be able to be bought now" or whatever whatever. I was reading DEAR GENIUS, the collected letters of Ursula Nordstrom (highly recommend btw), and there was this whole part in there about bookstore people complaining that TV was destroying the publishing industry, nobody would buy books anymore, authors should just pack it in, etc. It was literally the same conversation, and that was like 70 years ago.

(For a bit of a reality check, you might check out this post from the pinned FAQ: I heard that traditional publishing is DEAD, is that true?)

As for your opening premise, I think it is faulty, AYR closing hasn't really got much to do with the other stuff.

To be clear: I love Algonquin Young Readers. I have sold many a beautiful book to AYR over the years; they were my special favorite. (Don't tell the others!) Their founding publisher, Elise Howard, who I aspire to be for real, is an absolute Dear Genius herself and a wonderful editor and person (and now, agent)!

I am very grateful to have been able to work with the whole team there for the past decade, and I am sad that the program Elise started and Cheryl Klein and the others continued will be coming to a close, and that two wonderful editors and a terrific marketing person will be looking for new jobs (but I do hope/believe/feel strongly that they will all land in good spots, they are really great!) -- HOWEVER.

Algonquin was bought by Little Brown several years ago. And whilst Algonquin the brand is closing now, those books are not disappearing, they are just being folded in to LB. In other words, the backlist books will still be in print, and the frontlist/forthcoming books are still going to be published, just with a different publisher name on the spine. Also Algonquin only published like... 2, maybe 3 new YA books per season? It's a small list! (Small but mighty! -- but still, very small!)

So.... I'm not sure what, if anything, the news of their closing says about the larger world of YA books? In other words, obviously it is NOT GREAT, it’s a sad loss, we loved that publisher, it's good for the publishing ecosystem to have a variety of publishers so fewer is not good, capitalism and massive corporate conglomeration and whatnot are sucky things, it's awful when nice people are out a job -- but there's zero reason for you to take that news as like, an OMEN about YOUR CAREER or something. It has nothing to do with you. Unless your book was coming out from Algonquin, it won't affect YOU at all. (And even if your debut WAS an AYR book... hopefully those effects would be minimal at the end of the day, as those books are still coming out!)

[modern-inheritance]

"Dark Magic"

*Rubbing temples*

Paolini never really defines dark magic in Inheritance Cycle. It's most frequently associated with Shades and Galbatorix. Durza taught Galbatorix 'dark magics' before he went on his traitorous rampage. Durza uses 'dark magics' to give Eragon his curse (??? look I'm still not fully clear on wtf Eragon's seizures were, we could go into a full side tangent rant on this but I digress) and used it in a variety of other ways. There's scattered mentions of 'dark magic' throughout the books beyond these.

But we are never told, as far as I am aware, about what exactly it is. What we know of magic is that it is typically shaped through use of the Ancient Language, some creatures, like dragons, can effect the world through the use of instinctive magic, and that magic in other cases and places just appears in the world (floating rocks, etc, though come to think of it no wait stop sciencing).

In this TED Talk I wi– I'm kidding. We're here to talk about MIC adaptations again.

MIC has always been a bit of a science experiment. In the later books we can see Paolini really using science to explain what happens when Eragon or others craft certain spells. Hell, he even uses coding in Murtagh, which made me grin a bit. I'm awful at it but If/Then statements are coding 101 kinda things. But a lot of the time we are left in the dark (pun somewhat intended) on how certain things work.

I (have I??) explain some things via science/biology/etc in MIC. Elves bones have to be stronger to resist their innate strength or else they'd shatter their skeletons every time then did something with force, so I adapted the Spartan-III augmentations of Titanium Carbide replacing the typical materials of calcium and whatnot. There's a weird bit of their diet that changes because of that. I have a few others but that's the main one I think I spent ages going over in my head.

So what is 'dark magic?' How do we explain it scientifically, or in context of the mix of language and science that the IC magic system is based off of?

WELL!

I just realized I don't remember what I was LANGUAGE!

RIGHT! WHY DID I TALK ABOUT SCIENCE?!

I am currently writing a story about Eragon's seizures and what people are doing to see about finding a cure. This requires me to look at dark magic. And since we have no canon idea of if dark magic would draw from the same language as 'regular' magic, making it just...regular magic with inherently dark motives, which is boring, I decided to change it up a bit.

The Ancient Language is, well, ancient. One day I will spell Language properly without autocorrect but here we are. Although AL (it is not today) is considered locked in, I wouldn't be surprised if there were other languages and/or dialects of AL. The dwarves and the dragons are the 'true' inhabitants of Alagäesia (were-creatures?? more like where did they come from but again, I digress)–

and you know what I just read the Ancient Language and Grey Folk pages on the wiki and now I'm kinda mad bUT I'M DOING WHAT I'M DOING ANYWAY.

Long story short: there are several different dialects of AL, influenced by a lot of different factors. The dark magic Ancient Language dialect was created by shades and other malevolent creatures w/ sentience and magic usage, and is purposefully absolutely fucking convoluted, varied and jumbled with lots of uuuuh what's the word influence fuck I just had it

the caster can choose and mix and match their syntax and structure at will. to prevent their curses from being undone unless you were present during the casting and know almost word for word what was said and used for the curse/spell. The dragon's magic that undid Eragon's curse was basically like a cleanse and used dragon's instinctive world weave magic to rewrite Eragon enough that he sorta DNA mixed (sorry Paolini, in MIC we do get some fun DNA rewriting because Ket wants the science....mmm....science......) with elf code and a little bit of dragon code (possibly, I'm a little on unsure on this, elves are already a mix of their original base with dragon code due to the orignal bond and I'M GETTING OFF TOPIC AGAIN) and he became different enough that the curse no longer worked and because he was uh...well, he was kinda factory reset. It wiped any and all spells attached to his body.

uh

okay. I...think I made my point. I'm...I'm sorry I just completely lost my train of thought after 'attached to his body.'

um.

Have a good day, I guess.

[whoiwanttoday]

Sydney Sweeney is pretty much everywhere at the moment promoting Anyone But You, which I'll be honest, looks awful. Maybe it isn't but it sure does look bad. I don't think I am alone in this assessment and it feels like a throw back to a very uninteresting sort of Romcom of a different era that is full of awful rich people and why do we care? I guess that's true of Hollywood in general, a lot of movies and shows are about rich people now in a way that makes me uncomfortable. But these rich people are the types who think someone else's wedding is all about them from what I have seen of the trailers and if the movie isn't about what awful narcissists they are then why would I want to see it? Just because they're hot? I mean, I guess that is the answer. Either way, the fascinating little game I will play over the next year or so is, "Would this movie always have been promoted this hard?" Because this movie is certainly getting a lot of promotional power thrown at it and while Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell are both potentially rising stars I think lots of people think they are really going all in on this and we're pretty sure it's because there is nothing else to promote. The strikes mean Hollywood is out of stuff to show us for a bit and they are going to have to restock. This movie rushed into reshoots as soon as work was reallowed and reshoots a month before a movie comes out are not a common thing. It's just that something has to come out in December and you have what you have. Maybe this movie always would have been hyped but I have my doubts. I absolutely think we are due for a reassessment by the studios on what makes money, I think the world is hungry for midbudget movies. Not even good ones, though those are always welcome, but there is a market for the Pope's Exorcist and Anyone But You, not because they are all time classics but movies that are cheap enough you don't have to worry about universal appeal or big spectacles. Variety I guess. So maybe this makes a lot of money cause the romcom is all but dead and people might really, really want one. And I get that. I would be fine with a world where Sydney Sweeney becomes a steady star of movies of that ilk, it gives her steady work and gives people something to watch other than giant attempts at cinematic universes (I hope. I mean, Nick Fury could show up in the post credits of this movie). Anyway, all that said, the press push has been good because Sydney Sweeney has looked nice so here she is. Today I want to fuck Sydney Sweeney.

[crystalromana]

Apocryphia Bipedium- Ian Potter

[FIXED THE WONKY MOBILE EDITING. >.< IT LOOKED FINE ON DESKTOP]

[I am obsessed with this short trip so I had to bring it to Tumblr. Yes I did just copy and paste this page by page out of the pdf and formatted it. I think about it all the time. Anyway.

Apocrypha Bipedium takes place in the gap between Time of the Daleks and Neverland. Enjoy]

A Suggestive Correlation of The Cressida Manuscripts with other Anomalous Texts of the Pre-Animarian Era as proposed for Collective Consideration by Historiographic Speculator Anctloddoton.

In my selection and placement of the following extracts from the literature of the extinct worlds, I have attempted to draw suggestive parallels between some of the Problem Texts of the humanoid cultures. Obviously, the records of those times are now so fragmentary that any conclusions we draw from the surviving evidence must remain speculative. We cannot know what evidence we are missing, thus the linking of events posited by the presentation of these documents must remain a tentative hypothesis at best.

HS A From The Primary Cressida Document – Suppressed Texts of the Vatican Library, A Mysteria Press Original, 2973 CE.

The past is another country, the Doctor used to say. By which I suppose he meant it’s a nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there, and you can have real problems with customs when you arrive.

I grew up in the future myself, which makes living in the past tricky at times. Liverpool was a great place to grow up if you were into the past though. It was full of it; the Campus Manor theme park, the castle, the Beatles Memorial Theatre, The Saint Francis of Fazakerley Museum, the Carl Jung Dream Tour, Post-Industrial Land and all those cathedrals, you were tripping over history everywhere. Mummy’s parents came from there too, so it was practically like we knew reallife olden days people.

It was much better than Liddell Towers where we lived in New London – most of the history near there seemed to be about some silly girl who’d let a professor of sums take photos of her and fell down a rabbit hole, or about those awful Daleks wiping out Southern England with mines and things. Much duller and hardly any variety in the rides at all.

Here in the actual olden days there’s not much past anywhere, just loads of future, and the rides are even less fun, all carts and donkeys and hardly any roads. We’re moving again, you see, dear diary. Even though the conquering Greeks don’t really seem to want to colonise any of Asia Minor themselves they don’t seem to want any Trojans settling back down anywhere round here either. They’ve occupied what’s left of the city, I suspect mainly so Menelaus can find all the expensive bits of Helen’s jewellery she seems to have mislaid, and seem keen we don’t hang about too nearby. Mymiddon Hoplites apologetically move us on now and again, clearly wondering when they can decently be allowed back home to start fighting amongst themselves again, and so we pack up and move. Some of their chaps are still feeling rather tetchy for no good reason apparently. Troilus says there’s a silly rumour going around that some terrible woman, probably a goddess, went around whipping up aggression amongst the Greeks a few years ago by magic, leaving marks on their necks that mean they can’t calm down!

It doesn’t make any sense to me. I think I might just be getting the cleaned up version of a soldier’s tale actually. I think that happens with me a lot. People treat me like a silly little girl sometimes, which isn’t really fair when I come from the future and know all sorts of things they don’t. I’m an adult now, even if not being born yet does make me about minus four thousand officially.

I don’t think Agamemnon’s Greeks really know what to do now to be honest, and after a decade’s anticipation I don’t think the trade routes or the princess they were sacking Troy to get are quite as good as they were hoping. I think they’re just hanging around stopping us settling down and looking for lost costume jewellery until they can think of something better to do. Some of the Ithacans are moaning it’ll be another decade before any of them get home at this rate. Bless them.

Running out of room, dear diary. Will write more when I have some new goats’ hides.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It! The True Confessions of a Ka Faraq Gatri not just written for the money when trapped on a primitive planet and needing cash to buy parts by ‘Snail’, Boxwood Books, 300 AGB.

Of course the hairy kangaroo had been at the mind rubbers and didn’t even realise the sword was there! How we laughed. Terrible namedropper, Zodin, but worth her weight in soufflé all the same

Naturally enough, mention of name-dropping reminds me of another anecdote, this one relating to dear old Bill Shakespeare, one of the finest writers and most atrocious spellers of any age. I’ve met him several times now and hope to again if I ever get off this pre-warp- engineering dustball. The last time was during that sticky business with poor Kitty Marlowe and those Psionovores from Neddy Kelley’s old scrying glass that I related in Chapter 9, but perhaps our most awkward misadventure together was the time I introduced him to some of his own characters, who included, as it happened, a dear, dear friend of mine.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress by Charlotte Elspeth Bollard, Library of Kar-Charrat. The work, having suffered some worm damage in the Great 2107 AD Cock Up, is presented here in the Elgin decorruption.

Travelling with Wilf and the Doctor was a curious experienced already felt somewhat out of sorts with time, having discovered my very existence was making history split in two, but sharing a home with a boy from the 16th Century and a man who seemed to come from nowhere so much as his own imagination, merely heightened my feeling that I no longer belonged to any era.

We three fellow time travellers had so very little in common beyond having all read the plays the boy had not yet written that the small talk had been small indeed, and, after a few days of the Doctor failing to get Wilf home, the atmosphere had become a little tense.

Wilf, it further transpired, had difficulty reading anything written in more modern Anglish than his own, which meant there had been little of a literary nature to distract him during his sojourn with us once he had read and re-read the Doctor’s picture books about Frinchs, Sneetches, Ooblecks and Cats in Hams.

Thankfully, towards the end of Wilf’s stay with us the Doctor had discovered a futuristic version of Lido called Peter Pan Pop-O-Matic Frustration that we could enjoy playing together and those last long hibiscus-scented afternoons in his music room passed pleasantly enough, without young Wilf having to constantly relate the escapades of besocked foxes to us.

The Doctor always won our games, usually coming from behind implausibly late in the day, and nearly always using some devious subterfuge to gain victory. Indeed, it was observing the childlike joy on the Doctor’s face at his underhand triumphs on the Peter Pan Pop-O-Matic Frustration board that I first realised just how much of Peter there was in his nature. Naturally, we loved him enough to pretend not to notice his cheating (I sometimes think the whole universe did) and at times towards the end we three had so much fun that I almost forgot I was a paradox, unpicking creation like Penelope at her tapestry in the heroic age we had just left.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur – works attributed to William Shakespeare collated by Heinrich Von Berlitz and Leopold Kettlecamp, Ampersand and Ampersand, 85 AH.

This passage from The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy – fragmentary foul papers of a naive work once attributed to the very young Shackspur, is worth quoting in full.

Act 2, Scene 1. A room within the box. Enter Mistress Charley, Doctor Shallow and Young Will.

Doct. Here at last! Our journey finally through. In fifteen hundred and seventy two. Young Will, regard the ceiling viewing dome – Stratford on Avon, the Hathaway home.

Will. But sir, on those bare hills, no swarths do roll. And no houses nestle ’twixt those craggy knolls – The sun burns with a fierce un-English light And that beach there is not a Warwick sight! That’s not Stratford displayed above us

Char. – Lest the Avon’s turn’d to sea, ’Od love us!

Many scholars have disputed the authenticity of this piece of alleged Shackspurian juvenilia, pointing out, fairly, that it does appear to be the only one of his extant works that the Bard biroed in a twentieth-century school jotter otherwise festooned in swirly ink blots and doodled hexagons. However, if Shackspur did travel in Time, as several scholars suggest, this objection falls away. A more compelling argument for its inauthenticity is the verse style, experimenting uniquely within the Shackspurian canon with strict iambic pentameter composed entirely in rhyming couplets. Whilst dreadful, it is nothing like as appalling as that in Shackspur’s earliest known adult writing

***

From Tales from the Matrix – True Stories from TARDIS Logs Retold for Time Tots by Loom Auntie Flavia, Panopticon Press, 6833.8 Rassilon Era. Part of the Wigner Heisenberg Collection, The Mobile Library, Talking Books Section. Location currently uncertain.

The Doctor flicked the temporal stabiliser off and pulled down the transitional element control rod taking him out of the Vortex. Quite the wrong way to actualise and quadro-anchor even a Type 40 Time Capsule, isn’t it? Exiting the interstitial continuum at the perihelion of a temporal ellipse can cause serious buffering in your harmonic wave packet transference and sever your main fluid links, can’t it?

‘Here we are, Stratford on Avon, 1572!’ announced the Doctor proudly and wrongly. If he’d ever bothered to use his Absolute Tesseractulator to pinpoint his dimensional locations he wouldn’t have made these kind of mistakes, of course, but the Tesseractulator had never come out of its box, had it?

Charlotte Pollard, the Doctor’s friend, came over to him and flicked on the ceiling scanner.

A friend’s an Earth thing. It’s a bit like having a colleague or fellow student you co-operate with, but without any exams or project targets at the end to make the co-operation meaningful. There was a fashion for having them on Gallifrey at one time, ask some of your older cousins about it, they might remember.

Charlotte squinted at the view outside. It didn’t look like the Stratford she’d visited, with neither alien enslavers nor half timbered tea shops anywhere in sight. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Positive. Ish,’ replied the Doctor. William Shaxsberd, a young man they’d promised to drop off in 1572, put down his coloured crayons and came to join them.

‘It does not look much as it once did, Doctor,’ said William, looking at the ceiling and cricking his neck.

The Doctor followed suit. The dustbowl outside was certainly not Warwickshire in any era he’d visited, ‘No. Indeed not,’ he admitted. ‘I think the rift in the Vortex is introducing a random element into my calculations.’

Do you remember the rift in the Vortex, from last time? That’s right, the Doctor made that too! It was due to the paradoxical interaction of two paravertical chronostreams further complicated by three retro- temporal augmented causal feedback loops, wasn’t it?

‘Another random element?’ asked Charlotte, ‘More random than the way you play “eeny meeny miney mo” with the buttons?’

‘Ha, Charley,’ said the Doctor. ‘Tres amusent.’

Charlotte turned to William to explain, ‘That’s French, Will, for “I’ve been banged to rights, Miss Pollard”,’ she said.

‘I somehow knew,’ William replied.

‘Really?’ asked Charlotte. ‘How?’

‘It’s a Time Lord gift, Charley,’ said the Doctor, ‘and yes it would be awfully de trop to ask how it works.’ Or at least that’s whatCharlotte thought he said. William heard something quite different of course.

Well, let’s get out there then,’ said the Doctor, opening the doorswithout taking any proper readings.

‘Er, why?’ asked Charlotte.

‘Because until we know how far out the rift has shunted us in spaceand time we won’t know how to get to Stratford, 15 diddlydiddly...’explained the Doctor, waving his hand vaguely as he searched hismemory for the end of the four digit number he’d lost interest in.

‘Seventy-two,’ prompted William.

‘The very same.’ The Doctor beamed, ruffling the young man’s hair in a way that, thanks to the TARDIS telepathic circuits alone, seemed endearing rather than insufferable and over familiar.

William and the Doctor headed for the doors. Charlotte was troubled though.

‘Won’t my temporal instability cause untold problems to wherever we are?’ she asked, quite sensibly, all things considered.

‘Oh, very probably, I expect,’ replied the Doctor airily, ‘but if you spent your whole life worrying about the consequences of your actions you’d never get anything done and the consequences of that would be unthinkable, wouldn’t they? Faint heart never bowled a maiden over,you know.’

Charlotte scowled. ‘Mind,’ added the Doctor as he stepped out of the control room, ‘neither did Katie “the Beast” Davies, if I remember my22nd-century Wisden correctly.’

That was an allusion to the Earth game Cricket, wasn’t it? It was the Earth’s planetary sport, despite the fact that humans were the worst players of it in the galaxy if you remember.‘

Doctor, I find your words confusing,’ said William as he followed him out.‘It’s a Time Lord gift, Will,’ Charlotte whispered. ’You’ll get used to it.’

* * *

From The Primary Cressida document

New hides! This keeping a journal business is awfully tricky when you’ve no paper around, but before mummy died, she did make me promise I’d write one when I eventually settled down. It’s a family tradition that’s been handed down for generations apparently, not that I ever saw mummy’s.

Anyhow, Troilus is still very eager to settle soon, but where? I’ve ruled out going east to the Holy Land because from what I remember from history and my travels we’ll get no peace there and the rest of the Med and Adriatic has already been bagsied. Troilus reckons Aeneas will have already have set up somewhere by now and we should have gone off on his boat when we had the chance. I just nod, and try to explain wave particle duality to the little ones.

I have a vague feeling I learned something about Aeneas from the UK-201’s didactomat box way back in the future. I think he ended up with Dido in Carthage for a bit, which confuses me because I thought Dido’s music was Late Classical, which must be after this period, surely. I’m sketchy on the details to be honest. I only remember it was Dido and not Sister Bliss because the planet we crashed into on the way to Astra was named after her.

Funny thinking about Dido, that was the place I’ve called home longest in recent years. I’ve been a nomad a while really – split between London and Liverpool as a girl, never knowing whether to talk posh and southern or not, emigrating to off-Earth with daddy, hopping about through Time with the Doctor, and now traipsing around Turkey with Troilus and his mates before its even called that or has any tourist facilities to speak of. I think I must have ‘space travel in my blood’ as one of those Baroque composers put it!

I’ve been wondering when I should discover electricity and plumbing a bit recently, these fleeces don’t clean themselves like proper clothes, so the sooner we can invent the twin tub the better. Are we before or after that Monk who invented things too early here, I wonder? I don’t want to mess things up like he did, but I’m shocking on dates. I just paid attention to the stories in the history books really, not the order they happened in. If I’d known the way round history went was going to be important I would have had the machine teach me it. Of course, as a child you never expect all that history around you is going to run away into the future like it has, do you? I’ve decided I’ll probably start with a steam engine and see if that messes up my memory of the future. The way I see it, it’ll be impossible for me to invent anything that’ll stop me being born so I can’t do too much harm.

I casually suggested making things out of iron the other day, which I know is a big step forward but everyone just laughed. Too brittle and hard to work compared to bronze or tin, they said. I suppose they’re right. You have to do something to it to make it strong, I remember that. I just don’t remember what that something is. For all I know my quad physics equations and could still compose a cogent analygraphfor the fall of the Mallatratt Protectorate, I’m a bit rusty on a few of the basics. Going to take us years to get garlic bread and sound radio at this rate.

Of course, I had a bit of training for life without the mod cons on Dido, so I can cope, but what makes things really fiddly at the moment is that my future’s past is catching up with my present, which is complicated enough to write down, let alone experience.

We’ve just bumped into the Doctor as a young man, and I’m sure it’s really bad form for me to let on I recognise him when as far as he’s concerned he’s not met me yet.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

My plan was pretty much the usual one, to go out and see if we could find out the year and our whereabouts in a way that wouldn’t arouse any suspicions, and then hang around until nightfall to get a better fix from the position of the stars. It may sound dull but I’ve found if I do that I usually find something or other to get embroiled in before sunset.

We stepped circumspectly out of the Ship and set off in search of the nearest habitation, ready as ever to improvise any number of cover stories to explain our presence and strange garb. As luck would have it we soon ran into one of the locals, and were able to subtly winkle out the info we needed on route to his encampment.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

People say you should never look back of course, advice we’ve been ignoring since Orpheus and EuroDisney, but I can’t help thinking that if the Doctor hadn’t landed us in the aftermath of the Trajan War a lot of that beastly business with the Time Lords might have been avoided later.

As usual the Doctor rejoiced in dropping straight into the middle of things without a moment’s forethought. Impossible, exasperating man,I tried to protest but somehow he just brushed my complaints away with a smiled shouldn’t have let him, but he did have such a lovely smile.

* * *

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy

Act 3, Scene 2. Another part of the hillside. Enter Mistress Charley, Doctor Shallow and Young Will.

Doct. Yoohoo! Mister Goatboy, excuse me please, Could you tell me what time and place is this? Char. Discreet as ever.

Enter a Goatherd.

Doct. Yes, but awfully brave. Young man, there is information we crave. What land is this and what year are we in? We’ve lost track of both in our travelling.

Char. Oh I give up, you’re so inconsistent.

Doct. Just smile prettily, act like an assistant.

Char. But I never know what trick you’ll pull next!

Doct. Just grit your teeth, smile and stick out your chest; Magic’s best tricks work by misdirection.

Char. So I’m just here to stir his –

Will. Affection?

Doct. Quite so Will, a pretty face inspires trust. True, I’m afraid, if not awfully just. This chap will tell us the time and the place And Presto well head straight back into Space!

Goat. Eleven eight three BC is the year This is Hisarlik in Anatolia. I expect you’re traders from Phoenicia To be garbed and garbling here so queer. You’ve been ship wreck’d and concuss’d I’ll be bound. Which’ll be why you have no goods around. We must offer you shelter at the least Pop back home with me and well have a feast.

Char. How can he know he lives before Our Lord?

Doct. It’s just a translation device that’s flaw’d. It’s an awfully clever mechanism But it causes the odd anachronism. Kind goatherd, we would love to share a meal And watch the evening stars above us wheel. For by such means we will precisely know Our station now and where we next must go. Exeunt Omnes.

From Tales from the Matrix

‘Do we really need to do this?’ asked Charlotte as the band trudged wearily after the herdsman in their impractical shoes, ‘Surely the date and location he’s given you is enough?’

‘Perhaps,’ the Doctor replied, ‘but studying the stars will allow me to be more accurate. Besides, I’m famished. We haven’t eaten for minus three thousand years, bear in mind.’

So the Doctor and his companions blithely headed off into further temporal confusion, unaware that the goatherd had seen the TARDIS arrive and knew full well who the Doctor was already.

There’s a lesson there for anyone who thinks it’s clever to keep their TARDIS in one form, don’t you think? The Ionic Column factory preset might look nice, for example, but when using it means every Grun, Za and Caius in the Cosmos knows who you are immediately, it rather defeats the point of a chameleon circuit.

From The Primary Cressida document

One of our herdsmen saw the TARDIS arrive in the next valley this afternoon and instantly recognised it as the mobile temple that had prefigured the city’s fall, and the Doctor as a younger version of the old man from my tales.

He sent his mate back to tell us so we all had time to prepare ourselves and could all pretend we believed the Doctor’s implausible story about being a trader from Phoenicia when he turned up an hour or so later.

It’s definitely him, probably about 40 years before we met. He dresses similarly, his hair is curlier and darker and his face looks a bit different, but the years are never kind, are they? Amazingly, he’s almost as vague as a young man as he was when old, if not quite so ummy and erry. I’d always assumed that was because he was getting on a bit.

Thankfully, no one here’s too thrown by the idea of time travellers after me relating all my adventures to them, though one of the boys did ask me why the Doctor didn’t walk and talk backwards when his past was in the future. I was very clear why not when I started explaining it, but I must admit I got a bit confused as I went along. He hasn’t recognised me of course, dear diary, and we’ve invited him and his friends to have tea tonight.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

Well, imagine my embarrassment when we arrived at the fellow’s encampment and who was in charge but my old friend Vicki (now calling herself Cressida of course) and her new husband Troilus, who I’d never actually met, due to quite heavy escaping commitments around the time they got together.

I realised with a start that young Bill Shakespeare was due to write a play about this couple in a few years, and that unless I was careful thismeeting would almost certainly be what inspired it, thus complicating Bill’s already tortuous history further and bringing yet another new paradox to mine. I’d only let Vicki go away with Troilus at Troy’s fall because once I heard she was calling herself Cressida I’d assumed it was predestined (well, I was young, I believed in that kind of thing), I knew there was a play about the couple by Shakespeare and thought I was helping history take its course by hitching them up. Now, if I’d only done that because my future actions would one day bring that play about, I’d accidentally made a big chunk of my past dependent on my future, which, as you know, isn’t really the accepted way of going about things.

I reasoned it was vital for the tidiness of the time line that I kept Bill from learning the background of Troilus and Cressida in any detail, ideally forgetting as much of their present as he could too.

To complicate matters further, Vicki had actually seen Bill as an adult on my time telly, the Time Space Visualiser. She was never the most historically careful of girls, and I feared that if she found out who he was, she’d probably tell him all about his future at the court of Elizabeth and getting the commission to write The Merry Wives of Windsor and the inspiration for Hamlet on the same day and how he’d sprained his wrist in his rush to write both.

All it might take, I thought, would be one slip from any one of us, accidentally mentioning the words TARDIS or Zeus Plug over dessert, say, and causality would be tangled up like President Pandak’s kittens in twine, quicker than you could explain what you pop in a Ganymede socket.

Luckily, it seemed Vicki hadn’t spotted how anachronistic our garb was and hadn’t realised I was her old friend, seeming to completely swallow my inventive tales of sea faring, despite Charley’s rather fanciful insertions about hook-handed pirates.

I had, of course, underestimated her, as a quick and entirely accidental glance at her diary before dinner proved. Not knowing I could regenerate, she had taken me for my young self in my first form and thought she was protecting me from foreknowledge!

This, of course, suited my purpose. All I reckoned I had to do now to save Time from chewing itself to bits was keep Will busy and make sure Vicki didn’t relate her history to any of us over dinner.

Oh what tangled webs we weave, when tidy temporal strands we try to leave.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

Mr and Mrs Troilus seemed a sweet couple, he a lanky chap with a curly beard and a well-meaning expression and she a rather enthusiastic young thing with big eyes, yet the Doctor had become rather shifty from the moment we met them. I knew he was preoccupied by something, but I had, at that time, no idea what. After some fun, improvising tales of derring-do on the high seas to prove our credentials as traders, he took me to one side and explained that I had to get Wilf as squiffy as possible at the feast that night for reasons it was simpler at that moment not to explain. He said history depended on me getting the boy so drunk he could neither speak nor remember his behaviour the next morning. I’m normally quite good at that kind of thing, it was hardly my fault the Bawd was a functioning alcoholic at the age of eight.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy

Act 4, Scene 1. An encampment in the mountains. Enter Mistress Charley, Doctor Shallow, Young Will, a goatherd, Troilus, Cressida, divers villagers and guards severally.

Doct. Hello. (Aside) Her! ’Tis Vicki, I should have guess’d. I never with good geography was bless’d Hisarlik is the modern name for Troy. Quite a temporal tangle, boy oh boy! (To Cress.) Ha ha, my hearties! We here are sailors three. (Aside) I can but hope she does not see ‘tis me.

Cress. (Aside) Deceit upon deception! Can this be The Doctor who I first took it to be? Is this him when young as I assumed? Or must deeper deceit be presumed? I’ll play along until the truth I know. (To Doct.) Good mariners, welcome and hello.

Will. (To Char.) What’s this strange accented charade about?

Char. (To Will) Who knows, we’ll be, I bet, last to find out.

From Tales from the Matrix

Yes Time Tots, exactly! The first thing any of us would have done would have been to get out of there quickly before we compromised the causal nexus. Staying for tea and imbibing too much ethanol, which you’ll recall the Doctor had a particular weakness for on his mother’s side, doesn’t strike any of us as sensible!

From The Secondary Cressida document (a transcribed fragment allegedly found at a Church of Rome jumble sale) – Even More Suppressed Texts of the Vatican Library, A Hatper-Mysteria- Ellerycorp Press Original, 2977 CE

My ruse worked, the robot’s read my carefully exposed diary and thinks I suspect nothing! He’s so obviously not really the Doctor it’s not true, but he doesn’t know I know that yet, so we have the advantage. He’s definitely a Dalek robot double like that other one they sent after us.

They’ve probably made him the young Doctor this time to make it less obvious. He does look a bit like he could be him sometimes if you’re not paying attention, but if you look closely his face is all wrong and his voice goes a bit funny sometimes like that other robot’s did, almost doing my accent at times! I think he’s probably feeding on my jumbled memories or something.

We’ll overpower him and his companions at dinner tonight and destroy them, they won’t expect me to know how to deactivate them.

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

I’ve always been keen on wine, particularly the heavier oaky reds, though I find there is a rather tiresome tendency for them to be drugged by villainous blackguards sometimes, rather impairing the subtleties of the flavour, but wine in the Homeric era was quite a different proposition. What can I tell you about it except that it tasted awful but did the job?

It wasn’t the heavily resinated stuff the Greeks later went in for, thankfully, nor indeed that watered-down muck the ancient Romans used to dish out at parties, but I think it’s telling that the most flattering thing Homer had to say about it in the whole of The Iliad was how like the sea it was in hue. When you bear in mind he was blind, you can tell he’d had to ask around a bit to find anyone with something positive to say about it.

The food wasn’t much better either. It can be terribly hard eating out when you travel like I do. These days at home, I generally try to eat only things that don’t have a central nervous system, or that I’ve knocked up in the food machine, but sometimes, when you’re a guest, qualms like that have to go out of the window, particularly on worlds ruled by intelligent plants, where you’re best advised not to ask for a celery stick and to just stick your toes in damp soil like everyone else at the table.

Even then I try to stick to my principles and not eat anything with a sense of self, parliamentary democracy or sultanas in it.

This dinner was a particularly awkward affair; Charley acting like a slightly sloshed pirate queen, Vicki acting like she didn’t know me, Bill acting up, singing lewd madrigals that officially weren’t due for invention yet in his rather reedy girlish voice, and all the while me worrying about causality falling apart around me rather too much to fully enjoy the dolmades.

Suddenly, half way through the proceedings, the impossible happened: it took a turn for the worse. Vicki shouted out ‘Now!’, and lunged at my chest and started tearing at my waistcoat.

From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

My recollections of the ensuing events are somewhat hazy; I had been struggling to match young Wilt measure for measure, you might say, when I saw the Doctor being attacked. I launched myself at his assailant and missed, I’m told, briefly losing my dignity and consciousness in the process.

A shocking melee ensued by all accounts, with Trajans tearing at our clothes with cutlery and all the usual business with tables being turned and the like breaking out; I’m only glad I can’t remember the full details, because what little I do makes me blush quite enough.

It’s quite possible I told someone I loved them, and was sick later too. I’ve never been brave enough to ask. The next thing I remember clearly was being in the main tent with the Doctor explaining a lot and me apologising a bit, just in case.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Troy

Act 5, Scene 2. At dinner beneath the stars.

Cress. Take that, false Doctor! But where are your wires? In sparks and puffs of smoke you should expire. Could it be that you are the Doctor true?

Char. Get your claws off him, he’s mine, you wild shrew!

Will. Oh, Pillicock sat on pillicock

Char. Will you stop that terrible singing, Will? The Doctor and I are under attack From this Troyan host, while you’re supping sack. Join in the scrap and cease your carousel Lewd songs, anyhow, douse all arousal.

Doct. Vicki, Will, Charley, all, put down those knives! You’re all making the mistakes of your lives.

Cress. Vicki, you say? You should not know that yet. If you’re the young Doctor, we’ve not yet met.

Doct. Vicki, the reason that I know your name Is that inwardly I am still the same Man who left you at Troy some years ago, I can change my looks, if you didn’t know. Char. Doctor, do you mean that you know this wench?

Doct. We travelled together many years hence. I think it’s time I explain’d the full truth Of why I’ve deceived you all, forsooth.

Will. If she’s an old friend then tell me why You did keep that fact from Charley and I?

Doct. This is an old friend, Will, but, what is worse, She features, in decasyllabic verse, In a drama that you shall one day pen That means I shall leave her with this Troyan, If you only write it because you’re here Chronological conundra appear. Effects and causes whirl and spin about, Go through the wringer and turn inside out. The egg that hatches out your chicken Does in that self same chicken thicken.

From Tales from the Matrix

Then in direct contravention of fifteen universal laws of Time and two local statutes, the Doctor sat down and explained everything that had happened, and, in explaining it, he brought all the things he was worried about happening that hadn’t into the open, didn’t he?

Of course, it turned out that some of the things he was worried about were of no concern at all, but as a result of relating them he brought worse problems about.

I expect most of you have read stories about the Doctor in other books, and I expect some of you think he’s quite clever, even though he breaks a lot of rules, don’t you? Well, you’re right! In a crisis, he’s just the kind of person you need around, he can come up with ideas almost no one else could. The only problem is, when you’re not having a crisis, he’s just the kind of person to cause one.

From The Primary Cressida document

How embarrassing. It turns out the Doctor was the Doctor after all, only older and with a new face for some strange reason. The girl who drinks too much is his latest companion and the little boy with the dirty songs and the voice like a girl is William Shakespeare! Nice enough lad, no wonder he ends up in the theatre with that voice though, perfect for all those drag roles they gave boys. We had a lovely chat about Dido and Aeneas and told each other about our scrapes with the Daleks, and I let slip the odd thing I knew about his future.

He’s told me we should go and settle in England. Apparently there’s an old book he’s read by a chap called Geoffrey that says relatives of Aeneas were the first Britons I think it’s a super idea, ’ I know Troilus will like it in England, and I think we’ve persuaded the Doctor too! Just think! could be one of my own ancestors passing on my secret diaries for years and years, a bit like mummy’s family did! How smashing would that be?

From Not Necessarily the Way I Do It!

Of course I decided in the end that honesty would be the best policy and that as long as everyone knew the full facts, and swore not to be influenced by them, we could probably darn the hole in causality in such a way that it wouldn’t show. I sat everyone down in the central tent and explained. Well, what a Charlie I looked!

*** From The Dairy of an Edwardian Adventuress

Ridiculously, the Doctor had been worried about Wilf getting inspiration for the play Troilus and Cressida from meeting the real Troilus and Cressida! I protested that Wilf had already read his own plays in the future anyhow, but the Doctor countered that they’d have been corrupted playing texts and in a court of law it would be hard to prove that was down to him, whereas if Will had got any of the plot or characterisation directly through his adventures with us that was a bit more serious.

That was when Will started laughing.

From The Pseudo-Shackspur

The Noble Troyan Woman of Tray Act 5, Scene 4. A tent in the camp.

Will. But Doctor, I did not invent the tale Of Troilus and Cressida’s love that fail’d. Why, Geoffrey Chaucer told it years ago! I cannot believe that you did not know. Have you read even half of what you claim Or do you just like dropping well-known names? Cressida’s tale is part of tradition Not the result of my precognition Of future perfect past present events, If you will forgive me my mangled tense, And my quondumque futures version Should have put you off this girl’s desertion.

Char. You should have read your Brodie’s Notes on Will. The phantom threat you feared from his quill Was nothing but an insubstantial shade, And there’s a real spectre here I’m afraid. I’m half a ghost of Christmas yet to come, Remember, I’ve made history come undone. You’ve got paradoxes enough to be Getting on with, as far as I can see, So why do you search for new ones instead That only exist inside of your head?

Doct. If I had known the work of me laddo Would I have found menace in my shadow? I here resolve to watch much less TV And be the reader I do claim to be. For half my erudite orations Come straight from books of quotations.

From Tales from the Matrix

‘What was Helen of Troy actually like then?’ asked William Shaxberd as he helped himself to more wine.

‘Is,’ corrected the Doctor, prissily.

‘She’s a good egg by all accounts,’ said Vicki, politely not mentioning the fact she thought her looks had gone, ‘and Menelaus was happy enough to have her back, even after all the bother, so she must be quite nice when you get to know her, I suppose.’

‘Well, she would have to be a good egg really,’ said William, ‘Her father was a swan supposedly.’ Like most young human men of his generation, he knew the salacious bits of Greek Mythology surprisingly well.

‘Half human on his mother’s side?’ smiled the Doctor, thinking himself clever. ‘Aren’t we all?’

‘No, just men,’ said Charlotte through a falafel.

‘She has two birthdays they say, one when the egg came out of her mother and another when it hatched,’ Troilus revealed, leaning forward over the table and whispering in that conspiratorial manner people sometimes do when divulging well known but dubious trivia.

‘It would have been an easy birth if she was born an egg,’ said Vicki ruefully, one hand on her stomach.

‘An easy lay, you mean,’ William corrected.

‘So Paris said –’Troilus began, his eyes a twinkle.

He was shouted down by his wife seconds later, barrack room tale untold, and one of those awkward silences ensued that dinner party guests in all cultures and times know only too well.

‘Have you actually read Troilus and Cressida, Doctor?’ asked Charlotte a little later.

‘You ask me, who had a hand in some of Shakespeare’s finest work – who put the mixed metaphor in the “To be or not to be” soliloquy, who hired the bear for The Winter’s Tale, and who really shouldn’t have passed on the story of A Midsummer’s Night Dream, if I’ve read Troilus and Cressida?’ replied the Doctor, rather over-egging it in that way he usually did when he was on the defensive.

‘Yes!’ they cried as one.

‘Well, no,’ admitted the Doctor. ‘It’s supposed to be one of the better ones, and well, you know, I’ve been busy. I’ve still not managed to tune the Time Space Visualiser in to catch all of The Golden Girls and I’ve been trying for decades.’

‘She doesn’t end up with Troilus in it, she ends up with Diomede, andit’s set during the war not after it!’ said Charlotte patiently.

‘Diomede! That was Steven!’ Vicki laughed.The Doctor looked confused. ‘Vicki and Steven were just friends,weren’t you? Just the odd haircut and getting locked up together, Ithought.’

‘Yes, that’s right, how many times do we have to go through that?’Vicki explained, giving a petulant Troilus a peck on the cheek.

‘Well the legend must have got a bit confused by the time it gotwritten down I think Chaucer got it from a foreign book,’ said William,draining his goblet.

The Doctor beamed, thinking he’d got away with his tinkering again.‘So Troilus and Cressida weren’t predestined after all!’ he said

‘Well, only because of your lack of reading,’ snorted Charlotte.

‘Oh that is a relief,’ said the Doctor taking the wine jug from William and helping himself without asking.

‘Now what about this business of giving us charts to help us reach this Britain young Will spoke of?’ asked Troilus, passing the Doctor a goat’s cheese nibble.

‘I really shouldn’t,’ explained the Doctor. ‘If you go there, on the basis of the frankly dubious history of Geoffrey of Monmouth then Vicki is in danger of becoming one of her own descendants, which is at least as badas the things I’ve been trying to prevent all day.’

‘Oh go on Doctor, please!’ begged Vicki. ‘We could mine tin in Cornwall and I’d promise not to invent anything I shouldn’t as long as I lived, not even roller skates!’

‘I don’t think I should. I’ve made enough of a mess looking after young Charley here, the repercussions of me sending you to Britain because the unborn Shakespeare suggested it could be horrendous,’ said the Doctor, finally being responsible for once in his lives.

‘Oh go on Doctor, I’m unborn too, remember, so that shouldn’t matte rmuch,’ said Vicki.

‘And I’m only half here,’ said Charlotte grimly ‘Why stop messing about now? You should have stayed at home watching these Golden Girls of yours if you weren’t prepared to get involved in real people’s lives. They’re messy and not always in the order you’d like and sometimes too short, and they’re not always better for having you in them, but you either face that or hide away somewhere, don’t you?

’The Doctor kissed her.

‘What was that for?’ asked Charlotte.

‘To shut you up,’ he said. He tapped Vicki on the nose and smiled,’Come on, let’s carry on the party, and in the morning, when rosy-fingered Dawn has done her bit, we’ll sort out a good map of Europe for the Trojans and get them started on their boats. Any consequences which haven’t happened yet we can worry about later!’

Some of you will be shocked at just how naughty the Doctor was in this story: jeopardising the stability of all those will-have-might-have-been futures out there depending on him by interweaving all those strands of destiny connected to the Dalek race and all on the basis of a whim.

The Doctor already knew Dalek causality was partially snagged in a loop in Time and his friend was the focus of a temporal anomaly, but of course he had spent a jolly long time in the Vortex, hadn’t he? That meant his causal connections to events future, past and maybe- somehow were a great deal more jumbled up than most people’s and he was quite good at judging just how likely to snaggle the Web of Time his whims might be.

Or so he thought.

The Doctor believed in two very wrong things you see; firstly, in something he called personal morality that he thought was more important than doing the things simply everyone knows are right, and secondly, that he was cleverer than everyone else and could always sort things out.

He deserved what happened to him next, didn’t he?

Document from the Braxiatel Collection Shakespearean Ephemera wing, a note found in the effects of William Shakespeare by literary assessor Porlock. It is not believed to be in Shakespeare’s hand though it bears some graphological similarities to the disputed Scarlioni Hamlet manuscript.

List of things not to mention

The Daleks,

That you’ve met me before when we meet next (because you didn’t mention it last time, you know),

That you’ve read half your plays already

That I wrote all the good bits in Hamlet, [‘good bits’ later amended to ‘rubbish bits’ in a different hand]

The idea of cigars (until Raleigh gets back from abroad),

That cigars will end up named after some of your characters,

That someone called Raleigh will go abroad,

That Troilus and Cressida had a lovely marriage and lived happily ever after in Mousehole, no matter how the story goes in Chaucer,

Oh, the places you’ve gone and the things that you’ve seen

[purple-plum-petals]

Hello! If not a bother, I'd like to request a TWST matchup (either platonic or romantic is fine). I enjoy writing a lot (particularly darker content). I love theater and the natural world a lot (to the point my entire family and all my friends are now giving me animal- and marine based presents lol), perhaps it's the 'tism, but I find it so fascinating and beautiful, every creature is just a lovable little guy to me, and the way every plant, fungi, and cell work together to create the world we know, is incredible.

I have been told that the traits I find loveable aren't universally shared, such as when I find it cute that snails can have thousands of teeth. But I just find it hard not to marvel at all these things.

I'm very patient, and while things often fly over my head, and I struggle to read people, I try very hard to understand everyone around me, as a result, I tend to not judge people, instead getting to know them, and I value communication highly, as I am not good at guessing or intuitively knowing.

I do tend to get a bit lost in my own head and interests though, and tend to spend a lot of time alone, being quite introverted - so sometimes I might need a reminder to actually interact, but I'm working on it.

Thank you for sending in a match-up; I think that either Rook Hunt or Silver would be good matches for you!

I was actually debating between Silver and Jade, but ultimately, I picked Silver for your match-up since I think with Jade you would need to be good at guessing how he's feeling since he's not open and honest about himself in that regard. He would be a great person to talk to about your interests and hobbies, though, considering he loves fungi and is literally a merman haha.

Rook loves that you, too, appreciate theatre as it's something he does as well. He'd also love to read your stories if you were willing to share them with him as he doesn't mind consuming a darker story every now and again. Rook is also quite the outdoorsman, so he would love to accompany you if you want to take a hike or venture out into the wilderness. Rook is also someone who can understand your awe at the beauty of the world, even such small and seemingly minuscule things such as how cells function, and he does so without any judgement; he's honestly very supportive of you and your interests and would happily sit and listen to you talk about them all day every day if he were able to. Rook would also relate to your ability to find traits or facts universally deemed as being weird or gross to be cute instead; he, too, sees the beauty in the "strange" and "unconventional." He's also understanding of your need for alone time and space, but he's also the kind of person who will happily give you reminders to get out and socialize; Rook won't overstep your boundaries, but he's there to give you a push if you need it.

Silver has an almost supernatural ability to draw animals of every variety to him so if you ever wanted to see a specific animal up close and personal, Silver would be happy to make your dreams a reality as he somehow seems to communicate with the animals without ever uttering a single word. Silver is also, much like you, a very patient individual who also has a difficult time reading others. Unlike some of the other students at Night Raven College, Silver is always open to communicate with you about how he's feeling or how you're feeling in regard to your relationship, and he always does so calmly and kindly with no judgement. He also understands and respects your need to be alone given your introverted nature and will gladly give you space if you need it as all you need to do is tell him. Thankfully, though, being with Silver doesn't take as much social battery as it may with other people. You two spend a lot of your time together alone in silence, Silver usually sleeping while you focus on learning or reading about the things you are passionate about.

[denimbex1986]

'Since only recently opting to have a new host each year, the BAFTA Film Awards have had various big names on master of ceremonies duties including Joanna Lumley, Graham Norton, Rebel Wilson and Richard E. Grant. While all popular figures, none managed to get the public reaction of this year’s host: David Tennant.

According to sources at the British Academy, the announcement that David Tennant would be overseeing the U.K.’s biggest night for film on Feb. 18 was met with an overwhelmingly positive response that even they weren’t expecting. Whatever the “Doctor Who” legend’s fanbase may be called (even he says he’s not sure and is “open to suggestions”), they certainly took the news well, and he says he’s “grateful for anyone who thinks it’s a good idea.” But he admits that he’s still somewhat “bewildered” by BAFTA’s decision.

Speaking to Variety ahead of the ceremony, Tennant discusses keeping things friendly on stage, how the interest in what he’s going to wear has matched the excitement about his first “Doctor Who” outfit and why he won’t be aiming any jokes at the biggest name in pop (whether she’s in the room or not).

Are you excited about hosting the BAFTAs?

I am! But I’m a bit bewildered. I don’t know what to expect, if I’m honest with you. The whole thing just feels like one of those experiences you say “yes” to because it would be churlish not to. But what an amazing thing to be asked to do. What a privilege.

What’s your approach going to be when it comes to hosting? Warm and cuddly, nice with a little bit of snark or all-out Ricky Gervais?

I think the BAFTA mood is supportive and friendly. Ricky Gervais is brilliant at what he does, but that wouldn’t be my style. I don’t think I’ve quite got that sort of approach, so I think you just have to kind of be who you are, really. But we’ve got some good material that won’t leave anyone feeling got at.

I imagine you’ve been to a few in your time, but do you enjoy awards ceremonies?

On one level, they’re dazzling and exciting and giddy-making and then the other version is rather dull and rather repetitive. So it’s about trying to edge toward the former rather than the latter. But there are some fantastic films in the running. It’s a competitive year. So I think that will give the awards company itself a bit of pep, because I think it’s quite unpredictable. Very often, by the time you get to this stage of awards season, you kind of know who’s going to win what. But I when I look at the categories, I can’t actually guess many of them. I think they’re all quite wide open. And there’s a lot of incredibly talented people doing incredibly remarkable things in each category. So I think that, more than anything else, actually is the engine to a good awards show.

At the recent Golden Globes ceremony, one of the main talking points from the evening was how host Jo Koy bombed on stage. Did this spark any fear of jokes falling flat or you being met with a silent room?

Not being a comic I feel gives me slight cover. I’m not really expected to be good at any of that stuff. I’m just there to hold it all together. And don’t diss Tay Tay, I think is the lesson to be learned. I live in a house of Taylor Swift fans, so I know better.

The BAFTA stage has often been used as a platform to let off a bit of comic steam about some of the issues of the day, especially politics. Are you going to be using this opportunity to raise any thoughts about the government or current affairs or Scottish independence?

I think it will probably focus on the evening. There’s so much going on in the world that one could talk about. But think it would be probably a hostage to fortune to try and use that platform. Obviously, we live in a world where there’s all sorts of awful things going on and we’re all deeply moved by it. But probably the purpose of an award show at this moment in time is to have a moment away from all that.

Have you managed to watch all of the nominated films?

I made a decision very early on that as the host, I had to remain entirely neutral and not pass comment on any of the films. I’m not talking about any of this. I’m removing myself from it. I don’t want it to look like there’s any sort of favoritism going on. So that’s has been my policy, which I’m going to continue very vigilantly until after the awards show. And then I will post all my opinions about who was robbed.

Yes, you have to be the living embodiment of neutrality on stage.

Exactly. I have to be Switzerland.

Have you settled on an outfit for the evening? Have you got a glam squad and team of stylists hard at work?

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a world where people aren’t quite so interested in what I’m going to be wearing. Maybe when I had to reveal my “Doctor Who” outfit for the first time, that probably had a similar level of interest.'

[night-market-if]

Hello! I was wondering whether it'll be possible for the MC to have a personality switch in Book 2? I loved playing a kind, generous, and forgiving MC in the first book but what happened to them in the end was awful — to have been brought into the world as a person, someone who thinks and feels and loves and suffers only to die at the hands of someone you trusted/loved/considered a friend or a lover is horrifying, and citing the greater good only goes so far because it doesn't make any of this less premeditated and ruthless; it doesn't minimize the MC's suffering because this kind of suffering is not relative. Even if Milo didn't think of it as actually killing them — they are the Night Market and the Night Market will go on, it just won't be walking its own streets — the MC is still a fully realized being and both a part of the Market and /apart/ from it. They were used and then murdered and Milo's plan didn't even work as intended — the MC was rendered helpess in their "final" moments and was then defiled in front of the very people that cared about them. That's not just an act of betrayal against the MC, it's an act of betrayal against the Night Market itself. And it was an act of violence against the people who could do nothing but stand there and watch their friend/lover die and get brutalized. Plus, he conspired with another Baron! It's just. Incomprehensible levels of fucked up and I suspect that Milo's past and the philosophy of a greater good will not shield him from the fallout. Even if characters like Hazel and Malcom might understand why he did what he did, it doesn't change the fact that he did it — that he is capable of something so heinous.

Anyway! Milo is a very interesting and well-written character (and I do love him) but I hope he'll get his due (not necessarily at the hands of the MC).

So, I've been trying to figure out how to answer this because I really want to answer this. So I am going to preference this with nothing is set in stone.

That being said... yes...? So here's the thing. I am not going to write a route of an MC going ballistic or be cruel. Mainly because that is an entirely different story I would have to tell from the main. I mean, if we have an MC that doesn't care about the Night Markets state because they are wrapped up in their own pain and suffering, we wouldn't have a game.

BUT! MC will have more moments of having an opinion, sticking up for themselves, etc. And I think sometimes that can come off as being angry. And there are hurts that will need to be addressed and they are going to need to be addressed in a variety of ways. Those you will get to choose from.

As for the entire Milo MC thing at the end.... MC has more to do with that than is out on the table right now. So, while as the reader you are absolutely allowed to see that as you have described, some of that information you have is going to change at the start of Book 2 as the MC gets a little more of their memories and their motives back. Which, I still think there is room not to forgive Milo, but inner reflection on MC's actions are going to need to be examined as well. And I know that doesn't make a ton of sense but I'm trying not to give away plot.

Also, I think one thing that everyone is forgetting, Milo is your Gatekeeper. You will have to work with him to save the market. Or, get the market back on track, at least.

This is all a roundabout way of me saying, I'm not positive how things will shakeout for the MC yet in book 2. But, there are a lot of mitigating factors that were only lightly hinted at in the book that will kind of change things around for book 2 a bit.

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[daddymothxxx]

🗒 — what is/are your favorite genre(s)/theme(s) to write? 🤔 — what genre(s)/theme(s) do you struggle to write the most?

🗒 — what is/are your favorite genre(s)/theme(s) to write?

Arms up. Action, adventure, conflict, interpersonal drama, EMOTIONS, change! Development!

You can see most of that in the way I RP/write here, probably. Lol. Given how I picked up Valentino and rattled him around into what he is now.

I've got a lot of investment in themes of...The Human Condition in that awful people are still people--capable of awfulness, but also capable of growth and change into 'better' people. Just like in the world around us. It's too often that we see a person doing something problematic and just label them as 'other' or a 'monster' or 'inhuman'. And I'm not about to stop those terms from being used (or pushing for babygirl-fication or even forgiveness towards people who commit heinous activities), but it is important to realize that the worst of us come from Us. Not some mysterious alien egg with no connection to Humanity as a Whole. They aren't Others. A symptom and not a species.

Anyway, I also like POST-APOC so fucking much. Gobble up that shit all the time. Sci-fi Fantasy, too. Particularly the urban variety. Give me supernatural shadow populations and wizards that think magic is a science not yet understood that use their knowledge to teach math in a local university.

And, I don't know--I love culture and sociology and psychology so...When that shit breaks down and builds back up? Chef kiss.

That goes for people individually, too. Heh.

Hurt/comfort is a form of that. Really enjoy that cycle. Angst and then the rebuild and change that comes from it when the dust settles and people huddle together to get through the aftermath. Yeah...

🤔 — what genre(s)/theme(s) do you struggle to write the most?

I feel that I struggle most with like...slice-of-life stuff. And not specifically some 'down time' and life activities so much as the...

Like if nothing is happening except that. A general lack of growth or conflict going on in the writing??? I don't know if I'm making sense on that. I hope I am.

There's a difference between every RP/story being about slice-of-life where nothing of important happens except domestic living and a little bit of cute breathing room between characters.

At that point I feel like there's all to do about nothing and it sucks my inspiration away. There has to be something developing, happening, challenging, provoking, etc. going on.

I also know that people say I focus a lot on the external representation of a character like their mannerisms, but refrain from laying out their thoughts or emotions in the narrative elements. (I guess because I want people to read into things and interact in a realistic way.) However, I think I've also come a little ways from that. c:

[the-vicious-guardian-incarnate]

[☆] About the "Drama" [☆]

I'm sorry, I'm not done talking about this. I have a lot more to say because I know there isn't much about it out there from the side of a mod who was involved. I thought I would be okay leaving it where I did in the last post, but I want to make it clear why I, at least, cut off contact and interaction with the person involved. (Person involved will be referred to as FH, nobody will be outright named except, of course, myself.)

I can't speak for any others and I won't dare say I am, but please know I have probably over a decade of online roleplaying experience across platforms, and I have a different radar for certain things than others might because of the communities I used to run in.

“Drama” tag is «what a wuwarp week» If you want to reblog this for some reason, you can, but please be reasonable or I'll turn that off.

This is meant to inform, not lambast or accuse. This is my experience and no one else’s. Do not go looking for FH, do not interact with FH, leave FH alone.

Again, DO NOT search out the person in question. It will be a waste of your time and effort. If that feels harsh, please read on. It will be long and possibly confusing, but I hope it will at least mostly explain my stance, here.

I am not a confrontational person (we've just heard a lot of that… but I'm generally too tired for it is my take). I thought this situation could be resolved peacefully. This situation, I don't believe, actually could be resolved peacefully. Someone was going to get hurt. I've rewritten this post at least five times now, because I don't want anyone to continue getting hurt from this situation, but I didn't feel right not letting people know what was going on behind-the-scenes and in my head; there's a lot. I have a lot of thoughts at decent speeds. I have a lot of experience with roleplayers of different experience/skill levels. I have even moderated several Discord roleplaying servers (which isn't something I can recommend unless you are very passionate about it). I was actually ostracized by a small sub-community once, because my character simply wasn't designed to play well with the character of a popular person in that sub-community (by design, and for interest and variety, not malice).

That is to say, I understand many sides to this story through living them myself before. I wish things like this didn't happen and everyone could roleplay without having any problems with someone else, but that isn't healthy (again, I have experienced a community where discourse or "drama" was discouraged so heavily you had to pretend to get along with everyone or you'd get absolutely dog-piled for "bullying" someone). So we have a world where people are allowed to say how they feel: that's fantastic! Your feelings are valid! You're allowed to have them, and express them, and tell people when they've made you feel them!

But what isn't acceptable is going off and crying to anyone who'll listen about how terrible this (being told someone would like FH to adjust FH's approach for a more enjoyable experience for both parties) is! Sobbing about how awful this is! Why would they say this? This is so harsh! I'm traumatized by this! (Again, "this" is someone simply stating a discomfort and asking for a change or understanding of the situation, which is normal, valid, and nothing to lose your curlers over.)

Yes, I checked. I hadn't known anything was happening before I received a DM out of nowhere. So I went and looked. I investigated. This is also appropriate; while it can be a little time-consuming, it's best to make an informed decision, no?

My findings were that someone simply got tired of having to try to manipulate their character into going along with everything FH said. This is valid; working with incompatible characters/personalities can be grueling work particularly when the other person in control isn't willing to give or bend a little to make a prolonged interaction believable (I know this, because it was usually I who had to bend, and a situation that had me leaving many times). This person simply had not found another way to express this to FH, which made sense: FH has repeatedly shown an inability or disinterest in actually reading the words placed in front of FH to read (something I experienced in my own interactions with FH, actually).

But, you see, this DM opened by FH apologizing for being annoying… and/or "too cute." For me, this immediately triggered a little red flag, though I ignored it because I thought, well, this could be a good opportunity to get FH to understand what might have been going on with this other blog. So I respond, pointing out what the issues may have been, as well as solutions so that FH can take this advice and continue on with their endeavors. (Yes, the fault does lie on FH.)

Except FH completely, outright, blatantly ignores all of my advice. Not once, not twice, but three times. We spoke for an hour. The only thing I accomplished was an amateur psychoanalysis! Feel free to imagine Calcharo wearing a deerstalker (Sherlock Holmes hat) here.

Here is where my mention of all my experience in various roleplay communities comes into play. Yes, I do analyze how people act towards others, even--maybe especially--when someone is apologizing to me. This will become analytical and possibly confusing, though I will try my best to write this out clearly. If you have questions, you can ask. We'll go just about message by message to cover all aspects my brain covered during the conversation.

So, again, FH and I speak for an hour (I have screenshots, involved parties may ask to see some/all). I offer advice for the situation, such as reassessing FH's approach to characters (offering to let FH try again) or finding the type of character who would readily accept FH's approach as opposed to, like, the hardened mercenary who's been fighting essentially his whole life just to survive. I point out the places FH may have stumbled, which may have lead to the other mod's reaction; being too pushy and acting as if FH were trying to roleplay with a character that could not exist without veering off wildly into OOC territory (Calcharo outright accepting their advances in the first meeting).

FH, who has been offered solutions and explanations, responds with multiple statements about what things FH may do now that FH has been made to feel uncomfortable in the community (this is also the only point in our conversation where the discomfort of character mods comes up until the end). FH apologizes twice in this message.

Here I offer other explanations and suggestions as to how to fix this. These include potentially changing FH's approach to characters who will be more accepting of FH's chosen exaggerated personality traits. I tell FH, "There's just no such thing as characterization of yourself or characters that's compatible with absolutely everyone and anyone."

Keeping that last bit in mind, FH proceeds to say several things have been mentioned that day, and that FH's approaches worked in the past and so FH stuck with it. FH apologizes again. End of message, excluding some extraneous information because this is already incredibly long.

So I say--oh, wait, how strange. Twice have I offered advice, and twice has it gone unacknowledged.

Anyway, I say that the problem was that FH was far too stubborn with the approaches used, which was the other mod's primary concern (stated quite clearly!) and something that very obviously wouldn't work with Calcharo. Please note that I end this message saying "I just don't really understand why you thought this approach would… do much? With Calcharo, at least. Does he at all seem the type to respond favorably to what you gave me to work with?" fully expecting some kind of response explaining FH's thought process.

FH says "I was trying something even if it wasn't working." This tells me that FH… doesn't appear to fully grasp the fact that… we're people? We're just people playing with dolls on the internet. These are our little guys (gender neutral) and we play them the way we want to, that makes sense to us and falls in line with how we want them to act. Of course, I say this. I mention this. I tell FH that we are people pretending to be other people, and we "all have personalities, histories, likes, dislikes, and thoughts of [our] own."

"Not everyone can or will react the same to the same information, right?"

Lo and behold, FH replies with… "I know that. I can see that." Even though… not a single interaction FH has had with a character has shown that. I went and looked through a handful of blogs to see just how widespread this was. The results: FH offered every single one of us the same one or two premises to work off of. Does FH really know people can react differently to the same thing, or does FH think it's possible to get them all to respond the exact way FH wants from them using the same one or two approaches?

I will exclude the contents of the next few messages as they hold more identifying information than the last few. What is important is that I do tell FH that they should take some time away to reflect on this situation and why others reacted this way to everything going on. I tell FH that it's possible to "go out and learn and do better, so you don't end up in the same position for any other fandoms in the future. You can't become any better at this if you don't try and change from this, after all."

… and FH says "I was just hoping to have funsies." FH says, "Don't really know where I would learn from when all I do is AU stuff with friends."

Recall my wide range of roleplay experiences? I tell FH about this as well. I say there's nothing wrong with AU roleplay because I've definitely done quite a lot of it myself! But this is something important more people looking to improve on their roleplay skills should know: only roleplaying with your friends in a closed environment will cause stagnation and may potentially leave you with bad habits that could get you in trouble with other people who don't know you or what you do. "It's not really fun if only one of the people involved is enjoying themselves, is it?" I ask, expecting a response to that, at least.

FH instead chooses to latch onto two topics; friends and a singular mention of roleplay etiquette. FH does not respond to anything else I said, even though I said quite a lot not said here (this is so long, I'm sorry). "Most people I've [roleplayed] with are just doing whatever."

I type out a nice big paragraph about how we are all strangers here and cannot be expected to react the way a friend would, because one singular person's experiences are not the hard and fast rule for EVERYTHING else. Etiquette is always going to differ between friends and strangers, no?

FH chooses to expand on the friends thing. I didn't ask for that. I asked for clarification on if FH mostly roleplayed with friends. FH did not give me that answer. FH said nothing about the rest of my paragraph.

So I try again, and I double down on how FH appears to be treating an entirely new fandom filled with strangers exactly the way FH would treat "doing whatever" with friends. FH responds with words, but no answer.

And so here, I finally give up on attempting to help FH learn and grow from this experience. I finally give up on trying to wiggle any cohesive answers out of FH. I tell FH fine, you can go ahead and do whatever you want, but "I can't recommend trying again in the WuWa community. Even if a mod doesn't know about you, other people who interact with these blogs do. I got an anon about you. I thought I would give you some more time and see if anything changed."

This is, perhaps, the part that made me the most upset, and apparently it made FH the most upset here, too, because this message is littered with crying emojis? (It makes me feel old even though I'm younger than FH.) FH reiterates "I said I'm sorry" though does not say what for, because I am fairly sure FH does not understand what the root cause of the issue is, here. Not that I can be sure, because I've gotten a lot of nothing answers (which is, yes, another red flag I was ignoring up until this point). FH said "I was just trying to make it right" despite me saying multiple times FH can simply do that and even try again as long as FH changes the problem areas I… happened to have pointed out earlier.

And FH says "You guys are making it seem like I did crimes or something." (Followed by more emojis.)

Now, I'm not quite sure, because I might be a little more autistic than I think I am, so I might have missed something, but… so far, I have asked FH to change the problem behavior and try again later. I have pointed out the problem behavior. I have given FH options for changing and growing and learning if FH just so chooses to--

--and I snap a little, because I do have my limits, and this was… annoying, because I know this situation did not need to turn out like this. (I later found out another blog's mod had also attempted to talk to FH about the situation with just as much success, which does not surprise me. If that other blog's mod is reading this, I hope you're feeling better. It wasn't your fault you couldn't do anything.) Yes, you are allowed to have your feelings, feel your feelings, speak to people about your feelings, but outright denying or ignoring any help people are offering just because they don't align with what you want isn't healthy, helpful, or even really productive. Like that "stupid little walk for my stupid little mental health" or… whatever that TikTok(?) was. I really hope that makes sense. Sorry.

Here, I tell FH that "I don't think you actually understand what the problem was in the first place. You haven't said if you were going to try better to avoid this same thing. If you continue on like this you are GOING to run into another character and another mod who won't take this well and this same thing will happen all over again." Please note this is not to shade the mod who spoke up, but to point out that the very valid reaction was because the interaction was not going well because of FH. "You cannot make things right if you don't acknowledge WHAT the essence of the problem was."

I spent an hour talking to FH. Apologies again for the length. But please read back and tell me if I missed a place where FH said what the problem was (reminder, collectively: being pushy, stubborn, and unwilling to change something that was making another person uncomfortable).

"You didn't commit a crime, but that doesn't mean people can't be upset at you for not paying any attention to what they're trying to tell you."

FH snaps here because, and I quote, "This has all happened today alone from everyone. And I mean EVERYONE. It's all happening at once all day."

Another note: don't go harass FH. Clearly FH won't learn anything from the harassment. Save your energy.

FH continues to… well, rant, here. I won't write it all out. FH says "I understand" to a lot of things, while also saying things like "I understand that I'm a bad role player[sic] and I don't know what I'm doing," and "I understand everyone is annoyed by me."

Here comes my experiences again. I have worked with a lot of different types of toxic people throughout my years, whether on the internet or in real life. There is good reason for me to believe that, though unintentional, FH was trying to emotionally manipulate us all into giving up and leaving FH be without saying anything else about the matter.

Mind, this is after FH made several public posts being greatly upset with how we were handling the situation, even though FH was undoubtedly the one to make it worse. After all, even though some of us tried to talk with FH, nobody managed to either calm FH down or de-escalate the situation. Multiple people were unable to calm the situation and FH down.

My final message was urging FH to take a break from Tumblr for a while for mental health reasons, because clearly something needed to be done. Sadly, unsurprisingly, I was, once again, outright ignored.

The final takeaway is that none of the mods involved should feel bad for what they did, or what they said, because this IS a genuinely frustrating situation, and FH wasn't making it any easier to try and help, understand, or calm anything down. FH may have even made your own situation worse, in which case I hope you're doing well, now. This situation did not have to be as bad as it was, but you did your best to navigate it.

"You're making me uncomfortable with what you're doing. Please don't do that."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'd like to try and change what I was doing, if that's okay? I won't do it again."

That was all that needed to happen, even if the initial post seemed terse or harsh. It was a simple, genuine (if frustrated) ask, accompanied with common, simple criticism.

Again, do not go bother FH if you know who this is referring to. This person will not learn from being harassed. Screenshots and/or transcripts of the conversation will be available to other involved parties through DMs. Anon asks about this might be ignored. Also, reminder that my first week of running a roleplay blog was the 18th to the 25th :)

[thehappiestgolucky]

I, for one, would love to hear you talk about monster hunter. *Hands you one "free rant about monster hunter" card*

You have genuinely no idea the beast you just unleashed but i am taking this card in my mouth and tearing it like a rabid animal

Monster Hunter - despite being very well known in Japan, still feels like a hidden gem in the western world. And I get it - its a hard game for beginners to get into because of just how many mechanics there are and especially when I first discovered it back in like 2012 ish. It also wasn’t well marketed. In a time where everyone sung nothing but praises about Skyrim - I found a game that genuinely changed my life. I mean that so literally.

I had practically gave up on art and things that made me happy - and whilst I still have pretty intense depressive episodes - I nearly quitted art altogether back then. You can thank Monster Hunter that I’m even here being able to ramble about it.

The games breathed a life into an ecosystem that I had never really seen done in games before and after - the only current contender being Rain World. I’ll be blunt - I don’t like Skyrim, which made me so sad as a kid. The combat is clunky and I was bored so quickly with the lack of coolness from the dragons. So to see what Monster Hunter brought in such a variety - made me want to art again. Every creature is thought out in both individual and ecosystem - how they interact with other and how they adapt to their habitat. And some designs are fun, cool or downright scary - and each one fights like you would expect it to.

My first Monster Hunter was 3 Ultimate on the 3ds - after seeing one of the adverts on the TV featuring a Brachydios chasing down hunters down a volcanic cavern - cornering them. Little me was in such awe - it was the coolest design I had seen in ages. I couldn’t get many games but I managed to get that one after pestering my mum a lot - and I’ll be honest I was fucking terrified at first! but then I got better and understood it - started just fighting the monsters. Its an experience I’ll never forget. When you spend nearly the entire 50 minutes you get fighting an absolute tank of a monster because you don’t have the right equipment - but you keep going even when you run out of healing items because when you do manage to win its a rush that I still have never felt in any other game. It both rewards and punishes risks - it entices you to grind and prepare and throw that all out the window.

I’ll be the first to admit Monster Hunter has flaws - especially the game I first got - but they’re flaws that keep getting sorted out with each iteration of the franchise. For all those flaws you battle through to see and feel the grit and beauty of the game - the brutalness it offers but the rewards when you each and every time make it step by step.

I felt a rush finally beating the Lagiacrus that terrified me, I was grinning stomping on the Brachydios that dominated the trailer, the awe of the Caedeus in a unique and almost somber fight against an ocean god - and the fear, terror, adrenaline, frustration and euphoria of solo falling the Dire Miralis, a living volcano that boiled a sea by its presence. And beating an Alatreon is still such a difficult, nervewracking task. But you still try. you may lose, but you try again.

It’s a game with memorable and beloved characters - full of life and fun, jokes and genuine touching stories hidden behind simple interactions. Each receptionist that you get the quests from have their own unique personality and goals that you learn from passively just doing the quests - 3 Ultimates guild receptionist always pulling out her hand written book of monster information basically boiling down to “Oh thats awful, well good luck!” or even just “Whoops nothing here! Dont die!” is genuinely so fun and engrossing than any tragic story for a quest giver can give to me. And bro - Monster Hunter is not known for its story or characters, it’s known for its monsters and gameplay and rightfully so.

I know the complaints of Capcom - but as a FPS disliker I can firmly say they just don’t fucking miss with combat. The giant Great Sword feels clunky and meaty - and landing a hit with it feels like you’ve torn a chunk out of the monster. The small lathe Dual Blades feel like the risky weapon they are, sacrificing protection for raw DPS that can double for status effects as it quickly repeatedly applies them. The newest weapons added being the Insect Glaive and Charge Blade being such unique mechanics that through iterations of games still hold their light.

And the base mechanics of these weapons are hard to learn they are - you only realise how many hidden and complicated mechanics and combos there are after so many hours of playing. You will never steamroll Monster Hunter on your first game - but the more you do it later games makes you feel like the veteran you are, adapting to the new mechanic whilst having the basics down. Its a learning curve each game has actively tried to make easier and easier to overcome.

That’s another thing about this franchise that I adore - they iterate each time, trying new things with each entry to both make every one feel unique from the others despite sharing the base mechanic each time, and trying new things. 3 Ultimate had underwater combat, which was received poorly, and as much as I want it back for its unique cast of monsters - and to bring my beloved Lagiacrus back its full glory, I know why they’re hesitant to bring it back. 4 Ultimate focussed on a mounting mechanic - the Insect Glaive was created with that in mind. It was received well but informed it was overpowered. So it stuck around for Generations Ultimate but that wasn’t the main mechanic of Gen, Generations introduced Hunting Styles - anime power moves basically. And they were fun as hell. In World Iceborne they introduced a new style altogether - a basic slate to show the new polish of the franchise. The art style was still there - the iteration brought the franchise to a new light. Hunting styles vanished in replacement of the Grappling Hook thing - which was uhh mixed. In the latest entry - Sunbreak - they mixed the grappling and hunting styles together in such a unique and fun way - introducing a new way to explore the world and use your combo knowledge to really dominate a hunt.

They try - and god when they do it well they do it well.

Monster Hunter was not my first game ever. That was Pokemon Pearl. And whilst that means the Pokemon franchise does hold a gem in my heart - I’d be dishonest if I didn’t mention Monster Hunter Stories - a spin off to Monster Hunter I didn’t see coming. Its everything I wanted out of Pokemon. Its everything I still want out of Pokemon.

And the first game was basic - it had a fairly generic but heart warming story and the characters still shone as fun as they always have. Reverto my beloved.

But then came the sequel. I didn’t believe we’d ever get one because the first game flunked in the west.

And just like each iteration of the main franchise before - Stories 2 did exactly that - change. Be better, learn from previous mistakes and change. You could bring in your knowledge of the main games to fight the monsters - you can build your team in any way you wanted - and the story matured with it. I urge every disheartened Pokemon fan to give the free demo on the Switch a shot. Its so worth it. Its the one I recommend to newcomers BECAUSE its so much more accessible and you never have to play the main games to adore the nature of the franchise. Even watch a Kinship move compilation if nothing else - its everything I wanted Z moves to be and more.

I will say - it isn’t a game for people with flashing problems or camera issues. Its unfortunate, that it limits a bunch of people despite the settings in place that aim to reduce that. But if you can handle it I urge you to give the free demos a shot. You might not like it - you might find it’s not to your tastes or you don’t like how it plays. And that’s fine. Games are for the people it appeals to. Monster Hunter simply appeals to me.

Look at the monsters, watch the ecology videos on youtube. Its wonderful, its goofy, its serious. Genuinely seriously look at the MUSIC. There’s a reason Proof of a Hero played during the Olympics. Listen to it now/lh

The community is… alright. There’s a larger amount of gamer bros unfortunately but some are gems. Hell, the official Twitch livestream gaming each week is really fun and wholesome! I just listen to it when I’m doing things because its just people! Playing a game!

Overall, its just a game I hold so dearly to my heart. It’s creative, the devs care so much and it shows through every piece of art, each monster, everything that this franchise is. Its love. Its nature. And its wonderful.

[sonic-spirit]

Okay, let's fuckin gooooo!!!

I'm seeing if I can do a blog post every day to try and get myself through more of that wall of awful brain garbage that's been gumming things up inside me. I have a lot of topics I've been wanting to talk about, and stories I've been wanting to record, and, yanno. The only way out is through.

It was my first day off I haven't shared with one of my mates in awhile, so that ended up shaping how I approached the day. I started a bit of a decluttering project, since we do have a lot of stuff with no homes right now. I'm not willing to mess with my mates' stuff, but in the two years since moving all the way out here my hyper pared-down stuff has grown, and I was definitely due for some re-organizing and looking it all over for stuff I don't want or need anymore. A big part of the project today was breaking down the variety of little caches I'd developed in a few spots in the apartment and keeping like things together, especially toys and art supplies. I have some big traditional media projects I've been gearing up for, and the more ready things are to get started, the more convenient I make my setups to hit the ground running, the more likely I am to actually do them.

Talking about that stuff was supposed to help me ease into writing about one of the more emotionally charged things I've been meaning to write about, ^_^;; but if I segue into talking about Otherkin stuff from decluttering, the post's kinda gonna feel uneven to me. So, okay, let's talk about, as I have it in my notes:

The Time I Drove Across the Country 3 Times to Save My Life

I feel guilty about looking at it as anything but a tragedy, millions of people died, and who knows how many more were permanently disabled, and so many could have been okay if the people in power hadn't been so eager to throw them to the mercies of an uncaring disease. But, selfishly, COVID saved my life.

My mental health still isn't great. There are always ups and downs, and I've been under a lot of financial stress that's been causing me to spiral in a lot of other ways again. But before COVID it was so, so much worse. I wasn't still living with my abusive parents at the time, but I was working for them, and still beholden to them socially and financially. And I was...loosing resiliency. Going to cons and spending time with my friends wasn't...well, if wasn't enough to offset how the rest of it was wearing on me, dealing with my abusers, doing a job I hated and where I constantly felt like I was failing, and I was losing ground. I'd been suicidal for years and years, and I didn't think I had much fight left in me. I'd also been trying to escape, with interruptions to triage myself to keep functioning, for even longer. I was tired, and I was getting desperate.

COVID bought me more time.

Everything going into shutdown was bad. And let me be perfectly clear, shutting down was the right thing to happen, there were so, so many people who should not have died. But for the first time in ten years, I got some distance from my abusive parents. I didn't have to go into a job and see them all the time, I didn't have to go over to their house and play nice and cow-tow to them every week.

For the first time in so, so long, I got a reprieve.

It was still hard, I missed my friends, and the stress of living under the threat of a pandemic was huge. But I finally started to be able to put myself back together again. Just a little bit. And that made all the difference in the world.

And then, in the heart of all this uncertainty, one of my really, really good friends who I'd fallen out of contact with a few years prior reached out, and we reconnected. We talked, and talked, and one thing led to another, and eventually we started dating.

My parents had eroded most of the COVID protections at my job by this time, having us back working in the office, opening the office to the public, and things were quickly becoming untenable for me again. My friends, in person and long distance, did their best to help. As much as I would let them see how deeply I was struggling.

Then came the Thanksgiving trip.

I'd been very resistant to flying to Florida with my family in the Thanksgiving of a pandemic. But my mom had bartered with me. If I went on this trip, they wouldn't force me into going on the Christmas trip. -_- And how could I say no to a deal like that. Look, I didn't have many options, and again, I was beholden to them. I could only fight so hard. So, I went. And it was worse than I had even expected.

Never masking in a state with abysmal infection numbers, never taking advantage of outside seating at restaurants, eating out for every meal was bad enough. The endless refrain of Fox News and fascistic dogwhistles put me over the edge. I knew they wanted who I really was dead. But...living inside it...I was done. I needed to escape, by any means necessary. My friends were alarmed and rightly so. I redoubled my efforts to find another job as means of escape, and determined I would not do this ever again. I would give myself a deadline to get out.

When my relationship started with my mate, I changed my focus to jobs in the San Jose area. And in February, I finally had an opportunity. Two jobs wanted me to come in and interview, and I'd already blocked out a long weekend for that year's virtual FurSquared con. Instead, I loaded myself and my 16-year-old kidney diseased kitty, and everything I though I couldn't do without in case I decided to simply never come back, and drove the 3,000 miles from Illinois to California in 3 days.

It was ROUGH. I didn't give myself a very reasonable timeline to get there, and driving 10-hour or more days, going from cat-friendly hotel to cat-friendly hotel was A Lot. Giving Zi her subcutaneous fluids in hotel rooms was a wild experience. But eventually, we made it. I met up with my mate, changed clothes and ran out for an interview...^_^;; which I actually missed because I'd taken too long to get there. But spending the night with my mate and their partner, feeling safe with them...they offered to let me stay, and I tearfully admitted that I didn't want to leave.

I almost just stayed. I wanted to, badly. But I still had a house to get out from under, and I needed to go back and sell it. I went to the second interview, where neither of us impressed one another, and drove Zi and myself back, escape plan in gear.

My house was a horrifically cluttered mess when I called the realtor who'd helped me buy it and asked him to help me sell, but he was still generous when he came by to talk with me. The market was good, he told me, and places were getting sold even before they were properly listed. I signed the papers, and started getting to work on paring everything down and packing.

It quickly became clear that storage or moving things or Uhauls would be prohibitively expensive for me, easily over $1,000 for the cheapest options. Since I would be moving without a job set up, and without any form of income when I left, the only reasonable option was to only bring what I could fit in my car, and donate or sell the rest. It was hard, emotional work, and I had to make a lot of hard decisions (and a lot of use of Facebook Marketplace for the first time), but I made it happen, and by mid April, I finally left.

I had a celebratory going away party the night before leaving, where we drank and had fun, and enjoyed one another's company. And then my friends came and helped me with the last of the junk I hadn't managed to get through the next morning. They held me while I had a panic attack over telling my parents I was leaving, and helped me to be able to go.

In the end, the people who really knew me, who really loved me, saved me.

Finally, I headed out with Zi, deciding to drive...less stupid hours this time. I limited myself to 8 hour driving days, and just did a few more days. Memorably, one morning when I was trying to get us out the door and checked out, I couldn't find Zi. I searched that hotel room for my kitty for a good half hour before I finally found her--she'd somehow managed to open a drawer, climb inside, and shut herself in!

I'd expected to feel freed, relieved. I'd expected to feel a weight off myself immediately. But mostly, what I'd felt at first was numb grief. I was so tired. I was glad to be going, excited to be with people I loved. But I still felt bad. Everything they would have thought of the situation echoed in my mind, and it hurt. I knew I was right to go. I knew there was no way they'd ever stop hurting me. I knew I needed to get away. But their words, of how selfish I was, echoed inside me.

It's still hard sometimes. Abuse echoes still. But I'm so, so fucking relieved to be out. And so, so fucking grateful to be with my partners.

[thessalian]

Thess vs The Little Things

Honestly, "the little things" don't seem very little at this point. Right now, "the little things" - at least the good ones - are about all that's keeping me sane at the moment.

We've still got the bullshit about "let's just ignore human rights law so we can send refugees to Rwanda!", and we've got economists backed by failed PM Liz Truss talking about how the minimum wage needs to be lowered to help the economy (Truss et al, you cannot have a workforce when that workforce cannot afford to eat or keep a roof over their heads; what the fuck drugs are you on?), and everybody in any kind of power seems perfectly happy to support and even aid and abet Palestinian genocide, and even going grocery shopping is an exercise in "how the fuck much?!?" that gets a little terrifying. I'm just so tired and depressed and stressed and generally downhearted.

Yet there are the little things. Like having the new Dredge DLC sort of thrown at my head (at a remove), and finding that because of that remove, I can probably budget enough to justify ordering the JoCat goblin bard plush (I'd have just left it alone ordinarily, but ... BARD). It helps - they may seem like little things, but they mean a lot.

And hell, I can make little things if they don't happen to pass by. I baked bread yesterday. Tomorrow I am going to use some of it to make bread crumbs to make fried chicken (well, sort of - I'm going to be doing it in the oven), and I will make cornbread. I learned how to make mug cakes, and have chocolate chips enough to do so. I've got the fixings for my homemade instant hot chocolate mix, so I can replenish my supply (I would have done so earlier but I was out of cocoa powder). Baking and cooking in general is as good a sublimation activity as anything else, I guess. Plus it means I eat properly. (Well, to a point. I admit I've not been great at the "more than one meal a day" thing lately. But at least the meals I do eat are balanced and tasty.)

The little things really do seem so little when I think about how much is wrong. There's the world in general. There's my situation in specific - job-wise, health-wise, etc. There's my friends, for whom I worry a lot for a variety of reasons. So many big things that are just awful. But at the end of the day, I can only do what I can to make things better, and that's not much. Still, 'not much' is something, and I won't be able to even manage that if I fall apart.

So ... the little things. Homemade hot chocolate mix and cornbread and eldritch horror fishing game and, eventually, a little bard goblin plushie to hug. And D&D on Sunday (and probably Saturday).

It's enough. I will make it be enough.

[kalevalakryze]

Vod'ika

For Bo-Katan Week Day 3: Bo-Katan & Satine Pairing: Bo-Katan Kryze & Satine Kryze Characters: Bo-Katan Kryze, Satine Kryze, Mentioned Pre Vizsla, Mentioned Adonai Kryze Warnings: I feel like Pre Vizsla Admiration should be tagged asdfghjkl. I live for the ways the ship can be taken, and I just know Bo admired him so much, but fuck, that’s toxic as hell. Other than that, it’s just some sisterly fluff, and Bo-Katan being a cute kid before the wars can take their toll. Notes: I wasn’t happy with the first fic I wrote, so I wanted to throw together something smaller to make up for it asdfghjkl Word Count: 999 Summary: Before Satine could stop her, Bo-Katan was rising to her feet and tugging the comforter off of Satine’s bed to wrap around her small shoulders, a comical sight, truly, which had Satine stifling her laughter politely behind her hand as the girl started strutting around the room, dramatically throwing the corner of the blanket to the side each time she stopped and jutted her hip out. AO3 link: Here!

"Satine!" She could hear the sound of small feet hitting carpet as the young girl ran into her room. The blonde's head rose just in time to see her vod'ika crash through her bedroom door, a paper helmet with too much tape sitting on top of her head. "Satine!" Bo-Katan called once more, excitement palpable. "I'm boooored!" Bo drawled as she moved further into her clean room.

There was a quick glance back at her data pad.. studying the rise of government on Mirial could wait, Bo-Katan always knew the best ways to drag out everything in her room and make an awful mess. Turning in her chair proved to be the right move, as the redhead threw herself into her ori'vod's lap the moment she was facing her.

Bo-Katan was still her little sister, but her growth spurts were finally hitting, soon, her little sister wouldn't be so little anymore. Gangly limbs wrapped around her immediately as the redhead got herself comfortable. "Bored? How can you be bored?" Satine questioned with laughter in her tone. "I thought you were training with Buir to be a verd?"

The young girl nodded her head quickly. "I am, but it's no fun without you anymore," Yellow-green eyes peered over her shoulder, to the datapad. "What're you doing in here that's more important than training, anyways?"

“Well,” Satine shifted to adjust the younger girl in her lap. Satine had taken her creed, and her entire life had faced an upheaval. It had been a sudden, grinding change in the way her training shifted from combat and focus on her physical abilities, into learning the ins and outs of politics. She hadn’t been allowed to join Bo for her training for weeks, now, and she truly did miss her little sister. “There is a wide variety of different governments all across the galaxy, it is our duty to learn to navigate the different species peacefully,”

Bo-Katan’s brows furrowed as she read over the datapad on the desk. “Peacefully?” Satine’s smile twitched at the confused conviction in which the eight year old spoke, her buir had made the… executive decision that Bo-Katan would not need to learn these things, and Satine had known better than to question it externally, but there was always a wonder on if Adonai expected Bo-Katan to fit into the New world they were manifesting.

“Yes, peacefully,” The blonde clarified as she guided Bo-Katan’s interested hands from the device as she’d started to scroll and tap around. “How has training been going?” The question succeeded in diverting her attention, as the young vod’ika bounced in her lap with a burst of excitement.

“Buir’s friend came to visit! Pre Vizsla!” She exclaimed, Satine’s arms wrapping around her waist and pressing into her back to stop her from tumbling to the ground. “He taught me some of his moves, too!” Bo squirmed until Satine let her back down, reenacting the moves she’d been taught against imaginary enemies.

“He’s been fighting in the war, too! So you just know he has so many cool stories!” Bo-Katan gushed, giving up on showing Satine her new cool moves in favor of sprawling out against soft carpet, hands folding over her stomach with a leg raised in the air. “I wanna be just like him one day,” The dreaminess in Bo’s tone did not go unnoticed by Satine, who had winced at the small child’s admission, hopefully she would grow out of it, and soon.

“That is quite impressive,” Satine agreed with a small smile playing on her lips. Bo wasn’t aware of the larger plans at play, didn’t know that they may enter a new world where she would never be able to don their parent’s armor, that there would be no need to keep fighting. “I am glad you are taken with him, he is the textbook example of mandokarla,”

Bo nodded her head as she stared up at Satine. “He really is, and his armor is so cool, I can’t wait to learn how to use a jetpack,” Yellow eyes flickered to the transparisteel window to the view of mountains of Kalevala, already imagining herself flying through the spires. “Do you think Buir will let me have a cape when I get my armor? Or d’ya think it’ll be too flashy? I think I wanna be dramatic,”

Before Satine could stop her, Bo-Katan was rising to her feet and tugging the comforter off of Satine’s bed to wrap around her small shoulders, a comical sight, truly, which had Satine stifling her laughter politely behind her hand as the girl started strutting around the room, dramatically throwing the corner of the blanket to the side each time she stopped and jutted her hip out.

Bo-Katan strutted all throughout the room, before once again coming to her Ori’vod, clambering in her lap once more without preamble and dragging the blanket up with her. Satine shifted to wrap it more securely around the both of them now. “Are you tired?” The teenager questioned as Bo’s head settled against the crook of her neck.

“mhm,” A small yawn, stifled by a small face turning to press into her shoulder. “Don’t tell buir, I’m ori’verd,” The time of naps was only a few short years ago, but Satine wasn’t about to deny her vod’ika the luxury after she’d spent all morning and afternoon out in the training yards.

“You are ori’verd, a sleepy ori’verd,” Satine agreed, raising her fingers to card through soft red hair, brushing out tangles with her fingers as deep breaths eventually evened out. It was always so amazing how fast the child could fall asleep after ‘the zoomies’ hit. Satine kept her fingers carding through her hair while she returned to her data pad with her free hand. As much as she wanted to drift into the calm embrace of sleep with Bo, it was safer to continue her studies, especially if their buir came looking for either of them for their respective training.

Translations: mandokarla - Having the ‘right stuff’, showing guts and spirit, the state of being the epitome of mando virtue vod’ika – little sibling ori’vod – older sibling Ori’verd – big warrior buir - parent